Adult-FanFiction.org : Television / Streaming

The Prey	By : amandalee Category: S through Z > Sherlock (BBC) > Sherlock (BBC) Views: 3756 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: The authors do not claim ownership to Sherlock or any of its characters, and we make no money from writing this.

Chapter List
- 2
- 3
- 4
Chapter 3

Since the nearest train station was more than forty-five minutes away from their destination, taking the train turned out not to be an option. Besides, the threesome quickly found themselves running out of daylight hours. Time difference could be a real bitch sometimes.

"Whatever you decide on, get on with it!" Mary snapped irritably after Sherlock had spent over an hour trying to calculate the fastest route to the resort via the GPS system in his phone. For some reason, the machine would not cooperate.

"If we stay here any longer, we'll end up like that poor Russian guy Tom Hanks played!"

Sherlock frowned in confusion. "I'm sorry?"

"The Terminal. It's a movie. Never mind," John sighed. "Mary's right, though. We can't spend the night here. If we get lost, we'll just have to stop to ask the locals for directions."

“As if they’ll know…” Sherlock said. “This country isn’t exactly known for superior education.”

“Who’s being judgmental now?” John muttered.

“Not when it’s a fact,” Sherlock replied.

“Boys, please?” Mary interrupted them. “The more time we spend here, the later it’s going to be once we arrive. And we don’t know just how late their reception desk stays open.”

“You’re right,” John said, picking up his luggage. “Let’s go. We could use all the daylight we can get.”

Renting a car was easier than expected, but John did not trust good luck. Sure enough, the Toyota Corolla they had rented looked to be on its last breath. At least it started up when he turned the key.

Sherlock – despite having only one suitcase – did not even bother loading it into the car, proceeding into the back seat instead and leaving his traveling companions to the luggage.

By the time they were all in the car, Sherlock had produced a map of the area.

“In case the GPS never does find it,” he explained, holding the map in front of Mary’s face. She frowned and took it from him, unfolding and examining it, only to frown deeper. Expecting at least a circled destination, she was baffled to find random scribbles throughout.

“This looks more like someone was doing their calculus homework than directions!” she exclaimed.

“Oh, ignore those,” Sherlock said with a dismissive wave, lying back along the length of the back seats. “You wouldn’t have a chance of deciphering it anyway. Wake me when we arrive; those flights were exhausting.”

John was about to object but held his tongue when he thought the situation over: did he really want to put Sherlock in charge of a rental car in an - to them - unknown country? Just as impulsive as a driver as anywhere else, Sherlock was bound to at least cross a few speed limits assuming he didn't drive the car into a tree.

"That's it? You're not going to help us navigate?" Mary demanded, but Sherlock had already turned his back on them and pretended not to hear. Or perhaps he didn't have to pretend. The wiring of Sherlock's brain and his way of processing sensory impressions sometimes just shut down.

John decided to let it be and seated himself behind the wheel. Predictably, the GPS refused to reveal any coordinates for the Avalon resort. The biggest town in the area turned out to be Cumberland, Maryland, and he set the GPS to that instead. If things got really bad, they could hopefully at least find a motel.

Almost an hour passed in silence. John dreaded to say anything, knowing that Mary was everything but pleased about the development of their trip.

When she finally did speak, John failed to suppress a twitch. "So..." Mary began after clearing her throat. "Are you going to work on the case... with him?"

John glanced back at Sherlock, making sure the other man was still asleep. Then again, if Sherlock were truly awake, he would have been talking.

“I’m not really sure,” he answered, his voice low. “It just sounds strange.”

“How?”

“Sherlock barely takes most cases as it is,” John said, turning the car towards the fast lane. He found himself getting used to the traffic faster than he thought he would. “He only takes them if it can really stimulate his mind. He’s like a little spaniel or something, needing things to do or else he’ll chew up furniture… Anyway, a few disappearances in a resort that’s nestled away in miles of woods doesn’t quite sound like his cuppa tea. It just sounds too easy.”

Mary only made a noise of agreement. She had not interacted with Sherlock very much, but she had a very good grip on his behaviour, partly from John’s own descriptions and anecdotes, partly from observation alone. She felt like David Attenborough, witnessing the behaviors of mollusks.

“Does he?” she finally asked after a few minutes of silence.

“Does he what?” John responded, confused.

“Chew the furniture,” she explained, and John laughed so suddenly that he feared he had awoken the subject of their conversation.

“Sometimes,” he said jokingly. The GPS announced an upcoming exit, and as confirmed by the map, it was the correct one. “Almost there,” he said, changing the subject. “Not far to go once we reach the city.”

“Hopefully the rooms are comfortable,” Mary remarked. A hand touched John’s knee, making him squirm out of instinct. “With a nice big bed.”

“Maybe.” John was silent otherwise.

He understood the hint, of course; he was not that dense. Despite having dated for the past two months, John had not yet taken his relationship with Mary to the next phase, even though he'd had plenty of opportunities to do so. Something just made him hesitate. Would Mary find him lacking or inadequate in the size-department? Would she find the expanse of his waistline a turn-off? Would he be able to please her? Would he even be able to... perform?

John was not as fit as he'd been during his military days, and one casual, off-hand comment from Sherlock about the length of his endowment had affected him deeply. It had happened during one of their infrequent sexual encounters. Sherlock's mouth, not rattling rude deductions for once, had been tightly wrapped around his cock, and John was doing his best not to simply grab his flatmate's unruly curls and fuck his face hard.

Sherlock gave the best head. That was an undisputable fact. No one before him had possessed the same skill and technique, the ability to have John fighting back a climax less than a minute into the blowjob. Sherlock's mouth was made for it, even more than it was made for incessant talking.

"You're so great at this, Sherlock," the doctor had said, hand tangled in the detective's sticky, damp curls after having shot his load down Sherlock's throat. "You're just a natural, aren't you?"

Sherlock smiled sardonically with his forehead still resting against John's inner thigh. "I can do much better," he said. "And you would know, if your... manhood could reach the back of my throat."

“Are you alright?” he heard Mary ask him, shaking him from his memories. He gave her a smile and took the hand which had been squeezing his knee.

“I’m fine.” He kissed the back of her hand and continued to hold it for some time during the drive.

***

Asking for directions in Cumberland rewarded the group with derisive looks, though not to anyone’s surprise. When someone finally did look at their map – casting another sidelong glance in regards to the scribbling – John and Mary’s guessed route turned out to be correct.

They wasted no time dallying in the convenience store after their inquiry, as Sherlock’s poking around in the aisles was beginning to alarm other customers.

“It’s only a straight drive from here,” John announced as they drove down winding roads framed by trees and the occasional empty field. “Keep an eye out for… what was it? Owl Hollow?”

“Critton-Owl Hollow Road,” Sherlock corrected him, his tone quite irate. “We did not need to stop for directions.”

“You’re just angry that the employees called you mentally challenged,” Mary said with a chuckle.

Sherlock bristled. “Touched in the head was term they used,” he snapped. “Not that they have any sort of mental capacity themselves.”

“Now, now,” John interrupted. “We’ve been driving for over two hours now, and we’re all very tired. So have some patience.”

As he said this, they passed a peculiar sight. Abandoned houses and barns had increasingly been the norm as they made their drive, but this would be the first time any of them had seen an abandoned school bus. Permanently parked on an embankment and covered in weeds, the yellow exterior had mostly peeled away and been replaced by rust. Several windows were broken, and the door itself looked as though it had been yanked off its hinges by some unknown thing.

“We’re nearly there,” John muttered, trying to turn his attention back on the destination.

"Who lives here?!" Mary suddenly exclaimed as if in disbelief of what her eyes had told her. "There are people who live here... aren't there? Actual people?"

"Depends on how you define "people"," Sherlock replied. "Is walking upright a requirement?"

"Sherlock, that's enough," John warned his flatmate. "If you're having doubts, do us all a favour and remember that you were the one who wanted to come out here. It would probably be in your best interest to be somewhat civil. You're not in London anymore. These people - assuming we come upon any - are likely to have guns. As well as foul tempers."

Sherlock scoffed, leaning back in his seat. "Of course, that is the only way these "people" can communicate." He suddenly felt his thirst and regretted not buying a drink from the airport. John, however, had bought a bottle of 7up and stuffed it into his carry-on bag. Sherlock reached for the drink, thinking that he had preferred another brand - preferably something containing caffeine - but he decided not to mention it.

John turned onto a narrow dirt road just as the sun cast its final rays from behind the treetops.
"Looks like we're there..." he muttered with rather muted enthusiasm.

“It’s a good thing we could spot that sign,” Mary remarked as they carefully navigated the twists and turns of the narrow road. “You would think the resort didn’t want anyone finding it.”

“It’s a nudist resort in the backwoods,” Sherlock said, impatience in his tone. “They’d rather not bring too much unwanted attention.”

When they finally reached the resort, they parked first at the reception office. As they got out of the rental car, two middle-aged men strolled by, completely naked, and waved at them, smiling. Mary tried to be polite and waved back, but Sherlock ignored them, heading inside. John, feeling vaguely uncomfortable, followed suit.

Once inside, John gave the woman at the front desk a fleeting look before he turned his head. Though she wore a skirt for hygiene purposes at a publically used desk and chair, she was otherwise topless. John could not help his physician instinct from taking over as he continued to give sidelong glances her way. From the neck - or what was left of it - down, she resembled an overweight man; he would have guessed visceral fat from the way her stomach stuck out further that her breasts. She gave what in her estimation had to be a welcoming grin as she greeted them. Her gapped teeth looked beyond yellow.

“Hi, welcome to Avalon!” she said. “Checking in?”

Sherlock gave her a curt little smile in return, one that was forced, but well-practiced enough to look convincing.

"Under the name Holmes, good woman,” he replied.

“I love your accent!” she exclaimed as she looked up the name.

John secretly rolled his eyes.

"Yer from England?" the odd-looking receptionist asked as she lumbered away to bring the keys to their cabin. The rear view of her was similarly unappealing, and John was grateful that she at least wore the knee-length wrap-around skirt that concealed certain parts.

"Yes, that's right," Sherlock muttered, now visibly impatient. He was never one to engage in small talk, and now he was not in the mood to even pretend. When Sherlock was tired, his anti-social nature became more apparent than ever.

"We don't get many foreigners out here," the woman continued, blissfully aware of the new guests' discomfort around her. "Especially not such good looking ones!"

John realized that the obese, middle-aged receptionist was flirting with Sherlock. Part of it made him want to laugh at the irony of it, but he was relieved not to be on the receiving end of the woman's attentions.

"Yes, strange, isn't it?" Sherlock countered, his bright blue eyes boring into the woman. "Don't you ever wonder why no decent-looking folks become nudists?"

John’s eyes widened, and suddenly he urgently wanted to be in his cabin.

“Oh, there’s more to it than just how people’s breasts hang and the size of a man’s penis,” the receptionist chattered on, leaving John all the more surprised. The woman did not seem to realize she had been outright insulted.

“So you admit that there are no attractive nudists,” Sherlock said.

“Umm, which cabin was reserved for two?” John blurted, stepping forward. He tried his best innocent grin and pointed at Mary, who was looking ready to come inside and ask what was keeping him. “The missus is rather tired. We’ve come all the way from JFK.”

He ignored the look he got from Sherlock.

The receptionist, now looking like she had caught onto Sherlock’s jab, was no longer smiling. At least it meant her teeth were no longer showing. She handed him some keys, their number engraved into the metal.

“There are two bedrooms in the lodge you’ve signed up for. The cabin is second to the left of the road. Your friend is really rude.”

“He knows,” John replied. “And he’s very sorry. He’s a little touched in the head.”

“No, I’m not!” Sherlock argued. “I’m only genuinely curious!”

The woman was now beginning to raise her voice. “If you’re really here because you want to make fun of people who just want some peace and quiet when they’re not doing anything wrong—”

“I assure you, that’s not the case,” John said, desperate to simply leave and hope they would not have to sleep in the car due to Sherlock getting them kicked out.

"Cabin five, was it, boys?" Mary piped up and practically ushered John toward the exit. He had not even noticed her coming inside, but now he could only hope that Sherlock would follow before the woman behind the desk changed her mind about letting them stay.

He did, but not before blessing the receptionist with a few more of his scathing deductions.

"Sexually frustrated divorcee with a mid-life crisis," he informed them. "At least two adult children she's not on good terms with. Recently had a liposuction based on the horizontal scar beneath her stomach, which, I believe, led to some medical complications. As well as stretched the skin of her belly to the breaking point. And she has her home in a proverbial pig sty!"

"Look who's talking..." Mary muttered with an eye roll. Sherlock and John's flat on Baker Street was rarely ever cleaned and looked like a hoarder's nest on the best of times. Sometimes, after one of Sherlock's experiments had gone awry, it looked like a bombsite. Mary also wanted to comment on Sherlock's irregular bathing habits, but she was too tired for the shouting match that was bound to follow.

The cabin was an old-fashioned timber cottage with very little space, although it did have - thank the lord - two separate bedrooms. Sherlock was quick to simply dump his luggage on the floor and immediately occupy the bathroom. John and Mary could soon hear the sound of running water. While John was pleased that his flatmate had decided to wash himself, he couldn't help but worry that there would be no hot water left for the rest of them.

After nearly half an hour, Sherlock finally returned. His dark curls, normally so messy, were plastered to his skull like a helmet, further accentuating his unusual facial structure, and his pale skin was bright pink in spots from the heat of the shower. The most striking thing, however, was that the detective was naked. Unashamed of this fact, Sherlock proceeded to throw his wet towel into a corner.

"We're at a nudist resort," he casually remarked upon noticing John's stare. "I suggest we try to blend in."

Mary raised her eyebrows for a moment, but went back to unpacking and putting away clothes in the bedroom, secretly wondering if she and John should hide their own towels. John simply looked up at Sherlock, stealing a glance downwards for a split second. Sherlock of course noticed the look and rested his hands on his hips. Whatever the opinion of his personality, his body indeed was an object of attraction for John in the past. The detective had picked up various bad habits throughout his life, but his flatmate had to admit, at least he had held onto an alright figure for this long.

“Who is this person you’re supposed to meet up with, by the way?” John asked, changing the subject. He was not about to scamper about naked outside. Or inside either, for that matter.

“A Bobbi Ferguson. We’re meeting tomorrow at the pool.”

“Lovely,” John said. “Interviewing Mr. Ferguson in public about these very sensitive disappearances…”

“Bobbi with an ‘I’,” Sherlock corrected him. “Short for Roberta. And she’ll be leading us somewhere private to discuss the case.”

“Yes, yes…” John replied, rubbing his temples. “And I’m sure it will be an engaging case indeed, but for now, it’s getting late and we haven’t had any proper sleep since before we were on a plane. I think Mary and I might turn in for the night.”

“You’ll come with me tomorrow.” Sherlock’s words were less a question and more a command.

“That depends on how much sleep I get tonight,” John responded with a frown.

"Sleeping is boring..." Sherlock murmured, now busy examining every nook and cranny of the small lodge. The cooking possibilities were rather limited, and John hoped they would be served food at the restaurant at least once every day. Did this place even have a restaurant? And if so, would one have to attend in the nude? Did the cooks also work in the nude?
Suddenly he was no longer so sure he wanted to eat at the restaurant.

Sherlock bellowed out from excitement when he opened the door to the first bedroom. "I'll choose this one!" he called over his shoulder at his flatmate. Had it just been the two of them, John would not have bothered to object. Sherlock was used to having space, and the doctor knew how impossible he could become if he was denied it. The problem this time, however, was that Sherlock had chosen the bigger of the two bedrooms, consequently also with the bigger bed.

"Sherlock, since there are two of us, and only one of you..." John began, but the detective whisked his protest away.

"Oh, you'll be fine," he said with a casual shake of his head. "What could be better for Mary and yourself, than a small, narrow bed where bodily contact at all times is, should I say, non-optional?"

The wrinkle between the doctor's brows deepened further, and was beginning to resemble a coiled snake. Teeth clenched tightly together, he grabbed Sherlock's bicep and dragged him into the moderate privacy the small kitchenette offered.

"Mary and I have not yet reached that part of our relationship!" he hissed angrily. "You knew that, Sherlock!"

Sherlock merely grinned. "Maybe now is your chance. It's what you want, isn't it?"

John tried to argue, but each time he tried to speak, his mind went blank.

“Don’t argue with me,” Sherlock said, locking eyes with the doctor. “There’s no argument, you want to have sex with her.”

“Yes, but there’s a certain pace at which these things happen,” John insisted.

“There wasn’t for us.”

John’s face went a deep red. At times like these, he wondered if his personal life had been better off had he not given in to impulse that night so long ago. The morning after, he had said that it had all been a mistake, though this statement had not kept them from engaging in the act over and over again. Perhaps it really had been a mistake.

“You were different,” he finally said, though he could tell from the look in Sherlock’s eyes that the detective knew he had hit a nerve.

“We were different,” Sherlock corrected.

John glared at him. “Do you want to help me with Mary or are you really just trying to drive us apart?”

“You tell me,” Sherlock replied.

The doctor put his hands over his own face, taking a deep breath. He was too exhausted and too damned angry for this.

“I don’t want to deal with this anymore. Take the damn room.”

Sherlock looked faintly surprised, perhaps a little hurt. “No arguments?”

“I’m not in the mood for arguments.”

Pursing his lips, Sherlock folded his arms. “You can have it. I’ve changed my mind.”

Sherlock did not put on any clothes for the remainder of the night. He dug out a lukewarm can of Coke from his suitcase and quickly downed it, followed by a power bar. He refused the offer of a sandwich from Mary, claiming that the brand of butter she used did not suit his tastes.

John and Mary ate their flattened sandwiches in silence, while Sherlock took out his laptop, placing it in his naked lap and giving a triumphant howl at the functioning WI-FI connection. The sound of the detective's spiderlike fingers flying over the keyboard was the only sound for a long while after that.

John feared this might be the longest week of his life.

***

Mary was the first to retire. John was not sure what was expected of him at this stage. Was she interested in anything besides sleep? After such a long and trying day, and with Sherlock next door, he did not believe so.

"You should get some sleep," Sherlock said admonishingly after John had remained seated by the table, indecisive. "I want to get started on this case early tomorrow morning, and I need you focused."

If I even go, John considered saying. But again, he did not feel like getting into another argument.

“It’s been a long journey,” Sherlock said, eyes fixed on the computer screen. “Go sleep.”

John sighed. At least he had won the larger bedroom.

The room was dark when John entered, but as his eyes adjusted, he saw that Mary was still awake. Lying under a sheet, she calmly looked up at him as he awkwardly removed his trousers and shirt. She turned over, expecting the dipping sensation of a body joining her in the bed, but instead she heard the shuffling of his feet against the carpet. Then John bumped into a drawer and she heard him whisper out a curse.

“Are you hurt?” she asked, turning back to look at him once more.

“No, I’m alright,” he said, his voice quiet and embarrassed. “Umm… which drawer did you put the pajamas?”

“I haven’t found an air conditioner. It’ll be too warm for those,” Mary replied, lifting her arm and extending it toward him. “You can get in as is.”

“O-oh…” he nearly stammered. “Alright.” Hesitant, he finally sat down on the edge of the mattress. Down to his boxer shorts, he realized this was the most naked he had ever been around Mary. He wondered how naked Mary was underneath that sheet. Supposedly he would find out in a few seconds.

This was not how John had imagined it in his head. Not in a small, musty room at some godforsaken resort for people who liked prancing about in the nude. Not with Sherlock next door. Not with...

Realizing that he was holding his breath, John let it out with a sigh. It was no use pretending anymore. He had been wanting to lose some extra pounds before taking their relationship to the next level. Take up a gym membership, start eating more actual food and less greasy takeaway, walk rather than hail a cab...

Who was he kidding, anyway? Between his hours at the surgery and the time spent as Sherlock's steadfast assistant solving crime, he had very little time or energy for a healthy lifestyle. And to think that he would actually turn forty next year...

John carefully lifted the covers and joined Mary in bed. With equal amounts of relief and disappointment, he found out that she was not naked but wearing a form-fitting tank top and panties.

"So..." Mary said in the near-darkness and carefully edged closer. "Finally we're alone."

“Not technically,” John uncomfortably reminded her. “We have company in the other room, and sometimes he doesn’t sleep all through the night.”

“Doesn’t he have that case tomorrow?” Mary asked. “I don’t mean to eavesdrop, but I could hear him discussing it with you.”

“I came here to share this holiday with you,” John said. He then brought his voice to a whisper. “Not engage in stupid cases that don’t make sense.”

One of Mary’s hands caressed the center of John’s chest. He automatically squirmed again, but instead of being offended, his girlfriend smiled, amused with his skittish nature.

“Sherlock has a hold on you,” she remarked matter-of-factly. “I’ve know that since I met you. I understand that he’s beyond difficult, and that you’re one of the few people he’ll willingly interact with. You may not have much of a choice tomorrow.”

John’s brow wrinkled, and he snuggled closer to her, minding that only his upper half did, and not his stomach.

“For now, let’s just enjoy each other’s company…?” he said, taking her hand. She nodded, nuzzling him until their lips met. John relaxed a little, fumbling with his caresses, but otherwise alright… until his belly touched her. His body tensed up, an action not missed by Mary, who cupped his face.

“It’s alright,” she said.

"This..." John said, "...is not at all what I had in mind for us..."

"It doesn't have to be all bad just because we had a rocky start," Mary replied. "We can still have an enjoyable time. This is my first ever trip to America." She gave a slightly embarrassed laugh at her own confession. "I didn't get to travel a whole lot when I was a girl."

"You're still a girl," John said with a cheeky grin.

"I'm thirty-four," Mary reminded him. "I don't feel like a girl." She left out the mention that twenty years ago, she had envisioned herself married with children at this age.

"You look ten years younger," John assured his girlfriend, thinking that in reality it was just three or four. Sherlock, who was coincidentally also going to be thirty-four in December, looked much younger.

"Well, aren't you a charmer!" Mary playfully exclaimed and gave him a mock-slap. "Oh wait! You're just trying to charm my pants off, aren't you, you naughty boy!"

The doctor promptly sat up. He had only registered the words, not the good-natured, teasing tone they were uttered with. "No, Mary, that's not true...--!"

She giggled at his shocked reaction. "Calm down, soldier! It was a joke. But truth to be told..." She carded her hand through his sparse chest hair. "...perhaps I wouldn't mind if you did."

John's discomfort grew, and none of it could be attributed to arousal. All he could think of was Sherlock. Sherlock listening to every word of their exchange, maybe even cataloguing it for future reference. Sherlock bursting inside, once again showing his blatant disrespect of John's privacy. Sherlock's long, pale hand, fisting his cock...

"You know, it's been a long day, and we're both very tired," John said and grasped the hand stroking his chest. "We should probably... get some sleep."

Mary tried one last time to instigate some sort or arousal, tickling at one of his nipples.

“Are you sure?” she asked, and though she smiled, her eyes couldn’t hide her disappointment.

“I’m sure,” John replied. Mary’s smile became a little sadder, but he gave him an affectionate kiss on the nose.

“Alright,” she said. “Sleep well.”

“Good night,” John returned. He watched her turn over with a certain tinge of regret. She seemed to genuinely care about him, and it was clear she was not spending time with him just for a screwing. She curled up on her side, her back turned to him.

John felt like absolute shit. Neither of he or Mary were able to get to sleep very easily that night.

TBC...
- 2
- 3
- 4
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

The Prey