Nothing belongs to me, quite obviously.
Warnings: Homosexual, incestous thoughts, masturbation.
Sherlock Holmes did not masturbate. At least not too often. Days after a case was solved, when he could indulge in long sleeping hours, with his flatmate not even daring to near the door of his bedroom, because, really, you had to respect that the detective was acting human and sleeping. Those days were exceptions.
Sunlight was streaming in the room and Sherlock estimated it to be around 1PM, today was Sunday. If John would dare to come and try to wake him, possibly with a tray of food in his hands (his hopes were too high, sleeping for more than 6 hours was already too human for Sherlock), then it wouldn't happen until 3PM. So he still had a while to indulge.
Indulge indeed. The detective's eyelids fluttered shut as one hand slipped past the waistband of his underwear. It wasn't that he didn't get morning boners like a normal person would, despite the image of ignorance towards sex he had created, his body still functioned normally, quite annoyingly so. He just usually ignored it, a cold shower was in order whenever he woke up with his body expecting him to pleasure himself (or find someone to do that, but that was strictly out of question).
Sherlock bit his lip as a moan was caught somewhere in his dry throat. The long fingers were wrapped around his length, stroking slowly for now, but applying just the right amount of pressure. He tried to concentrate on that, but his mind was eager to twist everything. He knew someone who had fingers as long and as thin as his own, it wasn't hard to imagine it was someone else's hand wrapped around his manhood. Golden ring glittering on one of the graceful fingers.
His cheeks flushed and Sherlock pressed his face against the pillow. And this was why he didn't indulge often. Usually his thoughts slipped away from the socially acceptable masturbating-image confines only towards the finish, but now he was already fighting away certain images. This wasn't going to be easy.
Somehow he managed to silence his mind, forcing it to recite the name of every muscle that was required to masturbate. At least it didn't dim his arousal in the slightest.
Thumb swept over the tip of his length and he didn't press his lips together in time to muffle the breathy moan that seemed to echo in his bedroom. Familiar pressure was starting to build up in his stomach and there was the glimmer of hope that he could do this without having to curse himself afterwards, without his heart racing, hoping that the walls weren't thin enough for anyone to hear the name that had slipped past his lips, giving away the identity of the person that fueled his imagination at the right, or more like wrong, times.
Wrong.
He couldn't. Simple as that, he just couldn't bring himself over the edge with just touching himself, without really indulging. A frustrated whine was muffled by the pillow. Sherlock knew his skin would become nearly raw and he'd just give up eventually. He was about to fail the silent promise he'd made to himself earlier. To hell with it all.
Sherlock's concentration slipped away and the hand that was previously gripping the sheets came up to tweak one of his nipples lightly.
Thin lips stretching into a smile that bordered on a smirk before parting and wrapping around his length.
His heartrate picked up momentarily.
Eyes locked with Sherlock's, a stormier, darker gray than his own. The promise of tears in the corners of them as he pushed forward, fingers tangling in the short hair, keeping the head of his Brother Dear in place, as the tip of Sherlock's length hit the back of his throat.
Sherlock didn't hear his own moans getting louder, he didn't hear the steps outside. His hazy mind wouldn't make the deduction that he had about five seconds until John would turn the doorknob. He didn't care, he was indulging.
And what a sight would he make, the blanket kicked away just moments ago, underwear pooling around his knees as one hand worked, hastily stroking his length, abandoning all remains of a rhytm; shirt pushed up so the long fingers could twist and pull, making pale pink turn to flushed red.
Close, so close. He pulled back, splattering white all over the oh so familiar face, dribbling over the parted swollen, red lips, that now appeared fuller. On his nose, chin, cheeks... A tentative tongue lapping up some of the sticky mess.
Sherlock exploded right then, a loud, hoarse „M-Mycroft..." falling from his lips, just it was his hand that was now covered in come, not the pretty face in his imagination.
The surprise, however, came when he opened his eyes to see the expression of confusion on the very same face he had just thought about.
Those hadn't been John's footsteps that he'd barely heard before, his deduction skills had been off, his flatmate wouldn't wake him up before 3PM, his brother, however, if decided to visit, wouldn't hesitate to.
„Must you really wake him, Mycroft? I'll fix you a tea, wait for a bit, you know he doesn't sleep when on a cas-..." John's expression soon mirrored the one on the brother's faces.
The whole ordeal before Mycroft turned around to push John out of the room, muttering something along the lines of „Yes, two sugars please," lasted about 7 seconds, but it felt like an eternity to Sherlock.
A/N: If you see any mistakes, feel free to point them out since English is not my mother-tongue. Any feedback, comments and concrit is greatly appreciated.
Shall I write the most awkward follow-up kitchen scene ever?