When Transport Rebels
Title: When Transport Rebels
Characters: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Rating: R
Word Count: 1,500
Warnings: desperation, watersports
Summary: When Sherlock has a fascinating case, he ignores everything about his body. John walks in on the one day that Sherlock's body rebels.
A private prompt I was issued: When Sherlock is on a case, he doesn't eat or sleep. Does he goes to the loo? What if John will find out that sometimes he forget until its too late, and catch him while wetting?
---
What do a dead cat, an owl and a rabbit’s food have in common? Sherlock Holmes shifts on the sofa, hands steepled beneath his chin, eyes fixed on the ceiling, breathing so slowly and calmly that it would be easy to think he’s not breathing at all. Lestrade called them out early yesterday morning for what he termed ‘a case that would confuse even you’ and for once the man was right. This is a truly puzzling case with several different facts that don’t seem to be connected and he loves it. After almost a week with nothing to focus on but sheer boredom, his mind is relishing the opportunity to do what it does best.
He’s not sure how long he’s been on the sofa but it’s been long enough for his lower back to fold into a painful cramp that surge when he moves. Sherlock doesn’t mind. In fact, he loves it. Being able to ignore the demands of his body, this transport, means that he has something truly scintillating to pay attention to instead. If John were here he’d probably make Sherlock get up and walk around the room - John always seems to notice when Sherlock’s transport is in discomfort, he’s annoying like that - but he’s at work so Sherlock is free to ignore it. The pangs of his stomach, the little shiver that crawls across the flesh of his arms from the falling temperature, even the headache that lingers at the base of his skull… none of it matters.
It takes a while longer for a different sort of demand to break through his buzzing concentration and when it does Sherlock just frowns impatiently and crosses his legs. He has to piss (a result of the two cups of tea John insisted he drink last night) but he’s certain that he’s on the edge of a breakthrough. He can feel it looming just out of reach and if he gets up now for something so pedestrian it’s going to be lost. A faint frown lingers on his lips as he closes his eyes, remembering the scene of the crime in perfect detail. There’s something that he’s missed, something important, but he can’t put his finger on it and his conductor of light is inconveniently missing.
The position of the light coming into the room has changed by the time Sherlock opens his eyes again, breathless with the kind of insight that always give him a shot of adrenaline. He sits up, swinging his legs to the floor, but instead of leaping joyfully to his feet and grabbing his phone he doubles over with a sharp gasp. Easy enough to ignore when he’d been stationary, but moving seems to have inflamed his bladder and the feeling of needing to piss has just magnified to going to piss regardless of whether the toilet is present or not.
A thin shiver runs down his spine and he shudders, gritting his teeth. It’s never been this bad before. He starts to get up, clumsily levering his feet underneath him, and then freezes when the pressure tips over to unbearable. Immediately he sinks back down, one hand instinctively pressing between his thighs. His cock is heavy and half erect in his hand, the sensation bordering on this side of pleasurable, and Sherlock breathes out heavily, squeezing his cock tightly in an effort to stop the inevitable. It actually hurts.
He sits there for another minute that feels much longer, taking slow, deep breaths in an effort to control the urge to just give in and go. Rocking back and forth a little seems to help, gives a small but welcome distraction, and so does digging the nails of his left hand into his thigh. The short, sharp burst of pain helps to clear his mind just a little. Beads of sweat have formed across his forehead but he’s still shivering, chills racing down his spine, his body sending him messages that he can’t ignore any longer. He rubs his thumb over the head of his cock as a distraction and gasps again at the hot little flush of pleasure, sweet and heady, much stronger than he’s used to.
“Oh,” he whispers, eyes fluttering shut. “Oh, oh god.”
Shoulders hunched, he does it again, slower this time, a moan catching in his throat. His cock is fully hard now, the thrum of pleasure a confusing thrill when paired against the bursting pressure. Dampness forms a small patch along the front of his bottoms and he’s not sure if it’s pre-come or piss. His bladder contracts, straining, and he groans, nails digging in so deeply that blood begins to well up around them. Breath coming in sharp, desperate pants, he squeezes his cock even harder, whole body trembling with the urge to fight against something that is going to be his undoing.
“Jesus.”
At the sound of the voice Sherlock’s head snaps up. His hand loosens a little, instinctive now that he knows someone else is in the room with him, and instantly there’s a jet of warmth, slippery and soaking his clothing, a little bit dribbling down his thighs. He doubles over with a raw, pained sound and grabs his cock again, though his hand is shaking so much it’s difficult to hold on. That little bit of relief has done nothing to relieve the pressure; if anything it’s even worse than before because he’s been so close and now he’s so far.
“Sherlock.” John sounds as breathless as Sherlock feels, crossing the room in a handful of steps. “What are you doing? Go to the bathroom!”
“Can’t,” Sherlock manages to say. Even the effort of talking makes it worse. Oh god, it’s agony to have his body rebelling against him like this. He should be able to control this, not the other way around. It’s infuriating and makes him feel like a small child and he can’t, he can’t - “I can’t John!”
Hearing the true desperation in Sherlock’s voice, John swallows. “Alright,” he says, suddenly sounding gentle. “Alright, Sherlock, it’s fine. Just go ahead. We can clean it up later so that no one knows.”
Sherlock shakes his head, barely conscious of the whimpering sounds he’s making, squirming helplessly on the sofa. John kneels down in front of him and lays a comforting hand on Sherlock’s knee. Noticing the blood marring the pajama bottoms, he frowns and pries Sherlock’s hand away, lacing their fingers together. Without the pain as a distraction Sherlock can feel his control slipping. His body gives one last shake and he squeezes his eyes shut, unable to watch, unable to stop it as it begins, slowly at first, a thin stream, and then picking up until his bottoms and pants are drenched, soaking in piss. It even seeps down his thighs and forms a small puddle at his feet.
When it’s over, Sherlock feels relaxed and hazy and blank. His mind is buzzing with a pleasant white noise that seems to have pushed everything except for him and John aside. When he opens his eyes he can see John clearly and the arousal is unmistakable, impossible to miss. John’s eyes are cloudy, the pupils dilated, and he keeps licking his lips. His trousers are noticeably tented. Sherlock shivers. “Didn’t know,” he manages, “didn’t know you were into this… this sort of thing.”
“I’m into you,” John says frankly. “You’re bloody hot when you’re writhing and whimpering like that, all desperate.” His voice has dropped and emerges in a husky murmur. He puts his free hand on Sherlock’s soaked crotch and rubs once, twice, briskly like, with a firm pressure that makes Sherlock moan. His body feels so loose and pliant that the pleasure is almost an afterthought, though that makes it no less consuming. He holds onto John’s hand tightly and writhes, not sure whether he should push into the delicious friction or try to scoot away.
“John,” he manages to say and it comes out all shaky. “John, please.” He’s been holding on for so long that all of his concentration is shot; he can’t keep anything back, not anymore. The pleasure, on top of the rush of relief from finally letting go, is making him feel too good. He’s never felt like this before and it’s too much. A choked sob comes out when John presses just right and he shivers all over, gasping weakly, as his orgasm rocks through him, only barely aware of John’s voice moaning his name.
“Shh,” John tells him when it’s over, wiping the tears away from Sherlock’s cheeks. He leans in and kisses Sherlock very gently, lips a passing brush that speaks of so much more. “Stay there and just let me take care of you.”
Because it’s easy to let John do just that, Sherlock does, only lifting his hips when John tells him. His sopping bottoms and pants are pulled off and John cleans him up with a damp towel. Then John pulls him to his feet, neatly catching him when Sherlock’s legs give out, and half-carries him down the hall to bed. It feels good to be tucked in amongst the clean sheets, better when John returns and crawls in beside him, reaching out an arm and pulling Sherlock closer to him. It’s amazingly good to scoot across that small distance and bury his face into John’s chest. He doesn’t know why they haven’t done this before.
“The case,” he mumbles.
“It will be there when you wake up,” says John, lightly stroking his hair. “And so will I.”
Characters: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Rating: R
Word Count: 1,500
Warnings: desperation, watersports
Summary: When Sherlock has a fascinating case, he ignores everything about his body. John walks in on the one day that Sherlock's body rebels.
A private prompt I was issued: When Sherlock is on a case, he doesn't eat or sleep. Does he goes to the loo? What if John will find out that sometimes he forget until its too late, and catch him while wetting?
---
What do a dead cat, an owl and a rabbit’s food have in common? Sherlock Holmes shifts on the sofa, hands steepled beneath his chin, eyes fixed on the ceiling, breathing so slowly and calmly that it would be easy to think he’s not breathing at all. Lestrade called them out early yesterday morning for what he termed ‘a case that would confuse even you’ and for once the man was right. This is a truly puzzling case with several different facts that don’t seem to be connected and he loves it. After almost a week with nothing to focus on but sheer boredom, his mind is relishing the opportunity to do what it does best.
He’s not sure how long he’s been on the sofa but it’s been long enough for his lower back to fold into a painful cramp that surge when he moves. Sherlock doesn’t mind. In fact, he loves it. Being able to ignore the demands of his body, this transport, means that he has something truly scintillating to pay attention to instead. If John were here he’d probably make Sherlock get up and walk around the room - John always seems to notice when Sherlock’s transport is in discomfort, he’s annoying like that - but he’s at work so Sherlock is free to ignore it. The pangs of his stomach, the little shiver that crawls across the flesh of his arms from the falling temperature, even the headache that lingers at the base of his skull… none of it matters.
It takes a while longer for a different sort of demand to break through his buzzing concentration and when it does Sherlock just frowns impatiently and crosses his legs. He has to piss (a result of the two cups of tea John insisted he drink last night) but he’s certain that he’s on the edge of a breakthrough. He can feel it looming just out of reach and if he gets up now for something so pedestrian it’s going to be lost. A faint frown lingers on his lips as he closes his eyes, remembering the scene of the crime in perfect detail. There’s something that he’s missed, something important, but he can’t put his finger on it and his conductor of light is inconveniently missing.
The position of the light coming into the room has changed by the time Sherlock opens his eyes again, breathless with the kind of insight that always give him a shot of adrenaline. He sits up, swinging his legs to the floor, but instead of leaping joyfully to his feet and grabbing his phone he doubles over with a sharp gasp. Easy enough to ignore when he’d been stationary, but moving seems to have inflamed his bladder and the feeling of needing to piss has just magnified to going to piss regardless of whether the toilet is present or not.
A thin shiver runs down his spine and he shudders, gritting his teeth. It’s never been this bad before. He starts to get up, clumsily levering his feet underneath him, and then freezes when the pressure tips over to unbearable. Immediately he sinks back down, one hand instinctively pressing between his thighs. His cock is heavy and half erect in his hand, the sensation bordering on this side of pleasurable, and Sherlock breathes out heavily, squeezing his cock tightly in an effort to stop the inevitable. It actually hurts.
He sits there for another minute that feels much longer, taking slow, deep breaths in an effort to control the urge to just give in and go. Rocking back and forth a little seems to help, gives a small but welcome distraction, and so does digging the nails of his left hand into his thigh. The short, sharp burst of pain helps to clear his mind just a little. Beads of sweat have formed across his forehead but he’s still shivering, chills racing down his spine, his body sending him messages that he can’t ignore any longer. He rubs his thumb over the head of his cock as a distraction and gasps again at the hot little flush of pleasure, sweet and heady, much stronger than he’s used to.
“Oh,” he whispers, eyes fluttering shut. “Oh, oh god.”
Shoulders hunched, he does it again, slower this time, a moan catching in his throat. His cock is fully hard now, the thrum of pleasure a confusing thrill when paired against the bursting pressure. Dampness forms a small patch along the front of his bottoms and he’s not sure if it’s pre-come or piss. His bladder contracts, straining, and he groans, nails digging in so deeply that blood begins to well up around them. Breath coming in sharp, desperate pants, he squeezes his cock even harder, whole body trembling with the urge to fight against something that is going to be his undoing.
“Jesus.”
At the sound of the voice Sherlock’s head snaps up. His hand loosens a little, instinctive now that he knows someone else is in the room with him, and instantly there’s a jet of warmth, slippery and soaking his clothing, a little bit dribbling down his thighs. He doubles over with a raw, pained sound and grabs his cock again, though his hand is shaking so much it’s difficult to hold on. That little bit of relief has done nothing to relieve the pressure; if anything it’s even worse than before because he’s been so close and now he’s so far.
“Sherlock.” John sounds as breathless as Sherlock feels, crossing the room in a handful of steps. “What are you doing? Go to the bathroom!”
“Can’t,” Sherlock manages to say. Even the effort of talking makes it worse. Oh god, it’s agony to have his body rebelling against him like this. He should be able to control this, not the other way around. It’s infuriating and makes him feel like a small child and he can’t, he can’t - “I can’t John!”
Hearing the true desperation in Sherlock’s voice, John swallows. “Alright,” he says, suddenly sounding gentle. “Alright, Sherlock, it’s fine. Just go ahead. We can clean it up later so that no one knows.”
Sherlock shakes his head, barely conscious of the whimpering sounds he’s making, squirming helplessly on the sofa. John kneels down in front of him and lays a comforting hand on Sherlock’s knee. Noticing the blood marring the pajama bottoms, he frowns and pries Sherlock’s hand away, lacing their fingers together. Without the pain as a distraction Sherlock can feel his control slipping. His body gives one last shake and he squeezes his eyes shut, unable to watch, unable to stop it as it begins, slowly at first, a thin stream, and then picking up until his bottoms and pants are drenched, soaking in piss. It even seeps down his thighs and forms a small puddle at his feet.
When it’s over, Sherlock feels relaxed and hazy and blank. His mind is buzzing with a pleasant white noise that seems to have pushed everything except for him and John aside. When he opens his eyes he can see John clearly and the arousal is unmistakable, impossible to miss. John’s eyes are cloudy, the pupils dilated, and he keeps licking his lips. His trousers are noticeably tented. Sherlock shivers. “Didn’t know,” he manages, “didn’t know you were into this… this sort of thing.”
“I’m into you,” John says frankly. “You’re bloody hot when you’re writhing and whimpering like that, all desperate.” His voice has dropped and emerges in a husky murmur. He puts his free hand on Sherlock’s soaked crotch and rubs once, twice, briskly like, with a firm pressure that makes Sherlock moan. His body feels so loose and pliant that the pleasure is almost an afterthought, though that makes it no less consuming. He holds onto John’s hand tightly and writhes, not sure whether he should push into the delicious friction or try to scoot away.
“John,” he manages to say and it comes out all shaky. “John, please.” He’s been holding on for so long that all of his concentration is shot; he can’t keep anything back, not anymore. The pleasure, on top of the rush of relief from finally letting go, is making him feel too good. He’s never felt like this before and it’s too much. A choked sob comes out when John presses just right and he shivers all over, gasping weakly, as his orgasm rocks through him, only barely aware of John’s voice moaning his name.
“Shh,” John tells him when it’s over, wiping the tears away from Sherlock’s cheeks. He leans in and kisses Sherlock very gently, lips a passing brush that speaks of so much more. “Stay there and just let me take care of you.”
Because it’s easy to let John do just that, Sherlock does, only lifting his hips when John tells him. His sopping bottoms and pants are pulled off and John cleans him up with a damp towel. Then John pulls him to his feet, neatly catching him when Sherlock’s legs give out, and half-carries him down the hall to bed. It feels good to be tucked in amongst the clean sheets, better when John returns and crawls in beside him, reaching out an arm and pulling Sherlock closer to him. It’s amazingly good to scoot across that small distance and bury his face into John’s chest. He doesn’t know why they haven’t done this before.
“The case,” he mumbles.
“It will be there when you wake up,” says John, lightly stroking his hair. “And so will I.”