The Wall Had It Coming Part One (NC-17)
John sighed into his pillow. His bladder was full and he could not risk a trip to the toilet without rousing the attention of a certain nuisance. Not in this house, anyway. As John crept to the toilet on weary toes, he noticed an eerie silence had befallen the house. There was no clinking of mug on coffee table, no soft sounds of movement, no explosions, no chattering of the tele, no painful violin strokes, no Sherlock muttering to himself. Forgetting his bladder, (briefly, for one cannot forget such a thing for long) John ventured out into the kitchen and sitting room to find it empty, if not a bit tidier than last night. Sherlock was nowhere to be found. He could have been in his room, of course, but John doubted this very much. It was more of a storeroom than anything. The one time John had trekked in, the tube containing the bottom half of a bird convinced him it was a bad idea before he'd gotten past the door.
Perhaps Sherlock was as embarrassed as him. After all, he had certainly been… enjoying himself before John had called game on their shag. John put on the kettle, rubbed his eyes and promptly remembered his bladder.
It was around lunch time that a horrible thought struck John. What if Sherlock had been so embarrassed at being at John's mercy and being (perhaps cruelly, John could admit) rejected, that he'd gone out and done something stupid to prove himself. John was about to text Sherlock when he decided he just wanted to keep things normal between them, whatever normal was, so he set down the phone and turned on the tele just in time for East Enders.
It was around supper when John realised that not texting Sherlock was an out-of-the-ordinary thing to do. John usually texted Sherlock if he didn't know where he was. So he picked up his Nokia and started tapping on the keys.
Where have you been?
JW
John wasn't sure why they still put their initials under texts; they both had each others numbers. Just a Sherlock thing, he supposed.
**
Down in 221C, Sherlock's message tone rang clear through the empty space. Sherlock pulled it out of his jacket to see a message from John. His heart lifted a little.
Where have you been?
JW
On a case for Lestrade
SH
Sherlock took a puff of his cigarette and wondered how long the correspondence between John and Lestrade would take. He estimated ten minutes before he got a text from John demanding the truth. He was half a minute off.
Liar. Where are you really?
John hadn't even bothered to sign his name, he must be upset.
Thinking.
SH
That should be answer enough, in Sherlock's opinion, and it was true. He had been thinking, before he'd slipped into mindless misery and stopped thinking about anything at all. It was a welcome change for Sherlock, and he knew he should be taking advantage of the silence and sleeping, but he just couldn't bring himself to put out his cigarette, even though Mrs Hudson would smell it soon and have a fit thinking vandals were burning to the decrepit old flat.
Exact location?
JW
Sherlock sighed.
221C Baker Street, London, England, Northern Hemisphere, World, Solar System, Milky Way, Space, Existence.
SH
There, he thought. Very exact.
He heard some uneven clumping down the stairs and the door squeaked open.
"I see you've taken up smoking again," John remarked casually as he walked in.
Sherlock's mind started racing agaim, the eye of the storm had passed. He sat down at the wall opposite Sherlock.
"So what are you doing down here?"
"Thinking about buying it, an office of sorts."
"Well Mrs Hudson certainly wouldn't miss it. Can you afford it?"
"If I can hack into Mycroft's account every few months."
They fell into silence and Sherlock couldn't tell whether it was companionable or awkward.
"Sherlock, I'm sorry about last night. I shouldn't have rejected you."
"At all, or quite so harshly?" Sherlock heard himself drawl sarcastically, and cursed himself.
"'M not sure yet," John mumbled, ashamed.
**
Sherlock had decided against 221C, and John admitted he was relieved, although he had an inkling Sherlock hadn't seriously considered it in the first place. That or Mycroft's accounts were harder to hack than he first thought.
He had also decided to let John think on his own time, which John was immeasurably grateful for. However whenever John appeared to be thinking - staring off over his morning tea, watching the ceiling instead of the tele - Sherlock would become fidgety and impatient.
Luckily, only three days after what John had taken to calling 'The Incident', Sherlock had a case.
Lestrade had called rather desperate on Monday evening, by Thursday they had three men on multiple murder charges, and a pet guinea pig.
"Sherlock, we can't keep that guinea pig."
"There is no 'we' about it, John, she's mine, not yours."
"Mrs Hudson will have fit!"
"I've already spoken to her; she seemed to think it was a good idea."
John sighed. Of course she would.
"Then what are you going to name it?" John asked, as a last ditch attempt, but Sherlock was stumped.
"What do people usually name their pets?" Sherlock asked.
"Usually after a character, or a hero of theirs, someone they look up to…"
Sherlock lay on the lounge, petting the hairy thing and thinking.
"But I have no heroes, John."
John sat down on the recliner and picked up the paper.
"Who do you see as an equal, then?"
"Hmm… Mycroft, Moriarty, You, Lestrade when he's not being intentionally dense, but they're all men's names, and she's a- oh!" Sherlock's eyes glazed over like they usually did when he had an idea. "There is one woman…"
John put down his paper to listen.
"She's not real, she's a character out of a book series I used to like."
"What was her name?"
Sherlock was silent for a moment, and then christened the guinea pig.
"Adler. Irene Adler."
**
Sherlock had told John he though of him as an equal and John hadn't even reacted. Sherlock told himself he shouldn't be surprised, that he'd prepared for the possibility John wouldn't share the feelings that Sherlock held captive in his chest.
It was different for John though. For John there had been others. For John there would be more, no doubt. But Sherlock had only ever had John. He would never recover if he lost John, so he made it his life's mission to never do so.
Sherlock stood up from the kitchen table, placed Irene on the couch and made his way to John's room. John was lying on his bed with his laptop on his knees when Sherlock swung the door open.
No comment on knocking etiquette, John was in a good mood. He looked up at Sherlock expectantly.
"For me there is only you, John."
John threw Sherlock a resigned look.
"Everything is going to change, now," he said sadly.
"No it won't, John. For me there is only you, and I will take as much or as little of you as I can get. If you don't want a sexual relationship, I can settle for a sexless one. If you don't want a relationship, I can settle for friends, colleagues, whatever you wish to call it. I am yours, take me as you will."
And with that, he flung off his robe dramatically, tipped his head back and closed his eyes, awaiting judgement.
**
As John stared at the painfully beautiful, troubled sociopathic statue in front of him, he knew his mind had been made up from the word go. Or more, the words 'Afghanistan or Iraq' and every single amazing thing that had followed. How could anyone resist this perfect, perfect man who, in all his imperfections, was still wonderful and sweet, innocent and flawlessly flawed.
John watched Sherlock shiver in the cool breeze, watched the way his second toe curled under, the way his calved clenched and unclenched every little while, the sparseness of the hair on his thighs, the flaccid penis in the bush of black, the dwindling trail of hair which stopped before a pure white chest.
But what drew him, even more than Sherlock's black locks, or his captivating face, was the long, slender neck that was offered to him. It was the submission, the act of Sherlock giving himself to John in entirety that led John to stand up, walk over to Sherlock and brush his lips over that neck.
**
Sherlock stood frozen, blind and in panic for a good five minutes before anything happened, and for a normal person that was long enough for so much negative thought for one to want to kill themselves.
For Sherlock it felt like decades. He'd insulted John and now John was going to leave him and he would be alone again.
Then the bed squeaked. That would be John, who had previously been frozen in disgust, getting up to leave.
Sherlock had himself so convinced that when lips slid over his neck he jumped. He opened his eyes and saw John's, powerful with realisation and want. Not a sexual want, Sherlock observed something even more.
John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's thin waist and, though he was a head short than the male he'd fallen so utterly in love with, he felt more of a man than he ever had shooting guns in Afghanistan. Sherlock needed him and hell if John didn't need him back.
He pressed more kisses to Sherlock's neck and shoulders, loving him even more with each one, and pulled him onto the bed next to him. Sherlock was going to mention that they hadn't showered or brushed, but found he didn't care, and didn't think John did either.
The blanket was pulled over them and John's hands were stroking his hair, a feeling which Sherlock decided was the most wonderful in the world. John's face looked at him, full of awe, as though he'd just found the secret of life, the meaning of the universe, the last chocolate pudding at the last Tesco's ever (John was partial to those). Sherlock didn't understand why, but he supposed John might very well feel the same way Sherlock felt about him, and in that case John would be having trouble keeping his heart in his chest.
Sherlock put his hand over John's chest to keep it there, and they lay there all night and much of the next day.
**
Nothing much happened those next few days. Sherlock had a case that John decided not to join him on - there was a virus going around and the clinic needed him, rather desperately. He was doing night shifts, so he would sleep all day, with Sherlock running in and out as quietly as he could - that was nice of him, John thought often through a haze of sleep.
But the case was solved after a week, and the clinic decided to give John some time off, after all the work he'd done. So they sat together in the living room, John reading the paper and Sherlock applying rosin to his bow. The silence was awkward for John, but he was sure Sherlock hadn't even noticed. In fact, John wasn't even sure Sherlock had noticed he was there.
John put the paper down on his knees and watched Sherlock. Nimble fingers were running up and down the bow, Sherlock was sitting up straight, legs crossed. He was wearing his dressing gown, closed right, and pyjama bottoms. His hair was damp, some bits still flat on his head, but some curls had already sprung back into place.
"John, there is never a time when your presence escapes my notice."
Sherlock was bloody mind reader, John was sure.
"Not a mind reader, John. I simply observe. It's something you should try, because you would have noticed my eyes weren't moving, so I was therefore using my peripheral vision to look at something else. You. You were watching me, expectantly, as though you were wondering if I knew you were even there. I thought it would reassure you that I never forget about your existence, although if I did it would make my job much easier, because I would be able to concentrate on the dead person and not how wonderfully delectable you look eating a Krispy Kreme doughnut."
John sat there, rather stunned. That might have been the nicest thing Sherlock had ever said to him.
"Oh."
With that, Sherlock stood up and withdrew to his room. He came back out only minutes later fully dressed.
"I'm off out, be back soon."
**
Sherlock was putting the chocolate and strawberry sauce into the cupboard when John came into the kitchen. He saw the 16-pack of Krispy Kreme's and instantly his eyes narrowed.
"Where did you get to?" He asked nonchalantly, and Sherlock grinned into the cupboard.
"Just went out for some supplies." Sherlock answered. "You'll find choc chip and Neapolitan ice cream in the freezer, Tesco's puddings in the fridge, - mind the bladders - some frozen Bavarians and cheesecakes in there too, toppings are up here."
John was sucking the custard out of a doughnut when Sherlock turned around and he felt his mouth sag open. Because John wasn't just sucking the custard out, he was coaxing it out, all tongue and lips and teeth. His eyes were closed and face contorted in absolute pleasure, this man really liked his deserts.
Sherlock was focussing on the crude display of custard-love, and he didn't notice John wasn't wearing a shirt for a full thirty seconds.
"Listen, John, the other night…"
John looked up. "Which one?" he said with a mouth full of custard, "The one where I finally decided I was in love with you, or the one where we were rutting up against each other before I backed out?"
Nothing turned Sherlock on more than the blunt truth.
"The latter."
"Mmmm, what about it?"
"I was wondering if we were going to repeat that any time soon."
John looked up at him again, his attention had been arrested by a plain glazed.
"Obviously without the abrupt end."
John dropped a part of the doughnut into his mouth.
"How would you like it to end, Sherlock?"
John was certainly flirting with him now.
"Preferably with a lack of clothes and a nice post coital haze."
John's phone rang.
"Yes… No, not busy… Yes… Of course. See you soon."
Sherlock looked at John with a raised eyebrow.
"The clinic's called me in. Jefferson and Lilac are both ill with the virus, they need me."
"I thought they were giving you a week off!"
"Sherlock, they need me!"
"Don't you get sick!"
"I won't!" John called from downstairs, and the door shut.
"I need you more," Sherlock said the empty flat.
**
It was around nine when Sherlock got the idea, from a sitcom, too. John had text him to say he was going to work the night shift as well, but that's okay because he was getting paid double time.
In the sitcom, the teenage boy had been caught masturbating by his parents. What ensued was an awkward talk between the boy and the parents that Sherlock assumed was funny for people with a low IQ.
But it got him thinking. Sherlock had never masturbated before. He'd always been able to find release elsewhere when he'd absolutely needed it, which wasn't often. And he couldn't get caught, unlike in the sitcom, because his mother was in Scotland and his father was six feet under, also in Scotland. And Mrs Hudson was keeping to herself these days, tired of being the housekeeper.
So why shouldn't he? Well, he didn't know how, but imagined it couldn't be that hard. Maybe he should find something to help him, a picture or something. Vacantly, he wandered into John's room and found the shirt John had been wearing earlier. It had a distinct 'John' scent about it, and Sherlock smiled, anticipation already curling away in the pit of his stomach.
He went back to the couch and lay down, before standing up again and undoing his buttons. He closed his eyes and instantly saw John's face, John's hands undoing his buttons, John's hands sliding his silk shirt off his back. It was John's hands rubbing roughly against the erection through his pants, John who caused a deep grunt to fill the silence of the flat.
Sherlock pulled off his pants and fell onto the couch, placing John's shirt across his chest and over his mouth and nose. He took hold of his cock and pulled experimentally. It felt nice, especially if he squeezed it like that, or ran his fingers over the tip, like that. Sherlock could feel hot liquid beading and slowly dripping down his shaft, and he gripped tight and began to slide his hand up and down. He breathed in sharply and smelt John, and suddenly John was all around him, on him, it him, mouth around him. Sherlock's vivid imagination was going at lightening speed, and so was his hand. He breathed in again, bit John's shirt and shot white ribbons across his chest, moaning low and long.
He lay there for a while, exhausted, before dropping off into the deepest sleep in a long time.
**
John was exhausted. He had never felt quite so bloody awful in all his time in Afghanistan, he hadn't gotten much sleep there, either. He began to wonder why his life was falling into a non-sleeping pattern from hell when he realised he was probably coming down with the virus he'd been treating. Pretty slow, for a doctor, Sherlock would have said.
Speaking of Sherlock…
"What the flying fuck!"
John had seen Sherlock naked before. A few times - after the Moriarty incident, when Sherlock had come down with a most terrible flu, shirtless the night that John had stupidly refused a delightful lay and of course the fateful night of realisation.
But John had never, not ever, seen any man - nor a woman - lying on a couch with their legs spread most wantonly, hand on their naked stomach, holding their flatmate's shirt to their face, breathing evenly and soaked in their own semen.
But, Sherlock, being Sherlock, still looked beautiful. He'd probably look beautiful while the fucking world ended - and then bloody survive it, John thought. As long as he took me with him.
John wasn't sure where that last thought came from, but he figured he was allowed to say it. The man in question was masturbating with his t-shirt.
John figured that probably meant something important. He put on the kettle, took an aspirin and tried to think clearly.
Sherlock wanted to screw him.
John figured he probably already knew that. Considering the man had been all over him just a few nights ago.
More than all over him, really. Sherlock had been amazing.
John sugared his tea and tried to remember the night. It had all been very quick; they'd simply been watching Jerry Springer re-runs and then BAM! Sherlock had been on him. Of course, John could feel Sherlock watching him the whole night. But hell, Sherlock was weird like that sometimes.
And John hadn't minded. John hadn't minded that his flatmate watched him, he hadn't mind when he'd stuck his tongue in his mouth, he hadn't minded when he'd pulled John's shirt off and he hadn't minded when he'd rutted against him with a raging hard on.
What John did mind, was the fact that the swirling tongue had made him shudder, that he'd been trying to pull Sherlock's shirt off and that he'd also had the beginnings of a promising erection.
It had all been a bit of a shock for John, the whole 'I'm attracted to dick's now' thing. However, he'd picked a good guy to start on, Sherlock was pretty androgynous. And a nutter, but whatever.
What had scared John the most though, was that he probably wouldn't progress to another guy, or woman, for that matter. The thought had unsettled him.
Now it just spread warmth through his body.
Sherlock stirred when John covered him with the blanket.
"Sleep, love." he whispered.
Perhaps Sherlock was as embarrassed as him. After all, he had certainly been… enjoying himself before John had called game on their shag. John put on the kettle, rubbed his eyes and promptly remembered his bladder.
It was around lunch time that a horrible thought struck John. What if Sherlock had been so embarrassed at being at John's mercy and being (perhaps cruelly, John could admit) rejected, that he'd gone out and done something stupid to prove himself. John was about to text Sherlock when he decided he just wanted to keep things normal between them, whatever normal was, so he set down the phone and turned on the tele just in time for East Enders.
It was around supper when John realised that not texting Sherlock was an out-of-the-ordinary thing to do. John usually texted Sherlock if he didn't know where he was. So he picked up his Nokia and started tapping on the keys.
Where have you been?
JW
John wasn't sure why they still put their initials under texts; they both had each others numbers. Just a Sherlock thing, he supposed.
**
Down in 221C, Sherlock's message tone rang clear through the empty space. Sherlock pulled it out of his jacket to see a message from John. His heart lifted a little.
Where have you been?
JW
On a case for Lestrade
SH
Sherlock took a puff of his cigarette and wondered how long the correspondence between John and Lestrade would take. He estimated ten minutes before he got a text from John demanding the truth. He was half a minute off.
Liar. Where are you really?
John hadn't even bothered to sign his name, he must be upset.
Thinking.
SH
That should be answer enough, in Sherlock's opinion, and it was true. He had been thinking, before he'd slipped into mindless misery and stopped thinking about anything at all. It was a welcome change for Sherlock, and he knew he should be taking advantage of the silence and sleeping, but he just couldn't bring himself to put out his cigarette, even though Mrs Hudson would smell it soon and have a fit thinking vandals were burning to the decrepit old flat.
Exact location?
JW
Sherlock sighed.
221C Baker Street, London, England, Northern Hemisphere, World, Solar System, Milky Way, Space, Existence.
SH
There, he thought. Very exact.
He heard some uneven clumping down the stairs and the door squeaked open.
"I see you've taken up smoking again," John remarked casually as he walked in.
Sherlock's mind started racing agaim, the eye of the storm had passed. He sat down at the wall opposite Sherlock.
"So what are you doing down here?"
"Thinking about buying it, an office of sorts."
"Well Mrs Hudson certainly wouldn't miss it. Can you afford it?"
"If I can hack into Mycroft's account every few months."
They fell into silence and Sherlock couldn't tell whether it was companionable or awkward.
"Sherlock, I'm sorry about last night. I shouldn't have rejected you."
"At all, or quite so harshly?" Sherlock heard himself drawl sarcastically, and cursed himself.
"'M not sure yet," John mumbled, ashamed.
**
Sherlock had decided against 221C, and John admitted he was relieved, although he had an inkling Sherlock hadn't seriously considered it in the first place. That or Mycroft's accounts were harder to hack than he first thought.
He had also decided to let John think on his own time, which John was immeasurably grateful for. However whenever John appeared to be thinking - staring off over his morning tea, watching the ceiling instead of the tele - Sherlock would become fidgety and impatient.
Luckily, only three days after what John had taken to calling 'The Incident', Sherlock had a case.
Lestrade had called rather desperate on Monday evening, by Thursday they had three men on multiple murder charges, and a pet guinea pig.
"Sherlock, we can't keep that guinea pig."
"There is no 'we' about it, John, she's mine, not yours."
"Mrs Hudson will have fit!"
"I've already spoken to her; she seemed to think it was a good idea."
John sighed. Of course she would.
"Then what are you going to name it?" John asked, as a last ditch attempt, but Sherlock was stumped.
"What do people usually name their pets?" Sherlock asked.
"Usually after a character, or a hero of theirs, someone they look up to…"
Sherlock lay on the lounge, petting the hairy thing and thinking.
"But I have no heroes, John."
John sat down on the recliner and picked up the paper.
"Who do you see as an equal, then?"
"Hmm… Mycroft, Moriarty, You, Lestrade when he's not being intentionally dense, but they're all men's names, and she's a- oh!" Sherlock's eyes glazed over like they usually did when he had an idea. "There is one woman…"
John put down his paper to listen.
"She's not real, she's a character out of a book series I used to like."
"What was her name?"
Sherlock was silent for a moment, and then christened the guinea pig.
"Adler. Irene Adler."
**
Sherlock had told John he though of him as an equal and John hadn't even reacted. Sherlock told himself he shouldn't be surprised, that he'd prepared for the possibility John wouldn't share the feelings that Sherlock held captive in his chest.
It was different for John though. For John there had been others. For John there would be more, no doubt. But Sherlock had only ever had John. He would never recover if he lost John, so he made it his life's mission to never do so.
Sherlock stood up from the kitchen table, placed Irene on the couch and made his way to John's room. John was lying on his bed with his laptop on his knees when Sherlock swung the door open.
No comment on knocking etiquette, John was in a good mood. He looked up at Sherlock expectantly.
"For me there is only you, John."
John threw Sherlock a resigned look.
"Everything is going to change, now," he said sadly.
"No it won't, John. For me there is only you, and I will take as much or as little of you as I can get. If you don't want a sexual relationship, I can settle for a sexless one. If you don't want a relationship, I can settle for friends, colleagues, whatever you wish to call it. I am yours, take me as you will."
And with that, he flung off his robe dramatically, tipped his head back and closed his eyes, awaiting judgement.
**
As John stared at the painfully beautiful, troubled sociopathic statue in front of him, he knew his mind had been made up from the word go. Or more, the words 'Afghanistan or Iraq' and every single amazing thing that had followed. How could anyone resist this perfect, perfect man who, in all his imperfections, was still wonderful and sweet, innocent and flawlessly flawed.
John watched Sherlock shiver in the cool breeze, watched the way his second toe curled under, the way his calved clenched and unclenched every little while, the sparseness of the hair on his thighs, the flaccid penis in the bush of black, the dwindling trail of hair which stopped before a pure white chest.
But what drew him, even more than Sherlock's black locks, or his captivating face, was the long, slender neck that was offered to him. It was the submission, the act of Sherlock giving himself to John in entirety that led John to stand up, walk over to Sherlock and brush his lips over that neck.
**
Sherlock stood frozen, blind and in panic for a good five minutes before anything happened, and for a normal person that was long enough for so much negative thought for one to want to kill themselves.
For Sherlock it felt like decades. He'd insulted John and now John was going to leave him and he would be alone again.
Then the bed squeaked. That would be John, who had previously been frozen in disgust, getting up to leave.
Sherlock had himself so convinced that when lips slid over his neck he jumped. He opened his eyes and saw John's, powerful with realisation and want. Not a sexual want, Sherlock observed something even more.
John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's thin waist and, though he was a head short than the male he'd fallen so utterly in love with, he felt more of a man than he ever had shooting guns in Afghanistan. Sherlock needed him and hell if John didn't need him back.
He pressed more kisses to Sherlock's neck and shoulders, loving him even more with each one, and pulled him onto the bed next to him. Sherlock was going to mention that they hadn't showered or brushed, but found he didn't care, and didn't think John did either.
The blanket was pulled over them and John's hands were stroking his hair, a feeling which Sherlock decided was the most wonderful in the world. John's face looked at him, full of awe, as though he'd just found the secret of life, the meaning of the universe, the last chocolate pudding at the last Tesco's ever (John was partial to those). Sherlock didn't understand why, but he supposed John might very well feel the same way Sherlock felt about him, and in that case John would be having trouble keeping his heart in his chest.
Sherlock put his hand over John's chest to keep it there, and they lay there all night and much of the next day.
**
Nothing much happened those next few days. Sherlock had a case that John decided not to join him on - there was a virus going around and the clinic needed him, rather desperately. He was doing night shifts, so he would sleep all day, with Sherlock running in and out as quietly as he could - that was nice of him, John thought often through a haze of sleep.
But the case was solved after a week, and the clinic decided to give John some time off, after all the work he'd done. So they sat together in the living room, John reading the paper and Sherlock applying rosin to his bow. The silence was awkward for John, but he was sure Sherlock hadn't even noticed. In fact, John wasn't even sure Sherlock had noticed he was there.
John put the paper down on his knees and watched Sherlock. Nimble fingers were running up and down the bow, Sherlock was sitting up straight, legs crossed. He was wearing his dressing gown, closed right, and pyjama bottoms. His hair was damp, some bits still flat on his head, but some curls had already sprung back into place.
"John, there is never a time when your presence escapes my notice."
Sherlock was bloody mind reader, John was sure.
"Not a mind reader, John. I simply observe. It's something you should try, because you would have noticed my eyes weren't moving, so I was therefore using my peripheral vision to look at something else. You. You were watching me, expectantly, as though you were wondering if I knew you were even there. I thought it would reassure you that I never forget about your existence, although if I did it would make my job much easier, because I would be able to concentrate on the dead person and not how wonderfully delectable you look eating a Krispy Kreme doughnut."
John sat there, rather stunned. That might have been the nicest thing Sherlock had ever said to him.
"Oh."
With that, Sherlock stood up and withdrew to his room. He came back out only minutes later fully dressed.
"I'm off out, be back soon."
**
Sherlock was putting the chocolate and strawberry sauce into the cupboard when John came into the kitchen. He saw the 16-pack of Krispy Kreme's and instantly his eyes narrowed.
"Where did you get to?" He asked nonchalantly, and Sherlock grinned into the cupboard.
"Just went out for some supplies." Sherlock answered. "You'll find choc chip and Neapolitan ice cream in the freezer, Tesco's puddings in the fridge, - mind the bladders - some frozen Bavarians and cheesecakes in there too, toppings are up here."
John was sucking the custard out of a doughnut when Sherlock turned around and he felt his mouth sag open. Because John wasn't just sucking the custard out, he was coaxing it out, all tongue and lips and teeth. His eyes were closed and face contorted in absolute pleasure, this man really liked his deserts.
Sherlock was focussing on the crude display of custard-love, and he didn't notice John wasn't wearing a shirt for a full thirty seconds.
"Listen, John, the other night…"
John looked up. "Which one?" he said with a mouth full of custard, "The one where I finally decided I was in love with you, or the one where we were rutting up against each other before I backed out?"
Nothing turned Sherlock on more than the blunt truth.
"The latter."
"Mmmm, what about it?"
"I was wondering if we were going to repeat that any time soon."
John looked up at him again, his attention had been arrested by a plain glazed.
"Obviously without the abrupt end."
John dropped a part of the doughnut into his mouth.
"How would you like it to end, Sherlock?"
John was certainly flirting with him now.
"Preferably with a lack of clothes and a nice post coital haze."
John's phone rang.
"Yes… No, not busy… Yes… Of course. See you soon."
Sherlock looked at John with a raised eyebrow.
"The clinic's called me in. Jefferson and Lilac are both ill with the virus, they need me."
"I thought they were giving you a week off!"
"Sherlock, they need me!"
"Don't you get sick!"
"I won't!" John called from downstairs, and the door shut.
"I need you more," Sherlock said the empty flat.
**
It was around nine when Sherlock got the idea, from a sitcom, too. John had text him to say he was going to work the night shift as well, but that's okay because he was getting paid double time.
In the sitcom, the teenage boy had been caught masturbating by his parents. What ensued was an awkward talk between the boy and the parents that Sherlock assumed was funny for people with a low IQ.
But it got him thinking. Sherlock had never masturbated before. He'd always been able to find release elsewhere when he'd absolutely needed it, which wasn't often. And he couldn't get caught, unlike in the sitcom, because his mother was in Scotland and his father was six feet under, also in Scotland. And Mrs Hudson was keeping to herself these days, tired of being the housekeeper.
So why shouldn't he? Well, he didn't know how, but imagined it couldn't be that hard. Maybe he should find something to help him, a picture or something. Vacantly, he wandered into John's room and found the shirt John had been wearing earlier. It had a distinct 'John' scent about it, and Sherlock smiled, anticipation already curling away in the pit of his stomach.
He went back to the couch and lay down, before standing up again and undoing his buttons. He closed his eyes and instantly saw John's face, John's hands undoing his buttons, John's hands sliding his silk shirt off his back. It was John's hands rubbing roughly against the erection through his pants, John who caused a deep grunt to fill the silence of the flat.
Sherlock pulled off his pants and fell onto the couch, placing John's shirt across his chest and over his mouth and nose. He took hold of his cock and pulled experimentally. It felt nice, especially if he squeezed it like that, or ran his fingers over the tip, like that. Sherlock could feel hot liquid beading and slowly dripping down his shaft, and he gripped tight and began to slide his hand up and down. He breathed in sharply and smelt John, and suddenly John was all around him, on him, it him, mouth around him. Sherlock's vivid imagination was going at lightening speed, and so was his hand. He breathed in again, bit John's shirt and shot white ribbons across his chest, moaning low and long.
He lay there for a while, exhausted, before dropping off into the deepest sleep in a long time.
**
John was exhausted. He had never felt quite so bloody awful in all his time in Afghanistan, he hadn't gotten much sleep there, either. He began to wonder why his life was falling into a non-sleeping pattern from hell when he realised he was probably coming down with the virus he'd been treating. Pretty slow, for a doctor, Sherlock would have said.
Speaking of Sherlock…
"What the flying fuck!"
John had seen Sherlock naked before. A few times - after the Moriarty incident, when Sherlock had come down with a most terrible flu, shirtless the night that John had stupidly refused a delightful lay and of course the fateful night of realisation.
But John had never, not ever, seen any man - nor a woman - lying on a couch with their legs spread most wantonly, hand on their naked stomach, holding their flatmate's shirt to their face, breathing evenly and soaked in their own semen.
But, Sherlock, being Sherlock, still looked beautiful. He'd probably look beautiful while the fucking world ended - and then bloody survive it, John thought. As long as he took me with him.
John wasn't sure where that last thought came from, but he figured he was allowed to say it. The man in question was masturbating with his t-shirt.
John figured that probably meant something important. He put on the kettle, took an aspirin and tried to think clearly.
Sherlock wanted to screw him.
John figured he probably already knew that. Considering the man had been all over him just a few nights ago.
More than all over him, really. Sherlock had been amazing.
John sugared his tea and tried to remember the night. It had all been very quick; they'd simply been watching Jerry Springer re-runs and then BAM! Sherlock had been on him. Of course, John could feel Sherlock watching him the whole night. But hell, Sherlock was weird like that sometimes.
And John hadn't minded. John hadn't minded that his flatmate watched him, he hadn't mind when he'd stuck his tongue in his mouth, he hadn't minded when he'd pulled John's shirt off and he hadn't minded when he'd rutted against him with a raging hard on.
What John did mind, was the fact that the swirling tongue had made him shudder, that he'd been trying to pull Sherlock's shirt off and that he'd also had the beginnings of a promising erection.
It had all been a bit of a shock for John, the whole 'I'm attracted to dick's now' thing. However, he'd picked a good guy to start on, Sherlock was pretty androgynous. And a nutter, but whatever.
What had scared John the most though, was that he probably wouldn't progress to another guy, or woman, for that matter. The thought had unsettled him.
Now it just spread warmth through his body.
Sherlock stirred when John covered him with the blanket.
"Sleep, love." he whispered.