"Help me, John"

John's stomach dropped and his blood ran cold as he read the text. Sherlock never asked for help directly. He fumbled with his phone, dialling Sherlock's number. With every ring, his heart rate rose until it was thudding in his ears. Sherlock had been away for a week, investigating a triple murder in Greenland. John had been unable to go with him due to his commitments at the clinic, but Sherlock had kept him updated via text. They had caught the culprit yesterday, and Sherlock was due to fly back to London this evening. Why would he need John's help now? John could only conclude that something had gone terribly wrong. Five rings, and Sherlock had not yet answered. "Jesus, Sherlock, pick up!" Two more rings, then he heard the familiar voice on the end of the line.

"John."

"Sherlock, what's going on? Are you okay?"

"I'm going mad, John, there's a blizzard, flight's delayed, no electricity, I can't leave the house and I don't have any cigarettes!"

Relief and then understanding dawned on John. Sherlock was staying in a private cottage, the only place available in the village where he was investigating. He was bound to get bored quickly now that the case was solved, as he hadn't taken his violin with him and had nowhere to do any experiments. If the power was out, he couldn't even watch telly to distract him (not that it usually did much good anyway), and if the weather was awful enough to stop him leaving the house, he couldn't even go to the village to deduce people or buy cigarettes to take his mind off the boredom. Oh, bugger.

"What do I do?" Sherlock's voice was urgent, frustrated. John could tell he was pacing the room, his coat flaring and sweeping with every turn as though he had an audience. Sherlock so loved to be dramatic. "What would you do if you were stranded?"

John snorted sheepishly. "Have a wank, probably."

"Have a - oh. Oh. John, you are brilliant." And he hung up without further ado.

John shook his head as he lowered the phone.


It should have been obvious, thought Sherlock. Since beginning a romantic (he hated the word's connotations of soppy-eyed damsels, but it was the only descriptive term that fit, really - damn the confinements of the English language) relationship with John, he had discovered that pleasures of the flesh were an exceedingly potent antidote to his mental anguish; a nepenthe, of sorts. Since December there had been far fewer arguments and many more salacious groans and indecent sighs between the walls of 221B. John had always been within reach, though, so it had never been necessary to clear his mind solitarily.

He hadn't done this since he was in his teens; he had decided early on that it wasn't worth the brain space, just as he had with social niceties, the solar system and romance in general. He paused for a moment. I suppose the most effective way would be to remember a particularly satisfying encounter. He closed his eyes. In his mind palace, he made his way to the "John Watson" room. This room was particularly comfortable; the walls lined with mahogany panels, soft light floating in through a bay window and John's armchair situated in the centre of the floor. He proceeded to the cabinet drawer labelled "Shared Sexual Encounters" and opened it. He rummaged through the files until he found the one he sought. The first time John had taken him for his own, back on New Year's Day. Excellent. He opened his eyes, shed his coat and suit jacket, and settled himself on the bed.