Pathetic, John Watson
Sherlock (TV)
Characters: Sherlock Homes, John Watson
Rated Explicit (Because reasons)
Additional Tags: Johnlock, could be taken as pre-relationship, masturbation
Summary:
A/N: I'm sorry I did this, I am, I should just step away from the Sherlock fandom. I'VE LET YOU ALL DOWN.
"Good-night, John."
Sherlock doesn't so much as look up from the microscope he's bent over as he says this, and John hesitates for a moment in the doorway, before deciding that he'll never know how Sherlock figures all these things out and continuing on his way.
Of course, John has no plans of going to sleep.
In his defense, it's been a while, and he could certainly blame Sherlock for that, driving all of his girlfriends away, but John does suppose ti's not entirely his fault. John isn't exactly the best boyfriend there is.
He's really not one to do this – it never really feels right coming from his own hands, and morally degrading if anything – but he's getting a little bit desperate. He feels almost pathetic when he thinks about it, so he's not going to, not at all.
Of course, at the moment, he's hesitating, laid out across his bed with his fingers tapping away at his inner thigh. Yes, it's been a while.
He glances at the door, double checking to ensure that it's locked (he most certainly does not need anybody catching him doing this), and turning his cell phone off just in case. He even spares a glance in the corners of his room, because Sherlock has a habit of studying John's sleeping patterns for some experiment or another (it's happened on more than occasion that's for sure.)
He hums quietly to himself, closing his eyes as he slowly, meticulously, unbuttons his slacks. He stops again, huffing and staring at the ceiling. Pathetic, John, really.
He tells himself to not think about it, and carefully frees himself from his trousers, shoulders shivering as he strokes the length of the erection he pitifully already has. A sigh escapes him – it's been a little more than a while – as he wraps his fingers around it, squeezing slightly and pumping slowly at first, but steadily picking up pace.
He throws his head back against his mattress, struggling to keep his breathing evening, and feeling as idiotic as ever, but he continues his pace, fingers brushing along the head, collecting the pre-come there across his fingertips.
And then, there's a knock on his door.
"John? Where's your stethoscope?"
Shit.
As if Sherlock can see him (and knowing him, he probably can), John rushes to cover himself with a blanket and a pillow, cursing Sherlock out silently. "W-what?" he stammers out eventually, mortified by how breathy he sounds.
"Your stethoscope, I need it for this expiration I'm doing. I'd explain it to you, but it's rather complicated -"
"Right, um," John screws his eyes shut and flings an arm over his eyes. Fucking Sherlock. "It's on the kitchen table."
"I looked there, I assumed it's in your bag, which is in your room. May I come in?"
"No!" John says too quickly. "I mean, uh – I'm not wearing any trousers, and -"
"Oh, please," John can hear Sherlock roll his eyes. "I'll only be a minute, come on John, open this door."
"Alright, give me a minute."
It takes him more than a minute to collect himself, pull his slacks back up and button them, and fix his hair to make it look like he wasn't just masturbating like a teenager in the confines of his bedroom. When he opens the door, Sherlock's there, eyes squinted at him like he's scrutinizing him.
"What is it now?" John huffs, raising an eyebrow.
"Really, John, I'm not an idiot."
OH boy, here we go.
"I don't know why you're making such an attempt – a rather feeble one at that – to cover up what it was you were doing. It's obvious in the slight dilation of your pupils, the dried fluids on your fingertips, and not to mention how flustered you sound. You can do better than that, John," Sherlock says the last sentence like he's scolding him and John purses his mouth. "No matter, I'm just here for your stethoscope."
Sherlock doesn't wait for an invitation and pushes his away past John into his bedroom, going straight for the bag laid across the chair in the corner. "Also, you weren't doing it right."
"What?" John asks, face turning a brilliant red. Sherlock doesn't look up from his task as he digs through John's bag.
"You weren't doing it right."
John crosses his arms. "How would you know?" Of course, that's the worst thing you can do with Sherlock, is admit he's right.
"I've been studying your sleeping patterns," Sherlock replies, very matter of fact and John mentally kicks himself. He could've sworn there weren't any cameras!
As if reading his mind (or more accurately reading the expression on his face), Sherlock says, "It's behind your Sociology book," and, after unearthing John's stethoscope, heads towards the door.
When Sherlock's gone, John slumps against it.
Pathetic, John Watson. Pathetic.