Fic: The Solitary Runner - Part 1/4
Title: The Solitary Runner
Part: 1/4
Authors: roadstergal and Kahvi
Pairing: John/Sherlock
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: We don't own Sherlock nor its characters; we are forever grateful to its creators, mean no harm, and make no profit from this fannish venture.
Summary: A tale of crime, romance, footwear, detectives and their bloggers in four parts. This is part 1.
An unusually cold December had London in its grasp - a cold that would strike you like a punch if you dared to step outside. John Watson would have thought that weather like this would make the criminal classes lie low, perhaps curling up in front of a warm fire or warm heating grate with something steaming in a mug in their hands, watching the rock-hard flakes of snow drift past a window. But no, they were working on what seemed a ridiculous schedule of theft, assault, and general mischief. As a result, times had been busy for one Sherlock Holmes.
One John Watson could never resist accompanying him, and as a result, he had been shot at six times in the past week, barely avoided being stabbed once, and had been punched a few times in the ribs and once in the nose. While Sherlock might scan the newspapers with annoyance, claiming a criminal dry spell was in the air, and grumbling about boredom, Watson could use a rest.
Sherlock seemed to be bothered by the idea, however.
"I told you, Sherlock, I just want a pint," John said, feeling like he was making the same point in the twentieth different way. "It makes me feel better after getting shot at."
"It doesn't make you feel better, it just makes you think you feel better," Sherlock retorted, glaring at the wallpaper.
Semantics. "I don't really care."
"Well, fine. Go on; I don't know why you're bothering to justify it to me." Sherlock waved John away, still not looking in his direction.
"I just wanted to let you know where I'd be in case you wanted me to... fetch your phone, or something." His rational mind told him that this was unfair, but his rational mind could go hang. He shrugged into his jacket.
"I've got pockets, John. I'll be fine." Well stitched pockets. Several of them. Pockets, as it were, were in ample supply.
"Ah, but do you have the gumption to reach into them - that's the question..." John could not resist yelling that parting shot up the stairs as he headed out. Sod Sherlock's silly trousers, and his odd inability to get anything out of them when John was around to do it for him.
"Stop worrying about me and my trousers, and get going." There was no way for John to see, of course, but Sherlock nonetheless felt better having closed his eyes demonstrably.
His trousers. Honestly! What a ridiculously transparent way of distracting Sherlock from the fact that he was clearly either going out to see that woman who wasn't his girlfriend yet (and probably never would be, if John kept ignoring her calls, which admittedly would have been easier for him to avoid if Sherlock hadn't made sure to reroute them to a disused phone) or going on the pull. What possible reason would Sherlock have to protest against either? It was John's life; he was free to waste it however he saw fit.
Slumping back into the sofa, Sherlock stared at the ceiling, wondering why that felt wrong now, somehow. Though of course, it was just a feeling, and feelings were only very rarely useful when the person feeling them was him.
John had no particular destination in mind as he stepped into the bitter wind outside. He'd have preferred to have gone somewhere with Sarah, of course, but she hadn't called him in over a week. She'd probably found someone better off financially than him - a very long list of people, he had to admit, fit that criterion. He just wanted to be out of those rooms, away from Sherlock, in normal human company.
Thankfully, this was London, and there were a plethora of pubs quite close by. He stepped into one that bridged the gap between catering to very young people and catering to very old people; it was boisterous and chatty, and had darts. He found that game oddly pleasing, even without having to imagine a hated politician's face on the board.
He had a pint, and had a revelation. Folk around the bar asked about the weather, laughed at tired jokes regarding same, chatted about the match - oh, yes, John had forgotten that one can actually talk to people about nothing in particular, just for enjoyment. One can lose track of that, being around Sherlock.
One of the fellows who asked about the match was a youngish man - perhaps ten years younger than John - with a severe haircut, a lean, square-jawed face, and an aggressive yet measured stride. It did not take Sherlock's powers to determine the job of this man.
"Afghanistan or Iraq?" John asked.
"Afghanistan," the man replied, with a pleased smile. "How'd you know?"
Sherlock was bored.
That was par for the course when there was nothing to investigate, of course, but there was usually John to distract him. Not that the thought of him, off doing whatever he was doing wasn't distracting, but it was distracting in an annoying, unproductive way. John usually made Sherlock think in ways he never usually did. That was rare, and useful. Then again, there was no case, hence no significant deduction, hence no need for help, hence boredom.
This was just annoying.
That irritating back-and-forth about trousers had stuck in his mind. Suddenly, the thought that his phone would not satisfactorily fit in the back pockets of his trousers struck, seemingly for no particular reason. Sherlock was well aware of the exact dimensions of both his phone and all the pockets of his trousers, of course, but he had never actually tried to fit them in there, and now that the idea was in his mind, he was compelled to go through with it. Fishing the phone out from the front pocket - hah, take that, John - Sherlock carefully slid it into the corresponding back pocket. The fit was snug. Perhaps a different model would be better suited - he should ask John... but John wasn't here, nor was John's phone.
Sighing, Sherlock made a mental note to ask about the phone later. Whenever John deigned to come back.
"...and then we had to tell him it was just a tin coin!" Frank, the young Royal Marine (as it had turned out) from Afghanistan, laughed heartily, the kind of laugh that John had to join in with.
"So - are you on leave?" Frank asked.
"No, I was sent back. Got shot, wasn't much use afterwards." John hoped the conversation would move on quickly.
Frank's eyes lit up with the excitement of the young and unwounded on hearing about a wound. "Oh, where? Let me take a butcher's..."
"Shoulder, and no, it's not much to see..." John felt oddly shy. The day had been simply chaos - he wouldn't lay money that they had been shooting at an enemy by the end; it might well have been crossfire from an ally at that point. Who can tell, in the chaos over there? After an uncountable time of shooting and ducking and being told to go over there, then over there (in the interest of outmanuvering whoever it was), there had been agony in his shoulder, and he fell to the ground, the distant sound of someone screaming probably being him. Then there was morphine, and antiseptic, and he was back here in the cold, and all was quiet.
Until Sherlock.
"Come on, let me see..."
It took some time, but the fellow was persistant, and John eventually relented, removed his jumper, and unbuttoned his shirt enough for Frank to see the angry red scar. The other man touched it, oohing and ahhing with what John felt to be a very oddly misplaced delight. John rebuttoned his shirt, and brought the subject back to field weaponry. Every young man likes to talk about his guns, of course.
Left with nothing better to do, Sherlock flipped open John's laptop, squeezing about a minute's worth of distraction out of finding the new password. Nothing much had changed; the anti-virus software that had obviously been illegally downloaded had expired. Rolling his eyes, Sherlock renewed it, using a secure fake identity. Why John insisted on registering things to his own name, even when he was stealing (which he stubbornly insisted he wasn't doing) was beyond him. Apart from that, some icons had been deleted - but not the corresponding programs; how laughable - and the background picture had been changed from an abstract dark grey pattern Sherlock had found rather pleasing, to some sort of animal; possibly a dog. A default background, no doubt; the image was too professional to have been taken by John or any of his friends or family, unless they were the kind who spent too much money on their pets, which Sherlock highly doubted. He was about the close the lid again when something caught his eye; one of the documents strewn on the desktop like so much dirty underwear was further to the left than usual, and had been edited. Earlier today, according to the time stamp, when he checked it.
Sherlock double clicked it, feeling a welcome stir of curiosity. The document, formerly a list of potential employers which John had compiled while unemployed - though his clinic hours seemed to have dwindled lately; there was something else to investigate - was now a single sentence, typed in 60 point bold Times New Roman: Bored, are we?
Sherlock grinned. An acknowledgement that John knew he was snooping, but not, noticeably, a suggestion that he stop, which Sherlock would have ignored. Inference, logic and insight. He felt a strange surge of pride, and something he couldn't quite place. Eagerly, he minimized the document, giving the desktop the full force of his scrutiny.
The changes were subtle, but obvious enough that Sherlock would notice them. Almost like a little game. The folder containing his strategy games had simply been renamed 'don't', which was amusing enough that Sherlock obeyed it. He'd overwritten all of John's savegames during his last boredom-induced raid. His important documents had all been renamed with simplistic, descriptive titles; the scanned copy of his birth certificate labeled 'I'm pushing forty and am genetically male', his CV 'yes, I am actually a doctor', some written accounts of army life were now named 'these would bore you'. Sherlock was actually giggling quietly to himself by the time he reached the picture folder, now renamed 'The porn is in the folder marked 'don't look here'.
He paused. That was practically an invitation.
John was feeling good. He was feeling altogether too good. He never was much of a drinker, but he had definitely had a few pints too many, judging by how good he felt. Judging by the fact that he was singing, too, which was simply not something he should be doing. Frank and he knew the same rude songs, and some of the other denizens picked up the choruses easily and joined in. Frank threw his arm around John, and it was simply delightful to have normal, warm, human physical contact. He had been missing that, too.
There were three distinct themes - not that the pictures and short, clearly free downloadable, clips were organized in any way. There was conventional man-and-woman business (oral and standard) with conventionally attractive people; mild female domination over a man (pegging and the like), and three-ways featuring two men and one woman. Nothing too surprising there; the fact that John found certain men attractive was something Sherlock would have been able to deduce even if he hadn't seen the looks he'd given Sherlock when he thought the latter wasn't looking. But, well... on that note, it might be worth investigating how far that particular attraction went. He'd tried to nip it in the bud early on, but clearly John wasn't aware of it himself, which complicated things. Pointless stupidity always did.
The conventional stuff was irrelevant, so Sherlock ignored it, glancing briefly at the domination pics. There were one or two videos too, but Sherlock clicked the window shut in dismay after just a few seconds of one. So John wanted cock, but couldn't admit it to himself. Or honestly felt aroused by the idea of women with makeshift penises. Sherlock did respect the man, but it was hard not to feel superior when confronted with attitudes like that. There was a power play aspect there too, certainly, wanting to be dominated. That was... well, that was fine, of course. Somewhat distracted, Sherlock shifted his concentration to the threesomes.
This wasn't the two-guys-banging-one-girl-and-balls-not-touching type of homophobic nonsense, which was pleasing to note. Everyone seemed to be doing something to everyone else involved. In general, there was a lack of violence and fake breasts; everything was well-lit and clean. Sherlock did not make a habit of watching porn, but keeping abreast of the industry, so to speak, was a necessary part of his profession. Porn involved sex and money, both of which were the fuel for an unsurprising number of crimes. As far as personal interest went...
...well, Sherlock wasn't entirely uninterested in sex, as such. He was human, and despite his wishes to the contrary, he did actually have a body, and desires. Women left him cold, 99% of the time, and those few men that did catch his attention were invariably boring, despite the brief distraction their looks might prove. He had never gone terribly far with any of them; there hadn't seemed much point. Watching other people have sex seemed less interesting than watching paint dry, on the whole.
He unbuttoned his shirt a little, clicking open the next picture; the first in a series, it appeared. It featured a blond and a dark haired man locking lips above a naked redhead, whose features tended to the androgyny. She was grinning, watching them, but not touching; the men's attention was entirely on one another. The blond was somewhat heftier, stronger-looking, clearly in control of the kiss. In a moment, it seemed, the other man would be pushed down with the sheer force of it, surrendering entirely, perhaps-
The sound of keys in the door shocked him back into reality.
John had not been in the least bit cold when he walked back. He definitely had drunk a few too many, and the stairs told him so as they danced about delightfully. He had to place his feet carefully and firmly to keep them in place as he mounted the stairs, and laughed gently at the game. "Eh!" he said, seeing Sherlock, looking a little ruffled, out of his room and in the main room - that was unexpected.
Sherlock looked up. "Oh. It's you."
John noticed that his laptop was open in front of Sherlock. He had expected the man to snoop, but hadn't expected him to be so brazen about it. Not that he cared, at that moment. "Find anything good?"
Sherlock shrugged noncommittally, noting the way John's shirt collar was sticking out of his jumper on one side, and not the other.
"Oh, I had forgotten how much fun you are!" John laughed, pulling off his coat and throwing it on the arm of his chair.
There would be no point in hiding his tracks, so Sherlock didn't, merely closing the computer and putting it away, neatly. "And did you have fun?"
John flopped into his chair with a grin. Fun. That's what had happened! "You know, Sherlock, I did."
"And was she impressed by your scar?"
John laughed again - strike one for the amazing detective! "He was very impressed."
So he wasn't repressed to the point of denying that sort of interaction. That was good. In general terms. "But you came back."
"Well, yes. I live here."
"My phone won't fit in my pocket," Sherlock said, suddenly remembering.
The mental image of Sherlock looking for his phone, not having John there to fetch it, and throwing open the window, post-Scrooge-conversion-like, to get an street urchin to do it, made John laugh uproariously. "Were you trying to get someone to bring it to you the whole time I was gone?"
What that supposed to be funny? Did he have to spell it out; was John actually that obtuse? "These trousers are new."
"Oh! I should have noticed. They look exactly like your old trousers."
Sherlock snorted. "If you're referring to the ones I wore yesterday, they're three shades darker, wool; not cotton/polyester blend, and a quarter of an inch shorter."
"Are you saying I don't pay close enough attention to your trousers?" John was enjoying himself entirely too much. Not caring a great deal about the outcome made interaction with Sherlock infinitely more pleasant.
"Clearly, you don't."
There was not a hint of irony in Sherlock's voice. It simply wasn't in the man's makeup, was it? John leaned forward, grabbing a handful of leg cloth, peering at it intently. "I won't let them out of my sight!"
The unexpected contact made Sherlock freeze, instinctively. Somehow, the urge to pull free never came. Well, it was just John doing something ridiculous. Not really worth any sort of reaction. He rolled his eyes.
John laughed gently again, and, realizing he liked the contact, rested his head against Sherlock's leg. Warm. Comfortable. Gods, he was buzzed.
Sherlock sucked in a breath. This... this now. This was dangerous. Stolen glances, that was fine. Accidentally-on-purpose touching, unproblematic. But this was deliberate. Clearly deliberate. He kept still, weighing his options. John was drunk, though not to the point of not knowing what he was doing, and was quite possibly looking for some sort of physical interaction. But he'd had that at the pub. Ample opportunity, judging from the state of his clothes, the flushing of his face when Sherlock had mentioned the incident, and yet... "You came back."
"I like you," John smiled into Sherlock's leg. It was true, he did. Sherlock was maddening, but intriguing, and certainly John could have found another flatmate by now if he wanted to. He didn't want to.
"You like me." He might as well have said 'I like orange carburetors'.
John giggled gently. "Of course!" Then, suddenly, Sherlock was awkwardly patting the top of his head, as though John were a reluctant cat. John leaned back, still holding the leg. "I'm not a pet, you know."
Sherlock was staring. "I've never had a pet. Don't get on with animals."
"That's sad." This was perhaps not surprising - Sherlock was one the most antisocial persons John had ever met - but even antisocial people could benefit from the love of an animal.
Apparently it was, if John's face was anything to judge by. Ironically, the forlorn expression made him look much like lost puppy. Sherlock had to smile, not really noticing his hand slowly moving to John's face.
John leaned into Sherlock's touch; it was unexpected, and warm, and pleasing. He watched Sherlock hunker down, keeping his hand there, looking at John with some unreadable expression.
It was baffling, truly. However much John might find Sherlock attractive, Sherlock was clearly uninterested; he'd made that clear from the beginning, and now John had turned down the attentions of an equally clearly interested someone (younger, attractive; possibly military) to come back here. "Why?"
"Animals trust us and love us unconditionally."
It took a few seconds for John's reply to sink in fully. Sherlock stared at him, grasping for comprehension. Animals. He was still on that. Such fantastic difference - such wildly different intelligence! There was beauty in it, Sherlock realized, giving in to sudden impulse and kissing John on the lips. It didn't feel like much; just skin against skin. Soft, perhaps.
John's eyes opened wide for a moment. This was truly unexpected, and - was this something he wanted? He didn't kiss men, as a rule, but this was Sherlock, and it was rather nice - warm and soft - and he pressed his lips firmly against Sherlock's, letting go of the man's leg and grabbing fabric higher up. He felt Sherlock shiver as he closed his eyes and pressed closer. This was exciting, deeply exciting, and John pulled Sherlock towards himself, into the chair.
Following instinct was not unfamiliar - it could be useful at times, Sherlock knew - but the situation was, so utterly. He tried to follow John's moves somewhat awkwardly; one hand in stuck in the man's hair, oddly gentle. It was coarse and strong, not like his own at all. He wondered, idly, if he'd ever touched the hair of another living human being. At any rate, John seemed to enjoy the attention; his heart was beating faster and his limbs were heating up. He was pulling Sherlock closer, rubbing his sides, and his mouth opened in a moan. Sherlock was surprised to find himself answering with a whimper.
Sherlock's kissing was awkward, but he was a really fast learner. Then again, John's kissing was probably also a little awkward; he liked to think he was good at it, but the turn of events and the haze of drink had him at a severe disadvantage. He was nonetheless enthusiastic and passionate. Perhaps a bit too much of the former; at this rate, he was in danger of extracting Sherlock's tonsils or dumping them both on the floor. Or both. If nothing else, the enthusiasm seemed to be catching; Sherlock's eyes were wild and open. John tried to get one leg atop the back of Sherlock, eyes still closed, kissing intently. He was very hard indeed, and his erection wanted sensation.
There was not enough air! Sherlock pulled away, but his face refused to give up contact. It still pressed close, his nose, for want of anything else, rubbing against John's. There was something intoxicating about this closeness.
John gasped as he realized he needed to breathe, too; after that was taken care of, he dove back in, pulling at Sherlock's shirt. It had to come off, for some reason, if buttons had to pop off to make that happen.
Buttons? Buttons popping? That was an expensive shirt; Sherlock shifted to ascertain the damage, losing his balance in the process and falling backwards to the floor. There was only John to grab, so Sherlock did, wincing as the former made a "whu-whuu!" noise as they headed towards the floor. Now, there they were, John on top, pinning Sherlock down. Truly pinning him; he could not move. The thought was... were there any thoughts left?
John had a brilliant insight - once they were on the floor, no more falling was possible, so they were safe to proceed. He started back in with the kissing, which was, all things considered, one of the better outcomes of the evening; it was hot, and passionate, and wet, and exciting. He managed to properly undo one of Sherlock's buttons, which was also exciting. The sight of Sherlock lying spread-eagled, staring, as John worked the buttons, did something ineffable to John, and something very effable to his privates. John took a moment to murmur, "I want you," shyly - where had that come from? But yes, he wanted this lean man with the unexpectedly soft lips, and he worked three more buttons open, intently. After that accomplishment, he looked up again - finally noticing the look of abject terror on Sherlock's face. Terror. Not a good thing. He stumbled over his words. "Is... is this... you know..."
"What?" Action, attention had stopped. No, god, not now! Seeking more closeness, more sensation, Sherlock pressed closer, arching up towards the body above him.
That was all the 'yes' John needed in his current state, so he leaned in again, kissing, using the new-found access through Sherlock's shirt to slip one hand in and rub the man's chest. Warm, slender, muscular, almost hairless - nothing like a woman's chest at all, but fantastic to feel. Sherlock slumped back, his arms eventually coming up to embrace John vaguely, but not unenthusiastically. Chest was not enough. John slid his hand out of Sherlock's shirt, starting to unfasten the man's trousers. He needed more. More of what, he wasn't sure, but he felt strongly that it was to be found in this direction.
How had they come to this point? Was John actually taking his trousers off? Sherlock licked his lips in rapt attention. This was beyond anything he'd done before; he'd never lost control like this, never let anyone - anyone - touch him this way. They should stop. They really, really should not have gotten started in the first place; this could never end well. He grabbed John's thighs, rubbing them in a vague sort of way, amazed at how they could be there. Then John finished that whole opening business, and then... then he reached inside, and Sherlock stopped breathing, with an "oh."
Sherlock's voice was deep and shivering, almost unbearably sexy. So, oddly enough, was the erection that John grabbed - pale, lean, and hard, just like the man himself. John wrapped his hand around it, smiling with a shuddering sigh, feeling like he had won some sort of delightful prize. He felt more than heard Sherlock inhale noisily as the man stiffened a bit - but he seemed all right, relaxed, enjoying things, and really, who doesn't enjoy having his erection stroked? John realized it was too dry for stroking to feel properly good, though, and no lube was about. But oral sex was brilliant, yes, and he loved to give it to women, and he knew what he liked himself, so this should be good - he leaned down and took the erection in his mouth. It fit so ridiculously perfectly, so easy to take in.
All thoughts of protestation were vanquished; any thoughts at all were vanquished, which was unheard of. Unintelligible exclamations escaped him as John attacked with enthusiasm, trying to swallow him completely. "John," he cried, not quite knowing why, reaching out to touch his hair for the same reason.
Immediately, John looked up. "That ok?" He was trying to remember to keep his teeth out of the way, but maybe something else wasn't working?
Words. OK. He could remember words, if he concentrated. "Yes."
John believed that - Sherlock was panting open-mouthed, but with a look of absolute bliss. John grinned with delight. "Good." He dove back in.
He was lost, utterly lost, whining and whimpering like some pathetic whore and finally, inevitably, gasping as he found release. Too quickly? Who knew? In films people tended to go on almost indefinitely, but films lied. Much like people.
That was quick - but this was exciting, after all, and different and new, and one could lose control easily. The taste was thin and bitter, and so like the man himself that John smiled after making a little face, as if the taste was a little joke of Sherlock's. He pulled back; that had been good, and perhaps Sherlock would do the same? No, that was too much to ask, but he could get off while watching Sherlock there - yes, that would be fantastic... But Sherlock's expression seemed to be trying to be many different things at once, only some of which were good. His penis seemed equally confused; it was drooping, but not yet committed to the idea of relaxing. John felt doubt creep in.
Sherlock blinked. Over. It was over now. Good. Time to compose himself, then; resume normality. He swiftly began the task of tucking himself in. "That was... lovely. Thanks."
"Lovely..." Confusion rattled John - he'd had reactions to sex ranging from enthusiastic appreciation to upset histrionics, but never anything so.... clinical.
"Yes, I enjoyed it." Adjusting his jacket, Sherlock got off the floor, a little unsteadily. There had been a fair bit of blood rushing to and from his brain, after all.
"Well. That's... good?" John watched Sherlock pack himself up as if they had just had tea with some unexpectedly tasty scones, and now it was done. John became acutely aware of the fact that he was on his knees on the floor, erect and disheveled.
"Yes, it was very good." The floors were quite clean, but Sherlock brushed his trousers off anyway, before heading towards the door.
"Oh." John looked down, biting his lip, and nodded. He had no idea what had just happened, or what was going on at all, but he felt fifteen kinds of idiot. "That's all right, then." Getting up stiffly, he self-consciously buttoned his shirt back up; his erection did not know that it was no longer needed, and was still peeking up hopefully. It would get the message - whatever the message was. The alcohol had not left his system, and the room still wasn't right - he needed to get out of there. He headed towards the stairs to his room.
Sherlock's coat was waiting for him on the railing, he picked it up as he went along; a warm, familiar weight. He felt a bit of a chill as John passed him - well, it was an old house, after all. The cold could so easily seep through.
John felt Sherlock shiver as he walked by, and the leaden weight that had been building in his stomach collapsed into his bowels. The weight made him stagger up the stairs, and it was an eternity before he could collapse, fully clothed, on his bed. He took one of the pillows, dropped it atop his head, groaned through it, and sighed. What had just happened?
Sherlock had been walking for nearly twenty minutes when he realized he had no idea where he was. Genuinely no idea; not just that false sense of disorientation that unfamiliar scenery in an area might bring about.
That was impossible.
Not just improbable; he had London memorized. Every street, every Tube station, every pointless, stupid little touristy attraction. Snow fell around his shoulders as he cast about for any sort of familiar landmark - there had to be one - but everything felt... blurry, somehow. The British Library, he thought, leaning back against a railing. That would have had him going in circles though, wouldn't it? Somewhere around the British Library.
Somewhere. God help him.
The weight of the pillow on his face helped a little, but not enough; John's erection and emotions were refusing to subside. The room was doing acrobatics, and his cock wanted attention, and his head was screaming at him that he had just done something terribly wrong.
Bath. He needed a bath.
He drew a good, steaming hot one, throwing in some salts left by the previous tenant (or perhaps Mrs. Hudson) that smelled very strongly of lilac. Any smell that wasn't Sherlock and cock would do, really. He dropped his clothing in a pile beside the tub, lowering himself slowly into the hot, fragrant water. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back.
Surprisingly, it worked. His head cleared a bit, his erection subsided. He felt almost normal again.
His phone buzzed, the short buzzes of a text message.
He thought very hard about ignoring it, but he simply couldn't. Problems did not go away if ignored. It was likely a text from Sherlock - the man was his friend, after all, and it wouldn’t be right. He hauled himself half out of the bath to fish the phone out of his pile of clothes on the floor.
The text was blank, but the message was from Sherlock.
Biting his lip in irritation, John texted back "?"
A reply came: "Now you're asking the right questions. Don't always have answers. Sorry."
John settled back into bath, holding the phone; he regarded it for a few moments, just soaking. He then texted back the one thing that came to mind: "Only human." He dropped the phone over the edge of the tub, submerging himself entirely and, oddly, feeling a little better.
Not too far away, all things considered, Sherlock laughed out loud against his phone's display; pressing it close, and squeezing his eyes shut.
Part: 1/4
Authors: roadstergal and Kahvi
Pairing: John/Sherlock
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: We don't own Sherlock nor its characters; we are forever grateful to its creators, mean no harm, and make no profit from this fannish venture.
Summary: A tale of crime, romance, footwear, detectives and their bloggers in four parts. This is part 1.
An unusually cold December had London in its grasp - a cold that would strike you like a punch if you dared to step outside. John Watson would have thought that weather like this would make the criminal classes lie low, perhaps curling up in front of a warm fire or warm heating grate with something steaming in a mug in their hands, watching the rock-hard flakes of snow drift past a window. But no, they were working on what seemed a ridiculous schedule of theft, assault, and general mischief. As a result, times had been busy for one Sherlock Holmes.
One John Watson could never resist accompanying him, and as a result, he had been shot at six times in the past week, barely avoided being stabbed once, and had been punched a few times in the ribs and once in the nose. While Sherlock might scan the newspapers with annoyance, claiming a criminal dry spell was in the air, and grumbling about boredom, Watson could use a rest.
Sherlock seemed to be bothered by the idea, however.
"I told you, Sherlock, I just want a pint," John said, feeling like he was making the same point in the twentieth different way. "It makes me feel better after getting shot at."
"It doesn't make you feel better, it just makes you think you feel better," Sherlock retorted, glaring at the wallpaper.
Semantics. "I don't really care."
"Well, fine. Go on; I don't know why you're bothering to justify it to me." Sherlock waved John away, still not looking in his direction.
"I just wanted to let you know where I'd be in case you wanted me to... fetch your phone, or something." His rational mind told him that this was unfair, but his rational mind could go hang. He shrugged into his jacket.
"I've got pockets, John. I'll be fine." Well stitched pockets. Several of them. Pockets, as it were, were in ample supply.
"Ah, but do you have the gumption to reach into them - that's the question..." John could not resist yelling that parting shot up the stairs as he headed out. Sod Sherlock's silly trousers, and his odd inability to get anything out of them when John was around to do it for him.
"Stop worrying about me and my trousers, and get going." There was no way for John to see, of course, but Sherlock nonetheless felt better having closed his eyes demonstrably.
His trousers. Honestly! What a ridiculously transparent way of distracting Sherlock from the fact that he was clearly either going out to see that woman who wasn't his girlfriend yet (and probably never would be, if John kept ignoring her calls, which admittedly would have been easier for him to avoid if Sherlock hadn't made sure to reroute them to a disused phone) or going on the pull. What possible reason would Sherlock have to protest against either? It was John's life; he was free to waste it however he saw fit.
Slumping back into the sofa, Sherlock stared at the ceiling, wondering why that felt wrong now, somehow. Though of course, it was just a feeling, and feelings were only very rarely useful when the person feeling them was him.
John had no particular destination in mind as he stepped into the bitter wind outside. He'd have preferred to have gone somewhere with Sarah, of course, but she hadn't called him in over a week. She'd probably found someone better off financially than him - a very long list of people, he had to admit, fit that criterion. He just wanted to be out of those rooms, away from Sherlock, in normal human company.
Thankfully, this was London, and there were a plethora of pubs quite close by. He stepped into one that bridged the gap between catering to very young people and catering to very old people; it was boisterous and chatty, and had darts. He found that game oddly pleasing, even without having to imagine a hated politician's face on the board.
He had a pint, and had a revelation. Folk around the bar asked about the weather, laughed at tired jokes regarding same, chatted about the match - oh, yes, John had forgotten that one can actually talk to people about nothing in particular, just for enjoyment. One can lose track of that, being around Sherlock.
One of the fellows who asked about the match was a youngish man - perhaps ten years younger than John - with a severe haircut, a lean, square-jawed face, and an aggressive yet measured stride. It did not take Sherlock's powers to determine the job of this man.
"Afghanistan or Iraq?" John asked.
"Afghanistan," the man replied, with a pleased smile. "How'd you know?"
Sherlock was bored.
That was par for the course when there was nothing to investigate, of course, but there was usually John to distract him. Not that the thought of him, off doing whatever he was doing wasn't distracting, but it was distracting in an annoying, unproductive way. John usually made Sherlock think in ways he never usually did. That was rare, and useful. Then again, there was no case, hence no significant deduction, hence no need for help, hence boredom.
This was just annoying.
That irritating back-and-forth about trousers had stuck in his mind. Suddenly, the thought that his phone would not satisfactorily fit in the back pockets of his trousers struck, seemingly for no particular reason. Sherlock was well aware of the exact dimensions of both his phone and all the pockets of his trousers, of course, but he had never actually tried to fit them in there, and now that the idea was in his mind, he was compelled to go through with it. Fishing the phone out from the front pocket - hah, take that, John - Sherlock carefully slid it into the corresponding back pocket. The fit was snug. Perhaps a different model would be better suited - he should ask John... but John wasn't here, nor was John's phone.
Sighing, Sherlock made a mental note to ask about the phone later. Whenever John deigned to come back.
"...and then we had to tell him it was just a tin coin!" Frank, the young Royal Marine (as it had turned out) from Afghanistan, laughed heartily, the kind of laugh that John had to join in with.
"So - are you on leave?" Frank asked.
"No, I was sent back. Got shot, wasn't much use afterwards." John hoped the conversation would move on quickly.
Frank's eyes lit up with the excitement of the young and unwounded on hearing about a wound. "Oh, where? Let me take a butcher's..."
"Shoulder, and no, it's not much to see..." John felt oddly shy. The day had been simply chaos - he wouldn't lay money that they had been shooting at an enemy by the end; it might well have been crossfire from an ally at that point. Who can tell, in the chaos over there? After an uncountable time of shooting and ducking and being told to go over there, then over there (in the interest of outmanuvering whoever it was), there had been agony in his shoulder, and he fell to the ground, the distant sound of someone screaming probably being him. Then there was morphine, and antiseptic, and he was back here in the cold, and all was quiet.
Until Sherlock.
"Come on, let me see..."
It took some time, but the fellow was persistant, and John eventually relented, removed his jumper, and unbuttoned his shirt enough for Frank to see the angry red scar. The other man touched it, oohing and ahhing with what John felt to be a very oddly misplaced delight. John rebuttoned his shirt, and brought the subject back to field weaponry. Every young man likes to talk about his guns, of course.
Left with nothing better to do, Sherlock flipped open John's laptop, squeezing about a minute's worth of distraction out of finding the new password. Nothing much had changed; the anti-virus software that had obviously been illegally downloaded had expired. Rolling his eyes, Sherlock renewed it, using a secure fake identity. Why John insisted on registering things to his own name, even when he was stealing (which he stubbornly insisted he wasn't doing) was beyond him. Apart from that, some icons had been deleted - but not the corresponding programs; how laughable - and the background picture had been changed from an abstract dark grey pattern Sherlock had found rather pleasing, to some sort of animal; possibly a dog. A default background, no doubt; the image was too professional to have been taken by John or any of his friends or family, unless they were the kind who spent too much money on their pets, which Sherlock highly doubted. He was about the close the lid again when something caught his eye; one of the documents strewn on the desktop like so much dirty underwear was further to the left than usual, and had been edited. Earlier today, according to the time stamp, when he checked it.
Sherlock double clicked it, feeling a welcome stir of curiosity. The document, formerly a list of potential employers which John had compiled while unemployed - though his clinic hours seemed to have dwindled lately; there was something else to investigate - was now a single sentence, typed in 60 point bold Times New Roman: Bored, are we?
Sherlock grinned. An acknowledgement that John knew he was snooping, but not, noticeably, a suggestion that he stop, which Sherlock would have ignored. Inference, logic and insight. He felt a strange surge of pride, and something he couldn't quite place. Eagerly, he minimized the document, giving the desktop the full force of his scrutiny.
The changes were subtle, but obvious enough that Sherlock would notice them. Almost like a little game. The folder containing his strategy games had simply been renamed 'don't', which was amusing enough that Sherlock obeyed it. He'd overwritten all of John's savegames during his last boredom-induced raid. His important documents had all been renamed with simplistic, descriptive titles; the scanned copy of his birth certificate labeled 'I'm pushing forty and am genetically male', his CV 'yes, I am actually a doctor', some written accounts of army life were now named 'these would bore you'. Sherlock was actually giggling quietly to himself by the time he reached the picture folder, now renamed 'The porn is in the folder marked 'don't look here'.
He paused. That was practically an invitation.
John was feeling good. He was feeling altogether too good. He never was much of a drinker, but he had definitely had a few pints too many, judging by how good he felt. Judging by the fact that he was singing, too, which was simply not something he should be doing. Frank and he knew the same rude songs, and some of the other denizens picked up the choruses easily and joined in. Frank threw his arm around John, and it was simply delightful to have normal, warm, human physical contact. He had been missing that, too.
There were three distinct themes - not that the pictures and short, clearly free downloadable, clips were organized in any way. There was conventional man-and-woman business (oral and standard) with conventionally attractive people; mild female domination over a man (pegging and the like), and three-ways featuring two men and one woman. Nothing too surprising there; the fact that John found certain men attractive was something Sherlock would have been able to deduce even if he hadn't seen the looks he'd given Sherlock when he thought the latter wasn't looking. But, well... on that note, it might be worth investigating how far that particular attraction went. He'd tried to nip it in the bud early on, but clearly John wasn't aware of it himself, which complicated things. Pointless stupidity always did.
The conventional stuff was irrelevant, so Sherlock ignored it, glancing briefly at the domination pics. There were one or two videos too, but Sherlock clicked the window shut in dismay after just a few seconds of one. So John wanted cock, but couldn't admit it to himself. Or honestly felt aroused by the idea of women with makeshift penises. Sherlock did respect the man, but it was hard not to feel superior when confronted with attitudes like that. There was a power play aspect there too, certainly, wanting to be dominated. That was... well, that was fine, of course. Somewhat distracted, Sherlock shifted his concentration to the threesomes.
This wasn't the two-guys-banging-one-girl-and-balls-not-touching type of homophobic nonsense, which was pleasing to note. Everyone seemed to be doing something to everyone else involved. In general, there was a lack of violence and fake breasts; everything was well-lit and clean. Sherlock did not make a habit of watching porn, but keeping abreast of the industry, so to speak, was a necessary part of his profession. Porn involved sex and money, both of which were the fuel for an unsurprising number of crimes. As far as personal interest went...
...well, Sherlock wasn't entirely uninterested in sex, as such. He was human, and despite his wishes to the contrary, he did actually have a body, and desires. Women left him cold, 99% of the time, and those few men that did catch his attention were invariably boring, despite the brief distraction their looks might prove. He had never gone terribly far with any of them; there hadn't seemed much point. Watching other people have sex seemed less interesting than watching paint dry, on the whole.
He unbuttoned his shirt a little, clicking open the next picture; the first in a series, it appeared. It featured a blond and a dark haired man locking lips above a naked redhead, whose features tended to the androgyny. She was grinning, watching them, but not touching; the men's attention was entirely on one another. The blond was somewhat heftier, stronger-looking, clearly in control of the kiss. In a moment, it seemed, the other man would be pushed down with the sheer force of it, surrendering entirely, perhaps-
The sound of keys in the door shocked him back into reality.
John had not been in the least bit cold when he walked back. He definitely had drunk a few too many, and the stairs told him so as they danced about delightfully. He had to place his feet carefully and firmly to keep them in place as he mounted the stairs, and laughed gently at the game. "Eh!" he said, seeing Sherlock, looking a little ruffled, out of his room and in the main room - that was unexpected.
Sherlock looked up. "Oh. It's you."
John noticed that his laptop was open in front of Sherlock. He had expected the man to snoop, but hadn't expected him to be so brazen about it. Not that he cared, at that moment. "Find anything good?"
Sherlock shrugged noncommittally, noting the way John's shirt collar was sticking out of his jumper on one side, and not the other.
"Oh, I had forgotten how much fun you are!" John laughed, pulling off his coat and throwing it on the arm of his chair.
There would be no point in hiding his tracks, so Sherlock didn't, merely closing the computer and putting it away, neatly. "And did you have fun?"
John flopped into his chair with a grin. Fun. That's what had happened! "You know, Sherlock, I did."
"And was she impressed by your scar?"
John laughed again - strike one for the amazing detective! "He was very impressed."
So he wasn't repressed to the point of denying that sort of interaction. That was good. In general terms. "But you came back."
"Well, yes. I live here."
"My phone won't fit in my pocket," Sherlock said, suddenly remembering.
The mental image of Sherlock looking for his phone, not having John there to fetch it, and throwing open the window, post-Scrooge-conversion-like, to get an street urchin to do it, made John laugh uproariously. "Were you trying to get someone to bring it to you the whole time I was gone?"
What that supposed to be funny? Did he have to spell it out; was John actually that obtuse? "These trousers are new."
"Oh! I should have noticed. They look exactly like your old trousers."
Sherlock snorted. "If you're referring to the ones I wore yesterday, they're three shades darker, wool; not cotton/polyester blend, and a quarter of an inch shorter."
"Are you saying I don't pay close enough attention to your trousers?" John was enjoying himself entirely too much. Not caring a great deal about the outcome made interaction with Sherlock infinitely more pleasant.
"Clearly, you don't."
There was not a hint of irony in Sherlock's voice. It simply wasn't in the man's makeup, was it? John leaned forward, grabbing a handful of leg cloth, peering at it intently. "I won't let them out of my sight!"
The unexpected contact made Sherlock freeze, instinctively. Somehow, the urge to pull free never came. Well, it was just John doing something ridiculous. Not really worth any sort of reaction. He rolled his eyes.
John laughed gently again, and, realizing he liked the contact, rested his head against Sherlock's leg. Warm. Comfortable. Gods, he was buzzed.
Sherlock sucked in a breath. This... this now. This was dangerous. Stolen glances, that was fine. Accidentally-on-purpose touching, unproblematic. But this was deliberate. Clearly deliberate. He kept still, weighing his options. John was drunk, though not to the point of not knowing what he was doing, and was quite possibly looking for some sort of physical interaction. But he'd had that at the pub. Ample opportunity, judging from the state of his clothes, the flushing of his face when Sherlock had mentioned the incident, and yet... "You came back."
"I like you," John smiled into Sherlock's leg. It was true, he did. Sherlock was maddening, but intriguing, and certainly John could have found another flatmate by now if he wanted to. He didn't want to.
"You like me." He might as well have said 'I like orange carburetors'.
John giggled gently. "Of course!" Then, suddenly, Sherlock was awkwardly patting the top of his head, as though John were a reluctant cat. John leaned back, still holding the leg. "I'm not a pet, you know."
Sherlock was staring. "I've never had a pet. Don't get on with animals."
"That's sad." This was perhaps not surprising - Sherlock was one the most antisocial persons John had ever met - but even antisocial people could benefit from the love of an animal.
Apparently it was, if John's face was anything to judge by. Ironically, the forlorn expression made him look much like lost puppy. Sherlock had to smile, not really noticing his hand slowly moving to John's face.
John leaned into Sherlock's touch; it was unexpected, and warm, and pleasing. He watched Sherlock hunker down, keeping his hand there, looking at John with some unreadable expression.
It was baffling, truly. However much John might find Sherlock attractive, Sherlock was clearly uninterested; he'd made that clear from the beginning, and now John had turned down the attentions of an equally clearly interested someone (younger, attractive; possibly military) to come back here. "Why?"
"Animals trust us and love us unconditionally."
It took a few seconds for John's reply to sink in fully. Sherlock stared at him, grasping for comprehension. Animals. He was still on that. Such fantastic difference - such wildly different intelligence! There was beauty in it, Sherlock realized, giving in to sudden impulse and kissing John on the lips. It didn't feel like much; just skin against skin. Soft, perhaps.
John's eyes opened wide for a moment. This was truly unexpected, and - was this something he wanted? He didn't kiss men, as a rule, but this was Sherlock, and it was rather nice - warm and soft - and he pressed his lips firmly against Sherlock's, letting go of the man's leg and grabbing fabric higher up. He felt Sherlock shiver as he closed his eyes and pressed closer. This was exciting, deeply exciting, and John pulled Sherlock towards himself, into the chair.
Following instinct was not unfamiliar - it could be useful at times, Sherlock knew - but the situation was, so utterly. He tried to follow John's moves somewhat awkwardly; one hand in stuck in the man's hair, oddly gentle. It was coarse and strong, not like his own at all. He wondered, idly, if he'd ever touched the hair of another living human being. At any rate, John seemed to enjoy the attention; his heart was beating faster and his limbs were heating up. He was pulling Sherlock closer, rubbing his sides, and his mouth opened in a moan. Sherlock was surprised to find himself answering with a whimper.
Sherlock's kissing was awkward, but he was a really fast learner. Then again, John's kissing was probably also a little awkward; he liked to think he was good at it, but the turn of events and the haze of drink had him at a severe disadvantage. He was nonetheless enthusiastic and passionate. Perhaps a bit too much of the former; at this rate, he was in danger of extracting Sherlock's tonsils or dumping them both on the floor. Or both. If nothing else, the enthusiasm seemed to be catching; Sherlock's eyes were wild and open. John tried to get one leg atop the back of Sherlock, eyes still closed, kissing intently. He was very hard indeed, and his erection wanted sensation.
There was not enough air! Sherlock pulled away, but his face refused to give up contact. It still pressed close, his nose, for want of anything else, rubbing against John's. There was something intoxicating about this closeness.
John gasped as he realized he needed to breathe, too; after that was taken care of, he dove back in, pulling at Sherlock's shirt. It had to come off, for some reason, if buttons had to pop off to make that happen.
Buttons? Buttons popping? That was an expensive shirt; Sherlock shifted to ascertain the damage, losing his balance in the process and falling backwards to the floor. There was only John to grab, so Sherlock did, wincing as the former made a "whu-whuu!" noise as they headed towards the floor. Now, there they were, John on top, pinning Sherlock down. Truly pinning him; he could not move. The thought was... were there any thoughts left?
John had a brilliant insight - once they were on the floor, no more falling was possible, so they were safe to proceed. He started back in with the kissing, which was, all things considered, one of the better outcomes of the evening; it was hot, and passionate, and wet, and exciting. He managed to properly undo one of Sherlock's buttons, which was also exciting. The sight of Sherlock lying spread-eagled, staring, as John worked the buttons, did something ineffable to John, and something very effable to his privates. John took a moment to murmur, "I want you," shyly - where had that come from? But yes, he wanted this lean man with the unexpectedly soft lips, and he worked three more buttons open, intently. After that accomplishment, he looked up again - finally noticing the look of abject terror on Sherlock's face. Terror. Not a good thing. He stumbled over his words. "Is... is this... you know..."
"What?" Action, attention had stopped. No, god, not now! Seeking more closeness, more sensation, Sherlock pressed closer, arching up towards the body above him.
That was all the 'yes' John needed in his current state, so he leaned in again, kissing, using the new-found access through Sherlock's shirt to slip one hand in and rub the man's chest. Warm, slender, muscular, almost hairless - nothing like a woman's chest at all, but fantastic to feel. Sherlock slumped back, his arms eventually coming up to embrace John vaguely, but not unenthusiastically. Chest was not enough. John slid his hand out of Sherlock's shirt, starting to unfasten the man's trousers. He needed more. More of what, he wasn't sure, but he felt strongly that it was to be found in this direction.
How had they come to this point? Was John actually taking his trousers off? Sherlock licked his lips in rapt attention. This was beyond anything he'd done before; he'd never lost control like this, never let anyone - anyone - touch him this way. They should stop. They really, really should not have gotten started in the first place; this could never end well. He grabbed John's thighs, rubbing them in a vague sort of way, amazed at how they could be there. Then John finished that whole opening business, and then... then he reached inside, and Sherlock stopped breathing, with an "oh."
Sherlock's voice was deep and shivering, almost unbearably sexy. So, oddly enough, was the erection that John grabbed - pale, lean, and hard, just like the man himself. John wrapped his hand around it, smiling with a shuddering sigh, feeling like he had won some sort of delightful prize. He felt more than heard Sherlock inhale noisily as the man stiffened a bit - but he seemed all right, relaxed, enjoying things, and really, who doesn't enjoy having his erection stroked? John realized it was too dry for stroking to feel properly good, though, and no lube was about. But oral sex was brilliant, yes, and he loved to give it to women, and he knew what he liked himself, so this should be good - he leaned down and took the erection in his mouth. It fit so ridiculously perfectly, so easy to take in.
All thoughts of protestation were vanquished; any thoughts at all were vanquished, which was unheard of. Unintelligible exclamations escaped him as John attacked with enthusiasm, trying to swallow him completely. "John," he cried, not quite knowing why, reaching out to touch his hair for the same reason.
Immediately, John looked up. "That ok?" He was trying to remember to keep his teeth out of the way, but maybe something else wasn't working?
Words. OK. He could remember words, if he concentrated. "Yes."
John believed that - Sherlock was panting open-mouthed, but with a look of absolute bliss. John grinned with delight. "Good." He dove back in.
He was lost, utterly lost, whining and whimpering like some pathetic whore and finally, inevitably, gasping as he found release. Too quickly? Who knew? In films people tended to go on almost indefinitely, but films lied. Much like people.
That was quick - but this was exciting, after all, and different and new, and one could lose control easily. The taste was thin and bitter, and so like the man himself that John smiled after making a little face, as if the taste was a little joke of Sherlock's. He pulled back; that had been good, and perhaps Sherlock would do the same? No, that was too much to ask, but he could get off while watching Sherlock there - yes, that would be fantastic... But Sherlock's expression seemed to be trying to be many different things at once, only some of which were good. His penis seemed equally confused; it was drooping, but not yet committed to the idea of relaxing. John felt doubt creep in.
Sherlock blinked. Over. It was over now. Good. Time to compose himself, then; resume normality. He swiftly began the task of tucking himself in. "That was... lovely. Thanks."
"Lovely..." Confusion rattled John - he'd had reactions to sex ranging from enthusiastic appreciation to upset histrionics, but never anything so.... clinical.
"Yes, I enjoyed it." Adjusting his jacket, Sherlock got off the floor, a little unsteadily. There had been a fair bit of blood rushing to and from his brain, after all.
"Well. That's... good?" John watched Sherlock pack himself up as if they had just had tea with some unexpectedly tasty scones, and now it was done. John became acutely aware of the fact that he was on his knees on the floor, erect and disheveled.
"Yes, it was very good." The floors were quite clean, but Sherlock brushed his trousers off anyway, before heading towards the door.
"Oh." John looked down, biting his lip, and nodded. He had no idea what had just happened, or what was going on at all, but he felt fifteen kinds of idiot. "That's all right, then." Getting up stiffly, he self-consciously buttoned his shirt back up; his erection did not know that it was no longer needed, and was still peeking up hopefully. It would get the message - whatever the message was. The alcohol had not left his system, and the room still wasn't right - he needed to get out of there. He headed towards the stairs to his room.
Sherlock's coat was waiting for him on the railing, he picked it up as he went along; a warm, familiar weight. He felt a bit of a chill as John passed him - well, it was an old house, after all. The cold could so easily seep through.
John felt Sherlock shiver as he walked by, and the leaden weight that had been building in his stomach collapsed into his bowels. The weight made him stagger up the stairs, and it was an eternity before he could collapse, fully clothed, on his bed. He took one of the pillows, dropped it atop his head, groaned through it, and sighed. What had just happened?
Sherlock had been walking for nearly twenty minutes when he realized he had no idea where he was. Genuinely no idea; not just that false sense of disorientation that unfamiliar scenery in an area might bring about.
That was impossible.
Not just improbable; he had London memorized. Every street, every Tube station, every pointless, stupid little touristy attraction. Snow fell around his shoulders as he cast about for any sort of familiar landmark - there had to be one - but everything felt... blurry, somehow. The British Library, he thought, leaning back against a railing. That would have had him going in circles though, wouldn't it? Somewhere around the British Library.
Somewhere. God help him.
The weight of the pillow on his face helped a little, but not enough; John's erection and emotions were refusing to subside. The room was doing acrobatics, and his cock wanted attention, and his head was screaming at him that he had just done something terribly wrong.
Bath. He needed a bath.
He drew a good, steaming hot one, throwing in some salts left by the previous tenant (or perhaps Mrs. Hudson) that smelled very strongly of lilac. Any smell that wasn't Sherlock and cock would do, really. He dropped his clothing in a pile beside the tub, lowering himself slowly into the hot, fragrant water. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back.
Surprisingly, it worked. His head cleared a bit, his erection subsided. He felt almost normal again.
His phone buzzed, the short buzzes of a text message.
He thought very hard about ignoring it, but he simply couldn't. Problems did not go away if ignored. It was likely a text from Sherlock - the man was his friend, after all, and it wouldn’t be right. He hauled himself half out of the bath to fish the phone out of his pile of clothes on the floor.
The text was blank, but the message was from Sherlock.
Biting his lip in irritation, John texted back "?"
A reply came: "Now you're asking the right questions. Don't always have answers. Sorry."
John settled back into bath, holding the phone; he regarded it for a few moments, just soaking. He then texted back the one thing that came to mind: "Only human." He dropped the phone over the edge of the tub, submerging himself entirely and, oddly, feeling a little better.
Not too far away, all things considered, Sherlock laughed out loud against his phone's display; pressing it close, and squeezing his eyes shut.