Attempt of making Sherlock porn
Title: The Ding
Author: Naturegirlrocks
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Rating: M/R
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Summary: Sherlock has been back for three months, but there is something distracting him. John worries while he slowly accepts his attraction to the man.
Read it on AO3 or here:
John stood still in the doorway. He was watching Sherlock who was wearing a blue striped pyjamas and standing by the window.
It was three months since the detective had returned. Three months since John's heart had begun the long crooked journey back from being broken. It would had be easier to heal if Sherlock fully had returned, and not having left a part of himself back there, wherever he had been.
The detective was leaning against the window frame, the orange curtain was draped over his right shoulder giving him a good view of the night street below. He looked like a strange parody of a superhero watching over his sleeping city.
He probably wasn't watching the street at all, but some higher etheric level of existence visible only to him.
The yellow-tinted lights from outside made the dusky room look gloom. It made Sherlock look more troubled and alone than John had ever thought possible.
John was sure it wasn't just the light. He placed his restocked medical bag on the table next to the door. He was tired after his eight hour shift at the A&E, but not tired enough to go to bed just yet.
"New case?" he asked.
"Perhaps," Sherlock didn't turn around, but continued his long stare out the window.
"'Perhaps'?" John sat down in his comfortable chair, stretching his legs out in front of him, and wiggling his toes in his socks. "You don't know?"
Sherlock turned, his face half in shadow, half in light. His deducing grey eyes roamed over John. The intense scrutiny was not unusual. Since Sherlock had returned there had been plenty of these observations, not as many explanations though.
John had done plenty of his own observing. Especially in the first month as they had reestablished a daily routine, mostly to confirm that Sherlock actually was back, and not just a figment of his imagination.
Their fight a few days after the return, when John's pent up emotions finally snapped, had swept away most of his existential doubts. He was even more convinced this new reality as he had needed to patch Sherlock up afterwards.
John's own observing was now more of a getting-to-know-you-again type. Spending over twenty months away chasing dangerous criminals around the world had done nothing to make Sherlock's personality any more understandable than before. The missing part of him was even less than so.
"Can I help?" asked John, a sentence he had repeated to infinity by now.
"I need to speak to Mycroft!"
Sherlock jerked away from the window, the curtain slid down from his shoulder as he moved. He grabbed his long coat from the hanger by the door, and continued passed John out the door and down the stairs.
"Sherlock!" called John. "You are in your pyjama and slippers! Sherlock?! It's over ten o'clock! It's February!"
The front door slammed. John got up and walked over to the window. He could see the contours of Sherlock, and the coat, hurrying away down the street. Every time Sherlock left 221b there was a fear in John's, not quite yet healed, heart of never seeing him again.
John frowned. He took up his mobile as he walked to the kitchen. The table was as full of ongoing experiments and chemical equipment as if Sherlock never had been away. There was even a human eye floating around in a jelly-like pink liquid in the middle of everything.
He's coming to you, JW
John sent the message to Mycroft. The man probably already knew that his brother was on the way, but a friendly heads up was never wrong. Mycroft had received a lot of the blame while Sherlock was presumed dead, only half of it had been deserved.
Since there was nothing else to do, John decided to go to bed. He lay awake for three hours before he heard Sherlock return, and was able to relax.
It wasn't until the next morning he read the answering message from Mycroft that Sherlock had never arrived.
------
"John," said Sherlock. "Can you advice me on this?"
John was in the kitchen eating breakfast. Sherlock was in the living room, ignoring breakfast. A plate with two cold prices of toast with fried eggs and baked beans stood forlorn on the table.
"What?" John swallowed the last piece of his own breakfast. "You want my advice?"
This is a rare occurrence, thought John as he took two cups of tea to the living room. Sherlock was by the sofa, looking down on it with serous thought. John stopped by his side, and looked as well.
"Any particular reason why you draped our sofa with underpants?" He asked and gave Sherlock one of the cups.
"They are my underpants," said Sherlock and tasted the tea without the usual vince.
"Ah," nodded John, still not understanding. "Obviously. I would have been worried if they were mine."
"Why?" Sherlock immediately turned to him. "Why would you worry if so?"
"Well... that would have been just... weird."
They looked at the pants for a moment. There were about fifteen pairs, most of them black, but there was also a few blue, and some white. A few briefs, a few boxers.
John sipped some tea as he scanned the exhibition, and came to the conclusion that Sherlock was actually quite unexciting when it came to underwear. There were no bright colours or patterns. Still he felt a bit uneasy, and perhaps a bit excited, watching something that was worn by Sherlock so intimately.
"If you were going on a date," said Sherlock, putting a bent forefinger under his bottom lip, and his thumb under his chin, pinching it. "Which pair should you choose?"
"You have a date?" John blinked in surprise. "Do we have a case? Why haven't you told me?"
"No case. It's simply an experiment."
"You are experimenting with dates?"
John shifted nervously, Sherlock wasn't going to ask him out, was he? That would be... John frowned and took a drink from his cup to distract himself from the thought.
Not that he would mind a date with Sherlock. It didn't have to be romantic, since John wasn't gay, no. Though a date with Sherlock...
"The pants, John. Which pants?"
"Um..." John frowned again. "I guess... those?"
He pointed to a black pair of briefs that had a grey print of some fancy designer's name and logo over the waistband. They looked almost new, and quite comfortable.
"Really?" Sherlock sounded bit surprised. "Interesting."
"Did I get it wrong?" John couldn't help but to feel that he had been put through a test of some kind.
"Thank you for your help," said Sherlock, took the chosen pants, and then moved towards his bedroom.
"You are cleaning the rest of these away, aren't you?" John called after him.
-----
The display of pants were still on the sofa when John got back from work five hours later. Sherlock and the black designer pants were not at home, though. John sighed and started to gather together the scattered clothing.
He blushed a little thinking that these were clothes of very personal character. They were not exactly fine lace knickers and bras, but for a man like Sherlock they might as well be.
John cleared his throat, and headed for Sherlock's room. He had first planned to dump everything in a pile on the bed, but that was quite a juvenile thought.
The top drawer of the bureau was for the sock index, John knew that much from his raids for cigarettes, and from when he had put all of Sherlock's things in storage after....
He pulled out the second drawer, and was going to dispose of the pants there, when what he saw made him pause. A tube of lubricant and a large pack of condoms, both opened. John blinked.
It was not the lube or the condoms by themselves that were shocking. Almost every healthy adult male would own something like it, and a underwear drawer was a common place to keep it in. What was shocking was that it was Sherlock's underwear drawer.
John had on occasion even wondered if Sherlock even had a penis. Though being a doctor John was aware of the anatomical necessity. He had seen Sherlock go to the bathroom, several times, even stood beside him on a couple occasions when in a public bathrooms.
The thought that his flatmate had a penis, and that it actually was used in other ways than peeing, was a bit chocking. Though the thought was not as unpleasant as he would have imagined.
Then he remembered that he had found nothing like this when he cleared out Sherlock's room for storage. There hadn't even been a single one of those sample condoms that was given out free at clinics. Again John felt conflicted by his feelings.
What had happened while Sherlock was away? And why did it affect John?
John quickly stuffed the pants haphazardly in the drawer, and closed it. He left Sherlock's room quickly, not wanting to think of it anymore.
-----
Sherlock was getting texts. There was no sexy moan accompanying them this time, it was a distinctive ding, but it was a different ding than the usual ding. The look on Sherlock's face was the same as when Irene had texted him: irritated and mildly intrigued.
John hated that ding. Sherlock said it was a friend. Since when did Sherlock get more friends? Him, Greg, Molly, Mrs Hudson, and occasionally Mycroft. If Sherlock got any more friends his brain would surely explode.
Neither of them had a special ding, not even John, who really should have deserved his own ding by now. He should defiantly get his own ding. John immediately stopped that strange train of thought, because that way madness lay.
Was it someone Sherlock had met on his year and a half travelling as a dead man? Sherlock didn't like to talk about those missing months. Except from saying that they all were over now. John accepted that, mostly. Though he would very much want to know what had changed during that time, and what had been left behind.
Sherlock couldn't... He couldn't possibly be in a relationship with somebody, could he?
There had been a irritating ding interrupting John's Friday night favourite telly show about three hours ago. Sherlock had put on his coat, and left, leaving John who was actually missing the snarky commentary, that he had apparently gotten used to all over again. It was like watching a American sit-com without the boxed laughter.
After the show ended John worked on his blog, answered a few mails, wrote to his sister, and then read some other people's blogs.
He was reading an American soccer-mom's description of her day, and making scary associations to his own life with Sherlock, when he heard the front door slam downstairs.
Nothing happened for another two minutes, then there was a painful groan from the stairs. John was immediately on his feet.
"Sherlock?"
Sherlock was halfway up the stairs, resting on the rail. His dark hair was wet from sweat, and his posture was slumped. There seemed to be a considerable amount of pain in every move he made.
"Fuck," John hurried to help him. "Who'd you piss off this time?"
There was no cuts or bruising on Sherlock's face, which was odd because there was usually the place you wanted to hit him first. John placed a hand on Sherlock's back, the detective winced badly.
"Was it in the kidneys?" John asked, while assisting the man up these stairs and into the flat. "How does your ribs feel? Can you breathe all right?"
"Why do you assume..." Sherlock took a breath, and feebly tried to stand up straight, "...that someone has beaten me up?"
He pushed away from John. A look of pure determination settled in his brows. Gingerly, and slightly limping, Sherlock tried out three different ways to get down on the sofa, before deciding for a forth: just fall, face first, on to the pillows.
John hesitated for a moment, but then helped Sherlock by removing the coat. He carefully rolled the man on to the side, facing outwards. Sherlock groaned again, he was obviously in pain.
"Won't you tell me what happened then?" John kneeled down on the floor. "I can see you're hurt, and you have the beginnings of a fever. Don't lie to me."
"Experiment..." came the murmuring answer, followed by a small smile.
"Sherlock, you haven't taken any drugs, have you?" John tried to look at his eyes.
"I'm clean," said Sherlock in a harsh voice. "I just need to rest a little. Everything's fine."
"You still going to have a fever," John got to his feet. "I'll get you something for that."
John walked to the medicine cabinet in the kitchen. He frowned as he looked through the various chemicals that had no place there in the first place.
The back pains, the stiff movements, the flushed cheeks. If he didn't had a long run and fallen badly on his arse, Sherlock just had sex. Though judging by the fever, the sweats, and the denial, very badly prepared and rough sex, but still sex.
And it had, almost surely, been with a man. The thought was disturbing in levels that John didn't even know he had. Was that actual jealousy he felt?
Suddenly he wished he was wrong. He wished that Sherlock really had taken a bad beating from some idiotic thugs, but he knew that wasn't the case.
He wondered if Sherlock had worn the pants, the ones thatJohn had chosen. He wondered if it had been consensual...
"Sherlock...?"
John really didn't want to ask, but as a friend, and as a doctor, he didn't want Sherlock to get hurt. If he were to believe, not only Mycroft, but also his own eyes, then Sherlock had very little experience in sex.
"Hm?"
Sherlock was still on his side, but his eyes were closed. The pain was still visible on his face, but the flush on his cheeks had gone down a little.
"You..." John hesitated, but then pulled himself mildly together. "You are being careful? I mean... You are using protection, and good preparation...? And, err... Keeping clean? And so on."
He placed a cool wet towel on the detective's forehead. John couldn't believe he was talking about such things with a grown man well into his thirties. Sherlock opened a eye.
"And if I'm not?"
John felt his stomach turn into several knots. Was Sherlock asking as in just asking, or had it already happened? Sherlock could never, never be this ignorant, even about sex. Or could he?
"You can get an infection," John tried to look serious through the worry. "Or... or a disease."
"I'm fine," Sherlock closed the eye.
"G- good," John rubbed his face, feeling his patience running low. "Take these," he said, and held out two pills and a glass to Sherlock. "Water."
"It does hurt..." murmured Sherlock as he swallowed down his medication. "I will take your advise under consideration."
John just sighed, looked at his friend for a few moments, and then he went to bed. There was nothing more he could do anyway.
It took him over an hour to fall asleep. Should he have offered to look for damage or tarring? He might be a doctor but asking to check his flat mate's arse out before bed was perhaps pushing it.
He ignored the prickling sensation in his own arse as he thought about it.
----
When he got down the next morning Sherlock was still on the sofa. It wasn't clear if the man had slept or not. Either way, he looked a little bit better.
John was about to start breakfast when he was interrupted by Greg Lestrade suddenly coming out from the bathroom.
"Sherlock!" said the D.I. "I said we were in a hurry. Oh, good morning, John."
"Morning," nodded John.
He noticed the impatience in Greg's posture, and guessed that there was a case. Not wanting to be left behind John immediately walked over to the washing hamper to pull out yesterday's trousers to wear.
"It can't be that urgent if you have time to take a bathroom break," murmured Sherlock.
"I was hoping you were ready to leave by the time I finished."
"So you peed for my benefit? How kind of you."
John pulled on a grey knitted junper, also from the hamper, over his sleep crumpled t-shirt.
"He had a bad fever last night," he said to Greg. "As his doctor I recommend he rests..."
"I don't need to... Ah!" Sherlock made a clenched face as he got up from the sofa. "I'm perfectly fine!"
He wobbled a little where he stood. Both John and Greg took a step forward as if Sherlock was going to fall, but then he gained control of his balance. There was only a slightly noticeable limp as he began to move.
"Robbery in a jewellery store gone wrong," said Greg, watching Sherlock's stiff movements with a frown. "The store clerk was shot dead."
"I'm not going in a police car," said Sherlock, gingerly pulling on his coat.
"I'll let you sit in the front seat," said Greg.
Sherlock gave him a thoughtful glare.
"Fine," he gave a nonchalant shrug, and limped out of the door.
Greg exchanged a smirk with John.
"What's with the limp?" asked Greg as they followed Sherlock downstairs and out if the door. "If I didn't know better I'd think..."
"He got in a fight," said John resolutely.
"Right," hummed the D.I. as he seated himself in the backseat of the police car next to John.
John looked at Sherlock's black set of curls through the steel netting that separated the back from the front seats.
The uniformed driver started the car and edged it in to traffic. As they reached the end of Baker Street, were it connected to a more busy road, he turned on the sirens.
Under cover of the wailing sound John leaned closer to Greg.
"Actually," he said in a low voice. "I'm a bit worried that he's up to something dangerous."
"Do I want to hear this?" Greg looked a bit queasy.
"I don't think it's illegal," John shook his head. "But I think he is in risk of getting hurt."
"Why don't we talk about it tonight?" said Greg.
The police car pulled up in front of a jewellery store with a smashed window. Two other police cars, and Sergeant Donovan, were already there. The sirens were turned off.
"What are you two canoodling about?" Sherlock turned, giving John and Greg a suspicious look.
"I was asking John to have a pint with me tonight," said Greg. "Do you want to join? The pub has the Arsenal versus Man-U game on a big screen telly."
"I don't like cricket," said Sherlock, and moved out if the car.
A very shocked police driver let John and Greg out of the backseat.
:::::
( The Ding Part 2 )
part3