(no subject)
A/N: This was a Make-Me-A-Monday prompt from about a month ago for threebooks3 and I lost it in my files. I really need to stop naming all of my files ‘kjhgfdsrtfy’ or ‘poop’. You can find the full prompt here. Also this may be the worst fic I’ve ever written. Sorry darl!
“This is shit!” Sherlock called, frustrated, from his bedroom. John had just tipped out his cup of tea with no further plans for his next actions, so he wandered across the kitchen to Sherlock’s room.
“What’s shit?” He called through the door, before it was opened and he was standing directly opposite Sherlock’s chest. He was brushed aside.
“How do you mortals do it? More importantly, why? I’ve researched it to no end and all of the authorities’ online, reputable medical journals, even those amateur films - they make it seem like the most wonderful thing in the world. I’ve tried a number of times, and more so recently, what with the case, and I’ve never succeeded in any trials I’ve conducted - not even close. So why, John? You’re a doctor, you know all of the technical features of the action, so why to people do it, and why can’t I?”
John stood by the door of Sherlock’s room looking at the mad man with more than a little confusion. He skimmed the ‘List of Things Sherlock Can’t Do’ that he’s formed in his head (comprised of exactly two items) and decided it couldn’t be anything on there. Clearly, Sherlock was distressed about whatever it was he couldn’t do - it must be disconcerting for someone who was brilliant at everything to suddenly not be able to do something. However, as Sherlock’s sidekick/blogger/tea-fetcher, it was his job to assist. He opened his mouth to say something, but Sherlock cut him off.
“Is it possible there is something wrong with my body? I don’t think there is, it’s happened while I was sleeping. Maybe my technique is off. Are you meant to think of certain things? Or does it just happen? Ugh, Watson, this is frustrating.” He flumped down onto the lounge, moaning.
John, who was pulling his socks on, finally got a word in. “Sherlock, what the sodding fuck are you crapping on about?”
Sherlock gaze flicked dangerously towards him. His expression said, rather clearly, ‘you are so dense it must hurt’.
“John, I am talking about unsuccessful masturbation. In particular - unsuccessful masturbation and me.” It sounded like a self help book. John giggled and Sherlock got angrier. “This is no laughing matter. There could be a serious problem. I can’t do it. I think it might be my technique -”
John was suddenly struck by a thought. “Is that - were you just - masturbating in there?”
“Yes, John, and as I was saying, how would you feel about observing my technique and pointing out errors? From cataloguing you I’ve deduced you are rather gifted in the area.”
John pulled on his shoes. “I have to go to work.”
“John! You cannot ignore this! I am more important than the hypochondriacs with an internet connection! Will you help me!?” The last part he yelled down the stairs.
“Yes, whatever, Sherlock!” John called back up before slamming the door, determinedly ignoring the bulge in his pants.
::
What had he gotten himself into? No, seriously, what the actual fuck was he thinking? Was he stupid? Yes, he clearly was. Who in their right mind would agree to give their flatmate masturbating tips? Especially when said flatmate has the body and mind and fucking haircut of a demigod, and they are hopelessly in love with them? John found himself adoring each of his patients, wishing that the day would go on forever in his happy little clinic where there are no Sherlock-penises or masturbating, but eventually they were closing up and Bill, another GP, had to push him out the door. He took a cab home even though he couldn’t afford it, simply because he was too nervous to sit around so many people on the underground. He thought about getting some groceries, but decided against it - he had only a few days ago and Sherlock would read into it. If John was lucky Sherlock would have moved on to dissecting echidna brains and have forgotten all about the masturbating fiasco of that morning.
It wasn’t to be. Sherlock was waiting by the door - actually standing there, rocking on his heels. When John walked through the door he followed him like a shadow to the kitchen. John turned on the kettle and sat to untie his shoes as Sherlock stood ominously over him.
“I have researched all the further into theories regarding this… issue and I have had no more success. I am hoping that you will observe my techniques and provide some productive criticism as to how I can hope to improve. Any time that is fine with you will suffice.”
John squeezed his eyes shut and accepted his face. “Just let me get a cup of tea. Where are you wanting to do it?”
Sherlock cleared his throat. “Perhaps my bedroom would be suitable?”
John nodded again and Sherlock went to… prepare, or something. He let his tea draw for longer than necessary, but eventually it began to stew and he picked it up and walked towards Sherlock’s room.
John had been in Sherlock’s room before. It was exactly as you would imagine it - a bit like a vampire’s. It as always dark and the main light didn’t work so Sherlock had installed lamps, adding to the doom and gloom of the place. He sat down as Sherlock lay down on the bed, facing the ceiling. He shuffled in his chair and sighed.
“Off you go.” He says and Sherlock rolls his eyes and unbuttons his jeans, shucking them down and John tries to keep a straight face when he’s not wearing underwear. He then takes ahold of his penis and starts stroking it up and down. John can’t bring himself to say anything, so he doesn’t. This continues for about a minute before Sherlock, obviously getting frustrated, put his hand between his legs. John winced. For a professional musician, he doesn't touch himself well. He was cut off by a whimper from John, who was torn between turned on and pained. He looked over expectantly, and John blurted out, “doesn’t that hurt?”
Sherlock looked at him like he was an idiot. “Of course it does.”
“It isn’t supposed to”
Sherlock blinked at him. John gaped.
“Surely you know that! What about when you’ve have sex, surely then you would have felt good.”
There was an awkward silence between them.
“You’ve never had sex.” It wasn’t a question. Sherlock raises his eyebrows sarcastically and looks at the ceiling. They were quiet for a while, John looking anywhere other than Sherlock.
“Could-“ Sherlock cleared his throat. “Could you, perhaps show me how it’s supposed to feel?”
John watched him for a long time, thinking. Sherlock wished he knew what was going through that mind, but his face was a mask.
“On one condition.”
“Yes?”
“We do it properly.”
“Properly how?”
“It’s called foreplay and if you want me to help you, it has to happen.”
“Is that kissing and touching?” Sherlock said with distaste.
“I don’t have to kiss you if you’d prefer I don’t, but it won’t work if you don’t. Then you can try it on your own and I’ll guide you.”
Sherlock looked at him for a moment and nodded, swallowing thickly.
“Get your pants back on and straighten out the bed. And open a goddamn window. I’ll be back in a second.”
John walked out, and the second he rounded the corner made a face akin to something out of The Exorcist and started freaking out.
::
What had he gotten himself into? No, seriously, what the actual fuck was he thinking? Was he stupid? Yes, he clearly was. Who in their right mind would agree to masturbate their flatmate? Especially when said flatmate has the body and mind and fucking haircut of a demigod, and they are hopelessly in love with them? John stared at the kitchen sink for a whole minute before running his hands under the hot tap until they were scorching. He wanted his hands to be warm - he didn’t know why and Sherlock would know, he just did. Gulping thickly, he made his way back to Sherlock’s room to find him watching the doorway expectantly, leaning back against his bed head. John smiled weakly at him and he spread his arms. Planning his method of attack, he stalked over slowly and decided to gently straddle Sherlock’s thighs. He smiles awkwardly down at Sherlock, who’s looking up at him expectantly.
“This is weird. I usually kiss them about now.”
John lunges for his neck and the first touch is electric. He mouths down Sherlock’s jaw lines and directly under his chin, scraping a little at his Adam’s apple, before pointing his tongue and swiping up the collarbone. He got no reaction, so he plundered on, undoing Sherlock’s shirt and kissing his way down his sternum. Sherlock was silent and his breathing hadn’t changed and John was doing well at ignoring the fact that he was in love with this man and it would have kept going that way until he looked up to check Sherlock was okay.
Because Sherlock was very okay. For what he didn’t give away with his careful discipline over his ‘transport’, he couldn’t stop his eyes from telling the truth this time. They were blown black, only a tiny ring of grey surrounding the pure sensuality radiating from those hooded eyes. And his lips were worse. Slightly agape, bright red and shiny with spit. He looked illegal.
“You okay?” John asked, successfully keeping the amusement out of his voice. Sherlock blinked a few times, but as he went to speak John breathed hot air over his crotch and the man physically melted. He became boneless, fell into the bed with a sigh of ‘John’.
John pulled himself over Sherlock’s body in a sudden fit of surety. “You’re so responsive,” he whispers, lips brushing Sherlock’s ear.
“Kiss me,” Sherlock breathed and John lost himself right there, pressing his lips against Sherlock’s and running his hands down his sides, dipping fingers underneath the waistline.
“Fuck, you’re hard,” John mumbled against his mouth, as Sherlock snarkily replied.
“Perfectly sound analysis, but I was hoping you'd go deeper,” except his voice broke about five times and John pushed his hand against the mound Sherlock’s cock was making and the noise he made caused a chain of events, that began with John sucking down up his penis and ended rather messily. When John first felt the weight and heat and moist and scent of Sherlock’s penis the first thing he thought was ‘Christ it has been a while’, because if he had have thought ‘I’m licking Sherlock Holmes’ genitalia’ he probably wouldn’t have survived the haemorrhaging. Instead, he put his whole into making it a good blowjob, regretful only that he had to ignore the delicious noises the man attached to the penis was making. After a good five minutes of devouring cock, Sherlock groped him by the neck and dragged him back up, and crushed their mouths together, murmuring John and John came. It was unexpected, and he was still wearing his pants which made it uncomfortable and kind of painful, but the look in Sherlock’s eyes and the answering ecstasy and the warmth on his hand was an indication that it was pretty sexy.
Before he’s even caught his breath Sherlock was grousing, “Why haven’t we ever done that before?”
John laughed through his nose and fell sideways, onto his back. “I don’t know.”
Sherlock’s turned his head. “You do realise that was almost useless to the case.” But he was smiling that awkward, dimply smile.
John turned his head, entirely unfazed, and shrugged.
“It did clear my head though. When you’re ready, I’d like to try that lesson again.”
John rolled his eyes and fell asleep.
“This is shit!” Sherlock called, frustrated, from his bedroom. John had just tipped out his cup of tea with no further plans for his next actions, so he wandered across the kitchen to Sherlock’s room.
“What’s shit?” He called through the door, before it was opened and he was standing directly opposite Sherlock’s chest. He was brushed aside.
“How do you mortals do it? More importantly, why? I’ve researched it to no end and all of the authorities’ online, reputable medical journals, even those amateur films - they make it seem like the most wonderful thing in the world. I’ve tried a number of times, and more so recently, what with the case, and I’ve never succeeded in any trials I’ve conducted - not even close. So why, John? You’re a doctor, you know all of the technical features of the action, so why to people do it, and why can’t I?”
John stood by the door of Sherlock’s room looking at the mad man with more than a little confusion. He skimmed the ‘List of Things Sherlock Can’t Do’ that he’s formed in his head (comprised of exactly two items) and decided it couldn’t be anything on there. Clearly, Sherlock was distressed about whatever it was he couldn’t do - it must be disconcerting for someone who was brilliant at everything to suddenly not be able to do something. However, as Sherlock’s sidekick/blogger/tea-fetcher, it was his job to assist. He opened his mouth to say something, but Sherlock cut him off.
“Is it possible there is something wrong with my body? I don’t think there is, it’s happened while I was sleeping. Maybe my technique is off. Are you meant to think of certain things? Or does it just happen? Ugh, Watson, this is frustrating.” He flumped down onto the lounge, moaning.
John, who was pulling his socks on, finally got a word in. “Sherlock, what the sodding fuck are you crapping on about?”
Sherlock gaze flicked dangerously towards him. His expression said, rather clearly, ‘you are so dense it must hurt’.
“John, I am talking about unsuccessful masturbation. In particular - unsuccessful masturbation and me.” It sounded like a self help book. John giggled and Sherlock got angrier. “This is no laughing matter. There could be a serious problem. I can’t do it. I think it might be my technique -”
John was suddenly struck by a thought. “Is that - were you just - masturbating in there?”
“Yes, John, and as I was saying, how would you feel about observing my technique and pointing out errors? From cataloguing you I’ve deduced you are rather gifted in the area.”
John pulled on his shoes. “I have to go to work.”
“John! You cannot ignore this! I am more important than the hypochondriacs with an internet connection! Will you help me!?” The last part he yelled down the stairs.
“Yes, whatever, Sherlock!” John called back up before slamming the door, determinedly ignoring the bulge in his pants.
::
What had he gotten himself into? No, seriously, what the actual fuck was he thinking? Was he stupid? Yes, he clearly was. Who in their right mind would agree to give their flatmate masturbating tips? Especially when said flatmate has the body and mind and fucking haircut of a demigod, and they are hopelessly in love with them? John found himself adoring each of his patients, wishing that the day would go on forever in his happy little clinic where there are no Sherlock-penises or masturbating, but eventually they were closing up and Bill, another GP, had to push him out the door. He took a cab home even though he couldn’t afford it, simply because he was too nervous to sit around so many people on the underground. He thought about getting some groceries, but decided against it - he had only a few days ago and Sherlock would read into it. If John was lucky Sherlock would have moved on to dissecting echidna brains and have forgotten all about the masturbating fiasco of that morning.
It wasn’t to be. Sherlock was waiting by the door - actually standing there, rocking on his heels. When John walked through the door he followed him like a shadow to the kitchen. John turned on the kettle and sat to untie his shoes as Sherlock stood ominously over him.
“I have researched all the further into theories regarding this… issue and I have had no more success. I am hoping that you will observe my techniques and provide some productive criticism as to how I can hope to improve. Any time that is fine with you will suffice.”
John squeezed his eyes shut and accepted his face. “Just let me get a cup of tea. Where are you wanting to do it?”
Sherlock cleared his throat. “Perhaps my bedroom would be suitable?”
John nodded again and Sherlock went to… prepare, or something. He let his tea draw for longer than necessary, but eventually it began to stew and he picked it up and walked towards Sherlock’s room.
John had been in Sherlock’s room before. It was exactly as you would imagine it - a bit like a vampire’s. It as always dark and the main light didn’t work so Sherlock had installed lamps, adding to the doom and gloom of the place. He sat down as Sherlock lay down on the bed, facing the ceiling. He shuffled in his chair and sighed.
“Off you go.” He says and Sherlock rolls his eyes and unbuttons his jeans, shucking them down and John tries to keep a straight face when he’s not wearing underwear. He then takes ahold of his penis and starts stroking it up and down. John can’t bring himself to say anything, so he doesn’t. This continues for about a minute before Sherlock, obviously getting frustrated, put his hand between his legs. John winced. For a professional musician, he doesn't touch himself well. He was cut off by a whimper from John, who was torn between turned on and pained. He looked over expectantly, and John blurted out, “doesn’t that hurt?”
Sherlock looked at him like he was an idiot. “Of course it does.”
“It isn’t supposed to”
Sherlock blinked at him. John gaped.
“Surely you know that! What about when you’ve have sex, surely then you would have felt good.”
There was an awkward silence between them.
“You’ve never had sex.” It wasn’t a question. Sherlock raises his eyebrows sarcastically and looks at the ceiling. They were quiet for a while, John looking anywhere other than Sherlock.
“Could-“ Sherlock cleared his throat. “Could you, perhaps show me how it’s supposed to feel?”
John watched him for a long time, thinking. Sherlock wished he knew what was going through that mind, but his face was a mask.
“On one condition.”
“Yes?”
“We do it properly.”
“Properly how?”
“It’s called foreplay and if you want me to help you, it has to happen.”
“Is that kissing and touching?” Sherlock said with distaste.
“I don’t have to kiss you if you’d prefer I don’t, but it won’t work if you don’t. Then you can try it on your own and I’ll guide you.”
Sherlock looked at him for a moment and nodded, swallowing thickly.
“Get your pants back on and straighten out the bed. And open a goddamn window. I’ll be back in a second.”
John walked out, and the second he rounded the corner made a face akin to something out of The Exorcist and started freaking out.
::
What had he gotten himself into? No, seriously, what the actual fuck was he thinking? Was he stupid? Yes, he clearly was. Who in their right mind would agree to masturbate their flatmate? Especially when said flatmate has the body and mind and fucking haircut of a demigod, and they are hopelessly in love with them? John stared at the kitchen sink for a whole minute before running his hands under the hot tap until they were scorching. He wanted his hands to be warm - he didn’t know why and Sherlock would know, he just did. Gulping thickly, he made his way back to Sherlock’s room to find him watching the doorway expectantly, leaning back against his bed head. John smiled weakly at him and he spread his arms. Planning his method of attack, he stalked over slowly and decided to gently straddle Sherlock’s thighs. He smiles awkwardly down at Sherlock, who’s looking up at him expectantly.
“This is weird. I usually kiss them about now.”
John lunges for his neck and the first touch is electric. He mouths down Sherlock’s jaw lines and directly under his chin, scraping a little at his Adam’s apple, before pointing his tongue and swiping up the collarbone. He got no reaction, so he plundered on, undoing Sherlock’s shirt and kissing his way down his sternum. Sherlock was silent and his breathing hadn’t changed and John was doing well at ignoring the fact that he was in love with this man and it would have kept going that way until he looked up to check Sherlock was okay.
Because Sherlock was very okay. For what he didn’t give away with his careful discipline over his ‘transport’, he couldn’t stop his eyes from telling the truth this time. They were blown black, only a tiny ring of grey surrounding the pure sensuality radiating from those hooded eyes. And his lips were worse. Slightly agape, bright red and shiny with spit. He looked illegal.
“You okay?” John asked, successfully keeping the amusement out of his voice. Sherlock blinked a few times, but as he went to speak John breathed hot air over his crotch and the man physically melted. He became boneless, fell into the bed with a sigh of ‘John’.
John pulled himself over Sherlock’s body in a sudden fit of surety. “You’re so responsive,” he whispers, lips brushing Sherlock’s ear.
“Kiss me,” Sherlock breathed and John lost himself right there, pressing his lips against Sherlock’s and running his hands down his sides, dipping fingers underneath the waistline.
“Fuck, you’re hard,” John mumbled against his mouth, as Sherlock snarkily replied.
“Perfectly sound analysis, but I was hoping you'd go deeper,” except his voice broke about five times and John pushed his hand against the mound Sherlock’s cock was making and the noise he made caused a chain of events, that began with John sucking down up his penis and ended rather messily. When John first felt the weight and heat and moist and scent of Sherlock’s penis the first thing he thought was ‘Christ it has been a while’, because if he had have thought ‘I’m licking Sherlock Holmes’ genitalia’ he probably wouldn’t have survived the haemorrhaging. Instead, he put his whole into making it a good blowjob, regretful only that he had to ignore the delicious noises the man attached to the penis was making. After a good five minutes of devouring cock, Sherlock groped him by the neck and dragged him back up, and crushed their mouths together, murmuring John and John came. It was unexpected, and he was still wearing his pants which made it uncomfortable and kind of painful, but the look in Sherlock’s eyes and the answering ecstasy and the warmth on his hand was an indication that it was pretty sexy.
Before he’s even caught his breath Sherlock was grousing, “Why haven’t we ever done that before?”
John laughed through his nose and fell sideways, onto his back. “I don’t know.”
Sherlock’s turned his head. “You do realise that was almost useless to the case.” But he was smiling that awkward, dimply smile.
John turned his head, entirely unfazed, and shrugged.
“It did clear my head though. When you’re ready, I’d like to try that lesson again.”
John rolled his eyes and fell asleep.