"I just don't see how this will help you with the investigation, Sherlock," John said defensively, pulling at the collar of his gown.
"I need the picture, John. I have to find out how Marilyn Torres made it from Point A," he explained, tugging John over to the bedroom, "To point B," he gestured to the open window.
"I know that, Sherlock, but what I don't get is why I'm dressed in one of her bloody lace night gowns!"
John could have sworn he saw a smile invade the corners of the detective's lips, but then again, he could just be going crazy.
Sherlock rolled his eyes, "It's for the vision. I need to see it. Why else would I dress up as her sultry, handsome lover?" He pointed to his own attire, a pair of black boxer briefs, "It's the big picture, John. The big picture."
John began to retaliate, but stopped himself when he noticed the sharp determination in the man's eyes. There was no convincing Sherlock when he was in one of his moods.
His shoulders sagged in defeat, "Where do you want me?"
"On the bed. Outstretched, preferably. Instead of the way you usually sleep at home."
John frowned, trying to ignore the fact that the other man knew how he slept.
He took his short, choppy steps towards the bed, trying not to wince when the soft fabric traced along his thighs. A gown, really? The woman couldn't have been wearing pyjamas? He shook his head. He supposed it was better than having to lay nude.
John hit the bed with a cushioned oomph. The bed was even more plush than his bed at home and seemed to swallow him into its quilted confines. He instantly curled in on himself, hands flexing automatically around an imaginary weapon, a habit from the war he never really shook off. (And it was a good thing too. You never knew what was going to happen when you hung around with Sherlock. That man and anyone around him had giant targets tattooed to their backs.)
He forced himself to lay flat, crossing his arms stiffly across his chest. He heard Sherlock mumbling from the living room before his heavy footsteps drifted into the room.
"NO!" Sherlock exclaimed, stomping angrily.
John snapped himself up, "What is it now!?"
"You're supposed to be laying like a woman, John! Not as if I've kidnapped you and held you here against your will!"
"We'll then how the hell do you suppose I do that then?"
"I don't know, John. Honestly, you're the one who never seems to be lacking in women. You tell me." He sounded almost jealous.
"Well, fine!" He answered, laying back down in the bed and jamming his eyes shut.
"Arms spread out, John. You're supposed to be greeting your lover."
He rolled his eyes, laying his arms out beside himself. He swallowed the bit vulnerability that came with the new position.
"Now, don't move."
Before John could even ask why, a warm body draped itself across him.
"What are you-"
"Hush, John! Wrap your arms around me."
"What?" he haphazardly threw his arms around the younger man, trapping him in a strong embrace.
"No, not like you're trying to squeeze the life out of me! I'm your lover, not your opponent, for God's sake!"
John loosened his grip, letting his arms hang limply off of Sherlock's shoulders.
Sherlock's face became very close to his and John refused to acknowledge the burning feeling deep in his gut.
"Your legs now. Open them. You're supposed to be letting me in."
"Absolutely not!" John yelled. All of those other things he could tolerate, but this is where he drew the line. He clenched his legs shut, effectively keeping Sherlock's heavy body out.
"Think of the victim, John! This is for Marilyn! Weren't you the one that suggested I take this case in the first place? Wasn't she one of your patients?"
"I-"
"We're not interested in each other, correct? We've made that clear several times. There should be absolutely nothing wrong with this position."
"Sherlock-"
"We're friends, John." Did he sound like he was pleading? No, of course not. This was Sherlock Holmes they were talking about.
John sighed, there really was no shaking Sherlock when his was like this. He fastened his lips shut and spread his legs. Sherlock fell easily between them.
"Good, now Moore said that they were together like this before he realized his inability to ejaculate, correct?"
"For Christ's sake, man! You can't just talk about another man's problem like that," he mumbled distractedly. If Sherlock was close before, he was basically a part of him now. The detective's hair hung low, canvassing John's face and tickling his cheeks. With every observation Sherlock made, John felt small, warm puffs of air, caress his lips.
Sherlock ignored him, continuing on with his analysis, "Which means they were moving together like... This?" He rocked forward experimentally, grinding his pelvis against John's.
Before the blond could protest, Sherlock shot him down, "Quiet, John. This is only for the data. Rock with me."
John swallowed deeply, chanting his hips along with his.
"Now touch me."
"What!?" He couldn't believe what he was hearing! Had Sherlock lost his-?
"My back, John! We're supposed to lovers! Your hands don't feel as if they're anything more than a pair wet fish! Now I really know the reason your past relations never worked out. Where's the passion?"
John surged forward in an angry rush, sliding his hands almost seductively down the detective's back, "Says the VIRGIN. Is THIS any better?" He asked sarcastically, taking note of the shiver that flowed through Sherlock's spine.
"Much better, John," he answered, his Adam's apple bobbing frantically as he struggled to take a large gulp. He leaned up, throwing his hands onto the headboard, meticulously fingers wrapping around the thin metal bars.
"Now," he cleared his throat, "If what Moore said was true, the bars should give a little if I squeeze tight enough." Sure enough, the moment he applied pressure, the bars came together.
"Hmm... Yes, so if this is true..." He mumbled on. Through his rambles, Sherlock continued the gentle rocking if his hips, almost mindlessly. John felt himself getting lost in the sensation.
"Hold on a second," Sherlock said, narrowing his eyes at the small, circular dents in the wall. That was odd. He rocked into John particularly hard, simultaneously forcing the blond to swallow down a surprised moan and causing the headboard to slam against the wall. Sherlock repeated the motion several times until a nicely sized, cylindrical dent formed in the wall, "Just as I expected! No matter how intimate they were getting, this headboard could never have made a dent like this," he said, tracing along it with his finger, "Unless..." he went down the board, tapping each individual bar before coming to a loose one, "HERE!" he tugged it easily free from its place, "Do you understand this, John? This bar created the bruises you found on Marilyn's shoulders, not her impact with the rubbish bin below. There was a struggle. Moore was lying."
Sherlock yanked himself up off of John, waving his fist in the air victoriously. He bounced around the room, pointing out things he found odd; the twisted ottoman at the foot of the bed, how the bottom drawer of the dresser was left slightly ajar. Everything was falling into place.
John just laid there awkwardly on the bed as the detective celebrated. He couldn't have moved even if he wanted to. A familiar heat wound its way into his loins, a result of Sherlock's stupid (glorious) grinding. The light nightgown did nothing to hide his very prominent erection and his only hope was that the brunet was so wrapped up in this case that he hadn't seen (or felt) it earlier.
Sherlock's voice echoed in from the bathroom, yelling something about inconsistencies and a semen stain on one of the towels.
"It's funny, John," he said when he reappeared, "Moore isn't as 'inadequate' in the bedroom as he tried to insist."
"That doesn't explain why the semen on her didn't match with the sample he gave us," John asked, almost meekly. He leaned back to tug the pillow under his head to well, over his head.
"Isn't it obvious? The reason why the semen didn't match was because there was another man here! Moore never even slept with her, he was just watching. He's covering for someone!"
"Oh- well," John stuttered, sitting up, "He never really saw her fall! He was in the bathroom-"
"-Wiping off his semen. He was a voyeur. Couldn't you tell by the way he reacted when he saw Donovan and Anderson kissing in the elevator?" he visibly winced. John was surprised he hadn't 'deleted' the memory already, "His position is also how he got to his mobile so quickly. He was never on the other side of the apartment-
"HE WAS TOO BUSY PUTTING THE BAR BACK INTO PLACE! Sherlock, you really are amazing!" he sprung up from the bed to congratulate the man, a wild smile on his face when he realized-
John sat back down quickly, bunching the sheet tightly in his lap, "These are great! You suppose Moore'd tell me where he got these from before we interrogate him? They-"
"For God's sake, John! I already felt it."
"Well- I- You were the one grinding against me. How was I supposed to react?"
"I know. There's no need to be ashamed. It's a perfectly acceptable bodily response."
"It's just-" John started before something caught his eye, "What about you?" he exclaimed pointing a finger at Sherlock's pants, where a very obvious bulge showed through the incredibly thin fabric. How could he have missed that before? "It seems like I'm not the only one with a problem here."
Sherlock cleared his throat, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot, "John-"
"What's the matter, Sherlock? 'It's a perfectly acceptable bodily response," he mocked, cheekily. Suddenly, the situation didn't seem so bad.
"I- We don't have time to deal with this. We must alert Lestrade of our findings. There's no doubt that him and his idiots are still drilling the next door neighbor," he turned around, but not before John saw the flush rise to the detective's face. He made a beeline for the door, only stopping to grab his coat and shrug it onto his shoulders, "Come along, John."
"Come along? I can't go anywhere in this! What did you do with my clothes?" he heard several rapid steps, "SHERLOCK!" he yelled, "SHERLOCK, MY CLOTHES!" he jumped up with every intention of jumping the man, but caught himself tangled in the sheets.
"There's no time. I'll see you at the Scotland Yard in twenty minutes!" Sherlock called back, before he heard the front door slam shut.
John could practically hear the smirk in that smug bastard's voice. He looked down at the racy gown (thankfully, his little "problem" was no longer as evident) then back at the door. He was on the complete other side of town. His wallet was in his pants, meaning that he didn't have the money for a taxi and he'd have to take 3 different public buses just to arrive there on time.
He slipped on his shoes by the door. He couldn't control the grin that wormed its way onto his face. He would get Sherlock back for this.