Well, I should be doing an essay. Instead, my brain decided to be super dirty and thought this up. Brilliant.


To say the least, Sherlock is lonely.

He's never lonely.

Maybe bored, maybe hungry for one person to deduce, maybe in need of someone to be a genius around - but never lonely.

Except right now, sitting in the flat that he shares with John, alone, with nothing to do. It's midday, but the clouds have darkened the sky to an inky black. The wind is howling, but there's no rain just yet. No one is out in the streets, save the normal traffic of vehicles.

Lonely.

Lonesome.

Loner.

Sherlock is a loner if there ever was one. The one actual friend he shares any significant bond with is John. And they only have real contact about four days out of seven.

Sure, there's Lestrade and Mrs Hudson, he's close to them. But they're... different. They're missing something.

The detective lets his thoughts shift around sluggishly for a bit before he picks up his phone.


"John, why did you stop?"

John is asking himself that as he stands up and walks across the room to his discarded jeans. The sweat is already starting to dry on his warm skin, the cool air away from the bed coaxing gooseflesh to rise on his arms, though his breathing is still low and ragged. He can feel her eyes scoring across his back as she hears it too.

"You're going to stop in the middle of a good shag just because he's calling you?"

The doctor shrugs, becoming suddenly self-conscious of his naked figure. "He never calls me," he replies, coughing as his voice rises a pitch at the look she gives him.

Just as he manages to pull the phone from his pocket, the tone stops, but echoes in his ears for a few moments. He can almost see Sherlock playing his violin as he stood by the door, phone outstretched, recording the melody for good use. He can see the surprised look in those grey eyes when Sherlock heard the recording for the first time, but said nothing.

He waits for a few moments before he gets a text.

Where are you?
SH

John sighs, his erection growing limp as he types, seeming slow even to himself.

Doesnt matter, where are you?

At the flat. Bored. Come entertain me.
SH

John is pretty sure the detective doesn't mean what he thinks he means, but nonetheless something down there seems interested in the thought of it. Face turning a good shade of vermillion, he begins pulling on his pants with one hand, his phone in the other.

How do you expect me to do that?

It seems Sherlock was taking his time thinking of a good answer for that one, since the doctor has his jeans on and is buckling his belt when his phone chimes again. He ignores the irritated sigh from across the room, gathering the rest of his clothes as he walks out, eyes on the screen.

I'm sure you'll come up with something.
SH

John is positive Sherlock has no idea what kind of innuendos he's sending him, but he doesn't care. Images are swimming in his head, pleasant, but unwelcome.

Oh will I?

Another minute's pause while he pulls on his shirt and shoes.

Of course. Now come home. I need you here.
SH

This is very un-Sherlock, and John frowns. Regardless, he leaves her apartment on the other side of London and hails a cab, not caring that he forgot his jacket. He doesn't have the time for that, he has other things to attend to at the moment.

Give me a bit. On the other side of London, on my way now.

Sitting in the back seat, he lowers his head, searching his pockets for proper cab fair (and avoiding the eyes in the rearview, hoping the cabby doesn't notice his flushed face and newly half-hard bulge under his belt).


I feel like this should be a good two, three chapter story at most. Hope you like so far, now excuse me as I finish what I got on to start. Yeah, that essay.