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Few things on Earth were capable of irritating Sherlock Holmes more thoroughly than the British Government.
“I know this case might be … uncomfortable for you,” the British Government said, “but I—”
Sherlock cut him off with a discordant screech from his violin.
“I’m not sure where you get this idea that sex is a foreign concept to me,” Sherlock spat, leaping from his chair in a flailing mass of long limbs. “Would you like for me to describe in detail every cock I’ve ever had in my mouth? Let’s see, first there was Luc Thomas. Remember our lovely family holiday in the South of France? His penis was rather—”
“Oh, for—you are such a child, Sherlock,” Mycroft said, his cold mask lending him some small air of dignity as he practically fled for the front door.
“Oh no, Mycroft, a child wouldn’t have done what I did with Ryan Green my first year of Uni. His cock was enormous, and I took all—”
The door slammed shut, and Mycroft’s thudding steps echoed down the staircase. Outside, a car engine purred to life, then faded into the distance. Sherlock smiled.
Until.
Until he caught sight of the umbrella, left behind, toppled onto the floor next to John’s chair.
Something snapped in Sherlock’s brain.
He stalked over to the mantle, glaring straight into the hidden camera he knew was there. He and John had found it two days ago, but had been waiting for the perfect opportunity to use it against Mycroft before removing it.
The time had come.
“You seem to be under the impression that I’m so virginal I don’t even know how my own cock works,” Sherlock said to the camera, calm and cool. He raised an eyebrow. “But you couldn’t be more wrong. We’re quite well acquainted.”
And at that, he backed away from the camera and dropped to his knees, straddling the umbrella.
Oh, it was going to be good.
Sherlock popped the button on his trousers and tugged the zip down slowly, letting his thumb drag over his already hardening cock. Bluster aside, it had been a while, and his blood was already heating with the promise of pleasure.
He pushed his trousers and pants down to his knees, giving him room to drag fingers over hips and thighs before finally taking his cock in hand. He gave it a few strokes to coax it to full hardness, but it didn’t need much convincing; the illicit thrill and weeks-long dry spell hurried things along quite well enough. Normally he would take his time, run his hands over the planes of his stomach and chest, thumb his nipples and trace his collar bones with light touches, but the urgency was already speeding his breath.
With shaking hands, Sherlock fumbled for the small bottle of lube he knew John kept in the drawer next to his chair (an intriguing thought, filed away for later). When he leaned forward to dig into the back of the drawer, though, the angle brought his cock down on the cool, smooth material of the umbrella’s canopy.
Oh, God.
His hand found the lube and popped the top all in one motion. Back on his heels, cock jutting out over the tiny smear of pre-come it had left on the umbrella, Sherlock dribbled a shaky stream of lube over his aching cock. It dripped down to pool on the black fabric below, darkening the fibers with cool wetness.
Then he held the tip of the umbrella down with one hand, leaned over—and thrust himself against the slick surface.
Sherlock groaned. It was so good, the slick surface molding to his hot cock and cradling it, sliding around him. He used his other hand to fold the fabric around himself and God, that was even better, fucking into it like a lover’s tight arse. His hold made the umbrella’s ribs jab into him with each thrust, though, annoying enough to be distracting. New tactic.
He dropped his fistful of fabric and leaned over to brace himself on his forearms, pushing his hard cock down onto the slick surface. Each thrust slid the umbrella forward bit by bit, bit by bit—until the tip of the curved wooden handle nudged against his entrance. Sherlock gasped, a shudder wracking his body, and rubbed himself harder. It wasn’t enough to penetrate, not without lube, not without bracing the umbrella somehow, but as a tease it was maddening.
But perhaps …
Sherlock tucked his feet together under him, grabbed the tip with both hands, and yes, the umbrella stilled, braced against his motion. He scrambled for the lube again and quickly slicked up the polished wood handle, pausing for a moment to slip a finger inside himself—he couldn’t help it. He was so tempted to keep going, keep pushing back against his fingers, but it wasn’t just about him.
It was about the umbrella.
He slipped his fingers out and leaned onto his forearms again, thrusting with definite purpose this time. He was getting close, the tension burning low in his gut, and when the handle of the umbrella brushed against his entrance again, he gasped and pushed back against it.
It barely breached him, no more than half a finger at the deepest, but it was good. So smooth, so hard in his arse, God. Sherlock dropped his hips lower and ground his cock into the fabric, fucking himself on the handle in a steady rhythm, closer, closer, and the curve of the umbrella handle was so good, so perfect, just the right angle to—
The tip edged so close to his prostate and Sherlock cried out, fucking back again and again. The coil of arousal in his gut was impossibly tight, so close. One more hard thrust down and, oh, God, he was coming. He pulled off the handle and sat back as soon as he felt the wave cresting so he could watch the thick, white come spilling onto the black fabric in beautiful contrast. He groaned, loud and deep in his chest as he stroked himself through his climax, red flush spreading over his sharp cheekbones.
“Sherlock, you alright?” a voice shouted from beyond the door, and it flew open to admit one semi-panicked John Watson.
Sherlock’s cock gave another twitch in his hand as he milked the last of his orgasm, shooting one more pulse of come onto the umbrella. He sighed, his skin humming with sated satisfaction, and sat back on his heels.
John cleared his throat into the silence.
“What’s that, then?” he asked, gesturing with his chin to the come-spattered brolly.
Sherlock snagged a tissue and wiped his hand. “Mycroft’s umbrella,” he replied, as if no further explanation was required.
And, in truth, it wasn’t.
“Ah. Well. In that case,” John said. He looked straight into the hidden camera on the mantle and shot it two fingers.
Then he tugged down his zip.
THE END