Keeping Sherlock From Getting Bored

by Bec Le

Exactly what it says on the tin. It falls to John to keep Sherlock from getting bored. I had this image of Sherlock's fist pounding on the bed or the wall while John did naughty things to him and it wouldn't go away so I just indulged it.

John Watson had seen a lot of the world. It was written on his skin-the scar from getting shot in the shoulder, the tan lines fading into his wrists from being baked in an Afghan sun, the posture he held when he stood.

Sherlock could see it all the minute he met John.

John, for his part, was one-third rattled and two-thirds intrigued. Sherlock was a fey creature, with gorgeous features and a personality that bespoke of ground glass in the eye until you got to know him better.

And John got to know him better. He wound up as the man's flatmate, dealing with bulletholes in the walls and odd thumps at any hour of the day or night. The man never ate, spoke to the skull photo on the wall when he was into a case, and kept eyeballs in the microwave.

John was a third frustrated and two-thirds aroused. Sherlock was like nothing like anyone he'd ever come across.

One thing about Sherlock was that he got bored easily, and when Sherlock got bored, he got destructive. It was up to John to keep him duly distracted and away from swords and guns when there was a dry spell of cases to solve.

The first couple of months, John was at his wit's end trying to keep his wayward consulting detective's brain busy enough. Nothing seemed to work...nothing, it seemed, until the day Sherlock frustrated and aroused him to the point where he just kissed his goddamn pretty mouth and ended the stream of consciousness thoughts coming out of that big brain.

After that, keeping Sherlock busy was far easier. A bored Sherlock was usually up for being thrown against the nearest wall and kept distracted, repeatedly.

John knew he was doing his job as sidekick well when Sherlock, close to orgasm and losing control, began pounding his fist on the wall, or the bed. He usually started out strong and as the rushing, screaming sensation overtook him, the fist would soften and become an open hand on the bed that John would lay his hand on top of, just before he came, too.

John always wound up kissing and bandaging Sherlock's knuckles when they had hot, filthy wall sex somewhere between the front room and his bed, so more often than not before they both lost control he'd try and get them to the bed.

Not that that always worked. But he tried.

Sherlock, for his part, tried to be bored more often.