Emergency Stop

By: Kiryki

A/N: This was a gift fic I wrote for my bestie, TheAmethystRiddle. It's honestly PWP and my first attempt at Elementary fic, let alone smut. No spoilers for later episodes but for story purposes there's a pre-established kinky sexual relationship. A bit of public play and elevator shenanigans just fyi.

It starts out as a game, a stupid teasing game. She wears a skirt that's about half an inch south of a public citation and he can't help but notice. It's been warm, so no stockings but he can't tell what pair of panties she's wearing. It bothers him, the not knowing. He thinks she did it on purpose, because the thought gets under his skin and itches at the back of his head while he meets with Gregson and looks over the crime scene. Later, when she joins him in the cab, he looks as she gets in and can only come to two conclusions: she's wearing a thong, or she's wearing nothing. The first option leaves him the blue or red pair. The second leaves him a little breathless.

She notices (of course she notices) and she smiles while looking out the window. The secretive curve of her lips tells him something else: she wants him to find out without asking. His fingers tap out a nervous rhythm on his knee as he counts back from 100, wondering why he thought wearing these jeans today was a good idea (nice day and she likes the way they make his arse look) when they've suddenly become so tight. Counting isn't helping; the urge to spell the numbers with his tongue in between her legs is much more interesting than the case or pretending he's behaving himself.

The cab stops right around the fourth time he loses count at 69. He pays the fare and gets out first, offering his hand to Watson. She gamely slides across the seat and takes it, pulling herself up and then letting him go. The hand he places at the small of her back probably looks courteous as he ushers her into the police station. It isn't, and she knows it. His fingers drift across the fabric as he pretends to guide her through the first floor crowd, looking for the telltale crease of elastic against skin underneath. By the time they get to the elevator, he's absolutely certain that a) she is going to be the ruin of him, and b) she isn't wearing anything under that skirt.

He snatches his hand back as the doors open and they step onto the lift and move to the side. A few more people file in after them, pressing their floors and standing quietly and carefully not looking at anyone, as one does in elevators. Joan leans across him and pushes the button for their floor. In his distraction he had forgotten, and now the smell of her hair is filling his nose (almondy, the expensive fourteen dollars a bottle brand nonsense that she yells if he borrows).

Her fingers brush his leg as she rests back against the wall, trailing up the fabric for a moment before she resumes her casual pose. One amused glance from under her lashes at him and she knows that he knows what isn't there. For now it is her underwear. If the elevator empties before they hit their floor it will be his self control that went missing.

Unfortunately, it doesn't, and Sherlock steps off the lift feeling irritable and frustrated. His rather manic energy seems to serve him well though as he strides down the hall; no one bothers him. The rhythmic clicking of Joan's four inch heels follows him, in tune with his elevated pulse. The sound echoing against the walls somehow twists into words: fuck me, fuck me, fuck me. He swallows and opens the door to the briefing room.

It's packed with officers and detectives. Gregson thinks he has a serial killer, and has ordered the entire department in for an update. Sherlock knows he's wrong; it's not quite the same and something's off but he can't think of what when the only thing he can concentrate on is the way Joan would be screaming if he had half the opportunity.

There's a small spot in the back corner and he squeezes into it, gratefully slouching against the wall. His jeans are too tight and rubbing him in not exactly the right ways he needs. Not the way her hands can, in the way he knows so well and can never know enough. When she joins him in the corner, he thinks it's probably not really necessary that she lean so close to him, her ass pressing against his left thigh. He does the actual math for fun and knows it's not. Nearly hip to hip and not at all in the way he needs.

Gregson steps up to the podium at the front of the room and starts up the projector. When the lights are dimmed and everyone focuses on him, Sherlock suddenly smiles. He takes note of exactly how much of a bad idea this is and then utterly ignores it. The heat from her body almost leaning against his is too much off a draw, and she was daring him to.

Carefully he sets his left hand against the small of her back again. He calculates all the angles of sight in the room, from Gregson to the traffic cop two feet in front of them and comes up with an answer he likes. His fingertips start to drift, inching down the ruched fabric that had confounded him earlier. She knows where this is headed; he could see it in her posture, the way she braces herself a little. Good, she better.

Sherlock slips his hand under her bottom and gathers up the fabric until he finds the hem. A tiny flick of his wrist and he's underneath. The back of his fingers connect with the smooth skin of her arse and lust gives him a jolt of adrenaline. The game they are playing will have serious consequences for them if they're caught. He hopes for both their sakes she's been working on her poker face.

She is warm and smooth against his exploring hand. Keeping just enough of his mind on their surroundings to alert him to attention, he indulges in memory of her naked body. He's memorized every inch of her, every mole, every dip where parts meet. He's still working on cataloging every reaction, every noise she makes when he touches her.

She's wondering what he's doing taking so long (the slight turn of her head gives her away and he grins), wondering and can't turn around for fear of drawing attention. For someone who's been laying siege to his concentration all morning, she's rather impatient, he thinks. Far be it from him to not give her what she wants (except he does that too sometimes, when she lets him handcuff her for a change and he takes all night). His hand dips between her legs just so until fingertips slide over her lower lips. A shiver of arousal runs up her body and he can feel it every place they're touching, but mostly in the way her slickness wets his fingers.

It makes him inhale sharply, tamping down on every instinct to excuse them from this waste of time and ravage her properly. While he couldn't give less of a shit about it being rude, Joan would see it as giving up the game. Never let it be said he didn't like giving as good as he got.

His gentle fingertips slip between labia majora to labia minora (he likes those words, likes to spell them against her clitoris as he names parts of her he plans to lick). Arousal practically drips onto his fingertips, and he wonders that it's not pearling down her legs. She's standing so close to him, and he can smell her; musky wetness mixes with the scent of her skin and hair and perfume. Memory is triggered: the first night night they ended up twisted between the sheets, sweaty and spending all their frustration out on each other.

Her breathing has changed, he notices as the projector switches images and the room is brightened for a moment. Even, shallow breaths from between parted lips. He can't see her entire face from this angle, and he wonders if it looks like she has a secret. Sherlock leans into her conspiratorially and puts his lips to her ear like he's making an observation on the presentation.

"Stay quiet," he whispers, and quickly slides his index finger home inside her. Her eyes widen and she inhales sharply. He can only smirk to himself as he slowly glides his finger in and out of her pussy. Her legs are trembling a little as she lets out the breath she's been holding. She's so wet that there's no friction, even if her standing the way she is makes her so much tighter than usual.

A glance at the front of the room tells him the presentation's going to end soon, and he hasn't teased her half as much as he'd like. Without warning he adds his middle to his index finger, and now he knows he's played the game to her satisfaction. He can feel every tremble, every squeeze, every shiver of lust she's trying to contain. Wiggling his fingers inside her was just rubbing it in, and actually, if he rubs the back of his fingers just so he could probably earn some payback right th-

"Sherlock, do you have anything to add?" Gregson's voice snaps him back to reality fast. Joan looks down; she's probably trying to cover her face with her hair, hoping that the couple of people that glanced back won't see.

"No uh, not just yet," Sherlock says, trying to sound normal and nonchalant, entirely too mindful that his fingers were still buried in the warmth of his partner's sex in room full of people. He must have managed it because Gregson looks away and powers down the projector, wrapping up something about new patrol route.

Quickly he pulls his fingers out of her, giving her lips a sensual rub before withdrawing entirely, making sure her skirt was down. His hand is entirely soaked and for a frantic moment he can't think of what to do with it. The lights flick back on and Sherlock quickly stuffs his fingers in his mouth, sucking them clean in moments. It was a bad idea. The taste goes right to his expansive, bloody brain and snuffs out everything but focus on Joan. He looks up to see her regarding him, cheeks red and eyes hungry.

"I think it's time to go," he says hoarsely.

She nods. "Yes. Now," she says, her voice low and full of promises. He couldn't have denied her even if he wanted to, and he really doesn't want to.

They leave, slipping out before the end of speech rush. At the elevator they wait together, not touching, and him fidgeting. She's had a death grip on her purse handle since he first touched her, and he's just hoping no one mentions his obvious erection.

The lift chimes its arrival, and Sherlock holds his breath. When the doors roll back to reveal an empty lift he nearly swallows it. They hurry inside and he palms the ground floor before repeatedly mashing the close door button. Joan watches him from the other side of the car, desire in her eyes as she licks her lips.

The moment the doors thump close she drops her purse. Sherlock notes that it hits the floor at the same time the lift starts to move. Exactly half a second later, Joan has him pressed up against the wall, her fingers in his hair bringing his lips to hers roughly. Blindly he slaps the lift's stop button and the carriage halts somewhere between floors, sealing them off from the rest of the world. The red emergency lights that flip on are dim in the tiny space that's suddenly all theirs.

Her kisses are punishment and praise combined: teeth nipping his bottom lip with an apologetic lick, her breath hot as it ghosts across his skin. His hands are twisted in the fabric of her damned skirt, pulling her to him so she could feel what she'd done. Joan presses her body against his and he can feel the weight of her against his hard-on in his jeans.

"I thought I was going to scream," she practically growls, yanking his head to the side with her hand fisted in his hair. She puts her lips to his neck and teeth scrape down to his collar bone. His eyelids flutter as he tries to remember how to think. Only she can do this to him, turning him on so hard that every filter is gone, every scrap of intellect is focused on her and her alone. The overload is dizzying and wonderful.

He smirks when his brain catches up to her words. "While gratifying in other situations, it would hardly have been the time for it. Getting arrested for public indecency would have needlessly complicated the day," he says, pushing her skirt up and cupping his hands around her bare ass. She makes a low noise in her throat and lets go of his hair, bracing that hand against the back wall. His fingertips barely brush her outer folds as he squeezes her ass.

"Oh?" Her other hand finds its way down his body to the all too noticeable bulge in his jeans. Joan has his pants undone in a moment, shoving them down to reveal the stark outline of his cock in his boxer-briefs. She cups it almost roughly, rubbing the base of her palm against it through the fabric. He moans and buries his face in her neck, breathing in the scent of her skin. That was exactly the touch he's been craving.

"Prison bars might have gotten in the way of my plans, and I really didn't want to have wait through processing to fuck you," he murmurs in her ear. Arousal makes her shudder and suddenly he knows exactly what she needs and he wants.

Spinning her around quickly, he reverses their positions, shoving her against the wall. She's startled for a moment (he's normally the one getting familiar with hard surfaces) and he presses the advantage. Sherlock rubs a hand against her pelvis; she smiles like sin itself and spreads her legs for him. There's no warning, no teasing when he drives his ring and middle fingers inside her pussy. Her answering gasp has exactly the right amount relief and desire for more.

Her parted lips draw him back like a loadstone and he drinks in her kisses like he's parched (and really, he is because it's been sixteen hours and thirty two minutes since the last time they made love). He takes his time with his hand, slowly pumping them in and out. It's agonizing when he knows she wants it hard and fast, and he'll give it to her. But not yet.

Pushing his fingers in deep, he rubs his fingers around, watching her face for the moment he finds just the right spot. When her head tilts back and she draws in a shuddering breath he knows he's found it. The movement of his fingers change to a "come hither" motion, a coaxing gesture if ever there was one, and oh, the things he'd like to coax out of her. The whimpers she's making now are music to his ears. He's learned to play her too, much like the violin she had placed in his hands. When her back bows as he rubs her just right, he smiles with pride. She was his Stradivarius, and her sounds were magnificent.

Sherlock runs the tip of his nose down her cheek to her neck and licks over her pulse, feeling it jump under his tongue. His stubble is going to leave marks on her (again), small telltale scratches of passion. Her hands are pressed against the wall behind her, looking for purchase on the cold surface. He's honestly surprised she's still standing.

"Having trouble in your heels?" he asks cheekily, feeling her unsteady tremors in every place they touch. She smiles darkly.

"I think I just need some support," Joan pants. Once again her fingers slide through his hair to grip it behind his head and he sees where she's going with this (sees it and waits because he wants it so bad). Firmly, she tugs his head back until his knees have to bend and he drops to them at her feet. She lets go and rests her hand on his head.

"That's better," she says, looking down at him. She looks like a goddess from any vantage point, but this one was especially right for it. And what kind of supplicant would he be if he didn't worship?

He starts forward and she bites her lip in anticipation because she knows all too well what he likes to do with that oral fixation. Fingers pause inside her; he wants her to feel what he's going to do with clarity. His nose nuzzles the soft curls on her mons, letting the scent of her fill his nose. Normally he likes to take his time teasing her for hours, but if his calculations are correct, they only have about three more minutes before the maintenance man is called to check out the lift. Time enough to give her what she wanted.

Sherlock buries his face between her labia, making her gasp as his lips find her clitoris. She's warm and wet, and sucking on her just so makes her yelp in pleasure. The fingers tightening in his hair are only an encouragement, and he resumes the movement of his own deep inside her. This was his favorite way to make her come apart in pleasure: knowing how to please her, where to touch her and when. He knows what each hip wiggle and moan means, understands her body intimately. He could have turned it into a science; she made it into an art.

She's been keyed up for so long today he knows it won't take much to make her come. His other hand slides up the back of her thigh and palms one of her cheeks, using the leverage to push her firmly against his mouth. Her involuntary squirming was quite sexy, but the last thing he wanted was her getting away from the steady sucking pulse his mouth was doing around her clit.

"Sherlock," Joan keens, both her hands tensing on the back of his head. His tongue rubs against her clit unrelentingly, and the responding scratch of her nails on his scalp sends shivers down his spine. He could feel it in the way she tensed how very close she was, from her ragged pants to the shaking of her thighs. Feeling triumphant, he sucks her clitoris between his lips and pulses.

Joan comes, crying out with a rough wail, orgasm turning his name into a prayer and a curse. Her legs give in a trembling spasm and he lowers her into his lap. Sherlock's arms go around her waist in support and she melts against him. She's shaking from her release, her fingers clench in the front of his shirt in desperation, clinging to him like an anchor. The heat of her breath is practically scalding on his face as he rests his forehead against hers, closing his eyes. He rubs her back in wordless comfort as she trembles.

Time for a while is lost as he holds her. Eventually he can feel her breathing slow and he leans back to look at her. The pleased smile on her face is a beautiful thing and he can't help but grin back, no small amount of smugness creeping into it. "I trust you found your challenge acceptably met?" he says.

She leans forward and softly presses her lips against his, unhurried passion whispered in the glide of lips and tongue and mingled breath. When she pulls back he's trembling. "Good boy," she whispers.