THE STARRY MESSENGER
John Watson liked everything about Sherlock Holmes.
His hair, which was now too long and hung flapping by his long neck (oh, that long neck,) his pale skin and his high cheekbones, his shit attitude which Watson still found arousing (when Sherlock found out the consequences his ranting had on his poor doctor, he'd blabbered about idiocy before pulling him along to an alleyway,) and even his sullen moods, where dear John would just stare at his sweetheart's pouty lips and fantasize about licking them.
In short, everything. But most of all, John watson could not restrain himself when Sherlock spoke. The first time he'd heard Sherlock sing, (sing, for God's sake,) he'd felt not even hammerpants could conceal the massive erection threatening to make his trouser buttons pop.
He felt it was justified and liked to think everybody swooned as soon as that dark, smooth voice entered their ears. He'd even tried to keep keep it for himself by simply not letting Sherlock speak, unless at home, but Lestrade let him know that, no matter how hardcore their shagging was, they needed Sherlock's brilliant mind and promised they'd try not to act upon their blatant arousal.
Needless to say, John was relieved.
He liked to think Sherlock did not know of the tiny fetish he cherished, and he tried not to moan too loudly whenever Sherlock rambled off deductions in post-coital bliss, when his mind was cleared and his sweet, sweet voice was hoarse.
This little backstory will help understand John's current predicament. You see, since Sherlock was tired of John's (permanent) ignorance, he'd cut John down on the romance novels, and had upped the learning. He'd told John which books to read, and, really, he'd wanted to, but Sherlock, apparently under the impression John was unable of reading and shared Anderson's hate for words with too many letters, had snatched it away and flopped down next to John with a sigh. And started reading. Next to John. Out loud.
Next to John, I must really stress. And hearing Sherlock speak of rigor mortis and the decay of flesh after death was certainly more interesting than reading about it himself.
His pants seemed to also raise in interest.
"And then their muscles loosen, so there tends to be feces all over the place. Isn't that terribly interesting, John?"
The strangled gurgle he got in reply sounded like John's brains melting, so Sherlock simply figured the information had been overload for the good doctor's mortal brain and shut the book with a smirk, retreating to the kitchen.
He had done well.
He, however, did not cease his torment and proceeded to happily take any occasion to further educate his love, be it a restaurant visit, going to the pictures or even walking in the streets of busy London, which had gotten them results the likes of which hadn't been seen since The Verve release their Bittersweet Symphony.
And too many stiffies and too little relief made John a very unhappy boy.
With all of this, it seemed our tall, handsome detective was rather oblivious to the trouble he brought our short, handsome military man.
That is, until one sultry evening, when Sherlock read on Galileo Galilei and his basic principle of relativity and it was so bloody interesting, John simply had to show his interest. Really.
And so he pounced on Sherlock before he could even finish his sentence (Really, that's preposterous, isn't it? I mean, people can be so idiotic at times. Isn't that interes-) and, while Sherlock tried to keep on speaking with John tongue-fucking his ear, John tried to step it up a bit. A whole bit. Nearly an entire flight of stairs, really.
And the sounds. Oh God, the sounds. They were so sinful, John wished he'd had his mobile phone so he'd have something to listen to when Sherlock'd get into one of those lovely moods and smash the telly again.
This whole party ended, once more, with Sherlock wholly exploiting the power he held over his Watson.
Naturally, he didn't really mind, despite his complaints of getting old and not being able to keep up. In fact, John's libido was thoroughly sated.
So why did he get ever so slightly feverish whenever he saw Sherlock's tongue touch the bottom of his lip? Why did he feel just the teensiest bit of tightening in his old, worn John-jeans whenever Sherlock dripped clear liquid upon his cherished family pictures? Whenever he ran? Put on his coat? Or tousled his hair?
Because John Watson liked everything about Sherlock Holmes.
His hair, his skin and cheekbones, shit attitude, sullen moods and his voice. And he would for a very long time.
The Starry Messenger. I'm sure you've all heard of it. Written by Galileo in, what, 1610? When he spoke of the rough surface of the moon, my head turned into a porno. Anyway, this was written for #JohnSherlock over at deviantart, for their very first weekly prompt. 'Reading', it was. Did I stick with it? Of course not. But I tried! Some feedback would be lovely, since I'm not even sure what this is. Now, back to my tea.
Love,
Mary-Jane