It was late in the afternoon when John Watson walked into the front room of 221B Baker Street, to find Sherlock sitting there, uncharacteristically facing the door, as if anticipating John's arrival. He was even more beautiful than usual in the flickering light of the fireplace, light that set his smouldering eyes and coal hair ablaze. John's gaze slid down to the burgundy dressing gown, and he hankered after what lay beneath. The sudden swell of heat within him was not a result of the blazing fire, only his fiery loins. He wanted Sherlock. More than he ever had done before. He came commandingly into the room, like a matador, sweeping his eyes around for Mrs Hudson. Too many times had her dusting got in the way of his attempts at Sherlock, but no more! He would happily have pushed Mrs Hudson into the fireplace had she been present. The long afternoons of polite conversation only thinly veiling the rabid fever of sexual excitement could go on longer. They had reached a great precipice, and must fall together or retreat forever. The imagined liaisons on the coffee table could no longer be contained in his mind, they had to break free. 'Jon?' Sherlock almost whispered, his voice weak with hankering, the hand holding his teacup already quivering with excitement 'Would you like some tea?'
'FUCK THE TEA!' Watson cried, and threw himself at Sherlock, who, startled dropped the teacup. The scalding liquid began to sear his skin, but valiantly, John ripped off the sopping dressing gown, and began to lick the tea off, tenderly and hungrily. Sherlock threw his head back in desire and groaned like a gorilla in labour. John worked his way over Sherlock's body, licking and sucking the tea from every crevice, finally settling between Sherlock's legs. He drew in a ragged breath before diving down to Sherlock's manhood, like a deep sea diver searching for precious COCK jewels. Like a snorkel, he took Sherlock's whole penis and testicles into his mouth and moaned gently to the tune of 'She'll be coming round the mountain'. Sherlock squealed with delight, and filled John's mouth up like a cream cake. They both collapsed with the shock of so sudden and volcanic an eruption. Sherlock curled up into a ball, and John slowly rocked him. They stayed that way for what seemed like an eternity, until Sherlock began to feel the stirrings of lust once more, when he could see the outline of John's penis through the trousers he was still wearing. It was like a coiled viper, ready to strike. 'John, permit me to make a deduction? Either you've got a pipe in your pocket, or you're just pleased to see me' drawled Sherlock, still in a post-orgasmic haze.
'Well, as we're characters from the contemporary BBC Sherlock' said Watson, cheekily 'I doubt it's a pipe'.
And with that, they were off again, grappling, biting, kissing, panting like wild, untameable beasts. But before John even had time to remove his trousers, a noise outside alerted them to an intruder.
'Hiii-iiii!' sung a cheerful and unmistakably Irish voice in the corridor. Sherlock and John sprung apart like they'd been electrocuted. Silhouetted against the dim hallway light stood Jim Moriarty. 'Well, with Moffat as executive producer, what else could I expect?' he chimed, looking down upon the sexual bomb-site of the living room; the spilled tea, the strewn clothes, the inexplicable and somewhat worrisome presence of a large pineapple. 'So... Gentlemen' Moriarty continued, never removing his gaze from the pineapple 'it appears you don't need me to well and truly fuck you, you've already got that covered'. He smirked and adjusted the cuffs on his shirt. John and Sherlock exchanged glances again, thinking the same thing. A slight incline of John's head was all the confirmation Sherlock needed. 'If you don't get to beat us, why not join us?' he drawled.
'Nooo' he slowly replied 'you're on the side of the angels, and I am very much in need of a devil'.
'Do you not remember?' whispered Sherlock 'I may be on the side of angels, but don't, for one second, think that I am one.' He announced these last few syllables with such passion, such burning, that it was all the convincing Moriarty needed, even with Watson's timid contribution of 'uhm, I'm no angel either'. 'Unbutton me' Moriarty commanded, and spread his arms. When Sherlock remained on the floor, John sprang up to Moriarty's aid and began slowly unbuttoning his suit buttons. 'Careful' Moriarty whispered softly in John's ear 'it's hand-tailored'.
TO BE CONTINUED