Most of John Watson's time with Sherlock Holmes had been spent on his efforts to figure out what made the detective tick. Confusing was an understatement and insane just didn't quite work either. Holmes was obviously in a stable state of mind—His just functioned on a higher level than everyone else's.

However, this was of little concern at the current point in time. Strangely enough, it was Sherlock's turn to boggle at the doctor's ways. His brown eyes narrowed as the doctor brought his hand up to his mouth, idly, then..

"Watson, since when did you practice compulsive habits?" The detective's gaze washed over Watson, causing him to jerk up from his book. The offending hand dropped back to his lap, as its owner's eyes countered Sherlock's.

"What?"

"Onychophagia. Compulsive nail-biting. Usually caused by anxiety."

"Having you as an acquaintance, I am surely justified."

Sherlock smirked slightly, bringing his teacup to his mouth and taking a casual sip, "The question is: Why start now?"

Watson gave a hearty chuckle. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but merely shook his head, before returning to his book. His fingers raised once more to his lips, as he chewed at his nail. To be honest, he hadn't any idea why it had begun so suddenly. He never had any nervous habits before. And Sherlock was right! Why start now? Who knows, he may pop the question to Mary, and then in a few months, be free of the plague that was Sherlock Holmes.

The doctor was not quite sure whether he should be thrilled or disappointed.

A sharp pain in his finger brought him back to reality. He inspected his finger, seeing a drop of blood glistening at the tip. He looked over to Sherlock, who was giving him the normal cool, calculating expression which graced his features whenever he was pondering something deeply. Watson ignored him, opting to wash his finger off in the sink.

"You know, I've heard that you can get rid of such habits through certain passive activities. Chewing gum or tobacco, smoking, knitting," Sherlock mused on this for a moment, nodding, "You should try knitting."

Watson wrinkled his brow at this, turning to Sherlock with offense written clearly on his face, "Do I look like a lady to you, Holmes?"

"I'm sure if you got a quick shave and painted your face, you'd make a lovely addition to a cheap brothel."

"And I'm sure if you combed your hair once every few millennia you'd come off as civilized human being, but that's not very likely now, is it?"

Sherlock ran his fingers through the mess of brunette locks upon his head and shrugged. Watson looked off to the side, a tinge of guilt weighing on his conscience.

"You know, if you need something to do with your hands, I may have a solution." The detective turned to Watson, his face unreadable aside from the twinkle of mischeif in his eyes and the slight smile tugging at the corners of his lips. The doctor cocked a brow in question to the other.

"A solution. To rid you of that deplorable habit, my dear Watson."

"Very well, what would you suggest?"

Watson instantly regretted those words, as seconds later he found himself being pushed onto his knees.

"What on Earth, Sherlock?" The man cried, eying the rather sizeable bulge in the detective's trousers.

"Come now—You're not a dull man. It's quite simple. You need to occupy your hands, and I need to take care of this."

"You're an ass."

"So I've been told."

It was outrageous. This man was outrageous. But most of all, the fact that Watson was willingly, though reluctantly, pulling the man's erection free from his trousers was outrageous.

Watson's hands shook slightly as his fingers wrapped around the hardened flesh. Sherlock hissed, urging the doctor on with the languid slide of fingers through his hair. Watson complied, as he began to drag his hand up and down the thick shaft. Satisfaction brought a smirk to his lips as he heard the detective groan his name. Encouraged, Watson picked up speed, jerking Sherlock off as the man bucked his hips against his hand. His strokes became fast and hard, and the detective's breathing became short in turn.

"Mm. John, you are good at this." He panted, fingers tightening in their grip on his hair in order to pull the doctor up from the floor. One hand still at work between Sherlock's legs, Watson was yanked forward roughly. The resulting crash of lips against the detective's own was startling, and the doctor tried in vain to resist. Sherlock moaned into the other's mouth, drawing back only for a brief repose before diving back in to claim Watson's lips.

It didn't take long for the detective to orgasm, which didn't surprise Watson, really. The man didn't have any friends, and he had better things to do than pleasure himself. Things like experimenting on Gladstone, or generally making a mess of his—their apartment. The doctor pursed his lips in distaste at the sight of the man's fluids coating his fingers.

"You're a genius, Sherlock. I don't think I'll ever want to bring this hand near my mouth again." Watson declared, wiping his defiled hand off on his trousers. Sherlock laughed.

"You liked it." He stated simply, leaning back against the couch cushions. The detective pulled the doctor into his lap, pressing his lips lightly to his jaw and trailing kisses down, down, until he reached the collar of Watson's shirt. He frowned as the man pulled back.

"I'm in a relationship, you know."

"Oh, we're official now?"

Watson deflated at this, averting his gaze, "With Mary."

"Well, I'll allow it," Sherlock nodded once, "As long as there's no sex. Or kissing. Or general affection. Or any other positive and or heart-warming emotions." He smiled up at Watson, who was glaring at him.

"I was going to ask her to marry me."

The doctor, once more, instantly regretted his words. Sherlock looked crushed.

"I see." He replied, his lower lip protruding slightly.

"You're pouting. You're a fully grown man, and you're pouting."

"And you're changing the subject. Tell me: Do you enjoy placing your self-worth in meaningless relationships?" Sherlock snapped. Watson was about to reply, when he felt himself shoved from the detective's lap. In what seemed to be one quick movement, Sherlock Holmes had stood up and rushed to the door, pulling on his evening coat and cap.

"Forget I said that, my dear Watson. I have places to be," the detective pulled out a pocketwatch for added effect, "And I'm running late."

"Go, by all means!" John replied bitterly, regaining his composure. The door clicked shut and footsteps disappeared down the stairs. The doctor buried his face in his palms, sighing deeply.

You insufferable man-child.