Sherlock X You Smut - Tumblr Posts

One Night || Sherlock x Reader (smut below cut)

He showed up minutes to noon.

You’d been up late studying, pouring over textbook after textbook that you’d been too tired to bother putting away when you finally crawled into your bed in the young hours of the morning. Your flat was as cluttered as it had ever been with a disarray of notes occupying every surface the eye could see and beside your open laptop, a cold cup of tea sat forgotten amidst the middle of it all, half empty with a shallow ring forming on the wood beneath it.

Your eyes were slow to open at the sound of the incessant knocking on your front door and you stretched with a groan, your half asleep mind fumbling to remember if you were expecting company then. The knocking grew louder, faster, and only after determining that the visitor was definitely not going to stop did you throw your legs over the side, the wood cool cool beneath your feet.

You didn’t bother to move a single hair, despite how atrocious your bedhead surely was, and your eyes fought against every instinct to fall back shut and crawl back into your bed as you stumbled to the front door. Whoever it was had the indecency to wake you from your near-coma and as punishment, they would be forced to endure your unkempt state and most likely harrowing morning breath.

You had barely unlocked the bolts when the door flung open, nearly knocking right into you, and the tall dark blur of the consulting detective swept past you into your flat.

“Y/N, you won’t believe what I saw on my way here.”

You blinked at him, your mind suddenly on as high alert as it could be, and you pushed the door shut behind you. He’d yet to even spare a glance in your direction as he rushed through the room like a storm, his hand running along every surface he passed until he plopped unceremoniously to the spot you’d occupied most of the night before. You watched him fumble with the teacup and he took a sip before promptly spitting it back out into the porcelain.

“Gah, it’s cold.”

“Yeah,” you rasped in a tone that called him out for stating the obvious. “It’s been out all night. Why would you just drink from random cups?”

“Not random,” he mumbled, “it was yours. And I love tea. Can we make tea?”

Your arms crossed as the cogs in your head started to turn. Leaning against the arm of your chair, you peered down at him as he begun to flip through the pages of your various textbooks with both hands, eyes flitting wildly from one page to the next as though he could absorb all the different passages simultaneously.

Though, this was Sherlock, so perhaps he could.

“Sherlock, what are you doing?”

The question went ignored.  

“These are boring.” A look of disgust curled the edges of his lips as he moved on to the other open books spread out, finding nothing of interest in those either. “Why are you reading these, Y/N? They’re so boring.”

“They’re for my classes, Sherlock.”

“You already graduated,” he protested, at last turning those bright blue eyes your way. His brows furrowed. “These aren’t for forensics. Why are you studying anatomy now?”

“I enrolled in a nursing program.”

“Why?”

“Because—because I needed a change.”

“Change is upsetting.”

You rolled your eyes at that. “I’m not surprised you would say that.”

“Oh. Oh!” In an instant, he was at his feet once again, all but leaping over the coffee table to cross the room to you. His hands clamped onto your arms and he leaned in, like he often did when he had a breakthrough on one of his cases. “Y/N, you’ll never believe what I saw on my way here.”

“You said that before. So what was it?”

“I was on my way over here and there was a car parked down near Mr. McGillis’s shop—you know the one, with the knives and the clocks?”

“Yes. You took me there two weeks ago on one of your cases.”

“Yes! That one. Well you’ll never believe it but the car—a dog was driving it!”

You cocked your head with a most perplexed expression, one eyebrow raised in disbelief—and not because of his story, but rather the enthusiasm with which he was relaying it.

“I know! Isn’t that the oddest thing?” He let out a burst of laughter and his eyes shined wildly. “Well, of course it wasn’t really driving, but there were two dogs in the front seats and the small one had its paws up on the wheel—here, I have a picture. You have to see!” As he fumbled to reach into his pocket for his mobile, his grip on your arms fell and you took a step away.

“Sherlock.”

His hands abandoned his search and he looked at you once more, a stupid little smile that, in any other circumstance, would have been charming gracing his lips. “Y/N.”

You held out your hand. “Sherlock, give me your list.”

This time, it was he who looked at you in confusion. “My list?”

“Yes, Sherlock. Your list.”

Recognition hit and for a moment, he said nothing.

“I don’t have it,” he lied.

“Yes you do. You always do. Give it here.”

“No.”

“No?”

Like a petulant child, he crossed his arms over his chest and tilted his chin.

“If you want it, you have to take it from me.”

You eyed him up and down, reading everything from his posture to his stubborn glare and letting out a resigned sigh, you took a step forward. Your hand slipped into his pocket.

“It’s not in there.”

You glanced at him. “Then wh—“ As your understanding took root, you drew back and glowered. “Sherlock.”

“Go on, love. Take it.”

He was challenging you, his eyes glinting playfully—dangerously—and he pulled the corner of his lip between his teeth with a smirk. You took another step forward as he lifted back the side of his coat and cautiously, as though you could be burned, your fingers slipped into the pressed pocket of his trousers, brushing the crumpled note hidden inside. Before you could pull away, his arms wrapped snugly around you and all but pinned your body against his own, chest and legs and hips pressed firmly together.

“You’re so warm,” he groaned. “Are you always this warm when you’ve just woken up?”

“Sherlock, you’re crushing me.”

His arms loosened ever so slightly but he didn’t let go and he didn’t give you any space to escape from his embrace. It was enough, however, that you could pull your hand out from his pocket, clenching the crumpled paper between your fingers.

“My god,” he groaned again, his deep voice rumbling against your form in a most confusing and pleasant way, “you smell absolutely divine. How is it you always smell so delicious?”

His head dipped and you felt his nose bury into the skin of your neck, into your messy hair, and he hummed against you, sparking tiny shivers that wracked up and down your spine. You were nearly distracted enough to forget the entire purpose of standing so intimately close to him but with how oddly he was behaving, it didn’t stray far from your thoughts. You unfolded the note and did your best to smooth it with the little dexterity your single hand would provide.

As you struggled to see the words from over his shoulder, your eyes widened.

“What the fuck, Sherlock? Ecstasy?”

“It’s fascinating. I can’t believe I’ve never tried it before.”

“Sherlock, why would you take ecstasy?”

For a man who so seldom felt any strong emotions and even rarer still wanted to feel them, it was a most peculiar whim and you found yourself at a loss for words.

“For a case,” he mumbled. His face was still so close to yours, the tip of his nose drawing a delicate path along the line of your jaw. “The victim was drugged at a nightclub and the assumption is that it was the dosage that killed her. Obviously I had to adjust it for my stature.”

In your younger years, you had become well acquainted with it while you were away at university. You were no stranger to its effects or the dizzying euphoria that it created, but seeing that high experienced through Sherlock was jarring and alien to say the very least. You read over the number written out beside the long pharmaceutical name and your eyes widened again.

“I can’t believe you took this much. Jesus Christ—“ you tried to push away but his arms held you against him with alarming strength. “So you, what, figured you would overdose to see if it would kill you?”

“No,” he murmured so softly against your neck. “On the contrary, I’ve never felt so alive. Do people feel like this all the time?”

“When they’re high, yes. That’s what makes it so dangerous.”

“And appealing.”

It would have been impossible not to notice the way his firm hands began to slide across your back, fists curling and uncurling in the fabric of your sleep shirt as though it were an instrument he was all too eager to learn.

His breath fanned warmth against the shell of your ear as he gasped your name. “I feel so strange. And you feel so good.”

This was getting to be too much.

“That’s the drugs talking, Sherlock.”

Your hands rose up between you and as they slid over the smooth fabric covering his chest, he let out a moan that once again left you shivering, unsure if it was your body reacting to the proximity of your situation or if it was a thousand tiny alarms setting off at the sound.

“Fuck, it feels so good when you touch me.”

At that, you shoved him back with every ounce of strength in your body. He stumbled on his feet and looked at you in confusion—dare you say dejection—and his lip pulled down into a pout.

“Why did you do that?”

With the distance returned between you, you were able to clear your mind of the strange illusion he’d cast. Your hands fell to your hips, lips pulling into a most unpleasant scowl. “Damnit, Sherlock, how could you be so foolish?”

“Please.” In an extravagant motion, he waved the pesky thought away and his eyes remained locked on your form, raking up and down over and over in a slow way that made you feel far more exposed than you were. “I’ve done much worse than this.”

“Yes, as though I need the reminder.” Your eyes clamped shut and you pinched the bridge of your nose.

What were you going to do with him? How long has it been since you’d had to deal with someone this high on this particular drug—he might as well have taken Viagra with the way he was carrying about. You let out a sigh, mind searching everything you’d read about drug interactions since beginning your studies and everything you knew from before then, scrambling to remember if you had anything useful for the situation at hand.

You had nothing.

You couldn’t think clearly.

Your eyes snapped open, suddenly, when his face was buried into your neck again—only this time, his tongue lapped out, tracing a lazy pattern against your skin up to your ear and before you could properly prepare for it, his lips closed over the sensitive flesh of your lobe, nibbling and pulling and breathing in a way you never—not in a million years—would have expected from him.

“Sherlock.” Your voice was needy, pleading, but whether you were pleading him to stop or to keep going, you hadn’t the foggiest.

“You’re so bloody soft,” he moaned against you. “Softer than velvet. I wonder if you’re this soft everywhere.”

His warm fingers squeezed your fleece-covered thigh, running up and down with enough force to bruise and his other hand had somehow snaked its way underneath your shirt in your momentary distraction, sliding up and up and up along your ribs until he could very nearly—

“Sherlock Holmes, watch your hands!”

You all but jumped away from him, catching yourself on the edge of the chair to keep from falling backwards in the clumsiest way.

Focus. You needed to focus.

The man looked almost as dazed as you were sure you did and his lips were moist and red and if you weren’t so utterly astounded, it would have turned you on like nothing ever had.

Okay, so it did that anyway—

“I’d like to watch my hands touching every inch of you.”

Fuck.

When his lips stretched into a smirk once more, you almost lost it. You stepped around behind the chair and held your hand up, signaling him to stop before your hormones could cloud your judgement.

“Sherlock, stop it. This isn’t you and I’m not going to take advantage of you when you’re high as a kite.”

He made that face again—the one that relayed the depths of his confusion, looking a breath away from upset with his bright blue eyes as wide as could be.

“But I want this.”

“Now you do. Tomorrow you’ll regret it.”

“I promise you I won’t.”

He took a step closer, around the side of the chair you hid behind, and your feet mirrored his to keep distance between you.

“No, Sherlock, please. Your not thinking straight. You need to go sleep this off.”

“Sleep is the last thing I need right now.” His voice was the embodiment of pure sex. He took another step and so did you.

“Then go take a shower. I recommend a cold one.”

“I’d be more inclined if you joined me.”

The thought crawled into your mind and made a nest of its own and for a single moment, you thought your feet might betray every rational thought you had and take him up on the offer.

You couldn’t let that happen.

You darted past him in a quick burst and plucked your purse from its spot beside the door.

“No. I—I have to go to work. I’ll be late for my shift.”

Sherlock stared at you, expression unchanged. “No, you’re lying. I may be ‘high as a kite’, as you put it, but I can still read you like an open book. Or open—“

“Nope.” Your voice pitched and you shrugged your purse onto your shoulder. “Not lying. Gotta go.” Your hand twisted the knob. Without sparing a glance back at him, you called out to him over your shoulder. “The towels are under the sink.”

You slammed the door shut behind you and lasted all the way to the stairwell before you fell back against the wall and let out a long-held groan.

What the hell was he doing to you?

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