Work Text:
The case is a particularly complex one, taking up enough of her time that Lestrade has found an office for her to use at Scotland Yard. She’s standing by the window, sorting through a stack of files on the windowsill, when the door crashes open. Looking over her shoulder in alarm, she’s strangely unsurprised to discover it’s Sherlock.
“Please don’t feel the need to knock,” she says caustically as the door slams shut behind him. He doesn’t reply, but glides up behind her as she turns back to the files, his hands sliding onto her hips.
“What do you want, Sherlock? I’m busy.”
She feels his breath on the back of her neck as he speaks, his voice quiet and deep. “I need your help. There’s something I’m missing about this case, and I need to focus.”
She shuts her eyes in exasperation. “You’ve presumably noticed that I’m at work?”
“But I need you,” he rumbles into her neck as his lips trace a line up to her ear, and she feels her resolve weakening.
“You do know I can tell when you’re genuine and when you’re being manipulative, don’t you?”
“Of course.” His voice is silky.
“Liar. Assuming everyone else is an idiot is a weakness, you know.”
She can feel his lips curling into a cynical smile against the skin behind her ear, and she sighs. “There’s a unisex toilet cubicle on the second floor. Turn right at the lifts and it’s at the end of the corridor. Go and finish talking to Greg, and I’ll meet you there in five minutes.”
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She waits until there’s no-one around and slips into the toilet after him. Shutting the door, she allows her fingers to linger on the lock longer than is necessary; he looks briefly towards her hand and then, when he’s distracted and unsuspecting, it’s easy to hook one calf round his knee and pull him towards her with the other hand on his shoulder. She twists his weight around her hip and spins him until his back slams against the door and she’s holding him still with a fistful of curly hair. His eyes widen in surprise; it’s not an expression she sees on him very often.
“Don’t underestimate me, Sherlock,” she hisses into his ear. “Barge into my office like that again and I will not tolerate it. Do you understand me?”
He nods briefly, breathing hard. There’s a look in his eye she can’t quite interpret until she crowds against him, kissing him harshly, and feels his erection straining against the front of his impeccably tailored trousers. Interesting. Is he aroused by a woman who can handle herself or does he have a pain kink, or both? She makes a mental note to find out.
She runs one finger up the zip of his trousers, and although he’s already rearranged his face back into impassivity, his cock twitches with need. He’s already close, and it’s almost tempting, she thinks, to make him come in his trousers like a teenager, to let him walk out of the station with a wet stain seeping through his clothing in retribution for his behaviour.
He waits, and she eases her grip on his hair. “It’s going to have to be oral; I’m not having full sex at work. Greg’s got better observational skills than you give him credit for and he’s got an excellent sense of smell.” She leans into him and nips his lower lip. “You’d better make it up to me later.”
Sherlock raises an eyebrow. “Whatever you might think about the rest of my behaviour, when have I ever been selfish in bed?”
She tilts her head, conceding the point, and kisses him languidly as she unzips his trousers and eases him out of his underwear.
His cock twitches again as she sinks to her knees and takes him in her mouth, his head falling back against the door, exposing his elegant pale neck. Cupping her tongue under his cock in the way he likes, she pulls back slowly with just the faintest hint of teeth. He swallows thickly and his eyes close, cheek muscles tensing as he submits to the sensation.
One of the things she loves most about sex with Sherlock is hearing the noises that no-one could ever imagine him making. Soft, rhythmic grunts as she sucks repeatedly on the head of his cock, a sudden gasp of pleasure when she cups his balls and tugs gently on them. A guttural moan that rumbles deep in his chest as she pushes him up against her soft palate with a flat tongue, his already impossibly rigid cock becoming even harder.
He slides his fingers into her hair, guiding her gently and evidently fighting hard against the impulse to tighten his grip and fuck her mouth. The knowledge makes heat surge almost painfully between her legs, and she slides her fingers over his perineum to rub against the soft pucker of his arse.
He chokes on an in-breath and suddenly he’s coming hard in powerful spasms. She tries to watch his face as she swallows him down, because it’s always glorious to watch his face slackened in absolute pleasure, blissful and - just for a brief moment - utterly unguarded.
She wipes her mouth and gets to her feet, and Sherlock allows her to kiss him wetly and lazily, so that he can taste himself on her tongue. Then the moment passes, and he zips up his trousers and straightens his jacket.
“Thank you,” he says. There’s genuine gratitude in his voice, and a contemplative look in his eye that sends a jagged bolt of desire through her. “Eight? At Baker Street? John has a date tonight.”
“Eight thirty,” she replies, as he unlocks the door and cracks it open to check if the corridor is clear. “I need to finish off here first. Some bloody idiot interrupted my day.”
Sherlock looks at her with just the faintest hint of a sly smile, his piercing eyes creasing almost imperceptibly, and then he’s gone.