Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/2662880.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      No_Archive_Warnings_Apply
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Sherlock_Holmes_&_Related_Fandoms
  Relationship:
      Sherlock_Holmes/John_Watson
  Additional Tags:
      Oral, Anal, Fingering, Masturbation, Voyeurism, Exhibitionism, Demisexual
      Sherlock
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-05-12 Words: 6065
****** Click Click ******
by VincentMeoblinn
Summary
     Mycroft notices Sherlock showing ‘symptoms’ that he’s going to end
     his friendship with John, so he warns him not to give up on the
     consulting detective. John’s stubbornness pays of, but Sherlock asks
     for a bit of a trade in order to maintain their friendship...
 
 
 
 
It started out like a typical day. Lestrade asked them for help with a case and
they headed over, Sherlock solved it in under an hour and told everyone they
were stupid, John told him he was fantastic, and then Sherlock looked horrified
and bolted for the street without waiting for John to join him in the cab. John
was a bit annoyed by that last bit, but Sherlock was an annoying guy who he was
fairly good at tolerating so he sighed and called his own cab to get home.
Halfway to Baker Street his cab was suddenly cut off by a black towncar and
John groaned miserably while the cabby swore angrily and waved at the driver to
move.
“Don’t bother,” John sighed, “It’s for me.”
He tipped the fellow to make up for his fury and hopped into the car.
“Did you miss me at the corner or something?” John taunted Mycroft when he
found him inside rather than Anthea, “Losing your touch?”
Mycroft gave him an anxious look.
Oh shit.
“What is it? What’s wrong?” John asked, panic rising, “Tell me he doesn’t have
to die again.”
“No, he doesn’t,” Mycroft sighed, “But it may be a bit worse for you.”
“For me?” John asked, “What’s wrong with me? It’s not medical, I’d know. A
threat? A stalker from the blog?”
“No, you’re about to lose your biggest fan,” Mycroft replied with a frown.
“Mrs. Hudson?” John worried, picturing her near death.
“No. Sherlock.”
XXX
John stepped into 221B with laughter still rippling through him. Sherlock was
pacing the sitting room as John tossed himself down into his chair.
“You will not believe the conversation I just had,” John chuckled.
“You and Mycroft discussed my habit of systematically destroying friendships.
You didn’t believe him,” Sherlock stated, still pacing anxiously. John realized
he was sweating quite a bit and sat up straighter.
“Are you okay?” John asked.
“No. No I am not,” Sherlock spun on him and what John saw was downright
terrifying.
Sherlock was flushed and drenched in sweat, his hands were shaking as they ran
through his disheveled hair. His eyes were unfocused and looked a bit damp.
“Sherlock,” John stood up quickly, “I think you should sit down.”
“John, you’ve been… indispensable to me for years now.”
“Did you take something?” John asked, worry being replaced with a bit of anger
as he stepped up to study his pupils. They were dilated.
“A true and loyal friend,” Sherlock continued with a clearly rehearsed speech.
“Stop it,” John snapped, “Whatdid you take?”
“However every good thing must come to an end and…”
“Stop bloody breaking up with me,” John snapped, “And answer my question! What?
Did? You? Take?”
“Nothing,” Sherlock replied, “I’ve had ice water since you saw me last and
nothing else. Would me taking drugs make you leave?”
“No,” John replied, narrowing his eyes, “I’m not leaving, Sherlock. I’m your
flatmate, but Mrs. Hudson owns the building. You can’t just toss me out, she
has to evict me.”
“Mycroft told you to be firm with me, to refuse to leave, to stick by me no
matter how obnoxious or offensive I am,” Sherlock stated knowingly, “He told
you I’ve been through this with friends before and that he’s afraid I’ll break
if I chase you off.”
“He told me your drug habit started after you pushed away your first friend in
Uni. Victor Trevor, was it?”
“John,” Sherlock shifted his hips to one side and folded his hands in a prayer
position, “I’m begging you. I’m serious. You have no idea what destroying our
friendship would do to me.”
“Okay, so don’t. See a therapist or…”
“It isn’t something that can be helped. You need to leave.”
“I’m not leaving. Mycroft told me you spend a majority of time alone, making
sure you don’t make friends, and when you finally meet someone who does
tolerate you then you eventually force them away. He doesn’t even know why. All
he knows is they symptoms before it happens. The ones he says you showed today.
What is this, Sherlock? Why push away people?”
“If I tell you, you’ll be disgusted by me,” Sherlock replied, his voice
cracking, “I just want this to be quick and painless, John. I don’t want you to
hate me like the rest did. Please. Just move out. Don’t contact me again. If I
can be around you again without being a problem I’ll contact you. Sufficient?”
“No, it’s not bloody sufficient!” John shouted angrily.
“I’m trying to compromise here, John!” Sherlock shouted back.
“I’m not bloody going anywhere, so you’ll just have to get used to it!”
“WELL YOU’RE NOT GOING ON CASES WITH ME EITHER!”
“FINE!”
“FINE!!”
John stormed off to his room and Sherlock resumed pacing.
XXX
For the next few days John was stubborn while Sherlock silently avoided him,
hurrying out of any room he was in and looking otherwise terrified in his
presence. He seemed convinced that he’d do something horrible to John if he
stayed near him. John made a decision and called Mycroft that resulted in a few
phone numbers. Three men and one woman. Sherlock’s lifetime worth of friends.
All of whom were still raging mad at him when John called them and asked. They
all detailed to him the same situation; Sherlock suddenly became aggressive
towards them, pushing them away at record speed. Before they knew it they were
packing their bags. Then the weird part: Sherlock suddenly switched things
around and begged them to stay. He apologized profusely (John was eager to see
that part) and told them he’d be better if they’d just do him one favour.
Then the damn people clammed up and refused to tell him what that favour was.
John decided to go to the source and demanded Sherlock tell him what the favour
was. Sherlock blushed violently and stammered, which was nearly as fun to watch
as the promised apologizing to come, but he didn’t tell John what he wanted to
know. It continued like this for a few more weeks, John steadfastly refusing to
leave while looking for a new job now that Sherlock wasn’t taking him on cases
anymore. Finally it came to a head when Sherlock sat down across from him with
his favorite digital camera in hand. It was a Canon EOS Rebel T5i 18.0 MP CMOS
with every attachment John had ever heard of and a few he hadn’t. Sherlock was
fingering it anxiously as he glanced up at John. John, sensing a break in the
situation, put his paper aside and straightened up.
“I want to call a truce.”
“That would imply we’ve been fighting. We haven’t. You’ve been being a twat and
I’ve been tolerating it… which I’m going to keep doing, because I’m not letting
you destroy our friendship.”
Sherlock glanced down at his camera and then back up at John, “I think you can
manage to deal with what I’m going to ask you next.”
“So we’ve skipped to the favour already? That’s good. What is it?”
“It’s not… it’s not what I asked the other’s for.”
“What did you ask them for?”
“Not important.”
“Isn’t it?”
“No. It’s irrelevant in our situation. John, I’d like you to pose for some
pictures.”
“For a case?”
Sherlock seemed to think on that for a bit, “No.”
“Okay, why then?”
“I need pictures of you to move past this… problem I’m having with our
friendship.”
“Okay. What for?”
“That will become obvious,” Sherlock replied, “Once I tell you what kind of
pictures.”
“Okay. What kind of pictures?” John asked, raising an eyebrow and mentally
bracing himself. He had a feeling this would trump body parts in the icebox and
drugs in his tea.
“Nudes.”
“Nudes.”
“Yes, nudes, is there an echo?” Sherlock asked, his familiar tone creeping in.
“Why?”
“No questions.”
“Not possible. Why do you want nude photos of me?”
“Again, that will become obvious. To make this less awkward-“
“-Really? That’s possible?”
“-I’m prepared to offer you a legal contract,” Sherlock reached into his
dressing gown and pulled out a small packet that he handed to John, “I’ve had a
lawyer draw it up. It’s a standard non-disclosure. Your pictures will never
leave my possession, never be posted on the internet, never shown to another
soul. In the even of my death they return to your possession and I’ll make sure
you know where each is located so that you can get to them quickly and easily.”
John flipped through the paperwork, noting that it was drawn up using the sort
of references one might find in modeling… or porn. He wasn’t quite sure which.
Finally he sighed and reached for a pen.
“This means you’ll stop avoiding me? Let me go on cases again? Treat me like a
friend instead of an enemy?”
“Yes, yes, and yes.”
“And this will be your last weird request?”
“Yes.”
“Alright,” John nodded, and signed on the last page.
Sherlock all but bolted to his feet, “Bedroom. Mine.”
“Alright,” John nodded.
XXX
John stood awkwardly at the foot of Sherlock’s bed, “Okay, how do you want me
Carlos Clarke?”
“Very funny,” Sherlock replied dryly, “No latex, I’m afraid. No women, either.
Just you. On the bed, if you please. On your back as if you were resting. Close
your eyes and pretend to sleep.”
John climbed in and lay down, Sherlock moved the blankets about while he
partially closed his eyes, watching his odd flatmate through his lashes.
“All the way shut,” Sherlock scolded.
John shut his eyes and heard the snapping commence. To his surprise Sherlock
covered him almost up to his chin in a blanket and kept clicking away.
Click. Click.
“Now smile as if you’ve just had a wonderful dream.
Click!
“Now look tense, a bit frightened, as if you’ve had a nightmare.”
He moved around to be closer to John’s face.
Click!
“Now laugh a bit. No, more. As if you’ve heard the best joke in the world… like
Anderson leaving his wife for Donovan.”
Click!
“Okay, now onto your stomach.”
Click. Click.
The blankets were inched down.
“Sit up and stretch. Slowly.”
Click. Click. Click.
John opened his eyes and looked over his shoulder to see Sherlock staring at
him, camera in hand, with a small smile playing on his lips. It was so utterly
human, so strangely sweet, that he did a double take and then felt himself
flush red.
“Okay,” Sherlock stated, shaking himself out of his reverie, “On your knees,
legs apart, back facing me.”
John got into position. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click.
“On your hands and knees.”
Click. Click. Click. …A moment of aperture adjustments. A bottle tossed down on
the bed. John blushed as he realized what the bottle was. Click. Click. Click.
Click. Click.
“Face to the bed.”
John was fairly certain his face was red enough to set the bedding afire, but
he still lowered his face obediently to the bedclothes. He wanted things to go
back to normal, but he was starting to believe that it wasn’t going to happen.
Sherlock was also ominously silent. John was sure he was clean as he’d been
told ahead of time to shower very thoroughly. Finally, as he shifted about
awkwardly, Sherlock began to click the camera again.
Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click.
Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click.
Click. Click.
“Sherlock?” John asked anxiously.
“Hush,” Sherlock replied, his voice breathy, “Spread your cheeks for me.”
No doubt about it now. This was sexual. Sherlock might have played it off for a
case if he’d bothered to try, but this was real. His voice was dripping desire.
John bit his lip and made himself bottle up his concerns. He reached back
behind himself, grumbling at the awkward and uncomfortable position, and spread
his arsecheeks for Sherlock’s perusal.
Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click.
John scrambled to sit up as Sherlock climbed onto the bed behind him. He
frowned at John when he tumbled around to face him.
“I’m just attempting to get a specific angle. Relax, John. I won’t touch you. I
do know there are limits, despite your repeat accusation in the past that there
are not.”
That being said, he raised the camera to his face and loudly cleared his throat
to enforce the fact John was to get into position again. John hesitated,
staring uneasily at the erection visible in Sherlock’s trousers. Finally he
turned again.
Click. Click.
“Would you be adverse to putting some of that lube on?”
“On… where?”
“Your entrance, of course.”
“You mean my exit?” John pointed out.
“A prostate might be a decent argument for that ideology. However, for the sake
of clarity, around your anus.”
John huffed in frustration and grabbed the bottle. It was labeled for anal sex.
He froze a moment, just staring at it with his face smooshed into the bed, and
then swallowed at the dryness in his throat and squeezed some out on his hand.
He reached back with his left hand and rubbed wet fingers over his pucker,
hissing and squirming at the cold fluid on such a sensitive area.
Click. Click. Click. Click. Click.
Click. Click.
Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click.
Click. Click.
Click.
Click. Click. Click.
“Perfect,” Sherlock whispered, his voice shaky, “Now flex back a bit. Good.”
Click. Click. Click. Click.
“Onto your back again. Lift your legs up and… yes, that’s it.”
Click. Click.
Click. Click. Click.
“Could you look at the camera and… smile?” Sherlock asked, voice strangled at
forcing out such a request.
John grinned before turning his head to face the camera, and the look he gave
it was deliberately steamy. Sherlock froze, camera halfway to his face, and
stared at John with bite-bruised lips partially open. He was flushed and
sweating, his eyes wide and shockingly vulnerable, his hands trembled before he
managed to steady them enough to take a few quick pictures. Click. Click.
Click.
“Okay. This part might be impossible, but I do realize that. Try to work
yourself up to an erection. Partial is acceptable. Full would be perfect.”
John had been expecting that. He was also starting to figure out what was going
on with Sherlock, besides the obvious sexy picture desire. He grabbed the lube
again and began to work his soft prick to hardness, picturing everything sexy
he could imagine. Sherlock’s breath was audible in the room, and he whimpered
as John arched his hips when passion finally began to coil through his belly.
Sherlock had been fiddling with something while John was working himself over
and when he opened his eyes it was to see a tripod set up.
“I’m not going to be moving the camera for this last bit. It doesn’t need it,”
Sherlock lied miserably. John knew what the difficulty was. He was absolutely
weak with desire and had resorted to leaning casually on his dresser. A wet
patch marked where the head of his cock was already obviously outlined. He
looked miserable. John felt a bit of pity for him and this apparently
irresolvable situation, but it was also more than a bit heady to be looked at
like that by someone; as if he were the only other sexual being alive on the
planet and Sherlock was starved for him.
“Let me guess, you want me to toss off?”
“If you can manage. I… I can leave the room if you want. It’s set to go off
when I push this button and then it will just keep up so…”
“No, it’s fine,” John replied, but then took pity on him. He probably wanted to
wank as well, “Unless you want to leave?”
“Not particularly,” Sherlock replied, and sent him a look that made his
bollocks draw up. Sherlock wanted him the way lions wanted fat gazelle and
John’s hand was moving of it’s own accord.
Sherlock hit the button on the camera and John saw the second he realized his
mistake. He now had nothing to do with his hands, nothing to distract him from
the bawdy scene before him. John grinned as he began to toss off sincerely,
arching up to fuck his hand while rubbing the other across his chest.
“Look at the camera,” Sherlock ordered, his voice hoarse.
John obeyed, but only after pausing to run his tongue over his bottom lip. Then
he gave the camera a flirty stare, eyelids lowered, and began to pant with
effort as the thought hit him that Sherlock would be looking at this later.
Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click.
Click. Click.
A plethora of pictures. A voyeuristic flipbook. A pornographic novel of Captain
John H. Watson, MD.
Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click.
Click. Click.
Sherlock’s breath was frantic and John glanced aside in concern that he might
hyperventilate. The fact the man wasn’ttouching himself or humping something
came as a shock. He was clearly aroused beyond any normal man’s endurance, his
grip on his desk white knuckled. John was more than a bit turned on himself,
enough so that he was approaching orgasm at an alarming rate. To turn it up a
bit for Sherlock he reached down, lifting one leg a bit and grunting at the
effort, and stroked his hole again. He felt muscles flutter that normally
remained dormant and took Sherlock up on his advice. He moved up his taint and
pressed twice until he managed to find his prostate.
John grunted and his eyes rolled back in his head as he fucked his fist, his
thumb tapping the tip of his cock with each upward thrust, until his body
rolled into wave after wave of pleasure. Each ebb and flow was accompanied by a
spurt of heat across his hand and belly, and he groaned in ecstasy. Sated, John
let himself sag onto the bed and simply lay there, legs splayed and body
thrumming in gratification. Sherlock whimpered, then cleared his throat, and
took in a breath that hitched, and then gave up on his attempt at speech and
staggered over to the camera to shut it off.
“You can go now,” Sherlock wheezed as if in pain.
The clicking stopped and John’s mind slammed back down into reality. He’d just
wanked off while his flatmate photographed it all in lurid detail. He swallowed
down bile and bolted for the doorway, scrambling to collect clothes as he did.
He made it to the bathroom where he shakily started up the shower while shame
pooled in his belly where contentment had once been. Behind him he heard a
sharp cry and knew Sherlock was finding a similar release, but he doubted it
would be the sort he really wanted. As the water cascaded over John, chasing
away the feeling of self-betrayal and mortification, he thought that his
flatmate was likely to find his solution as empty as the ache in his chest.
When John left the shower, dressed only in his robe, he sat down to research
sexualities and came up with a confirmation to his hypothesis. Sherlock wasn’t
just repeating a cycle; he was suffering through a kind of fate. Being a man
who was used to being alone he had few friends, and when he did find a friend…
XXX
“Demisexual,” John informed Mycroft, “Sherlock is demisexual. He’s not mentally
ill, he’s falling in love with his friends and then pushing them away because
he doesn’t know how to handle it. What he needs is a boyfriend or girlfriend,
preferably one that starts out as a friend. The last four people obviously
weren’t up for the task but…”
Mycroft smirked, “Do you think you’re clever? I’m fully aware of my brother’s
sexuality. It’s the people he falls for who are the problem.”
“Come again?” John asked, his eyes narrowing, “How am I the problem?”
“Because you’re straight. Sherlock never falls for someone who is attracted to
men. Ever.”
The Woman, John thought, Except in her own sick way she loved him back. Yet he
knew that was doomed so...
“Okay. So we find him a gay man or a straight woman or…”
“You’re not understanding,” Mycroft laughed bitterly, “This isn’t as simple as
putting him on a dating sight. Sherlock only falls in love with his friends-“
“That is the definition of demisexual, isn’t it? He has to love them before
he’s attracted to them, so he falls for his friends because no one else can get
close.”
“So who will you pick, hm? Lestrade? Hooper? Mrs. Hudson? Who will you find to
replace you?”
John saw his point. Sherlock didn’t fall for all of his friends, only the ones
he was especially close to, and that was John. No one else. It could take years
to cultivate the kind of relationship that would result in Sherlock falling in
love with them, and therefore becoming aroused by them.
“So he really can’t… you know… perform? Without them being…”
“You? As far as I’m aware he hasn’t become-“ Mycroft made a look of distaste-
“Aroused since Miss Morstan threw him out of their flat together a week before
he met you. It may not be a mental illness, as I first described it to you, but
it is an ailment. Sherlock is well aware that he’s unfit for a romantic
relationship so his only recourse is to ask for sex so he can at least get
something from them before they get tired of his nonsense and leave.”
“That’s what he asked the others for? A shag?” John asked, gaping. He hadn’t
expected that. It was so… base. Sherlock didn’t seem the sort.
Mycroft gave him a baffled look, “Isn’t that what he asked you for?”
“No,” John replied, and then made it clear by way of expression that he was
notelaborating.
“On 16 April, 5:16 PM, you went into his room, remained for quite some time,
and then left the shower nearly two hours later.”
“Yeah, that’s a bit creepy,” John informed him.
“You are telling me you did not have sex with my brother?”
“No. Didn’t even discuss it.”
“The camera?”
John raised an eyebrow and Mycroft made a face, “I see. Well, that will keep
him busy for a bit I suppose, but it doesn’t solve your problem.”
“No,” John sighed, “It doesn’t.”
John went home to find Sherlock up playing a rather sad song on his violin. He
sat down in his chair and watched quietly for a bit, just enjoying the dulcet
tones until Sherlock lowered the bow slowly and simply stood staring out the
window.
“How are you?” John ventured.
“Fine,” Sherlock clearly lied.
“So. Demisexual,” John stated plainly.
“Mm.”
“It must make it simpler to stay alone, withdrawn, antisocial.”
“Does this conversation have a point?” Sherlock asked testily.
“Back to normal, I see,” John grinned, but his joke fell short and his smile
slid off his face like so much oil off his backside.
“We have a case tomorrow,” Sherlock informed him, “That man from your clinic
who had his thumb chopped off finally took your advice and dropped by.”
“Good. That’s… good.”
“See you in the morning, Watson,” Sherlock stated stiffly, and then headed to
his room.
“Sure. In the morning… Holmes…” John muttered.
Not the same. Not better. Worse. He’s suffering, but now he’s determined to be
‘just friends’. Now what? What could fix this? What could make this survivable?
He died for me. I lived for him. There has to be something there. I got off in
front of him. Is that enough? Could I manage it? I tried it with that bloke in
the Army and it did basically nothing for me, but would it be different with
Sherlock? Or is what Mycroft said true? Would me being attracted to him be an
instant off? Does he only want the unattainable?
John sighed and headed to his room to mull it over, toppling into a light sleep
surrounded by gunfire, falling detectives, and the sound of a camera clicking
away.
It took a week before John decided the distance between them was simply
unacceptable. He decided it after the third time that week that Sherlock gave
him a strange look and then fled to his room with a prominent erection. He was
done. If all he could give was handjobs and blowjobs than that would be it.
He’d manage. He’d give Sherlock what he needed because Sherlock gave him what
he needed. He stormed the bedroom only to find it… empty?
Sherlock was gone. A glance into his open cupboard showed he’d managed to
install a trap door. The bastard had gone in and slipped away. John knew why
immediately, of course. It was only too obvious, even to him. Sherlock wanted
John to see the pictures. There were dozens of them. They were hung from the
walls, pasted over the ceiling, blown up, shrunk down, tasteful, lewd, and
edited to look artsy and vague. There was even a rather disturbing one that was
cut up to look like a Picasso John. The most disturbing part, however, was that
some of them- many of them- weren’t from times he’d posed. They were from
months ago. It was John on dates, but with the date artfully cut out and
Sherlock pasted in. It was John asleep on the couch or in his bed. John easily
recognized the sleep shirt he’d worn the same night Sherlock had him pose. The
bastard had snuck up to his room afterwards!
This is unhealthy, John realized as he backed out of the room, This is why the
others ran, why they wouldn’t tell me what the favours were. They didn’t want
to admit they’d encouragedthislevel of madness. Sherlock isn’t just in love.
He’s obsessed.
John’s back bumped into soft but unyielding flesh and he turned to find
Sherlock standing in the hallway. John swallowed around the lump in his throat
and squared his shoulders.
“No more pictures of me, Sherlock,” John stated firmly, “Not without my
permission. Not on dates, not in my room, not in the den. No more. Got it?”
“Yes, sir,” Sherlock replied, and gave him a mocking salute. Then he left,
taking his semi-hard cock with him. John didn’t feel as if he’d had any sort of
victory.
A few nights later John was heavy in a dream involving a case where Sherlock
had replaced all the members of Lestrade’s team, including Lestrade. It was odd
to watch him standing there and berating himself for stupidity.
“If any of you had paid attention,” Sherlock Holmes screamed at Sherlock
Lestrade, “I’d still be alive!”
John glanced down at the body and it was Sherlock, his position in mimicry of
his jump from the hospital, but instead of being on the ground outside of St.
Bart’s they were in the classroom where Jeff Hope had tried to force him to
swallow a pill. John felt horrible but there was no waking himself up. Another
Sherlock appeared, toting his Canon, and began snapping pictures of himself
lying on the ground.
“That’s it,” Sherlock Cameraman cooed at Sherlock Body, his voice sultry and
deep, “Work it, baby. Work it. Make love to the camera.”
The blood soaked Sherlock rolled onto his belly and smirked at the camera,
biting at that full bottom lip that refused to redden due to all the bloodloss.
“All you had to do was realize that the phone would lead you right to me!”
Sherlock Holmes shouted at Sherlock Lestrade, “This is why I needed an
assistant!”
Click! Click!
Click!
“As if anyone would want to be your assistant! Freak!” Sherlock Donovan
replied, shifting about in her patent leather pumps.
Click!
Click!
“He’s a psychopath,” Sherlock Anderson ranted, scratching at his beard, “No one
can stand him for more than a shag!”
“I’m not a psychopath!” Sherlock shouted, spinning on him angrily, “I’m a high
functioning sociopath! Or didn’t you figure that out when I asked you to pose
for nude photos?”
“Sherlock!” A muffled voice shouted, and John glanced up to see Sherlock Watson
clad in a jumper, shouting through the windows in the building across the
street, “He’s my friend! Let me through! He’s my friend! Oh god noooooooo!”
John looked back down at Sherlock Body to see him being carted off by Sherlock
Hooper and Sherlock Hudson in lab coats.
“This one’s a keeper!” Sherlock Hudson chirped, “Mrs. Turner’s got married
ones! If only he’d found someone to keep him on the straight and narrow!”
Sherlock Molly shrugged and painted his lips with scarlet lipstick, “It wasn’t
working for me. He always says the most horrible things.”
They wheeled him out of the room, laughing merrily, while John tried
desperately to move from the spot he was cemented in and Sherlock Watson
started to sob and bang on the window across the way. Sherlock Cameraman
clicked away while the rest joined in the laughter, following him out the door
as the room tilted sideways and then forward and John was falling. Falling
through the open door and then backwards and out the window and slam!
Into his Sherlock Watson where he woke up as John Watson, sitting bolt upright
in bed and panting in horror. Pain lanced through his chest at the recollection
of Sherlock covered in blood. Sherlock alone. Sherlock dead.
Click!
John turned his head and gaped at his shameless flatmate.
“Good morning, John. There’s been a double homicide in…”
John cut Sherlock’s explanation off by reaching out and running his hand up
Sherlock’s thigh. He stopped an inch away from his throbbing bulge and looked
up at him. Sherlock was biting his lip, his eyes wide, and his voice clearly
lost as he stared down at John with the most vulnerable look on his face.
“Stop or go?” John asked.
“Hm?” Sherlock wondered.
“Stop or go? You see normal people ask for consent before engaging in sex acts…
or taking pictures of their sleeping boyfriends.”
“Oh. Well. Yes. I mean go. I mean… oh!”
John ran his hand fully up the outline of Sherlock’s cock and the man staggered
and nearly dropped his expensive camera. John snatched it up and placed it down
on his nightstand, rising to pull Sherlock against him. Their lips smashed
together in an inelegant kiss that John carefully corrected, surprised to find
that he had to teach the consulting detective what to do with lips and tongue.
Once the man caught on the kiss quickly turned heated and John tugged him
backwards into the bed. Sherlock sprawled across him and they spent a moment
situating limbs before he straddled John’s hips and began to frantically rub
against the hand still palming his cock.
“Oh gods, John!” Sherlock cried out, his hips stuttering as he came hard in his
pants.
John lay still beneath him, trying to figure out if he should do or say
something else while Sherlock lay limp on top of him, panting and clinging to
his shoulders with a fierce grip. Then the man slowly sat up, his eyes
questioning as he stared down at John.
“Now what?” Sherlock asked, “Boyfriend? We both know you aren’t gay.”
John shrugged, “We also both know sexuality is more flexible than that. You’re
a prime example.”
Sherlock nodded, “Then we… try this?”
“For now.”
“You aren’t aroused.”
“I might be next time. Just answer one question for me.”
“Okay,” Sherlock nodded.
“Did you ever ask Anderson for nude photos?”
Sherlock gave John an absolutely horrified look that John was fairly certain
should have ended their ‘relationship’ right then and there, but the man was
apparently truly in love with him because he forced down his revulsion and
shook his head.
“No. Never. Don’t ever suggest it again.”
“Not a problem. I’ll just let my subconscious know that.”
“You do that.”
XXX
The thrill of a case. The sweat from a chase. The heat of breath on his neck.
Long, elegant fingers tugging at his clothes. A push. A tumble. A soft mattress
beneath his body. A long, lean body above him.
“I don’t bottom,” John panted, “Ever. Don’t even ask.”
“Of course not,” Sherlock replied, grabbing a bottle of lube and slicking up
his cock.
“I might not even want to top,” John warned, “We might have to stick to
alternative types of non-penatrative sex.”
“Say sex again,” Sherlock demanded.
“Sex,” John smirked.
Sherlock reached down and palmed John’s bollocks with a slick hand. John found
the sensation desirable so his legs fell open with a soft moan. Sherlock’s
fingers immediately slid back and John hissed and squirmed away.
“Do you even listen?”
“Not when I know full well you took an enema before we left in the hopes this
would happen,” Sherlock replied with a smirk, “Luckily it was a short case.”
“I hate that you know me better than I know myself,” John growled as he gripped
beneath his knees and lifted his legs high.
“No you don’t,” Sherlock scoffed, and then set about preparing him.
“I’m going to fuck you so hard,” John moaned, wriggling on his fingers.
“No you’re not,” Sherlock replied, then swallowed his cock down. And gagged.
And tried again to John’s absolute joy.
Finally he was pressing the spongy head of his cock against John’s entrance, so
the captain reached up to grip his upper arms and steady himself as he realized
that yes, this was happening.
“Sherlock,” John whispered.
“John!” Sherlock gasped, as he popped past the first ring and slowly began the
slide inside of John’s body.
John closed his eyes and told himself it wasn’t bad. It wasn’t, really. Not
awful, just not good. It took a bit before Sherlock was able to press
completely inside of him, and then they stayed that way for a moment while
Sherlock whimpered with need.
“Go ahead, love,” John whispered, brushing a curl aside.
Sherlock’s ethereal eyes flickered open; he gave John a grateful glance, and
then began to move inside of him. John felt a moment of panic and then calm
followed by a slow rise of pleasure as Sherlock’s long, thin cock stroked over
his prostate.
“Faster,” John whispered, and Sherlock let out a choked cry before beginning to
absolutely pound him, “Oh, yeah. That’s it Lock.”
John released one of Sherlock’s arms to grasp his cock, stroking it to full
hardness while Sherlock flushed above him and stared down at him in wonder.
“John!” Sherlock gasped.
“Yes. That’s it. Come inside me,” John growled, giving his muscles an
experimental flex.
Sherlock shouted in shock and pleasure, his hips pressing hard against John’s
backside as he came with several sharp cries.
“Oh! John! OH!”
“Yeah,” John breathed a sigh out.
He was still achingly hard as Sherlock slid free and staggered upright,
standing beside the bed and looking faintly panicked.
“What do I do? John? Tell me how to do this. I want you to feel wonderful.”
You don’t know? John thought, but out loud he replied, “Touch me. Finger my
ass. Rub my bollocks. Lick my cock. Anything!”
Two of Sherlock’s fingers slid inside, squelching obscenely, and the other hand
pushed John’s fist away to take its place. He stroked John fast and hard while
rubbing at his prostate until John was writhing on the bed. The grand finale
was a curious Sherlock leaning down, opal eyes locked with John’s, to lap
delicately at his cockhead before dipping his tongue beneath his foreskin on an
upward stroke.
John came too hard and too quickly to warn Sherlock. He couldn’t even
breathe.He simply exploded over the aristocratic man’s face and into his mouth
before sagging back on the bed as if he’d run a marathon.
“Holy shit,” John panted.
“Yes,” Sherlock agreed, flopping down beside him.
“Will you take these pictures down now?”
“Are you mad?” Sherlock replied with a scoff, “You don’t mind, do you?”
“Well…” John shrugged, “It’s a bit weird seeing a giant pic of myself wanking
on the ceiling while you’re going at me.”
“You’re right,” Sherlock decided as he stared up at he ceiling as well, “We’ll
add one of me.”
“Oh… okay,” John replied, finding himself unopposed to this idea.
“Rimming you.”
“Ummmm…”
fin.
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