You were at Baker Street, sitting on John's old chair, with your best friend Sherlock sitting opposite you.
You sat curled up in the chair on the lazy Sunday afternoon, with your head buried in a book, not caring the least about, well, anything around you.
Sherlock, sitting opposite you with a huge encyclopedia on his lap, let out a deep sigh, and turned the page.
He glanced at the newly opened page briefly, before shutting the book so loudly that you jerked out of the perfect fictional dream that you were reading.
You sighed, and went back to reading your book.
Sherlock sat still for a few minutes, before turning on the telly. He flicked through random channels, and finally settled on one.
About fifteen minutes later, Sherlock realised something.
He had to pee.
He shifted his position and continued watching the show for another fifteen minutes.
This was boring. He flicked through the channels, and now settled on a movie.
Half an hour. Sherlock realised something else.
He didn't just have to pee, he needed to pee!
Badly. Desperately.
Gosh! This was so annoying!
He shifted the need to the back of his mind, and tried to focus on the movie.
After a while, Sherlock slowly crossed his legs at the thighs. And continued watching. It was just this slight nagging feeling. Nothing else, right?
Besides, he reminded himself that he'd held much more before. Like that time at school with (Y/N) when they were hiding from bullies. Or that time when they were on their first case. That was quite a few cups of tea!
But thinking about pee only made the feeling worse. Sherlock crossed his thighs tighter together.
This wasn't working. He changed the channel again. Something that was more interesting, something that would take his mind off this! He could, of course, go to the loo now, but he was obviously too lazy to walk all the way there.
He stopped at a show about chemistry experiments.
He got up briefly from his black chair, and sat down on it's wide armrest, with both his legs dangling down either side. He pressed his groin firmly on to the armrest and continued watching the show.
You looked up briefly at Sherlock sitting awkwardly on his armrest like he was riding a horse, and looked back down, puzzled.
Half an hour later, Sherlock felt more desperate. He swayed on the armrest, leaning forwards completely, pressing his crotch harder into the chair, with his eyes still on the screen. A distraction.
Sherlock gave up, and looked around, finding a small green pillow on the floor. He leaned forwards once again, bending down to reach the floor and grab the pillow. He picked it up, pressed it between his legs, and tried taking his mind off nature's call.
When this didn't make matters feel better, he gripped the encyclopedia between his legs and bit his lips.
"Sherlock, what's wrong?"
"Nothing. Why do you ask?" Sherlock frowned.
"Uh... it's just... you're moving around quite a bit. You're usually so still."
"Nothing's wrong at all." Sherlock said as he swayed forwards and backwards casually.
You frowned at the encyclopedia and buried your head in your book again.
Ten minutes.
Sherlock was desperate to pee. Extremely desperate. He slid down onto the floor, and sat on his knees, his heels pressing into his groin.
He tried looking as casual as possible, just sitting on the floor, watching telly. And then it got extreme.
Eyes still fixed on the screen, his hand travelled quickly to his thighs. And then he clutched his crotch tightly, while casually watching something about pH paper tests.
He sat there, hands gripping his groin, while you lifted your head up lazily again.
"Sherlock, what on earth is wro- what are you doing?"
"I need to pee, quite badly. Bladder's full."
"Then go pee! The loo's right over there!" You pointed a finger at the loo down the corridor.
"This show's interesting. Besides, I'm too lazy to walk all the way till there."
"Well I can't make it come to you, can I?!"
"Distract me"
"What?"
"I need a distraction. Talk about something. Anything! How's work?"
"I thought the show was your distraction?"
"Not working." Sherlock did a weird dance on the floor, with his hands still between his legs.
"Just get up and walk till there!"
"Too lazy."
"What the hell am I supposed to say to that?"
"Distract me." Sherlock was now leaning forwards until his chest touched his knees, hands pressing in tighter and tighter to hold in all that pee.
You huffed and continued reading, angrily.
Sherlock took one leg out from underneath him, and crossed his thighs together again, with his hands in between.
Then he moved about awkwardly for a while. He tried looking up at the television screen a while longer, before finally giving up and standing.
He could feel all the pressure of the pee sloshing in his full bladder.
He counted. Eleven steps to the loo. One step to the fireplace.
Fair enough. Why didn't he think of that earlier? He had been sitting right next to it!
"Magnussen was indeed a genius!" Sherlock cried.
"What?"
Sherlock stepped in front of the fireplace and unzipped his trousers. The resounding noise of Sherlock's much held-in pee hitting the fireplace loudly filled the room as he peed like a racehorse.
Sherlock let out a long, deep sigh of relief and smiled.
Still peeing, he turned his head to (Y/N). "Now, that was well needed."
"I told you so!"