Like a Blast

Chapter 1

John was late for work. He dashed around the flat, tugging on clothes, brushing his teeth, desperately trying to make up time. Cursing his inability to get out of bed some mornings he hastily shoved cold toast in his mouth and looked for his keys.

Where were his bloody keys?

He tried to think rationally while his nerves screamed "Hurry, hurry for god's sake".

He traced his steps yesterday evening, arriving back from the surgery, Sherlock sprawled on the sofa talking to the skull.

"You know the skull doesn't become me when I go out, don't you."

"Don't be ridiculous John"

"Did you get any milk?"

"No."

"Why am I not surprised. Get up and get some. Get up and get to the shop, now. I mean it I am not your slave, the deal is when I am at work you make sure that we have enough stuff like milk and bread".

Sherlock had glared at him for a bit but when John had threatened to invite Mycroft round for dinner he unfolded his legs and rose from the sofa. Stomping off to his bedroom he re-emerged a short while later in an immaculate suit, picked up John's keys and staggered out the door with the air of a Victorian maiden forced to walk over the desert.

Ah ha! Sherlock had his keys! He hurried off to Sherlocks bedroom, while smiling at the memory of Sherlock stropping off to get milk. Attempting to stay quiet, he didn't want to deal with Sherlock trying to delay him leaving for work this morning, he swept into the bedroom. As soon as he entered however he stopped dead like he had just been punched in the solar plexus.

The curtains were only slightly closed and so pale sunlight lit up the room, highlighting John's stunned face and the bed.

Sherlock was lying on top of the covers naked, no pants, no sheets covering him just lots of gleaming alabaster skin. He lay on his back peaceful in sleep. His head full of obsidian curls were mussed, with stray curls jutting out at odd random angles. His face was in perfect repose, his lips slightly open as he breathed through them, that obscene cupids bow on his upper lip moving slightly. The leg furthest from John was straight; the other leg very slightly turned out and bent at the knee. The legs were long, muscled with a fine dusting of black hair. One of his long hands lay on his smooth chest, the other on his abdomen, just inches from his ...oh god.

Sherlock's cock was very slightly thickened, not hard or even half hard, just slightly...interested. Emerging from a base of black hair, it was darker than the rest of his body, but still pale.. A touch longer than the average cock and fairly thick around, it curved slightly with its tip standing slightly proud of the leg.

John was frozen, stunned, and after a couple of seconds, his legs gave way and he slid to the floor. It wasn't the fact that Sherlock was naked, or John's guilt at walking into Sherlock's bedroom invading his privacy, it was just the realisation that Sherlock was so...so...beautiful. He felt like he had been suddenly confronted with something he should have realised all along. He sat on the floor, gulping air and shaking.

Then, as if the gods were saying, 'sorry that's not enough, there is more', Sherlock sighed in his sleep and turned onto his side, facing away from John. John whimpered as he looked at Sherlock's painfully luscious bottom. The skin was completely smooth, the light giving it a slight sheen. From the elegant indent in the small of his back, the cheeks flowed out smoothly like a ripe peach, a perfect arc, a classical sweep. It was a bottom that would make Michelangelo weep. It was a bottom whose presence on that lithe muscled body was sinful.

John's cock was instantly hard, he moaned in protest but there was nothing he could do. He sat on the floor, gazing and gazing at his best friend and he couldn't stop the sensations that bloomed through him.

"Oh god", he whispered, "oh god."

But it was all useless, he was powerless, shaking and sweating on the floor, he came in his pants for the first time since he was a teenager.