John considered them his "lucky pants." Not that he'd got lucky in them, per se, but he had got closer while wearing them than in any of his other pants.
They were a very ridiculous thing for a man his age to own, and he was aware. But they made him feel younger, like the virile young thing he'd been before Afghanistan. That confidence was certainly what accounted for his (mild) success, but there was only so much a pair of flashy red pants could do when he just wasn't that man anymore.

Nevertheless, he still regarded them with a smirk followed by a sigh when folding his laundry, as if the two were old friends who had fallen on hard times together. It was pitiable.

So I decided it was time to take matters into my own hands.

I got John's attention with a quite subtle slap on the behind as he passed me on his way to the kitchen. If this hadn't gone all the way to the end, I decided right then that it would still be worth the effort for the look of pure scandal it had earned me.

"Did you just-?" he sputtered uselessly. "Why-?" I forgave him his inability to complete a sentence, as judging by the frightening shade of pink creeping into his face; I had managed, after two years of living together, to surprise him entirely.

"It's the third weekend in a row Lindsey Whoever has failed to call, and you've been dragging around the flat sighing dejectedly for days," I clarified, noting the immediate ebb of color in favor of his much-preferred irritation. "You can carry on like this for at least a week, if not more, and, frankly, I'm tired of suffering you."

"So you grab my arse?" He eased down into his chair.

"It was more of a slap, but yes. I thought you'd be more familiar with the action?"

"From you, not at all." There was a situationally inappropriate laugh in his voice, the grade of which people adopt when they're nervous rather than amused. I found the idea of John being nervous around me to be novel. I didn't like it. "I thought you were... I didn't think you were available like that, anyway?"

"I'm not," I objected. Too quickly; he tensed as if to get up again. "Not usually," I clarified. He stilled. Full disclosure would have to be the name of the game. "It's not something I'm particularly interested in, that is, and I'm more than pleased if the rest of the world goes on doing it without me." I rested elbows on knees, leaning forward to emphasize my earnest expression. "I'm not entirely averse to it, however," I divulged, glancing away modestly. "Not when the need arises, or," Here I cast my gaze back to his to highlight my point, "if it's someone whose company I enjoy."

He sat in silence for about thirty seconds, staring at me. He was reviewing my words, playing them back against various memories (notably our first conversation at Angelo's and meeting Irene Adler), translating them into notions he understood in his own experience, and ultimately coming up quite short.

"Sherlock," he condescended. "Well, two things. For one, I'm straight." I couldn't help but roll my eyes at that. "And for two, I can't... Even if I weren't, I wouldn't take advantage of you like that." I huffed out a sigh. Quite short, indeed.

"John, I'm offering. How often do I volunteer myself without knowing what I'm getting into? Don't answer that," I interrupted; he'd opened his mouth to reply a little too quickly. "Look, it's not as if I'm asking you to fuck me. And you'd hardly be my first." There was that scandalized look again. I might have to try this after every break-up. How many propositions will it take before he stops being offended, I wonder?

"Sherlock."

"You need to get off with someone that's not your right hand," I interrupted. "I'm not proposing anything either of us would be wildly opposed to, just a blowjob. The idea excites you, I can tell." I couldn't stop a smirk at his belatedly crossing his legs; his skin had started to flush far before a sufficiently visible erection would have given him away.

"Speak for yourself," he chuckled.

"Maybe I am." I inched forward in my chair, glancing strategically between his legs until it was clear he believed I was going to simply slide into position. I wasn't exactly gagging for John's cock, but I wasn't lying either. As much as I was tired of his 'haven't been laid in months' mope, he was my friend and I had actually surprised myself by wanting to do this for him.

I read him very carefully as I kneeled in front of him, watching the emotions play across his face: shock that I was serious (I rarely bluff if I'm not prepared to be called on it); confusion followed quickly by stolid acceptance that, yes, he wanted this; confusion again about what he expected this to mean for us; and finally back to shock when he felt my hand on his knee.

"What, here?!" I withdrew.

"Would you prefer I light some candles, maybe put on Kenny G?"

"Nobody listens to-"

"It was a joke, John."

"Of course."

"My point was that here is as good a place as any. You'll be comfortable, I'll be comfortable enough, though my knees can only take so much of this rug. So if you insist on overanalyzing this I'll have to call the whole thing off." He snorted laughter.

"Overanalyze. From you that's rich!" I was grateful for his laughter; he visibly relaxed, and even uncrossed his legs, making this blowjob much more likely. I wouldn't have to listen to another frustrated sigh the next time he looked at his phone.

I ghosted my hands over his knees, not wanting to startle him again. For a man who invaded Afghanistan, he was astonishingly timid about this tiny thing. "May I?" I asked. He instantly sobered. I wasn't about to move until he gave me some indication, however, so I sat back on my heels and watched him until he realized what I was after and nodded. Perfect.

Slowly I pushed his knees apart, making room for me to rock forward onto my own between them. I made quick work of his zip, and tugged his trousers and (perfectly respectable white) pants down around his thighs; with help from a now cooperative John. I remembered as soon as I took his cock in hand why I had never particularly minded this; as I worked it from head to base, inspiring circulation to the area, I'll admit I quite took my time to savor this uniquely soft skin. Even pumping full of blood, the silky texture remained.

I enjoyed it a moment more before pulling a condom packet warm from my back pocket. The wrapper fought me briefly, but I quickly had it open and rolled the latex down John's prick with ease. Bacteria shield in place, I spared a glance upward at his face: deeply flushed with arousal, though from the way he was looking at everything but me, he still didn't know how to feel about the whole thing. How annoying. No matter, I was about to have audience enough. I leaned over and began.

John didn't shave, as it turned out, so my first plan was out; nothing upsets the palette quite like pubic hairs sticking to the gums. As soon as I set lips to prick, however, I could tell he wouldn't be long for this. With my tongue I felt the weight and pressure of it, tested the differences on either side, then curled my tongue upward and back, lazily circling then pressing the remains of his frenulum; one of the very few times in life that sloppy surgery was a blessing to anyone. I was a bit premature with that, I'll admit, and John's hips bucking up to meet me took me a bit by surprise. In response, I pulled off and dedicated my attentions to his shaft. I slowly trailed my lips up the right side, pausing to suck gently on each vein, until I reached the delightfully sensitive head, running the broad side of my tongue across it on my way to the left side. I kept my hands firmly grasping John's chair and nothing else. The phrase, I believe, is 'It's only gay if the balls touch', a notion popular with questioning men certain that their masculinity is rooted in not being gay. No matter the short term benefits, I did still want to keep John as a friend and just a friend after this, and his ability to look at me afterwards would be crucial.

I will concede the point that I was having a bit too much fun discovering and then specifically avoiding John's most sensitive areas, though I was not being cruel. At the point where his carefully controlled rapid breathing gained a whine on the exhale, I promptly switched tactics to end it. By simply sucking the head while teasing the frenulum, I was able to quickly bring my friend to, certainly, the nicest orgasm he'd had in months. I sat back and admired my handiwork: a man undone, head thrown back against his chair with eyes closed, cooling down; a problem solved; and very little to clean up after.

Perfect.

I carefully pulled off the used condom, very carefully, and stood to make my way to the kitchen bin.

"You didn't want me to..." John stopped me with a limp gesture, "Uh..." He motioned again, implicating, with all the post-orgasm grace of a man who is quite sure he doesn't want to, that he thought he should suck me off in return.

"Oh god no!" I assured him. We both heaved a heavy sigh having dodged that bullet. That would have been dreadful for me, and exceedingly awkward for him, as none of this had been particularly arousing for me. "Though," I pondered, "if you did want to return the favor in some way, you could do yourself and everyone who sees you naked a favor by getting rid of those juvenile red pants." The look on his face was what I imagined it would have looked like if I'd asked him to bend over the sofa, lube up, and prepare for landing. Today was getting better with every minute.

I left him speechless and went to the kitchen to dispose of the condom and wash my hands thoroughly. I heard John get up and shuffle to the loo, presumably to clean himself up. There was just enough water left in the kettle for two mugs, so I switched it on to boil while I perused the tea options. I had an experiment going in the microwave on the effects of various types of alcohol on liver tissue that should be just about done.

Perfect.