Motivation
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Author: MonkeyBard Stuck in a broken-down lift with Molly Hooper. It wasn't tops on John's list of things he hoped never to experience, but if he actually wrote out such a list, and then checked off the unpleasant things had already experienced, it would probably rank in the top fifteen. At least neither of them was claustrophobic. "And then the kitten says, 'It's all smoke and mirrors!'" Molly burst into giggles, and John forced a courtesy laugh. He'd tuned out this latest in a string of long, involved jokes about three lines in and hadn't a clue why the punch line was funny. He hoped that was her last one. "I'm sure they'll get us out of here as soon as they can," he said, willing it to be true. "Why? Have you got a hot date?" She was teasing, of course. Or was she? John wasn't always sure with Molly. Her sense of humour was unpredictable. "Hm? No," he lied. "Just eager to get home. Last errand in a long day and all that." His mobile in his coat pocket chirped a text alert. "Sorry." He pulled it out, unsurprised to see a terse message from Sherlock. Where are you? --SH "Sherlock," he explained, unnecessarily waggling the phone at her. She could see it from where she sat across the lift from him. Stuck in a lift at St Bart's. --JW The reply was almost immediate. Come home at once. --SH "Git," he muttered. "Problem?" He offered the same explanation he had before. "Sherlock." Molly nodded. She understood. He tapped out a snarky message: What part of 'stuck in a lift' is unclear? --JW I see. You need incentive. --SH "He's chatty, isn't he?" said Molly, making another attempt at banter. "Maybe he can puzzle a way out of here for us." Another lame joke, but at least this one was short. "I think I'd rather wait for the professionals." "You're probably right." She fell silent and focussed on her mobile's screen. John guessed she'd run out of jokes and was surfing the internet. John's mobile chirped again and he silenced the ringer. This time there were no words but instead a picture. It was too small in the thumbnail view so he tapped it. It took several seconds for his brain to process the abstract image. A vee of pale skin bisected by purple silk and framed by darker silk. Oh this could not be good. He typed quickly. What are you doing? --JW Providing incentive. --SH I'm TRAPPED. It isn't up to me. --JW The ensuing silence did not leave him with a sense of peace. Foreboding was a better adjective. Molly giggled again and he looked up to find her holding out her mobile with the screen towards him. "Look! So cute!" It was a photo meme of a frowning cat in a black top hat and a Photoshopped handlebar moustache. The text, written in LOLCAT, said Troot be told, I haz a Master Plan. "Adorable." "I can kill hours on I Can Has Cheezburger." John's phone vibrated and he dared a look. More pale skin and purple silk, off-centre now. To the side of the silk, a nipple. Flushed and peaked. Obviously pinched to dark pink arousal. It was John's favourite shade of red, and he felt his prick twitch in response to the image. Shit. NOT ALONE HERE. --JW No response. SHERLOCK? I'M NOT ALONE. --JW Still nothing. Shit, shit, shit. This could only go badly for him. His mobile buzzed again and he wilfully ignored it. It buzzed again. Molly didn't seem to notice. She was absorbed in her cat-based website, giggling. The images on his own phone would have elicited a very different response if he shared them with her. That gave him an idea. He pulled out the device and froze. The image was simple enough to decipher in small form: a shirt cuff secured with a diamond cufflink wrapped around an otherwise bare arm. Quirky, but not nearly so bad as he'd anticipated. Before he could type a reply, another image landed on his screen. More skin. More silk. That was definitely Sherlock's hip bone and a portion of his lower abdomen. The edge of his silk dressing gown obscured any more view. John's prick did more than twitch. It positively leapt inside his pants. MOLLY IS HERE. --JW Apparently that wasn't enough warning for the "genius". I'LL SHOW HER THE PHOTOS. --JW A brief pause. No, you won't. --SH Unfortunately, he was right. As usual. That didn't mean John wasn't strongly tempted. Another photograph. John braced himself. At first he didn't understand, and then it hit him. A 2D image of a very 3D reality. Tented silk. It didn't take much to deduce what was causing the fabric to stand out like that. John's cock was up now, and even the presence of Molly Hooper wasn't going to stop it. Bastard Sherlock! Bastard. --JW Anyone else would have typed a smug emoticon. Sherlock instead sent another jpeg. Ass cheek. He'd know it anywhere in any medium. How the hell had Sherlock had gotten the image with his camera phone? The minor distraction of the question wasn't nearly enough to lessen the tension in his prick. He pulled his jacket more fully over his lap. He had to stop this. He briefly considered texting NORBURY, but he wasn't in physical danger so it would have been misuse of their agreed upon safe word. That wouldn't fly. Mycroft could hack this connection. What happened to your security fetish? --JW He regretted his word choice a split second after hitting "send." Art. Studies of the human form. You can find the like in galleries all over London. --SH He had a point, but John felt it was a thin one. That suggested he either had a way to stop Mycroft's hacking or, very bad, simply didn't care. "Do you have any good music?" John asked Molly abruptly, hoping that his desperation wasn't apparent. With luck, music would serve a double purpose: distract him from Sherlock's photographic onslaught and muffle the buzzing noise of the incoming messages. The last thing he wanted was Molly commenting again on the frequency of incoming texts. She looked up in surprise. "What?" "Music. On your mobile? To pass the time, you know? I don't have anything on mine. I hoped you might." "Oh. Sure!" She fiddled around and soon the tiny speaker was pumping out the narrowest sounding version of Kylie Minogue imaginable. "Great." He gave her a thumbs-up as he felt his damned phone vibrate in his other hand. He pressed it to his thigh, muffling the buzz. When he was certain Molly was again absorbed in her amusing LOLCATs, he dared a look. They were back to the purple silk neck tie. He knew the tie well. He'd seen it just last week. At that time, it had been tied around his left wrist and the bed post. John's cock and his curiosity won out over his better judgement and he clicked the thumbnail. The larger image appeared. The tie was still knotted in a double Windsor but it wasn't around Sherlock's neck. It was around… Fuck. John's prick responded with its own version of "Yes please!" He glared into his lap and silently cursed it, cursed Sherlock, cursed the goddamned lift and the men who hadn't yet repaired it. He set the mobile on his knee. Then he mimed a revolver, complete with imaginary bullet going into illusory chamber. He slammed the fictional cylinder into the intangible gun, cocked the non-existent hammer, and shot the phone. As if on cue, another text came in. I'll start without you. --SH It looks like you already have. --JW The lift lurched and John's stomach and cock both sank. It was a disturbing case of ambivalence. He was going to die in a lift with a neurotic pathologist, but at least he wouldn't die with an erection. "Did you feel that?" asked Molly. She was astonishingly calm, in John's opinion. He'd never thought of her as unflappable before, but he suddenly had the feeling she would be excellent in a crisis. "Yeah." Did he have time to text a good-bye? The hum of a motor stopped him trying. The lift slid smoothly for a few seconds, and then jerked to a stop. The doors slid open and John and Molly were met by a pair of blue jumpsuited technicians. "Sorry about that," the taller one said. "All right?" The shorter one held out a hand to help Molly up while John scrambled to his feet. "Thanks," said Molly. John's thank-you was perfunctory. "Yeah. Thanks. See you Molly." He was busy texting as he hurried out of the building. On my way. Don't move. --JW The reply was swift and he swore he could hear the smug in the letters. I knew you only needed the proper motivation. --SH A/N: I had an irresistible urge to write a fic incorporating all the prompts that fell through the cracks during Round 1 of pR0n ficcing. I have deliberately left out a few prompts that I might have used because there's a chance the original promptees are using them and I don't want to step on their toes. I'm confident these weren't being used, but if I'm mistaken, I apologise.
A/N2: I wrote this in the same 24-period as my official prompt fic Damage Control. Guess I needed to balance that bittersweet with this funny. A/N3: No beta. All typos, errors, or other weirdnesses are entirely my own. |
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