A/N: Inspired by the irresistible quote "I am here to be used, Holmes" from The Illustrious Client.

All my fics stand alone, but some are linked. In my head, this takes place a few weeks after my fic "Reassembly Required," which takes places a few weeks after "One Way Out" (in which Sherlock comes back after the Fall). In a fit of anal-retentiveness, I made an index of all my fics so you can see how they all fit chronologically, if you care. It's in my profile.

Sherlock tried very hard not to get bored. He got no recognition for it, but he did try. So when everything failed, and the rocket was tearing itself to pieces, he felt he wasn't entirely responsible for whatever happened. At that point, it was a choice between damage or more damage. It couldn't be his fault that the world was like this.

Sherlock squinted and threw his knife at the right eye socket of the bison skull on the wall. Ha! Dead on.

He spun triumphantly to see if John had noticed. John had not noticed. He was reading a dull little paperback mystery, not looking up at all, and had been on the sofa for four weeks.

Sherlock would have liked a little sofa time now and again. A lot of sofa time, actually. That was his spot, he used to always lie on the sofa. It wasn't fair.

Yes, John was injured. Yes, Sherlock had insisted that he come home from hospital early. Yes, Sherlock had dragged him off to Leeds very soon afterwards on a case, and that might or might not have delayed his healing, John said no, but there could be no denying he'd not improved at all since then. And yes, he needed to keep his leg elevated, and yes, his bedroom was intolerably boring (due primarily to not having a Sherlock in it) so yes, of course, it only made sense that John would be here, in the living room, on the sofa, all the bloody time.

But it was so irritating.

And when Sherlock went running out into the night, John couldn't come with, because there he was, being all injured. Still.

And when Sherlock was striding down the street making brilliant deductions left and right, John wasn't there to see it. Still.

And when someone jumped out of an alley and punched Sherlock in the kidney, John wasn't there to shoot them. (Sherlock got out of it fine, of course, just a few bruises, but he would have rather had John shoot them.) Still.

So John was being very difficult on the sofa.

Furthermore, life on the sofa seemed to have prompted some changes in John's personality of which Sherlock did not approve.

1. He made less tea.

2. He did not go out to pick up milk or biscuits or anything else. (He argued that Sherlock, who did not have a hole in his leg, should take up this responsibility. Sherlock countered that John was still perfectly capable of this task, it just took him longer, which was fine since he clearly didn't have anything else to do.)

3. He had adopted Sherlock's schedule, which was to say, none. John had always insisted on sleeping at night and being awake during the day, and grumbled melodramatically whenever Sherlock forced him to do otherwise. Even when they were on the run. But now that he was on the sofa, apparently the tyranny of the clock no longer had any hold on John. He slept when he felt like it and woke when he felt like it. This was only rational, of course, which was why Sherlock did it (only with much less sleeping) but he was sure that John shouldn't. John should be consistent. And John should not have been down here, all night, every night, with no regard for other people's space.

The living room between approximately 12:00am and 6:00am had always been, unequivocally, Sherlock's turf. Any time John had inhabited this space during those hours (before all this), it had been at Sherlock's explicit invitation. But for four weeks now, John had been here, in this room, at all times, frequently wide awake. An intruder.

It shouldn't have mattered, of course. There was no reason Sherlock should care whether he was here or not, he was just a person. But it mattered terribly, painfully. That was why he needed to be brought home from hospital as soon as possible. Sherlock had wanted him here. It mattered. And now that he was here, he was inescapable, inert, indifferent. And that mattered. Which brought it back round to…

4. He now paid Sherlock very little attention. Sometimes Sherlock could be in the room for several minutes without John saying anything at all or even looking at him. Sometimes he'd leave for hours and come back and John wouldn't have even noticed. It was as if John had been absorbed into the room, had become the room, and now the comings and goings of sentient beings were beneath him.

Sherlock was a blazing star in a sky over a city where a million artificial lights had made stars all but impossible, and if John was awake he should have been looking at him. What else could possibly be worth looking at?

Apparently, a bloody paperback. A detective story, of all things.

Sherlock threw himself into his armchair with a huff and stared balefully at John.

Finally – finally – John turned his head, very slowly, to look at him. "What?" he asked.

What. What. Just like that, so innocent. Like he didn't know.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and stared at John even more intently. John didn't blink. He stared back.

That's good, Sherlock thought. Don't stop.

It was 3:40 in the morning and the living room should have belonged to Sherlock alone. He did all sorts of things at 3:40 in the morning by himself. It was still his territory. John was an interloper, not a conqueror. Sherlock was bored and he'd tried not to be and he'd failed and that meant that now, he got to do whatever he wanted.

Right now, the hold of John's stare was making him want to do something definitely not good. He was past being too bored to care. So far past that point. John's stare was a challenge. Its intensity showed that he knew Sherlock was about to do something, he had no idea what, he was sure it would be horrible, and he could not wait to see. That was delicious.

A shiver ran down Sherlock's spine, landing right where he knew it would, spreading heat, and making him hard. Without breaking his stare, he reached down with his right hand, into his pyjama pants, and started to stroke himself.

John's eyes widened in shock. "Sherlock, what the fuck!?"

Sherlock smirked lazily and said nothing.

John was speechless for a moment and then started to get up, muttering "you sick fucking wanker, even for you this is unbelievable, I am living with a child, a fucking mentally disturbed child, I swear to god…" until Sherlock interrupted him with the deep voice he knew John found particularly compelling.

"John. You should stay."

John paused, just for a moment, and that was all the encouragement Sherlock needed. He grabbed himself a little tighter.

"You were so comfortable. Stay. Watch."

John turned to him in disbelief. "Watch? You want me to watch? Are you actually out of your mind this time?" He seemed to be trying very hard to talk to Sherlock's face, but his eyes kept sliding down to his crotch.

"Yes. Out of my mind. Lie back down and watch." Sherlock dipped his head to meet John's eyes and smiled and then – he didn't know quite how he managed it, he'd have to dissect these events later and figure that out, but for now, he was would just revel in his victory – John was lying back down on the sofa, on his left side, watching.

Sherlock let out a little sigh of satisfaction and pulled down the waistband of his pajama pants, freeing his cock. He paused to take in John's reaction. He'd hoped for something a little more dramatic – a sound would have been nice – but he'd settle for the way John's eyes widened again, his pupils dilated, and his lips parted just slightly.

Sherlock slowly wrapped his hand around his cock again, one long finger at a time, and then began to stroke, very softly. John's expression hadn't changed, but his eyes were fixed on this point like he had no choice in the matter. Sherlock started to stroke harder and, although he had no specific plan to do so, make little gasping noises. This got a reaction, sympathetic noises from the sofa. Good. More of that, then. Sherlock increased his volume just slightly, which causes John's gaze to flick up to Sherlock's face and meet his eyes. That provoked an unexpected jolt; Sherlock bucked his hips involuntarily and let out an extra gasp he hadn't seen coming at all. John's mouth opened a little wider and his hand reached for his own crotch.

"No." Sherlock's voice was firm. He'd recovered quickly; that was unplanned, but the situation was under control again. "Don't touch yourself. I want all your attention on me."

John looked angry. Getting angrier. This could go downhill very quickly. On the other hand, when John got angry, his eyes got very dark, which was just intensified by how big his pupils were now, and also he set his jaw in that way that always begged the question how far will he go? Sherlock groaned, on purpose this time, and raised his hips, pushing his cock into his hand for a long and luxurious stroke.

John was struggling to hold onto anger, but it faded out of his eyes as Sherlock kept repeating that motion, lifting his hips to push his cock through his fist, and the expression in John's eyes now was very much on the right track.

Sherlock reached down to the bottom of his t-shirt with his left hand and slowly dragged it up his torso. John's eyes seemed reluctant to leave Sherlock's crotch but they did, and followed his hand up to his chest, where he swirled his thumb around a nipple several times – John licked his lips – and then pinched. Sherlock didn't want to shut his eyes for even a second – he wanted to see John seeing, every second of it – but he knew the sacrifice would be worth the pay off, so with that pinch he shut his eyes tight and threw his head back, moaning in ecstasy. It was a little overdone. But it did feel good.

And it worked, because John let out a tiny, desperate groan. Breathing heavily, Sherlock opened his eyes to see John watching him hungrily. His hand was migrating down toward his crotch again, so Sherlock said "No." And John stopped and clenched his fist tight and Sherlock had a flashing desire to press his mouth against that fist and feel those knuckles between his teeth, but it was gone as quickly as it came.

His cock was slick with pre-come now and he was pumping it harder and faster. The only sounds in the room were the labored breathing of both men and the obscene sound of Sherlock's hand on his cock. He was close, very close, and he was torn. The plan had been to take it this far and finish in the bathroom, because he would never want John to see him like that, all undone, no control, even for a moment. But to his surprise, he found himself contemplating other options. When John breathed, "Come on, Sherlock, god…" and he was doing that thing where he didn't actually realize he'd said it out loud, that very nearly to tipped the scales, but instead Sherlock leapt out of the chair and half-ran for the bathroom, where he leaned over the sink and in three strokes he was there with a long shuddering moan.

He knew John could hear him from the sofa. He didn't go back to see how he'd managed.