It's been an excruciatingly dull day. No cases, not even a glimmering of something interesting in the paper. Sherlock feels akin to a doll with its strings cut. A black mood is rolling in, clouding his mind, trickling into his muscles. Sherlock has tried to fight it with experiments and even a brief amount of physical exercise. Alas, both were sharply vetoed by John's protests and Mrs Hudson's worried flutters about the noise. Now he lays on the couch, re-examining the fibers that make up its outer layer. Nothing new to see.
God, he's bored.
"John, what are you doing?" Sherlock's mental fog is abruptly pierced by John's hands on his body, rolling him over and pulling him off the couch. It doesn't sound interesting to fall today (head injury likely, perhaps a broken arm if he lands just right...), so Sherlock finds his feet and tries to turn, to look at John. John stops him by gripping his upper arms, propelling him forward.
"You like puzzles. Hell, you need puzzles, if that's what these depressive episodes are about. Figure it out." John sounds exasperated but resolute. Sherlock's never heard quite that tone before; it worries him.
"We're going to your bedroom. You're manhandling me – indicating a dominant mood swing-" Impact with the bed takes his breath away for a brief second. Sherlock turns his head and glares at John, who is looking down on him. "John, I'm not in the mood." He pushes up off the bed, getting ready to return to his thinking in the living room.
John crawls on the bed and pushes him sharply back down. "You're sulking, you're bored, there're no cases. If your mind can't be engaged, maybe your body can. Down." John pushes him firmly into the sheets, preventing another rise.
Sherlock feels his lips purse, his eyes squint. "I don't want to have sex."
"Wrong. This isn't sex, this just is me taking over for a bit." John rolls his eyes at Sherlock's expression. "Just try it. If this doesn't work I'll let you go back to the couch. I'm sure it will be happy to see you."
Sherlock acquiesces, turning his face the other direction, grumbling. "Couches have no feelings, they're inanimate."
"So they're all sociopaths, too, I take it? No wonder you like each other so much." Sherlock prepares a sharp rebuttal for this ridiculous line of reasoning, but feels John's weight shift on the bed. It's suddenly a bit harder to breathe, to talk, with John straddling his back, leaning down; his warm hands resting on Sherlock's shoulders. "You stay here, alright?"
Sherlock bites off his complaints. He did agree to do this. "Yes, John." Sherlock drones, going through the motions of their routine, feeling himself relax a bit in spite of himself.
"Good." John says nothing further, just begins to take off his own clothing. Sherlock hears the rustle of fabric over hair, buttons being undone. John's weight shifts slightly, and Sherlock interprets the blurred shape falling to the side as John's jumper. There is the whine of a zip. Sherlock stiffens.
John's reaction is immediate, a hand on his back, gentle this time. "Shh, I'm just getting comfortable, and you really don't want me wearing jeans for this. Are you okay?"
"Yes, I'm fine." Sherlock snaps, annoyed at himself for his doubt, annoyed at John for reassuring him, for thinking he needs reassurance.
John retreats to the end of the bed to remove his jeans, then walks to his wardrobe for- what? Sherlock can't see without getting up, and he still doesn't feel like moving. He entertains himself with deducing by sound and smell alone, more rustling, a drawer opening, the slight, invigorating scent of mint. Oil, massage oil. Sherlock's seen it in John's drawers before. The bottle was less than a year old, a gift from one of the many girlfriends. Well chosen, as those things went. They'd used it once, John working out Sherlock's stiff muscles after a bondage scene. That had been enjoyable. John was surprisingly skilled at massage.
"Learned it from my physical therapist. The ladies were very happy in my hands." John had grinned cheekily after that. Sherlock had mock-scowled but otherwise had lain like a blob of jelly, enjoying his endorphin high.
Odd that John would do this now. Sherlock isn't in pain, scene-caused or otherwise.
"Your turn." Sherlock felt John moving him again, pushing him onto his back, bringing him back into view if Sherlock wanted to look. He kept his head turned to the side, stealing glimpses out of the corner of his eyes. Otherwise, Sherlock cooperated, keeping his arms at his sides. John was focused on the buttons, not Sherlock, only looking up after he was finished and needed Sherlock's help to remove it from his frame.
John smiled. "You are in for a treat. If you aren't happy and well-stimulated after this, I'm going to leash you and take you to the dog park. We'll go for a walk and you can deduce everywhere the other dogs have been."
Sherlock's mind pictured that circumstance all too readily. He shivered with a combination of fear and arousal. "You wouldn't."
"Try me." John's voice was dry.
Sherlock decided not to reply.
The de-robing continued, slippers and socks flung off the side with great relish, pyjama bottoms removed with greater care, until Sherlock was left in only his pants. "We match." John remarked. Their pants were remarkably similar in shade. How odd.
Sherlock was rolled over one more time, and the odour of mint became very strong as John uncapped the bottle and set to work. Sherlock had felt fairly whole in body, if not in mind, but now he became nearly boneless. There was some pain, of course, as John found knots, pressing on them, pressing past them until they gave up, the muscles resuming their more healthy courses. Sherlock did feel talkative at first, as much as he ever did in this state, and began expostulating a bit randomly on mold spores, the state of the neighbours, and occasionally directing John's attentions to certain areas. "My leg, yes, the left one, halfway down the calf, yes, right there. John, more. Why are you moving away?"
Eventually, though, they lapsed into silence. Questions lost to quiet focus on the feeling of tension and release, of deep stroking, a constant pressure that occasionally spiked into pain. Sherlock breathed through it, relaxing for John. He almost fell asleep, lying on the bed, barely bothered by John's movements, his quiet breathing. He woke up as deep caresses turned into lighter ones, stroking the length of his body, tingling through his skin.
"All better?"
"Hmm..."
John laughed. "I'll leave you to that nap, then. I need a shower."
Sherlock drifted off, pleasantly oily, nearly one with the mattress. He heard John's footsteps as he left, and the door closing, and that was all.