Sherlock was never like most guys. While his peers in school undressed women with their eyes, Sherlock only gazed at their actions from a distance. He could never relate to their infatuations with large breasts and curvacious waists. He rather preferred a woman on a cold morgue table. Humans, he mused, were much more entertaining dead than alive. When his dorm mates returned at a late hour, wreaking of sex, Sherlock was reading a scholarly book about the coagulation of blood after death.
Of course he was human. He still maintained the most primal instincts. This was more of a nuisance than anything. Time away from a case was always an annoyance. It was more of a chore, really. When he felt the tightness in his pants, he would retire to his bedroom and take care of it. That would last him a couple more weeks.
He never imagined women, or men or anything. His own lust was enough, especially after being repressed for so long.
This is how he found himself lying on the couch in his pajamas and silk robe. His tousled hair was the result of sleep deprivation; many nights were spent pulling at the dark locks in frustration. This was how he was when there was no case- restless, jumpy, anxious.
John was sitting at the table, typing on his keyboard. Sherlock noted that the clicks were faster than usual, a sign of anxiety or nerves.
"You need to do something other than sit there," John murmured, taking a sip of his coffee.
"Nothing to do," Sherlock muttered.
"You could start by getting groceries."
Sherlock sneered at the mundane task.
"Get an actual job."
"We know how well that worked out for you," Sherlock retorted. John glared at him, which the detective could not see since he was staring at the ceiling. He continued, "I tried that once and it didn't work out too well."
Even though he lived with him, learning new things about Sherlock was rare. Sure, John knew how he liked his coffee, and how in his deepest sleep he snores softly, but nothing important.
"Well, you're not getting your gun back," John said firmly. Sherlock sat up and stared at him in that brilliant way of his.
"I'm not a child!"
"Than stop acting like one!" John spat back. This was the most fun Sherlock could have- winding John Watson up. He loved to see the flash in his eyes; the fury, and war-machine flashing in his eyes before he restrained himself. Sherlock loved to see the dominant side of John Watson, but it was only for an instant. After a second, he was back to being the patient, calm John.
Sherlock watched him. He watched his scarred, nimble hands continue to click away, his lips mumbling profanities; the way the morning light fell just right on his hair; his long legs stretched underneath the table. The more he looked at John, the more things he found he liked about him.
Sherlock then became aware of the slight tent in his pajamas. Once he realized. he hopped up from the couch and scurried to his room, leaving John confused.
He couldn't quite put his finger on what happened. He should have been good for another week, and yet...
Something in his chemical makeup most be offbalanced, he concluded. That was it. Must be because of his lack of nutrition in the past couple of days. He chose to ignore it.
But it happened again couple days later. He was sitting in his chair, cleaning his violin bow. He was dressed in a simple gray suit, one foot propped against his knee, violin in his lap. He heard the bustling of someone coming up the stairs. The beats were faster and heavier to be Mrs. Hudson, so of course it was...
"Where have you been?" Sherlock asked as John came through the door carrying groceries.
"I was out getting groceries," John huffed, walking over to the kitchen, "since your royal highness sneered at the idea of doing it himself."
"Well if you made a bigger deal out of it..."
"You would be starving to death and still be too good to get groceries," John remarked. Sherlock watched with hungry eyes as John set the bags on the table. He then took off his overcoat, and then his jumper. Only, his shirt stuck to his jumper, temporarily giving Sherlock a view of John's chest and back.
The detective's heart started beating faster, the blood rushing through his veins. John wasn't skinny, but compact, dense. He had a few lacerations, scars from the war, but they did not diminish him. They made him appear stronger. Flashes of John danced around his eyelids. They taunted him with the images.
"Excuse me," Sherlock muttered and raced out of the room, leaving his violin abandoned on the chair. John was midway through stacking some cans (knowing he always needed to get nonperishables because Sherlock was a sporadic eater) when he watched Sherlock hurry up the stairs.
Once he was in his room, he sighed. Something was wrong with him. Why was this happening so suddenly? The logical, scientific part of his brain was trying to think of a conclusion, but he couldn't think. He couldn't think correctly. What was going on with his mind palace?
His lust was intensifying, and he couldn't figure out why. He had to take care of it, and when he did, he whispered one name.
"John."
Shortly after a new case presented itself. Sherlock threw himself into his work, so much so that John had to force him to eat when Sherlock couldn't remember the last time he did. Of course John was there for Sherlock every waking moment. He made sure his physical health was alright and the receiver of his psychotic ramblings. Once the case was solved, they returned home on a post-case high. John immediately went to his blog to update it. Sherlock played the violin, and all was peaceful.
Later that night, John was rummaging around the living room. He was just about to go to bed, his hair wet from a shower and only wearing pajama bottoms. He was trying to locate the recent book he was reading.
"Sherlock!" John called. Sherlock liked to take his books and hide them, or sometimes he would read them and spoil the ending. He yelled for him again.
"What is it, John?" Sherlock asked from the doorway. His gazed faltered on John's back. His mind short circuited, brain going fuzzy. John turned around to confront him. His bottoms lay low on his hips, the hip bones protruding at a provocative angle. Sherlock tried not to stare.
"What did you do with my book?"
"I don't know what you are talking about," Sherlock replied. He could feel the warmth in him building.
"You know exactly what I'm talking about," John said. Without warning, Sherlock broke out of his careful mask of no emotion.
"Stop it! Stop torturing me! Stop doing this!" Sherlock cried. He ran to his bedroom, his only sanctuary. John sat there, befuddled. He couldn't let Sherlock storm off like that. He ascended the staircases and went to his door.
"Sherlock?" John called, more softly this time.
"Go away," Sherlock answered. Was he crying?
"I'm coming in." From behind the door he could hear a whispered no, but he persisted.
Sherlock's room was sparse, consisting only of a bed and a dresser. When they were on a case, he would sometimes bring the pictures, notes and evidence up to his room. This was because sometimes he had revelations in his sleep that needed to be immediately dealt with. But his wall was blank.
And standing in the middle was a six foot tall man in only black briefs. His dark hair was tousled crazily, eyes bleary from tears. John had never seen this much array of emotion before. His shoulders were hunched, hands covering his groin in an intimate way. His muscle was defined, making him look like a Greek statue, pained but strong.
"Why do you make me feel like this?" Sherlock whispered, "I didn't want this."
"Sherlock," whispered John. He stepped closer. He always knew one day Sherlock would snap, but he didn't imagine it like this. The consulting detective whimpered.
"Who did it?" John murmured soothingly. He was an arm's length away from him, but knew he shouldn't touch. Sherlock looked deflated and tired.
"My kindergarten teacher. His name was Mr. Carter. He used to make me stay in for recess and..." Sherlock was almost sobbing. "I'm sorry, he made me do it. I didn't want it. I didn't want it..."
John touched Sherlock's jaw, and then his shoulder. And then he was pulling Sherlock to him, embracing him. Sherlock held onto him tightly, the pain like pieces of glass in his lungs, impaling him every time he breathed. John pulled away, taking Sherlock's face in his hands.
"You listen to me, I am not that person. You have nothing to be ashamed of. It wasn't your fault. I won't hurt you, ever. You want to know why?"
"Why?" Sherlock breathed.
"I love you," John answered. He kissed Sherlock's jaw, "and I will not hurt you." He pecked his cheek, "I will make you better." He kissed his nose, "don't be afraid." Sherlock leaned into his affections, closing his eyes. John touched his lips to the detective's, solidifying his love. Sherlock kissed back, not afraid. How daft he was, thinking John would hurt him. John, his patient, calm army doctor. John, who always restrained his terror and fear from the war, never lashing out. Sherlock found himself deepening the kiss. Sherlock said he loved him in the pressure of his lips, his hand touching John's waist, other hand in his hair. John brought one hand to the waistband of Sherlock's briefs. His fingers slipped inside, but Sherlock pulled away.
"No, no," Sherlock whispered. Even though he loved John, and knew his intentions were pure, the mere thought of anyone except himself near there still made apprehension clog his throat.
"It's alright," John said, understanding. All of his reverence and passion for John swelled as he was led to his bed. John turned up the covers and tucked him in. Then he got in on the other side. Sherlock turned away from him, sleeping on his side with John tucked against him. After a moment of settling, the detective placed John's hand on his own hip. Content, he fell asleep.
He was awoken by the sound of buzzing. His eyes snapped to his phone on the bedside table. Sherlock made a note that John was no longer there.
Good morning handsome
-JW
Sherlock smiled to himself. His phone buzzed again.
Out with Mrs. Hudson today. See you tonight? ;)
-JW
He quickly responded.
Wouldn't miss it for the world.
-SH