Chapter Text
You heard the clock chime the hour and packed away your embroidery. “Thank you, Mr Holmes, for visiting me but I must be on my way. I have a doctor’s appointment you see.”
“Are you unwell, child?” Sherlock asked. A warmth spread through you as you noticed the subtle note of concern in his voice.
“No,” you shook your head. Normally you would not discuss your medical needs with a man not your father, but you were to be married to him in less than a week and would have to tell him then. “It’s treatment for my Hysteria, my nervousness and occasional irritability.”
Sherlock looked askance at you. “You’re seeing a doctor for Hysteria treatment?”
You nodded, “Of course.”
A small smirk played over your fiancé’s lips as if he were trying not to laugh. “And do you enjoy your treatment, my love?”
Heat rose to your cheeks, perhaps it was wrong to tell him before you were married. “Forgive me, Mr. Holmes, I’m sure I don’t know what you mean. It’s a medical treatment, not a trip to the fair.”
Sherlock gave a small hum and said, “Yes, you’re quite right.” He paused and said, “But so is a sip of brandy, medicinal but also pleasurable, correct?”
Swallowing down your embarrassment you said in a small voice, “Sometimes.”
“What if I told you, you didn’t have to see a doctor to get the same relief?” Sherlock raised an eyebrow, the hint of a smirk still played on his lips. “What if I told you, you could learn to do it yourself.”
That surprised you. You had thought that special knowledge of anatomy was required to evoke a hysterical paroxysm. However, you were interested. If you learned to do it yourself, you could do it every night to help you sleep and to wash away the worries of the day. As an added benefit you wouldn’t need to have to see the sweaty old Doctor anymore; he made you uncomfortable when you smelled his repugnant breath and saw his crude tongue lick at his thin lips as you lifted your skirts. “I would be interested in learning. Do you have the name of a doctor who is giving lessons?”
“Not a doctor,” Sherlock corrected. He rose from his chair and crossed the room, his imposing figure made you shrink into your chair. “I can teach you.”
Shocked you gasped at the suggestion, “You!”
“Yes,” he said. “I assure you I am most proficient and have treated many women successfully myself.” Again, he smirked, and you wondered what he found so amusing or was this his way of trying to put you at ease.
“Would you have to touch me?” you asked.
Sherlock let out a short humph. “No. I can instruct you without touching you. I will give you directions and observe to ensure the correct technique.”
“So, it would not be improper?” you asked seeking more clarification.
“No, my love,” Sherlock responded. “I would not sully your reputation days before our marriage.” There was something in his tone that made you doubt his honesty. You nibbled the inside of your lip while you tried to decide. “Come now, child. Do as I say.” Although his voice was even and low you felt as though he left you no room for argument.
You agreed with a slight dip of your head. “As you wish,” you said softly, unable to conceal your apprehension.
“Wonderful,” he said, satisfied and offered you his hand with a slight bow. You gingerly accepted and he led you to the large red leather settee. Sherlock gave you a full grin, brief but genuine, with a low hum. He lifted your hand to his lips; his soft lips grazed your skin lightly and you gasped. Then he swiftly turned his back and returned to his seat opposite you and instructed, “Now, remove your undergarments and lay on the settee as you would in the surgery.”
You stared at him as Sherlock picked up his small pipe and packed it with tobacco. “Quickly. I expect to be obeyed. I have no time for your silly, girlish modesty.” Closing your eyes, your ears burning with shame you gathered your skirts and reaching under them, undid the button holding up your draws. You began to unclip your hose, but Sherlock said, “The stockings can stay.”
Relieved you could retain some propriety you lifted your skirts high, jumping slightly as the cool dark red leather chilled the untempered skin of your bottom. You nestled into the pillows, arranging them so you were well supported.
“Comfortable?” Sherlock asked. “For my method of self-treatment it is imperative that you feel at ease, hmm.”
You nodded. You were comfortable physically, but your mind felt decisively uncomfortable. You couldn’t shake the feeling that this was wrong somehow, it felt different to the sterile, cold environment of the doctor’s surgery. He did, however, breathe heavily like Sherlock was beginning to, and looked at you with the same predatory regard. The difference was you didn’t feel disgusted with your fiancé like you did with the doctor. When Sherlock did it, you felt your tummy flip inside you, and it made your heart race.
“Now, I want you to bend your knees then open your legs, make sure to spread them wide, I need to observe your performance,” Sherlock paused and struck a match, chuffing on his pipe until it glowed. “For correction,” he finished.
Immediately the familiar smell of his tobacco filled the air. It was a comforting smell, familiar to you now after spending many hours with your fiancé during your courtship. Sherlock studied you as you slowly let your legs open, his face impassive, cold almost. However, his gaze was intense as he raked your exposed legs and Lady Jane. You noticed his puffs of his pipe were shorter, more rapid than normal. You wanted to ask why he seemed so excited but were too afraid that your suspicions that this was not appropriate were correct.
“My methods may sound unorthodox but follow them precisely and you will notice the difference,” Sherlock said, his voice held an edge to it that you were unused to. And shamefully you found that you liked his commands, liked the way his voice sounded and liked the way he looked at you. You wanted to obey him, to please him, to make him proud of you. “Shall we begin?”
“Yes, Mr Holmes,” you said softly.
“Sir,” he said in his new tone. “You shall call me Sir when we… are alone.”
“Yes, Sir,” you murmured. “I am ready.”
“You may close your eyes, or look at me during the procedure, but you must remain focussed on my instruction.” Sherlock waited a beat to make sure you understood then continued. “Starting at your knees, let your hands move down your thighs with the lightest of touches, concentrate on the feeling. Does it tickle? Does it make you feel warm? Does it make you tingle?”
You caressed your thighs with the soft pads of your fingers, your nails scraping the delicate skin as you moved. You couldn’t suppress the shiver that rippled down your spine. “It tingles, Sir, and makes me feel warm.”
“Good, my love,” Sherlock praised and the heat you felt began to bloom from deep within you. “Continue until you reach your labia.”
You looked at him questioning, “What is that Sir?”
Sherlock’s lips grew into a tight line around his pipe, clearly unsatisfied with your lack of knowledge. “The swollen flesh at the top of your thighs, where your hair grows.”
“Oh,” you said meekly. You followed his instructions, and when your fingers reached the coarse hair between your legs you felt your breaths start to grow shallow and uneven.
“Using your dominant hand,” Sherlock said. “Slide it up the skin between your labia, and tell me love, is there a wetness between your legs?”
Gliding your fingers between your folds you found there was a dampness and you sat up in shock. “Sir, I am sorry, I…”
“Lay down,” Sherlock ordered with a strong steady voice that hinted at impatience. “It is merely your bodies way of producing the lubrication needed for copulation. However, it can also serve to make the procedure more pleasurable. Dip your fingers into the wetness, coating them thoroughly.”
With hands shaking with trepidation, you followed his command. Your eyes widened as you touched the soft hidden skin and found the touch to be pleasing despite your fear. The dampness that welled was thick, slick, sticky and seemed to come from the place of your menstruation. Your fingertips glided over the hole, and your body instinctively wanted something inside. You were poised, about to enter when Sherlock said, “Stop. Have you ever put anything in there?”
You froze and shook your head. “No, Sir.”
“Good. You shall not start today either. That is for me and me alone.” Something about his words, his claimed ownership of that most private of places, made your legs want to close as your centre clenched. That untouched corridor felt so empty, lonely in a way you had never felt before. You looked at him, you knew there was a plea in your eyes, but for what you begged for, you didn’t know. A tiny smile played on his lips, and he whispered, “So wanton, my Love.”
You gasped, and your back arched, straining against your corset. Its tight restriction somehow felt good, like you were held in a tight embrace, captured, and loved. You didn’t deny his accusatory words, words you would have protested mere minutes ago, but now they thrilled you, made you burn, made you moan, “Please.”
“In time,” he said, his impassive face showed little emotion bar his lips, but his voice was rich and deep, speaking of his own desire. “Move your fingers up to the place where the Doctor touches, it should feel rigid and agreeable to touch.”
Your still trembling hand moved, and your eyes fluttered close as you spread the wetness over your delicate skin. You let out a short cry as you found the hard nub that elicited the hysterical paroxysm that you craved, the release of tension that calmed your frail nerves.
Sherlock let out a short satisfied humph as you found your spot. “Place a finger on each side of the clitoris,” he paused as he saw your confusion, and for once he was not annoyed by your inexperience. “The hard nub, you found,” he explained before continuing, “and whilst applying slight pressure, start to move your fingers in little circles.”
Taking a deep shuddering breath, you started to move in small circular motions. You felt some of the familiar feelings, the sudden little jerks your body made, and the sensation of lightning strikes down your legs.
“Good my love,” Sherlock said. “Keep going, slowly increasing the speed of your movements and experiment with pressure some women prefer a harder touch.”
Doing as he asked you pressed harder, and you sucked in a breath as your hips bucked. Your body became tense, your booted heels dug into the leather and your free instinctively caressed your neck and breasts.
“What a sight you make, my love,” Sherlock crooned. “I knew you would have shapely legs, having glimpsed them while you danced, but that sweet cunt of yours is a nice surprise.”
You lost all decorum then, and a heedless moan escaped your throat. “Sir, please,” you sobbed as sweat started to break on your brow.
Sherlock closed his eyes briefly and put down his pipe. He shifted in his seat, spreading his legs wide in a dominant, and ungentlemanly display. His crude stance made all the more vulgar as you noticed the large bulge in his pants. “Please, what love? Do you know what you beg for?”
Shaking your head, you admitted you did not. You couldn’t shake the feeling though, the desire, nay, the need to be filled, the empty cavern between your legs milked as you worked your nub, and you felt the wetness trickle down between your arse cheeks, no doubt pooling on the leather beneath you. You can’t stop the moans falling from your lips, you don’t remember that happening with the Doctor, none of this felt like with the doctor.
“You beg for me to satisfy you, my love. Fulfil you as a husband fills a wife, his seed implanting her with child. That is what you crave, is it not?”
The brazen words of your fiancé lit a new fire in you and for the first time in your entire life a curse left your lips, “Fuck.”
Sherlock’s eyes grew dark and you noticed his jaw clenched, “Yes, as a matter of fact that is one name for it.” For a moment he observed you, watched you as you wantonly squirmed then said. “Think of me fucking your cunt, love. Think of my hands, on your body, my teeth nibbling your neck.”
“Sir…” you begged. Your head thrashed against the pillows, your hair would be a mess, but you didn’t care, your body felt so tight, the tension too much, you needed the release, the climax of your treatment.
“Think of my lips on yours,” he continued. You closed your eyes, threw your head back, imagining him kissing your exposed throat. The growing heat was too much, and you felt a rivet of sweat down your spine “My lips on your neck, your breasts. Think of my kiss between your legs, my tongue on your nub…”
“Sir!” you cried. “I… I… feel…”
“My breath warm on your cunt as I taste your hidden nectar.”
Something inside you snapped and you shouted his name, “Sherlock!” Your hips ground against your fingers and waves of blissful heat washed over you radiating from your core. It went on and on, you felt like it would never stop, until it slowly ebbed away, and euphoria set in, making you feel as weak as a lamb. You were lightheaded, dark spots swam in your vision and for a moment you felt as if you would faint.
You felt hands on your shoulders, they held your still as you slowly regained your senses. “Open your eyes,” Sherlock said, his voice was hoarse but tender. You found yourself looking up at him, your head in his lap as he fanned your sweaty brow. “There now, my lover, feeling better?”
Unable to speak yet, you nodded, the euphoria not yet past, you felt as though you wanted to giggle.
“You’re a quick study,” Sherlock complimented. “I trust that you will get even better at that with time.” He smiled at you, then his attention was drawn to the soft round peaks of your breasts, he traced them with a delicate caress, you shivered, your skin still electrified and sensitive. “You’re so responsive. Its delightful.” You couldn’t help glowing with pride, you had pleased him, shown yourself eager to listen and learn, shown him he would not regret having you as his wife.
“Our wedding is in four days, I doubt I will get the opportunity to see you again,” Sherlock gave you a slight look of apology. “However, I expect you to practice every night, including tonight, what we did here, child. Think of me as you touch yourself. I expect you to show me all the things you have learned on our wedding night.”
“But isn’t the wedding night for, uhhh, what you said earlier.”
“Yes, love.”
“Then why would you want to see me practice my treatment?”
“Oh, my sweet, summer child,” Sherlock chuckled and kissed your forehead. He lifted the fingers you had between your legs, and you could still see the wetness of them. Sherlock placed them in his mouth, sucking them gently, licking them with his tongue. “Like strawberries,” he muttered. He turned his attention back to you, “I’ll explain on the night. And show you there is more than one way to receive treatment."