Title: Burgundy Rose
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Rating: Explicit
Length: 2045
Content Notes & Warning: Based on fairy tale (Sleeping Beauty)  Gender/sex/cisswap. Sherlock/John. The second half is a consensual role play of a nonconsenual sceario.
Summary: At Sherlock's hospital bedside, John recounts a story. Later, she and Sherlock roleplay.
Author's Note: Greenaway's The Language of Flowers gives 'unconscious beauty' for the meaning of a burgundy rose. In the first half of the story John is recounting a tale based on part 1 of Perrault's version of the Sleeping Beauty tale (1697); there is reference to part 2, also. In the second half of this story, she and Sherlock roleplay part of Bastile's version (1634) of the story (called Sun, Moon, and Talia). 

John looked at her mobile and frowned. She put it to her ear. “Mrs. Hudson?”

“John, Sherlock’s at Barts.”

“Working on an experiment.”

“There was an accident in the lab, my dear.”

John froze. Then she raised her hand and yelled, “Taxi!”
John burst in the room. “Sherlock?!”

The grey-haired woman in the bed didn’t open her eyes; the young woman who was holding her hand looked up, startled.

“Oh, I’m terribly sorry,” said John. “Wrong room.”

The woman shook her head and gestured to the curtain behind her. “I don’t mean to pry, but I am terribly sorry,” she said solemnly as John passed by.

John nodded and pulled back the curtain. Sherlock’s eyes were closed, her body motionless in the bed. The monitors all beeped a steady rhythm.

“Oh my girl,” breathed John. “What have you done to yourself?”
John held Sherlock’s hand, then pressed her lips to Sherlock’s fingertips. “You look like a fairy tale princess,” she said. “The kind that gets woken up with a kiss after a hundred years of sleep. Ironic, since you never get even six hours most nights.”
She smiled at their intertwined fingers.

“You know the world will never remember Watson the soldier or Watson the doctor, but Watson the storyteller? Maybe. So why don’t I tell you a story? And then maybe you’ll open your eyes.”


She took a deep breath.

“Once upon a time there was an infant princess named Sherlock. Now this baby was the delight of the king and queen, and at her christening, seven fairies were invited to be godmothers.”

“As the seven were bestowing their gifts upon the child, an old fairy, who had not been invited to the celebration because she was thought dead, arrived. She watched as the princess received her presents:  the gift of keen eyes, the gift of clever thought, the gift of sharp tongue, the gift of graceful movement, the gift of a courageous heart, and the gift of music. Her anger at being slighted grew until she pushed forward and cursed the baby, saying that she would one day prick her finger on the tuning peg of a violin and die. The last fairy godmother sought to reverse the curse, but she could only lessen it by saying that the child would not die, but rather sleep for a hundred years and be woken by the kiss of her beloved.”

“The king ordered all the violins in the land destroyed, but one day, many years later, the young princess happened upon one in the corner of one of the palace rooms. Curious, she sought to turn the tuning peg and, and in doing so, pricked her finger on the spiked tip. At once, she crumpled to the floor, asleep. The king had his daughter placed in a high tower and summoned the seventh fairy godmother. This fairy put the entire castle asleep as well. A forest sprang up, shielding the castle from view, and thick vines of burgundy-coloured roses with sharp thorns wound their way around the edifice.”

“And so things remained for a hundred years. Then one day, an old soldier, wounded, confused, and lost, stumbled upon the castle. Drawn by the beautiful roses and undaunted by the thorns, he cut a path to the castle. When he reached the high tower, he saw the princess, saw—even in her sleeping form—her beauty and wit and grace and daring. He kissed her lips and she awakened, along with the entire castle. She sat up and bid him come live with her. And they lived happily ever after."
John sighed. Then she leaned forward and kissed Sherlock’s lips. “Come on, love, wake up.”

Sherlock didn’t move. The machines beeped.

John sighed again.

“Excuse me?”

John looked up. The younger woman touched a tissue to her eyes. “I’m so sorry for eavesdropping. That was beautiful. I’m leaving, but I’m so very sorry. She was, is very lucky to have you.”

“We are lucky to have each other,” said John. The woman nodded. The curtain fell. When John heard the door close, she gave Sherlock a quick peck on the lips.

Sherlock huffed. “Excellent, John, but you forgot the part when your ogress mother has me and my children cooked with Sauce Robert.”

“What is going on, Sherlock? You aren’t a hospice patient and those,” John waved at the screens, “are not your vital signs.”
Sherlock leapt out of the bed and tore off the wires and the hospital gown. John scrambled to silence the alarms. Sherlock held up her mobile and said, “I just recorded your lovely story, but before that, I recorded that woman’s confession of murder. A dying mother is always a long shot but this one paid off!” She tapped the screen. “I’ll send it to Lestrade. Maybe we can catch her before she leaves the building.” She threw open the closet door and hurried into her clothes.

John slipped the Belstaff on Sherlock’s shoulders.

“I did quite like your tale, John. Perhaps when the case is over, we could do add it to the roleplay repertoire.”

John chuckled. “Sleeping Beauty and Prince Charming?”

Sherlock nodded. “There is an older, darker version.”

“Darker than an ogress eating her grandchildren?”

Sherlock looked hesitantly at John. “Might not be to your liking, but first, case!” She rushed out the door.
John sighed and shook her head, then followed.
John gently pushed open the bedroom door and gasped.

Wow. Sherlock certainly didn’t do anything by half-measures.

The room was dark, save for the strings of fairy lights. The lights were twined in a hedge, John could not think of a better word, of blooming vines. The burgundy roses were silk, John knew, but the thorns looked sharp enough to cut. A narrow path in the hedge allowed John to approach the bed, where Sherlock lay on her back atop the bedding with eyes closed. She wore a burgundy-coloured gown trimmed in gold lace and with gold buttons down the front.

John smiled as she took the single long-stemmed rose clasped in Sherlock’s hands. She made as if to smell it, playing her part.
“What beauty is this?” she asked. “I am a war-weary king, far from home, and this sight is a like a draught of cold water to my parched lips.” She let the rose fall to the floor.

“Wake, beauty, that I might know your name, your father’s name, and ask for your hand in marriage, that I might look on such beauty all the rest of my days. Wake, I say!”

Sherlock didn’t move. John noted the rise and fall of her chest, then said, “Sleeping an enchanted sleep. Such beauty! Dark hair, thick and lustrous, even more beautiful than the roses that adorn it. My hands cannot resist knowing its softness.”
There was just enough space between the bed and the hedge for John to step forward and brush Sherlock’s hair, braided and pinned, with one hand. Smaller burgundy buds were laced in her dark tresses.

John bent and kissed the crown of Sherlock’s head. “Scented of roses. And I know that this beauty’s eyes when ope’d are bright and shining. That nose,” John’s fingertip followed her words, “that chin, those cheekbones, all say you of noble blood, worthy of a king’s heart and desire, of his entire fortune. Would that my words, and my touch, bring heat to that face. Two pretty pink cheeks set beside that luscious mouth.” John’s thumb brushed Sherlock’s lips. “A mouth made for praying, but also, oh, yes, for sinning too. I would have that mouth on my mouth and other places, too. Forgive me, beauty. A man hardened by war is a lustful beast and you are temptation incarnate.”

“That neck was made for kissing, and so I must.” She kissed both sides of Sherlock’s neck with soft, wet-sounding, open-mouthed kisses. She licked at a tender spot and felt Sherlock’s pulse quickened beneath the touch of her tongue; it was the only outward sign that her words were hitting their intended target.

John kissed down Sherlock’s cleavage to the lowest point of the V neck of the gown. “Two luscious globes on tantalising display.” She swiped her tongue along the slope of each breast. “I must see all of them, beauty.”

John unbuttoned the bodice of the gown and pushed the two sides apart. She groaned at the sight of fully-exposed Sherlock’s breasts. “Two buds as lovely as any on the vine.” John retrieved the rose where she had dropped it and began to tease Sherlock’s nipple with the silk petals. “First, something soft for something soft, not the battle-roughened hands of a soldier. Oh, look at them! How they darken and pebble!” She drew the flower across Sherlock’s chest to the other nipple and repeated her teasing.

Then John cast the rose aside and climbed on the bed, carefully straddling Sherlock’s waist but doing her best to keep most of her weight on her own knees and hands. “I must touch such loveliness with my own hands, feel their weight and fullness.” She cupped and squeezed Sherlock’s breasts, thumbing the nipples as she did so. “Beauty.” She squeezed harder, kneading them roughly, pushing them together, then letting them fall apart.

“Such great beauty cannot just be admired with the eyes and caressed with fingers. It must be tasted as well.” She kissed and sucked each nipple, flicking it with her tongue, scraping her teeth on the surrounding skin.

John sat up and marveled at Sherlock anew. Her muscles were tense, her skin was flush and bore a thin sheen of sweat, but she had not made one movement, not one sound since John had entered the room.

Sleeping Beauty, indeed.

John unbuttoned the rest of the gown and sighed at Sherlock’s nude form. “You are magnificent.”

It was no script. She was. As beautiful as the roses and the lights. As beautiful as a fairy tale princess in a tower.

John kissed Sherlock’s stomach. She kissed the arch of each foot, the back of each knee, each calf, murmuring all the while, “Beauty, beauty, my slumbering beauty.”

Then she eased Sherlock’s thighs apart and kissed the inside of each. “Let me worship at the altar of this beauty, giving thanks to Providence that I have found you,” she whispered.

If John had any lingering doubts about their play, they fled at the sight of Sherlock’s mons.

She was wet, so very wet, as wet as John had ever seen her.

John groaned and pressed her lips to the damp hair. She heard Sherlock’s loud exhale like the sigh of child.

“What are you dreaming of, my beauty? That you are a flower and a hard-working bee is at your core, tasting your sweet nectar. Dream on, my beloved.” John spread Sherlock’s folds and kissed her clit once.

Then she set her mind to lick and suck for as long as Sherlock could endure.

She curled her arms under Sherlock’s thighs and lifted them to tongue her cunt. She moved slowly and gently, but deliberately, communicating to Sherlock with every stroke of her tongue, every brush of her lips, how much she loved her, no matter the costume or the ruse or the role. This was where John belonged, worshipping Sherlock, and this is where she would stay, for as long as Sherlock allowed her.

John’s jaw was aching when she felt the tell-tale twitching of Sherlock’s body. She dropped Sherlock’s lower half onto the bed and rose sharply to kiss her lips, the lower half of her face slick with Sherlock’s wetness and the scent of Sherlock’s arousal thick in the air around them.

“Wake, beauty!” she cried, just before she pressed her lips to Sherlock’s.

Sherlock’s eyes opened and she flung her arms around John’s neck and came with a strangled moan.
John held her tight.

Sherlock buried her face in the side of John’s neck and when she pulled back to look into John’s eyes, she left tears and sweat behind on John’s skin.

John  brushed the remaining tears from Sherlock’s cheeks. Sherlock sniffed and said in a garbled voice,
“You broke the curse. Again.”