A/N This is how I thinkSherlock might actually, probably, address the problem of persistent and distracting thoughts.
The World's Oldest Profession
Years ago she was, not exactly a whore, but a high-class professional in a cohort of paid 'companions' to some of London's most highly regarded and influential figures. She'd presented herself at 221B in an absolute frenzy of fear. After a bit of arm-twisting from Mycroft, and during a particularly dry spell of cases, Sherlock had eventually been persuaded to help her out of an indelicate and potentially lethal situation occasioned by the misuse of her own tools of the trade: a big mouth and a ready tongue.
The case was a 4 on its best day and took no time at all, but the poor young woman had been nearly overcome with relief and undying gratitude. These days, she would appear to anyone observing her outside of the Baker Street flat as just another well-dressed, if slightly over-groomed, client.
The rules were very strictly followed; she had learnt her lesson in discretion well. He would signal his request by the established means; she was never to contact him first. She was never to speak to him. Not a word must pass between them. No touch other than what was absolutely necessary for the carrying out of her service. She would let her brunette hair down before beginning.
He could go for a very, very long time without resorting to this.
Normally if he didn't have a case he could at least distract his rebelling mind by pestering John, or perhaps running experiments in testing Mrs. Hudson's patience. But every once in a while, the damnable stars would seem to align - sending John off to a girlfriend's flat (again), Mrs. Hudson to visit some out-of-town relative, and Lestrade's cases into the realm of grammar school level complexity.
Drugs were no longer a convenient option, and the patches would not help with this particular problem .
Because that is when his thoughts would spin away from morbid puzzles and deranged criminals and threaten instead to fixate upon her. Even high functioning sociopaths could not entirely escape the chains of human endocrinology.
The jibes weren't really very far from the mark: though he had come inside of a woman on more than one occasion, it wasn't in the way that counted. He had a low opinion in general of expending his energy and time toward fulfilling biological imperatives, something that got him into frequent trouble with a nagging flatmate whenever Sherlock passed the 2 day mark without eating or sleeping.
Recognizing the signs straightaway and taking care of the problem was the key to restoring his working mind as quickly as possible, he knew. This wasn't just a bodily inconvenience that could be efficiently dispatched with in the shower. No, his mind was the rebel here. Ever the refuge and a prison, it required careful management.
He must be allowed to cycle through those moments that had rebelliously catalogued themselves into his mind palace. Concentration, then, was called for. Hunched over himself and grunting like an animal would accomplish nothing.
Viewing porn was completely out of the question. Porn was unfathomably dull. How anyone could find the loud over-gasping of comically proportioned humanoids the least bit appealing completely eluded him. The more oft-accessed denizens populating John's laptop appeared to Sherlock to be result of the Isle of Dr. Moreau having got somehow enfolded into the confines of the American Playboy Mansion. Oh how convenient seeing-but-not-observing must be!
And so he would dress impeccably as per usual, show his former client in, and then seat himself in his favorite armchair. Only once did he even remove his jacket; the outside weather had been unseasonably warm.
With head leaned all the way back to rest against the chair, eyes closed, legs splayed, and a deep breath - he could begin the tour of that most base level of his mind palace:
That painted mouth...
Such a petite frame. And he'd memorized her measurements on sight...
How she could switch between being the consummate professional one moment, to practically simper at him the next, and back again in a blink- like it was so easy to tackle the two things at once. It both irritated him intensely and made him envious...
Of course she manipulated him - tried- leaving a gift in his flat associating that bloody red wrapping with that bloody red lipstick. Why do men seem mystified by the machinations of women? It was so obvious... So calculated. And none the less potent for the transparency...
"You're having dinner with me." Something she'd wished he'd say, and he crushed it.
(Hmm, regret is not a sexy emotion. Redirect.)
It may not appear so to the average observer, but her every outfit was a costume of a sort. What did she wear when she was alone, in the comfort of her own space? How he wished he could see...
Scent is always an important component to any investigation. It is not to be underestimated. One quick peck to the cheek had brought her close enough for him to get a satisfying, dizzying sniff...
That chestnut hair, he'd finally had the chance to see how it could hang in long, gentle waves. And at his home, his base of operations she'd done this. Was she trying to torture him? Yes, of course she was, only him. Just for him...
(He allowed himself to slip just a little, momentarily lifting his head and opening his hooded eyes just enough to peer down at a brunette head bobbing up and down.)
Just being in the same vicinity of both her and a stupid riding crop had nearly overwhelmed him on the spot...
Her chosen profession made her an expert on the human body. The things she could do for him, TO him...
(As if on cue, a deft movement of tongue had him sucking in a quick breath through his nose, exhaling in a breathy shout.)
The way her hair was usually kept swept up and away from that delicate, pale neck...
Crimson fingernails on long, nimble fingers...
The hungry look that flashed in her eyes when he'd said something particularly brilliant...
Small breasts, obviously, but OH - how some precisely placed fingerings could elicit symphonies from those peaks...
...
White knuckles grasped the end of the armrests as all focus was suddenly whisked away from lucid thought and paused dramatically- for a short, bright moment. There. Finally, some relief.
Blissful relaxation of both body and mind. Of a kind which he used to chase after with drugs. Only there were no telltale traces of evidence left behind to betray him. She was, after all, a professional.
If Mycroft had noticed the (infrequent) visits of this same client, which was likely, he'd never indicated the fact. For one, it was he who had put her forcibly in Sherlock's way to begin with. And two, knowing that the danger of actual intercourse taking place was nil, Mycroft chiefly wished to avoid the prospect of little brother poking about in his private 'dalliances.' All of which Sherlock had long known about, of course. Really - there's just no accounting for taste.
Sherlock felt her give him a small squeeze just above his right knee. Head still back and eyes still shut - only gently this time and not tensed in concentration - he hastily tucked himself back in, smoothing his clothes back to their proper state. They still clung to him in places from sweat, but it wasn't too bad.
Sitting up a bit and steepling his hands together, he would bask in the newfound relaxation, pausing only to fling an arm toward the not inconsiderably burdened envelope by the door.
She eased up off of her knees, grateful for the pillow he'd graciously provided for her use. He was a good man, Sherlock. Forever grateful for his help, she'd have gladly helped him out with his problem the few times he'd requested it over the years, but he always offered payment for her services.
She didn't always take it; it depended upon the proximity to the political season and how many repairs had already been done to her expensive designer shoes. Part of the uniform and all that.
It was a bit sad, really. Clients had their reasons for employing her and in her time she'd probably just about encountered them all. He was certainly alone. But was he actually lonely? He didn't seem the type.
Gingerly descending the stairs in her high heels, she paused a moment to glance back at the door. Perhaps she'd been wrong about him all along. This time - and she couldn't be entirely sure because it came out in mostly a strangled gasp - she could have sworn she'd heard him exclaim...
- Molly! -
A/N So, was he thinking of who you were thinking of?