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honeypiehotchner · 5 years

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Deception -- part one

Welcome to yet another fanfiction of mine! This one is a Dr. John Watson story in first person. The main character's name is Dr. Jane Stewart. This is post-Reichenbach, so Sherlock is currently faking his death. And I think that’s all the background info needed. Happy reading!

If there is one thing that I have grown to love about retiring in America, it’s the complete acceptance of doing nothing all day long.

No one cares that I do nothing all day because I have already done my time and put in my hard work. This is my time to rest. To read a book by the pool and enjoy the feel of the sun on my skin.

And swat wasps away with my book. Wasps are not a perk. I wish they’d die.

But I swear, they love me. I swat another away, grimacing when I feel its hard shell connect with the back of my hand. This effectively pisses them off, though, and in this moment, I’d give anything to have my gun again.

The wasps finally fuck off after that, leaving me to read in somewhat peace. “Somewhat” because a literal second later, another buzzing fills my ears.

Not from a wasp or any other type of insect. This buzzing is different. A low hum. The sound of an engine that I haven’t heard in years. A sound that I remember being trained to hear and that I grew accustomed to singling out as time went on.

Slowly, I look to the sky, expecting to see some regular old helicopter or jet flying over my head, but that isn’t what I see. It’s a helicopter, yes, but military grade. British military to be more specific.

“For fuck’s sake,” I mutter, practically slamming the book down on the concrete. I climb off my float, wrapping a towel around my waist and picking up my book as I head inside my house.

I leave the book somewhere on the kitchen counter, listening as the humming grows louder. I throw my clothes from earlier back on, leaving my sunglasses on my dresser. Best case scenario, they’re just checking on me and will leave as soon as we have a short word. Worst case scenario, Mycroft Holmes is behind this.

I slip my feet into a pair of trainers, swiping my gun from the shelf in my closet. I strap it on my hip – just in case, really – and pull my shirt down over it.

They don’t need to know I have it on. I just need to know I have it there.

I step outside, cursing under my breath when I see the helicopter landing in my front yard. But not just because of that. I mainly curse because who walks out? Mycroft Holmes.

Looks like it’s the worst-case scenario today. Lovely.

I wait until the engine has shut off before I greet Mycroft, smiling sweetly, though I’m sure he can see my annoyance. “Mycroft Holmes,” I click my tongue. “What on earth are you doing here?”

“Agent Stewart,” he nods. “I’m afraid I’m in need of your help.”

“I’m retired, Mycroft.”

“Oh, please,” he nearly scoffs. “You and I both know retirement never suited you. I’m still surprised you’ve made it this long.”

“I’ve preferred waking up to the sun coming through my window as opposed to someone trying to kill me,” I glare. “I’m retired. I’m not helping you if you need me on the ground.”

“Will you at least hear my proposition before you decline?”

I think it over, looking him over.

He’s stressed. Exhausted. Worn. Something big has happened over there, that I’m sure of. But what could it possibly be? It takes a lot to make a man like Mycroft Holmes show physical signs of stressors. He hides everything so well, but this is clearly wearing on him.

I look back to his face, narrowing my eyes. Or he’s trying to fake me out. He’s been good at that, too. He’s done it before.

But it’s hard to tell.

“Fine,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest. “But inside. It’s too hot out here and I need some lunch.”

Mycroft agrees, probably because he knows he has no other choice. He turns to nod to the rest of his men, three of them stepping back on the helicopter while two of them follow us inside. As usual.

“Something tells me you don’t trust me as much as you used to.”

I spin around, walking sideways as I glance at him while I walk toward the kitchen. “What makes you think that?”

“The gun on your hip.”

“Ah,” I chuckle, smacking the light switch as I enter the kitchen. I tug my shirt up over the weapon. “More for my comfort than anything. I wasn’t aware you were the one that would be stopping by. Thought I might need to protect myself.”

“Yes, well. Something has happened.”

“I see that,” I nod. “You look stressed.”

“Thank you,” Mycroft deadpans. “But this is serious.”

“Alright,” I shake my head, grabbing the butter, bread, and cheese from the fridge. “What happened that’s so incredibly serious?”

Mycroft takes a long pause and I wasn’t aware of why until the words came out of his mouth. He was waiting for me to set everything down.

“Sherlock is dead.”

I freeze, my face blank as I slowly turn around. I know I’ve gone pale. I can feel it, all the blood falling away from every part of my body. Sherlock.

“Good,” Mycroft breathes, leaning onto his umbrella. “Hold onto that reaction.”

“What?”

“Sherlock is not dead. Not to me, you, and a handful of others. But to the rest of the world, he committed suicide as of last week.”

I practically slam the cabinet door closed. “Mycroft, what the fuck is going on?”

“No need to be cross—”

“No, there is a need to be cross because you can’t just waltz in here and tell me one of my friends is dead when he, oh wait, isn’t actually dead! What the fuck are you doing?”

“That’s what I’m trying to explain to you.”

“Well start with why the hell he’s dead to the world but not us.”

“Jim Moriarty,” Mycroft begins with a deep sigh. “The consulting criminal that flew under our radar has now flown under England’s radar and everyone believes he is Richard Brook. He is dead as well.”

Mycroft leaves another long pause, causing me to raise my eyebrows. “Oh, sorry. I was waiting for you to say you were kidding.”

Mycroft glares at me, but continues. “Jim Moriarty has destroyed the reputation of my brother—”

“So?” I shrug. “Sherlock never cared about what anyone thought of him.” It was both a quality that I envied and despised.

“Except when everyone thought of him as a fraud.”

“Everyone meaning everyone except you and…?”

“Dr. John Watson,” Mycroft fills in the blank. “And a few others, his ‘friends,’ if you can imagine it. But the entire world has been fed a story that is not true, and Sherlock needed to disappear.”

“But he’s not dead.”

“He is not dead.”

“Hm.”

“What?”

“I’m still missing the point of why you need my help?”

“John Watson is not doing well. I’ve kept eyes on him since the incident, but he hasn’t left Baker Street in a week. Judging by my assumptions, he will be leaving sometime soon to see a new therapist.”

I raise an eyebrow. “And?”

“And that therapist is you.”

“You’re joking.”

“I’m afraid not.”

“I’m not a therapist, Mycroft. I was an agent. I’m retired. I’m not going to England to be a bloody therapist! What is the point of that?”

“To keep a closer eye on him,” Mycroft replies, like it should’ve been obvious. “People reveal things in therapy that they wouldn’t dare tell or show to the outside world.”

“Because it’s therapy, Mycroft. It’s private. Even if I were to agree to this, it’s a blatant disrespect for the ethics of therapy. I’m not going to be someone’s therapist and disclose information about them without them knowing.”

“Yes, well,” he sighs, glancing down at the tip of his umbrella as it twists on the tile of my kitchen floor. “Consider this an undercover mission. John Watson has no idea that you are an agent – or that you used to be one. He does not know that Sherlock is alive, nor should he know anytime soon. Your job is to go undercover, as Dr. Watson’s new therapist, and make sure he doesn’t do anything drastic or idiotic.”

“His best friend is pretending to be dead and you want me to make sure John doesn’t do anything stupid,” I relay the information in my own terms. “Seems like you should be showing that worry to your brother.”

“Will you do it?”

“No!” I yell, laughing in hysteria. “You’re out of your goddamn mind!”

“I’m not asking you to do anything dangerous—”

“No, you’re asking me to lie to someone who has already been lied to enough, just from what I’ve heard.”

“He’s a veteran of the Afghanistan War,” Mycroft states. “He was sent home after a bullet wound to the shoulder. Discharged.”

“Why are you telling me that?”

“Because just like you, he’s missed the war from the day he left it.”

“Shut up,” I shake my head. “Stop it right now. You of all people do not get to pull that card.”

“You told me before you retired that the only thing to get you out of retirement would be a mission that would actually help someone.”

“Because every time I went out, I got someone killed. Every time. When I was the one that shouldn’t have made it, I did. And I got tired of that. I got tired of being the lone survivor. The survivor who didn’t deserve to survive. I’m not doing that again.”

“Doing this would help John Watson,” Mycroft says quietly. “And dare I say it might save him, too.”

I clear my throat, thinking. Mycroft has a way with words, always has had the way to talk circles to make me agree to things I shouldn’t. And I want to be absolutely sure that this time, I agree only if it’s what I want to do.

“He can’t know Sherlock’s alive?”

Mycroft shakes his head sadly. “He is safer this way.”

“How much safer?”

“Infinitely.”

“And he doesn’t know who I am?”

“No, he does not.”

“Fine,” I take a deep breath. “I’ll do it.” I cross my arms over my chest, hating myself for agreeing to this bloody stupid idea.

“Great. His first appointment is tomorrow, so we better leave now.”

“You absolute bastard,” I chuckle. “I assume I’ll be getting an entirely new wardrobe?”

“Yes, I can relay the details on the plane that leaves in…oh, an hour, so we better get going.”

“I despise you.”

“I never suspected anything less,” Mycroft smiles sweetly, turning to walk out of the kitchen.

“Let me grab a few things,” I yell after him. “I’ll be right out.”

“Quickly,” he reminds me as he steps outside, the two men following behind him.

I roll my eyes as I walk down the hall to my room. I don’t bother with clothes since I’ll be gaining an entirely different wardrobe, and possibly an entirely different persona. I haven’t lived in England in years and I’ve never crossed paths with John Watson. In fact, the last time I saw Sherlock Holmes in person was, I believe, a few days before he met John. He was still complaining to me then about needing a flat mate. He tried to convince me – of all people – to move in with him, but I had to decline. Mycroft was sending me off to Ukraine for who knew how long, so there was no sense in me moving in with Sherlock. I’ve heard many things about John, though. I’ve read online about the infamous Holmes and Watson duo. I’ve only talked to Sherlock once or twice since I retired, but I imagine (or I hope, at least) I’ll be speaking with him soon.

I want to. I think I need to tell him how absolutely absurd this is that he’s lying to his best friend about his death. They’ve been partners in crime for two years now, and he can’t let John be his partner this time around? What for and why? What’s the point of any of this?

I shake my head as I stuff my phone into my bag. I know I won’t be using it, but there’s pictures on there that I look at from time to time that I want to have. I grab my favorite blanket and fold it neatly, squeezing it in the bag as well. Other than that, there’s nothing here that I won’t get when I arrive in England.

An undercover agent’s life is quite minimalistic. I learned to not attach myself to things, and it’s a practice that has stuck with me.

I shut the lights off as I leave the room, checking the rest of the house to make sure all the lights are off. I’m sure Mycroft will make a few calls, though, and shut off the water and electricity here since I won’t be returning for who knows how long.

One thing that irritates me about Mycroft Holmes is he never tells me how long the missions will last. And I know he estimates and has a good idea of how long, but he won’t ever tell me. The bastard.

One of the men stands at my front door, opening it for me as I exit, even though I’m perfectly capable of walking out of my house on my own, but okay.

Mycroft stands outside the helicopter, impatiently checking his watch. He seems relieved when he finally sees me walking out of the house, but his expression changes to annoyance when he sees I have a bag.

“Relax,” I chuckle. “It has my phone and my favorite blanket. I still pack lightly.”

I hop up into the aircraft, strapping myself into one of the seats by the window with my bag at my feet, behind my legs. Mycroft takes the seat next to me, handing me my headset that’s connected to his. Looks like we’re going to be talking about this more now.

We take off into the air, my eyes staying focused on my pool as we fly over it. My retirement home. My home that was supposed to be my home. And now it’s nothing more than a house that I lived in for a few years and am leaving for another mission. Now it’s just like the others.

Temporary.

“Sherlock is at the airport.”

I turn my head, staring at Mycroft with wide eyes. “He what?”

“He’s at the airport on the plane we’re taking back to England,” Mycroft replies. “He’s off to Iraq after we are dropped off in England, but he wanted to discuss this mission with you in person before he left.”

“How touching.”

“I told you, Stewart, this is to keep John Watson safe.”

“And I’ve told you, Mycroft, my name is Nicole.”

“It won’t be when we arrive.”

“Oh, yes. What am I going by this time?”

“Dr. Stewart,” he replies simply. “You can use your middle name as your first, though I don’t see why you’d need to be on a first-name basis with a client.”

“Maybe because it feels more personal?” I suggest. “Have you seriously never seen a therapist before?”

“Are you seriously asking me such a stupid question?”

The glare I give him might as well be lethal.

“So, I am Jane Stewart, or Dr. Stewart, and I am Dr. John Watson’s therapist who is in an emotional turmoil right now because his best friend Sherlock Holmes is faking his death.”

“When you put it like that—”

“It sounds just as absurd as it is,” I finish for him. “I can’t believe I agreed to this.”

“I was hoping you would,” he takes a deep breath. “We already have everything in place. I was hoping I wasn’t going to have to force you.”

I smirk. “Funny that you think you could force me to do anything.”

Mycroft smiles too because he knows it’s true. He’s talked me into a lot, sure. But he’s never “forced” me to do anything, and that’s because I hold my ground. If he wants to let himself blindly believe he could force me to do anything, that’s fine. But that’s not the truth. And deep down, he knows it.

#Deception #bbc sherlock #bbc sherlock fanfiction #john watson #dr watson #dr john watson #john hamish watson #John Watson fanfiction #undercover agent #john watson x original main character #THE REICHENBACH FALL

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lovemesomerafael · 5 years

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EL AMOR TODO LO PUEDE Chapter 13: Evolution

Chapters 1 - 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12

There’s a phenomenon in psychiatry called transference. It happens when a patient transfers to their therapist feelings of love and dependence that rightfully belong elsewhere. Laura was familiar with the phenomenon, but she didn’t think transference had anything to do with her love for Dr. Charles. He was, quite simply, her savior, and she loved him for the concrete way he had walked her through a trauma that would otherwise have destroyed her. The way Ethan Choi had healed her body, Daniel Charles was healing her soul, and she loved him for it. She loved him the moment he came into her room the first time and, rather than tell her she was a hero for killing that man, asked her what it meant to her that she had killed him.

Dr. Charles was a big lummox of a man, rumpled and messy. He could smell bullshit a mile away and gently, kindly called her on it every time she tried to deny feelings she really had, or claim feelings that weren’t properly hers. At the same time, he never once told her not to feel them. Instead, he helped her sort through them and reject them if they weren’t useful.

Much of that was easier said than done. Her shame and guilt over having exposed herself to such obvious danger were, in some ways, deserved and appropriate. But the penalty for taking a foolish risk was worlds away from what that man had done to her. In the same way, it was appropriate to feel guilty for having killed a man, and to be disgusted by the manner in which she had done it. But, again, that guilt and disgust had to be tempered, all but negated, by the fact that the man had given her no choice. He had made the rule: only one of them was going to get out of that room alive. She had only reacted.

So Dr. Charles had helped her sift through the deformed mess of her shame and guilt to work through what was real and what was not, and then figure out how she was going to carry what was hers through the rest of her life.

The other thing Dr. Charles did for her was to assure her, as many times as it took, that her intrusive thoughts and night terrors would not always be as pervasive as they were now. Mouse said that his own trauma had been turned into a gift, because she could see that his PTSD was manageable and survivable and know that hers would be, too. Laura couldn’t imagine that, but she trusted both Dr. Charles and Mouse completely, so she allowed herself to hope.

In the meantime, she could not tolerate hearing noises behind her. She could go only a few minutes before the sight of that room, the sound her ribs had made as they cracked under his foot, and the feel of that man’s throat in her fist, overwhelmed her. And the worst part was the screaming, sweaty, uncontrollable terror that woke her every night. She flailed her healing limbs, desperate to escape the sensation of being trapped while something monstrous approached.

Dr. Charles had taught her to look around her, telling herself as many times as it took what was real and what was nightmare. Some of the things she chanted to herself made him struggle to control a grin. He suggested that she tell herself, “I’m alive. He’s not.” She preferred, “That motherfucker’s taking a dirt nap. I’m still here.” Whatever worked.

Dr. Charles couldn’t be with her every night, but Mouse could. And he was. Whenever he was jolted from sleep by her screams, he would quietly, calmly turn on every available light and help her remember what to tell herself as she gulped for air and cried uncontrollably. He sat with her for as long as it took to pull herself out of that cellar with the dirt floor and back to reality.

“He’s not here. He can’t be here.” He’d prompt her.

“He’s in hell! I know he’s dead because I killed him. I felt him die. I saw him dead,” she would gasp.

“Look around. He’s not here, is he?”

“He’s not here.”

“And you’re safe. You’re OK.”

“I’m safe. I’m OK. You’re here. You’re Mouse. You’re my friend.” Her sweat-soaked chest would heave as she panted in terror.

“Can he hurt you when I’m here?”

“No. He can’t hurt me. You’re a trained killer and I am your only mission.” OK, maybe teaching her that one had been a little self-indulgent, but it made him smile every time he heard it.

“Fuckin’ A,” he would reply.

Mouse started to see the light at the end of the tunnel when, one night, she’d looked right at him – not past or through him as she did when she was struggling to find her way out of that cellar – and asked, “Why do people say that? What does ‘fuckin’ A’ even mean?”

He’d thrown his head back and laughed while shedding relieved tears. Then he’d distracted her by scooting next to her in bed while they Googled the etymology of that expression.

Ethan Choi objected to the way Mouse continually found his way into Laura’s hospital bed. When it first started a few weeks after her attack, he’d threatened that she’d be crippled for life if her traction was messed up, or suffer some catastrophe if her IV was kinked or disconnected, only to arrive most mornings to find them, limbs and casts tangled up but traction and IVs intact, sleeping peacefully. He’d grumbled about it to Dr. Charles, who made him sit down and review Laura’s chart. The numbers didn’t lie. Since she’d been healed enough for Mouse to crawl in beside her, she’d had a lower blood pressure and needed less pain medication. Although Ethan had scowled and shaken his head, he hadn’t bothered to forbid Mouse and Laura from finding whatever physical closeness she could safely tolerate.

******

The first time Voight and Olinsky had visited her in the hospital had been rough. They’d needed to take her statement about what had happened in that cellar, and all three of them had cried at times as she told them the hellish story. Although the Medical Examiner had explained that she had crushed the killer’s larynx and damaged the internal structures of his throat to the point that he’d drowned in his own blood, her description was even more horrific. He had already beaten holy hell out of her, and she hadn’t been able to do much of anything to defend herself or wound him back. But once he’d broken her leg, she’d been unable to rise from the floor. When he came for her, she knew it was over. He would rape her, then kill her, then rape her dead body, as he’d done to those other women.

The only thing that saved her was that he made a mistake. She was lying against a wall where he’d thrown her, head first and too disoriented and injured to put her hands out to protect herself. He’d stomped her thigh with his full weight, breaking her femur with a sickening crack. Then he’d gotten behind her head to put his hands under her shoulders and drag her into the middle of the floor where he could defile her. He kept telling her all the foul things he was going to do to her in retribution for having fought back so fiercely. And that’s when he had made his mistake. He’d leaned down over her.

She’d screamed defiance as she lifted her arms to grab at him; dislocated shoulder, broken fingers and all. She’d clutched his hair as well as she could with her twisted left hand, and seized his neck with her right. He was huge; her small hand would not go around even half his neck. But she sensed her fingers sliding toward the center, and felt them latch onto the hard mass of his larynx. Pure, adrenaline-fueled survival instinct overtook her. She held on, digging her nails as hard as she could into his flesh, determined to wrap her fingers completely around his larynx and tear it from his throat. She refused to let go. He dislocated her finger trying to pull her hand away, and pounded on her arm trying to get her off of him. But that pounding only helped her pull harder at his neck. She had a literal death grip on his throat. She squeezed, pulled, and screamed until he’d fallen over onto her. Still she hadn’t let go. She’d clutched at his throat until he began to retch and gasp wetly, then whimper. He went quiet and still she squeezed with all her strength. Only when she realized that her strength was gone and she was no longer really squeezing, yet he wasn’t moving or breathing, did she let go and shove him heavily off of her.

Voight asked her to email him the typed responses she’d been making on her tablet to tell this story, which she did. She then quietly made a personal ceremony of deleting them.

Olinsky had stayed after Voight left, awkwardly and haltingly trying to apologize to her. She would have none of it. In the end, they made each other agree that all blame, the only blame, lay with the inhuman killer who was now in a drawer at the morgue.

*********

When Laura was discharged from the hospital, a train of Intelligence detectives had carried the mobility equipment, flowers, and other paraphernalia she’d accumulated to her apartment. Mouse had worked with the physical and occupational therapists to prepare everything for her homecoming and had moved in temporarily. She had long since ceased to need the sling on her right shoulder and her dislocated finger was no longer splinted, so he had full use of her right arm and hand. At long last, her left leg had been released from traction and encased in a huge, cumbersome cast. Although her jaw was no longer wired shut, she had only a temporary flipper where her missing teeth had been. She hated it and covered her mouth when she smiled, but it beat the hell out of the raw, gaping hole it covered. She looked forward to getting permanent teeth back. The bruises and cuts had healed, along with the wound where her chest tube had been. Ethan assured her that her internal injuries, including the skull and rib fractures, were healing, too. She had a long course of physical therapy and rehabilitation before her, but she was home.

Laura’s brothers had gone home to Bloomington as soon as it had become clear that she would survive. Her parents had stayed long enough to participate in the happy parade from the hospital to her apartment and see her settled, but now headed home themselves.

She and Mouse had a hell of a party that night; the apartment crammed with cops, firefighters, medical personnel, and assorted other friends until well after the sun had begun to rise the next morning. When one of her neighbors had called the police about the noise, the responding officers hadn’t tried to quiet the party. They had gone instead to the neighbors’ apartment, explained the situation, and told the neighbors that they were invited. The neighbors initially declined, but it turned out that they were friends of the Dawson family, so Gabby and Antonio had drunkenly dragged them upstairs to meet Laura and Mouse and have a drink.

Peter Stone had shown up for a while, bringing a court reporter he’d been seeing. At first, he’d been afraid to hug Laura as tightly as he wanted to as she sat in her wheelchair, surrounded by drunken friends. She still seemed very fragile to him. Somehow, in the middle of that loud, festive, alcohol-fueled party, Peter and Laura had managed to have a quiet, tearful conversation in which he told her how afraid he’d been for her, and how viscerally angry he’d been at what she’d been through. He’d visited her plenty of times in the hospital, but this was the first time he allowed himself to share the depth of his feelings, now that she was safely on her way to healing. By the time they were finished talking, he hugged her back as fiercely as she hugged him.

It was that night, seeing Laura talking and laughing, and especially seeing her with Peter, that a thought began to form in the back of Mouse’s mind. He wasn’t even aware of it.

********

As the months passed, Laura’s life slowly began to resume its shape. Mouse had returned to work as soon as she could care for herself at home and, when she was ready, she returned to work as Sergeant Voight’s assistant.

Since there was no elevator in the building, Kevin Atwater insisted on being the one who got to carry her up and down the stairs. For some reason, he had demanded to be the first to carry her up on the day she returned, and it became his job. Only when he wasn’t there did Mouse or one of the male detectives do it. Laura had never felt so loved and supported, and did everything she could to return that love by making their jobs easier. She decried the sorry state into which the unit had fallen since she’d been gone, but no new assistant had been able to work with Voight. He quickly either fired them or they quit. Either way, he was happier than he’d been in quite a while to have Parker back.

*****

The day her leg cast was removed was a landmark for Laura. She couldn’t wait to take a shower without having to wrap anything in plastic, or a bath without having to let her leg hang out of the tub.

Ethan told her that, now that her cast was off, she was cleared to have sex again if she wanted to.

“Oh… um… were we supposed to wait?” She’d asked.

The surprised look on his face was so funny she couldn’t help laughing out loud.

“Well, I guess no harm, no foul,” he responded. “Let me rephrase. You’re cleared to do anything that doesn’t hurt. How’s that?”

“Works for me.”

She and Mouse enjoyed a laugh about that as they relaxed in the huge bathtub in the hotel room they’d splurged on to celebrate her freedom from the last of her casts. They had candles, sparkling cider, and so many bubbles they were overflowing onto the floor. Mouse spent a very long time massaging, soaping, and shaving her newly-liberated leg, something she’d been dying to do for months. Not surprisingly, pretty soon his hands were roving. He loved the feel of having all of her skin to touch again, without anything getting in the way of his caresses.

In the soft candlelight, with no casts, braces, or bandages, and her healing scars invisible, Laura felt normal and attractive for the first time since the attack. She eagerly returned Mouse’s kisses, moving to give him access to her body and letting her own hands explore his arms, torso, and finally his more intimate parts.

They had to laughingly figure out how to adjust their positions so that he was laying stretched out in the tub with her on top of him, which spilled more bubbles and not a small amount of water onto the floor. Eventually, though, they got there. Laura’s left leg was still too stiff to bend and her left wrist still too weak to support her full weight, but in this position, supported somewhat by the water, she could maneuver just fine.

She kissed him deeply as he caressed her breasts, teasing her nipples and rubbing his hardening cock against her.

“Thank you,” she murmured, a moan escaping at the end as he did something particularly wonderful with his hands.

He chuckled. “I haven’t done anything yet.”

She pulled up a bit so that she could look in his eyes, which looked purple in the candlelight. “Oh, yes, you have. You’ve done everything. You saved me, Mouse. I mean it, thank you.”

“You saved me a little bit, too,” he said sincerely. He then pulled her back to him and resumed moving against her. Apparently that was all the serious conversation he was in the mood for. “And I got a great idea how we can show our appreciation.”

She sank herself down on him, both of them groaning with pleasure as he was able to bury his full length in her at long last. “Horndog,” she whispered.

“Yes, Ma’am.”

Their rhythmic movements began to slosh water and bubbles out of the tub, and actually put out a couple of the candles, but neither noticed.

Later, in the huge, fluffy bed, Laura had to talk Mouse into getting on top to make love to her the second time. For months, they’d had to use their hands and mouths to pleasure one another, which they’d made into kind of a fun game, but they were thrilled when they could finally manage to actually fuck again. Even then, she’d had to be on top because of her cast. Which was exactly why she insisted that she wanted to feel his weight on her again now that she could.

“Ethan said I can fuck however I want to,” she urged. “I’m tired of being careful.”

“Yeah, but…”

“Don’t ‘yeah but’ me, Soldier. I’ve fucked you enough. I want you to fuck me.”

Mouse was a sucker for dirty talk, which Laura felt silly doing most of the time. So hearing her growl that order, he didn’t hesitate to obey. He was overjoyed to finally be the one setting the rhythm and free to control how deeply he penetrated her. He hadn’t known how much he missed it until he felt how blissfully good it was again. Happy to be making progress with her recovery, and delighted to feel Mouse’s weight and the sensation of him plunging into her again, Laura very quickly lost herself in the second of many orgasms he gave her that night, with him following closely after her.

*******

The following morning, as they were lying sprawled across the bed with the room service breakfast dishes scattered around them, Mouse was abruptly distracted from his lazy tonguing of her nipple by her completely random question.

“Do you know krav maga?”

He looked up at her, eyes wide and mouth in the ridiculously sexy crooked smile he sometimes used. “What?”

“I want to learn krav maga. You know, the self-defense techniques the Israeli Defense Forces use? I thought if you knew it, you could teach me.”

“Well, I’m kinda busy right this minute.” She could tell Mouse was a little offended.

She laughed apologetically. “I… Right, sorry… and I was paying attention, I promise. It just popped into my mind.”

She was entirely taken off-guard to find herself suddenly and completely in a different position, with him directly over her, her arms above her head and both wrists held in one of his hands. The other was softly but unmistakably around her neck. He let her notice that, then moved it up to hold his thumb under her chin while his hand splayed across her cheek in a soft caress that allowed him to turn her face to his. He gave her an expert, demanding kiss.

“Yes. I know some krav maga,” he said. She gasped, feeling her body instantly respond.

“Holy shit,” she breathed.

For the next hour, he took absolute control of her willing, electrified body with a profound mastery that was so intense it came just short of scaring her. She was pretty sure krav maga didn’t actually include a series of mind-blowing sexual techniques, but apparently, she’d asked the right question of the right man.

#law & order svu #law & order: special victims unit #rafael barba #raul esparza #daniel charles #chicago pd #chicago fire #chicago med #chicago pd mouse #chicago med ethan choi

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