Once Sherlock heard the front door close, he immediately stepped away from the crates of books and slumped down on the sofa. John had left to clean himself up for his date with Lestrade. Anymore Sherlock scowled when he thought about the inspector, which was a very unfortunate reaction. Before he began his relationship with John, Lestrade was probably one of the closest acquaintances in Sherlock's life. Although he would never admit it, Sherlock owed his life to the inspector who had helped him through his drug habit and supplied him with much needed, interesting cases.
However, none of that mattered because Sherlock felt something toward Lestrade that he had never experienced: jealousy, bitter, vile, mind-numbing jealousy. What made matters worse was that they never would have even met had it not been for Sherlock, not that they ever showed him gratitude for his introduction. His mind kept going over that first night and what would have happened had he not left John at the crime scene. People had told him before that his compulsion to show off would lead him into trouble and Sherlock was beginning to believe them. He had wanted desperately to impress the man with his deductive skills when he magically showed up with the suitcase, but that damn cab driver interfered. Sherlock couldn't help thinking that had John not been abducted he would be living at 221B where he belonged instead of playing house with a divorced policeman.
Sherlock was perturbed when John moved into Lestrade's flat, but that was nothing compared to when he learned about their sexual relationship. Had John lived at Baker Street, Sherlock would be able to drive away anyone he tried to court, but he was helpless to stop Lestrade from seducing John with his friendly attitude and rugged good looks. The most disturbing development was that ever since the day Sherlock had discovered their affair, he could not stop thinking about John in a sexual manner.
The former army doctor had awakened Sherlock's long dormant sex drive and his body seemed intent on making up for time lost. With a deep resigned sigh, Sherlock stood and walked toward his bedroom. In some respects, he was quite ashamed about what he was about to do but at the same time, he was incredibly excited. Although John had remade the bed with his normal military precision, Sherlock knew he hadn't changed the sheets because the detective had hid them in the empty room upstairs. Leaning over the bed, Sherlock took a long sniff of the pillow, confirming what he had hoped for, the imbedded scent of John Watson.
As Sherlock began taking off his clothes, he couldn't help imagining the smug I told you so he would receive from his brother. Since he had met John, Mycroft kept insisting that he was a perfect match for Sherlock and a sexual relationship was inevitable. Not wanting to give in to Mycroft's taunts, Sherlock denied the allegation every time and insisted that he would never break his vow of chastity, something he had maintained for the last 13 years.
For all of Mycroft's teasing, Sherlock was able to have his moment of revenge weeks before:
Mycroft had stopped at Baker St. to once again request Sherlock's assistance on some boring government case. When Sherlock refused, Mycroft sighed in his dramatic long suffering big-brother way and glanced about the flat.
"Your housekeeping skills really are quite atrocious," Mycroft said with a smirk.
Sherlock, who was slumped in his armchair, only huffed in response.
Mycroft adapted a particularly devious expression and continued, "It's no wonder Dr. Watson chose not to be your flatmate. For all your insults towards Gregory Lestrade, the man's home is at least livable."
In retrospect, Sherlock felt his words were probably a bit harsh considering the depth of feelings he knew his brother had for Lestrade, but tact never was his strong suit. "Yes, I suppose livable is appealing but the daily sex Lestrade provides makes for quite the bonus as well."
Sherlock could barely restrain his gleeful smile when Mycroft's face turned from smug haughtiness to absolute devastation in a matter of seconds. With a strained voice, Mycroft croaked out, "How long have they been . . ."
"Fucking?" Sherlock finished. Although normally not one for swearing, Sherlock could not resist the chance to compound Mycroft's misery. Raising his handkerchief to his mouth, Mycroft nodded stiffly.
Sherlock leaned back on the sofa and crossed his legs as he answered, "Oh, for a couple weeks now. Seems John even met Lestrade's sons and they were quite taken with him."
Just as Sherlock knew he would, Mycroft visibly cringed at his words. Years before, Mycroft had come around to Lestrade's flat to collect a high and disruptive Sherlock when he overheard one of Lestrade's sons refer to him as the 'creepy bloke with the umbrella.' Mycroft, who had never been comfortable with children, was mortified by the comment and convinced he would never make it into Lestrade's good graces.
It was difficult but Sherlock was able to stifle his laughter until after Mycroft had quickly fled the flat looking like he was about to be sick. However, his joy was short lived as he was reminded that he had internally reacted in the very same manner when he learned about the relationship, but his despair was lessened some knowing that Mycroft was suffering as well.
Sherlock pulled back the duvet and laid out on the sheets, the familiar scent of John already making him hard. Closing his eyes, Sherlock tried to imagine the things John would say to him such as how beautiful, so gorgeous, you're perfect. There's no doubt that John would be kind and flattering, nothing like Sebastian and his friends. The times he allowed them to touch him, he was always high making the memories fuzzy but he could never forget their words, savagely spat while they defiled him, whore, slut, freak. No. John would be loving and affectionate just how he was as a friend and colleague.
Friend. After Mycroft confirmed John and Lestrade's relationship, he started his campaign to help Sherlock leave the friend zone, at least that's what one of the magazine articles Mycroft had sent over called it. He wasn't sure if Mycroft had picked them out himself or had his assistant do it, but they were articles from magazines like Cosmopolitan that gave instructions on how to change a relationship from friends to lovers. Sherlock had scoffed at them in the beginning but his own desperation for John led him to reading and rereading the womanly drivel.
While at first Sherlock was only too happy to have a friend, he came to realize that being trapped in the friend zone was some sort of purgatory more excruciating than being alone. He supposed it was no surprise that Mycroft expected him to take action because, despite all his brother's seeming confidence and infallibility, the man was terrified of relationships. He had been harboring his crush on Lestrade since he first met the inspector but could never manage even a drinks invite.
Sherlock couldn't help but feel somewhat superior that he had at least kissed John, even if he did get scared and brushed it off immediately after. The thought of that kiss made Sherlock harder as he reached down and lightly ran his fingers across his cock. John had surprisingly soft lips that Sherlock found himself staring at all too frequently. It had been almost too much when John had come from Lestrade's office with his lips pink and swollen from obvious use. To be engaged in something like that in the day time in Lestrade's office in a police station, illustrated clearly that John was a bold and adventurous lover.
Between the fingers of his left hand, Sherlock held John's dog tags that he had nicked from the doctor's flat a few weeks ago. While alone in his bedroom, surrounded by John's earthy scent, Sherlock imagined that John had just given them to him and then laid him out on the bed. Imagining John's skilled doctor's hand, Sherlock began to slowly stroke his hard length with the echoes of John's voice, brilliant . . . amazing.
Sherlock reached over to the drawer next to his bed and took out a bottle of mineral oil that he used in experiments because of its light texture and lack of odor. A small drop was all he needed to start with as he mixed it with the beads of pre-cum forming on his tip. The liquid enabled him to move his hand faster and harder causing the softest of moans to escape his lips. John would then ask him so sweetly, 'Do you want me to open you up?'
Sherlock would gaze into his warm blue eyes and nod while he spread his thighs. Taking the oil, Sherlock slicked up his hand and moved it down between the cleft of his arse. Starting with light movements, he began massaging the opening, making himself gasp out loud at the intense sensation. When he felt himself relaxing, he slipped in the tip of his middle finger and moaned, "Yes, John, deeper."
Sliding his finger in deeper, Sherlock continued to stroke his cock with the other hand, paying close attention to freshly exposed leaking head. Soon he was able to take in his index finger as well and scissor his hole open wider making his toes curl into the soft cotton sheets. The discomfort and slight pain began to fade into a deep, lingering pleasure, allowing him to add a third finger.
Sherlock imagined John, satisfied that his lover was ready, would begin a skillful assault on his sensitive prostate. His fingers brushed against the gland with each thrust as the stroking of his cock sped up frantically. Bringing up his knees, Sherlock planted his feet on the mattress and raised his hips off the bed as he buried his face in the pillow, encasing him in John's unique scent. His body trembled as he felt his orgasm building and threatening to tear a scream of ecstasy from his throat. As he reached climax, shooting come across his chest and abdomen, Sherlock used his last remaining restraint to muffle his cries.
Spent and exhausted, he lay spread out on his bed and faded into a post-orgasmic haze. When his mind reassembled itself and he was able to move again, Sherlock clutched at the stolen dog tags and sighed. During his 13 years of self-imposed chastity, his only sexual behavior being the occasional wank in the shower, Sherlock had prided himself as being above carnal impulses, a man stronger than those around him. However, John Watson had seeped in through the cracks and awoken the human within, igniting a fire that Sherlock did not realize he was missing and never wanted to be without again.
Even though he knew it was childish and desperate, Sherlock eventually rose from his bed, showered, and called the theater to add a third ticket.