Disclaimer - no profits made, no characters owned by me

Short one shot

Warnings : slight dom/sub, sensuality, curse words, and orgasms

Experiments of an Abstract Nature

John wouldn't ever describe himself as a nervous man – and with good conviction, as he wasn't a nervous man – but that never meant that he didn't get nervous, or felt a bit small. As loathe as he was to admit, he sometimes found himself feeling very down, and very small, and very easily flustered. As after all cases, during the strange limbo, between-cases time space in which Sherlock was a bored wreck, and John had his adrenaline-line cut off very suddenly, and Mrs. Hudson was out and about with a normal person's life, or acting as their not-house-keeper – as it always happens after a case, John found himself on a very low point in the flux between feeling bit depressed and feeling excited and happy. Just as after all cases, John sat in the living room with a warm cuppa in his hands, staring at the completed blog post that was only a click away from being posted. The case they'd completed – one involving burglaries and underground networks (ones that conflicted with Sherlock's network) and low-life aristocracy – had been completed that morning. The details, already mapped out as they occurred.; the plot, the commentary, Sherlock and the likes all interwoven and embellished (just a touch) to produce a successful entry – and just a swipe of the finger away.

Sometimes, he hated giving up part of his life to the world. But he had no idea why he felt like that and still clicked post.

John clicked the blue post button. He closed his laptop, setting it down on the table with a contemplative look in his eyes as he returned to his cuppa.

There you go, world. John's life, ready for entertainment.

"John, you've hardly said a thing about the smoke from the kitchen," Sherlock said, rounding the kitchen corner while taking off goggles. "I was alarmed, and thought you dead, comatose, or incredibly depressed. Now that I see you are not two of the three," he gave John a thorough, overdramatized once-over. John fidgeted behind the scrutiny. "I will ask you why you are so upset."

John chuckled, a smile lighting his rather emotionless face, forcing him back into the reality of now. "Wrong. You're not very adept with reading emotions, are you?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, turning his back on the doctor to the back wall that was, currently, piled half-high with stacks of books, small boxes, and other nick-knacks that were in the previous case's suspects' storage. John watched his back, clad in warm, woven black fibers, and waited for something. The only sound to be heard, should one listen closely enough to pass Sherlock's rifling, was the light rain in an unfavorably wet February. When Sherlock said nothing, continuing on in his little world while he concentrated on rifling through the un-explored contents of the boxes, John cleared his throat. "Well, I'm not incredibly depressed, nor am I upset."

"Clearly." Sarcasm? Or disinterest? John could never tell with Sherlock.

"And what is that supposed to mean?"

The rifling stopped, and Sherlock turned quickly on his heel to face his blogger (who was taking a drink from a ridiculously large mug). "Clearly, you're not upset. Just as I said."

"I have a feeling there's something you're getting at."

"Astute observation. Obviously."

John rarely ever wished for Sherlock to speak more – but hell if he knew what he was talking about, and fuck it all if whatever it was didn't give him a nervous tightness in his stomach. "Would you mind just spitting it out? It's getting late, and my cuppa is cold, and the flat is cold, and for god's sake, won't you take care of the smoke? What's gotten into your infernal mind? Why can't you just sleep like a normal person would after a bloody case like we've had? What is it that makes you infinitely bored?" John only stopped because he felt funny in the head – not enough breathing. Or, possibly, too much frustration-turn-anger.

His eyes fell away from Sherlock's after a second, no feeling up to the labor of keeping eye-contact. He hated feeling so naked around him, sometimes – the way he can not only tell that you are nervous, buy why you're nervous, and how you're not only nervous but you're sad, and a bit guilty, and… John hated being so damn exposed.

There wasn't that much smoke. It smelt like overflowing water on a heater. It was clearing up all on its own. "Clearly, John, you're not upset, or incredibly depressed – you're sad. You just spent ten minutes staring at your blog, growing more frustrated and conflicted with every minute. I've had the fortune of knowing you long enough to know that you've become dreaded to the obligation of rules and the expectation – possibly from yourself – that requires you update your blog."

This man knew everything. John knew better than to think so, but at that moment, it was hard not to feel underdressed(metaphorically speaking). Feeling hesitation to speak, he was thankful for the action taken by Sherlock to keep there from being a silence that he would not be able to fill with answering words – thankful, that is until there was a shadow cast on his gently swirling beverage. Looking up to the obscuring figure that was Sherlock, he swallowed down the dry lump in his tightening throat and prepared his lungs to make proper use of their storage capacity. What escaped him was infinitely small to even his own ears: "I suppose, I mean that might… might be true."

Sherlock quirked an eye brow, tilting his head in a way that seemed to say I'm quite aware of that. "Do you mind enlightening me as to what might not be exactly on mark? For accuracies' sake, you will see."

Correct him – yes, you're wrong about the huge lot of it? – or concede, like his words weren't spoken with the confidence of one who knows themselves to be speaking to the point and with certainty? John set his cup aside, looking around the room for distractions, for reasons not to look back, for things to focus on other than the feel of his quickening heart or unnerved hands. "It's just the feeling of… letting the case down? Yes, that is it, isn't it? Letting it drop off suddenly, no waning, no… decline, just… a sudden drop. It's over, and I'm still in case mode. And I still want to be doing something – something that involves more than telling the world what we've done. It seems to feel like I've blogged to the point where I don't want to type… Sherlock, uh… what are you doing?"

John would have been mad that Sherlock was (seemingly) turning away from his little divulging monologue, but Sherlock only turned his attention from him to the box at the back wall. He was back too quickly for John to protest, and he was placing something on the table directly in front of John.

A mirror? "You're nervous."

Why was he nervous? John nodded, though he was entirely distrustful of his voice.

"You've lost control of life, sometimes?"

Another nod. "Yes."

"Then, my dear Watson, would you like to give your control to me?"

And what does that mean, John thought, tilting his head back and keeping his gaze on Sherlock. John wanted to be able to do what Sherlock could do – he wanted to be able to discern intent based on simple glances of the surface. He wanted to know what he would be doing if he gave his control to Sherlock. But, he supposed, the answer to the question relied on the answer to another, more simple question:

Does he trust Sherlock?

The answer is yes… and maybe? He trusts him with his life, and rightfully so – he'd saved him so many times, it was dwarfing. But then, how about with his heart? With his control? With his – were he a crippling philosophizer – soul?

Sherlock waited for John's resolution, saying nothing as John came to a decision, however ill informed or nervous he may be. "… Yes… yes, I suppose I will… it'd be nice to know what you'd be doing, though. I don't think that's too much to ask, but under the circumstances, I would feel more at ease if –"

Sherlock walked to the back of John's chair, standing behind him and as he could clearly see from the large, self-sufficient mirror, that he was staring down at him. "John, you will do what I say. Is that understood?"

John's fingers fluttered at his sides, on the chair's arms. "Yes."

Sherlock smiled, and the sheer seduction, the implication, the emotion that was present, made his chest flutter with anticipation – for what, he didn't know.

"Good."

Sherlock's hands came to rest on John's rigid shoulders, gripping firmly through the knitted fibers of his jumper. Dear god, how much that small contact did to John, the things it made him feel deep within himself; his breath caught in his throat like there was a knot in it, and he looked to the far wall to keep himself from watching the intense stare Sherlock was concentrating on him as he moved his hands to John's neck. The man was watching everything, examining it, finding the reason behind his shaking hands and flushing cheeks.

"John, look at me."

It wasn't that John was a nervous man – he'd seen life in the army and made it out alive. He wasn't a nervous man, but right now, he didn't have his words at his disposal, or the discipline to keep his eyes from his hands, or the control to keep his breathing even.

He tried to give him the attention that was demanded of him… but his embarrassment wouldn't let him. Then, if he looked at the mirror, and Sherlock looked into him, he'd see how much he wanted: how much he wanted to be under his thumb to be controlled by his whims and desires.

Sherlock ran his right hand up and through John's tame, dirty blonde hair, forcing his straying attention on that of the mirror, and his glinting eyes. Was that amusement he saw?

"Do as I say. Remember, you are now under my command: you are no longer at your own mercy."

John loved his phrasing – so, he really did see, didn't he? He could see how much he wanted to be taken control of, and how much he wanted Sherlock to do it. How Sherlock is the only one he wants to be controlled by.

John cleared his throat. "Okay… okay… I understand."

"Good."

Sherlock ran his thumbs over his ears, behind his ears… his fingers softly combing through his hair, then tugging. John tried with all his strength to repressed his erection, but it was painfully hard to do when watched Sherlock dip his head. He thought Sherlock was going to kiss, him, to pull his head to the side by the lead of his hair and lick and kiss and nip at his neck. But he didn't. Sherlock pulled his head slightly to the right. His lips hovered over his ear.

Oh, dear god, his breath… it shook John. John shivered, his neck being overcome with warmth and prickling heat and he just had to close his eyes before he could get a good look at them in the mirror.

Sherlock's lips parted, taking a deliberate breath. His voice was strong, unfaltering, purposefully deep and laced with something not unlike determination. "I watch you quite a lot, my dear John. I can see you when you think my attention is elsewhere. I know exactly what turns you on. I know that you don't like being turned on all by your lonesome… because, I hear the confliction in your voice when you whisper my name…"

"Dear god, Sher –" John tried to move, but he was bothered, and shaking, and the hand in his hair was fiercely determined to keep him listening to what he has to say.

"Be good, I told you – listen to me, do as I say. Understand? Good. You have one more left."

"Oh…okay…"

A finger stroked his neck, and Sherlock's lips touched John's ear. "You think I'm not able to hear you moan, that I am too distracted to hear you when you… scurry upstairs. And, really John, you underestimate my curiosity. I've listened to you before, and I'm almost shocked at how damn filthy your mind can be. The things you beg me to do to you…"

John was mortified and embarrassed and had no idea how he ended up like this. Only a few moments ago, he was blogging… and now, he had an impressively visible hard-on and the willpower of a stationary pen. All he had left was control over his voice, control not to moan every time hot, disgustingly hot air melted on his skin.

Sherlock started to retreat, petting John's hair – his neck was bare, stripped of its sensation and left with coldness.

"Open your eyes," Sherlock ordered, tugging his head back into place. John had to listen. He wouldn't let him self not listen, but if there were a god, he would have killed him on spot to grant mercy on his poor, embarrassed, over-flushed soul. Sherlock bore his eyes into that of his reflection, anything but pure. He was calm, cool, collected, incredibly not-flushed. John was everything opposite of calm, cool, collected – he was a heavy-breathing, stiff shouldered mess who refused to let his mouth open for fear of moaning. Sherlock smiled, rolling John's head to the left, languidly, staring and teasing John.

He ducked again, watching John as his chest moved with the uneven tempo of his breath. His eyes turned down to the exposed skin on John's blush-blanched neck. He sighed, heavily – John shuddered, a sound building deep in his throat.

"How badly you try to keep composure," Sherlock spoke against his skin, below his ear. "How badly you fight to keep control, even when you know that you've lost it…"

John's feet started to squirm, his toes clenching, his tendons stretching.

"How much control do you have if my breath is enough to make you come?"

"Oh, dear, fu—ck…" John's body shuddered when his moan followed his lungs release. He feared actually coming in his pants – untouched, like a teenager…

Sherlock chuckled, a satisfied, high-pitched huff that John could hear the smile in. "Oh, you liked that?"

John was certain that that was not rhetorical, and nodded. Sherlock clicked in disapproval. "Speak, John, when I ask you questions."

His eyes misted, but fuck if he could help it—he was overwhelmed… it felt too strong not to make him shudder, to make his voice quiet and breathy and colored in guilt and desire. "Ye…s… I liked… it…"

It was good enough for Sherlock. "There, there," he pecked John's neck, making him clench in momentary sensory over-powering. "John, have I ever told you how much I need you? Because, I do – I need you, and will never not need your brilliant mind, your sentiment, your admiration that I frankly don't feel I deserve… John, I need you, and adore hearing you come when thinking of me… I love hearing your breath rattle when I kiss you," he said, licking Johns neck before wrapping his lips around it.

"Oh, god… Sherlock…" John's eye's were sealed shut. Breathing heavily, he moaned, "Sherlock…."

Sherlock sucked down his contracting neck, feeling the tendons that were strung taut with need. He felt John's moans vibrate on his tongue, and his left hand began to stroke his hair in encouragement of the small, senseless moans John made.

"Ah-haah… ahh, go-ah-d , nnn—oh… She…erlo…ck…"

Sherlock could feel John near his edge, and John was accidentally rubbing against the denim of his pants, though his hands were too mortified to consider masturbation in front of Sherlock.

Sherlock stood, quickly moving to sit on the couch, already having disengaged from his coat and kitchen robe. He took John's flustered – unraveled – appearance in, noting the stain in his cheeks, his ears, neck, and the swell of his bottom lip from being bit every so often.

John tried to cover, to turn away. "Sher—"

Sherlock placed his left palm over John's pants, feeling the firm erection that pressed underneath, peaking through the fibers with moisture. John yelped, looking caught in a trap, embarrassed beyond all measure. He couldn't move. Sherlock grinned slightly, leaning in and sucking on the opposite side of John's neck before he could form any cohesive statement.

"Ahh… god, fucking hell…"

John couldn't help it, no matter how much he wanted not to thrust against Sherlock's firm hand. "No, John – you're not allowed to move, you understand?"

"Yes… fucking Christ, yes… I.. do…"

Sherlock mercifully gave John three strokes in good spirit, and John's shoulders relaxed completely, and his head rolled back on its own, submitting to Sherlock's sucking.

It was only a minute before Sherlock pulled back and began stroking.

"Oh, god…"

"Look at me."

John looked past his cheeks, and Sherlock hovered over him.

"I… I can't… god, bloody hell, Sherlock – Sherlock, I'm – I'm going to… stop, no, no, no, please, don't look at – "

Sherlock was looking. He wouldn't stop looking as John came against his hand, inside his soiled pants. He wouldn't stop staring into John, even as his strokes lessened, and John's breathing couldn't settle into rhythm.

"Nn… oh, god, I'm… sorry…"

Why would he apologize? "What for?"

John didn't want to say it, biting his lip. Sherlock pressed his softening erection somewhat forcefully, calling him to his attention. "You will listen to me, or I will punish you – that was the last warning. Why are you apologizing?"

John groaned, biting his lip then letting it go. "For coming…"

"I am fairly certain that I had a large role in your orgasm."

"I'm sorry… you had to do it."

"What makes you think I do anything out of obligation?"

John's eyes fluttered, and he looked to his pants, to where Sherlock's still hand lay, limp, very much like his almost-completely soft dick. "I don't know, I just didn't think you would do… this, other wise…"

Sherlock leaned in, pressing his lips chastely to John's dry ones. "John, I once said that you should consider me married to my work – that does not make me uninterested. You are a part of my work, as well as my life. I've known about your secret over me for a very long time, as I've proved – why would I have had you stay with me if I didn't approve of your interests? Please, tell me, I'm incredibly interested as to why I might do something so problematic if I didn't already have interest in you?"

John almost smiled, but was still to shocked and… confused to do anything bud agree. "Okay… okay… I guess… Here, let me…"

He reached a hand out to palm Sherlock, abruptly cutting the detective off before he could say anything. Sherlock was hard, and moaned at the clumsy friction. "John… joh—hhn…."

Sherlock's head lolled into John's neck crook, and John looked at them in the mirror.

Sherlock certainly was not asexual.