She continues up the stairs slowly, not letting her eagerness propel her any faster. The worst thing that could happen would be one or both of them realizing she's here. When she gets to the top of the stairs she slips her phone out of her pocket, turns the volume on the ringer and on the screen completely off. Opens the camera app, but doesn't want to waste space recording before she's sure she can get a good enough shot for incontrovertable evidence.
The door to 221B is slightly open (God, it's like that sick Freak wants someone to see what he's doing, wants to be caught. . . Well, in just this one thing, Sally is more than happy to oblige him), and she stands outside listening for a moment. There is definitely rough sex happening in the next room. Thankfully it sounds like it's not right next to the door, though, so she can move enough to see through and hopefully remain unnoticed.
Before she can move, though, the harsh grunts and gasps on the other side of the door turn into words. "What have I told you? How many times have I told you? We," harsh, muffled groan; sounds like he's timing these words with thrusts, "fucking, eat, in, there!" A tiny cry.
For a second, Sally can't move. Because she might not be as quick on the uptake as the Freak but she's not an idiot and she's not deaf and that was not the Freak's voice.
Sure enough, when Sally moves just enough to be able to see through the crack in the door, she's treated to the sight of John Watson positively fucking the stuffing out of Sherlock Holmes.
There's this low chrome-and-leather armchair on the other side of the room, facing the door. Bent over the back of it and therefore also facing the door, his head nearly touching the seat, is Sherlock. She can see his back and his left arm and a bit of his hip, and it looks as though he's stark naked. John is standing behind him, his chest bare and far more muscled than she'd ever thought.
John is holding Sherlock's hips and thrusting into him. Sally can't see very well from this angle, but what she can see is more than enough. The slap-slap-slap of skin on skin has stopped, though John's still moving. "What have I told you?" he demands again. There's a little twist of his hips that time, and Sherlock lets out another muffled, high-pitched noise. His left arm is bent, his hand covering his face.
"Y-You've said," he gasps, and John slows his thrusts, now appearing to go slow and deep, probably so Sherlock can talk without his teeth rattling, "no, no, ungh, n-no notoxinsinthekitchen----!"
"That's right," John leans forward and growls in Sherlock's ear. "No toxins in the kitchen. Ever."
Before Sherlock can respond, John moves. He leans forwards to press against Sherlock's back, wraps his right arm tight about his waist, and shoves his left hand between Sherlock's legs.
Sherlock cries out and jerks forward. "No, John, no, no, please, no---"
John just presses closer to his back and jerks him harder. After a moment he stops and Sherlock visibly sags with relief, but John only removes his hand long enough to bring it to his face and thoroughly lick his palm before he's hitching Sherlock close again and jerking him furiously. Sherlock jerks and twitches and begs. His right arm must be tied to the chair; he can't get it free. His left hand is still covering his face. And John's cock is still inside him.
It doesn't take long before Sherlock starts twitching even worse, and then his breath gasps and stutters, and then his body goes taut as a bowstring while John thrusts slow and so deep inside him and wanks him viciously through his orgasm. Sherlock says, "no, no, no, no, no, no" the whole time.
Re: Second fill: Mini-fill part 5
The door to 221B is slightly open (God, it's like that sick Freak wants someone to see what he's doing, wants to be caught. . . Well, in just this one thing, Sally is more than happy to oblige him), and she stands outside listening for a moment. There is definitely rough sex happening in the next room. Thankfully it sounds like it's not right next to the door, though, so she can move enough to see through and hopefully remain unnoticed.
Before she can move, though, the harsh grunts and gasps on the other side of the door turn into words. "What have I told you? How many times have I told you? We," harsh, muffled groan; sounds like he's timing these words with thrusts, "fucking, eat, in, there!" A tiny cry.
For a second, Sally can't move. Because she might not be as quick on the uptake as the Freak but she's not an idiot and she's not deaf and that was not the Freak's voice.
Sure enough, when Sally moves just enough to be able to see through the crack in the door, she's treated to the sight of John Watson positively fucking the stuffing out of Sherlock Holmes.
There's this low chrome-and-leather armchair on the other side of the room, facing the door. Bent over the back of it and therefore also facing the door, his head nearly touching the seat, is Sherlock. She can see his back and his left arm and a bit of his hip, and it looks as though he's stark naked. John is standing behind him, his chest bare and far more muscled than she'd ever thought.
John is holding Sherlock's hips and thrusting into him. Sally can't see very well from this angle, but what she can see is more than enough. The slap-slap-slap of skin on skin has stopped, though John's still moving. "What have I told you?" he demands again. There's a little twist of his hips that time, and Sherlock lets out another muffled, high-pitched noise. His left arm is bent, his hand covering his face.
"Y-You've said," he gasps, and John slows his thrusts, now appearing to go slow and deep, probably so Sherlock can talk without his teeth rattling, "no, no, ungh, n-no notoxinsinthekitchen----!"
"That's right," John leans forward and growls in Sherlock's ear. "No toxins in the kitchen. Ever."
Before Sherlock can respond, John moves. He leans forwards to press against Sherlock's back, wraps his right arm tight about his waist, and shoves his left hand between Sherlock's legs.
Sherlock cries out and jerks forward. "No, John, no, no, please, no---"
John just presses closer to his back and jerks him harder. After a moment he stops and Sherlock visibly sags with relief, but John only removes his hand long enough to bring it to his face and thoroughly lick his palm before he's hitching Sherlock close again and jerking him furiously. Sherlock jerks and twitches and begs. His right arm must be tied to the chair; he can't get it free. His left hand is still covering his face. And John's cock is still inside him.
It doesn't take long before Sherlock starts twitching even worse, and then his breath gasps and stutters, and then his body goes taut as a bowstring while John thrusts slow and so deep inside him and wanks him viciously through his orgasm. Sherlock says, "no, no, no, no, no, no" the whole time.