Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.
Slightly OOC? Idk...
If there was one other thing that Sherlock was fiercely protective of besides his friends and his housekeeper landlady, it was his coat.
It was gift to him from Mycroft years ago when he started working as the world's only consulting detective. Even though the Holmes brothers never really saw eye to eye on anything, Sherlock really did love the coat. Mycroft claimed that it would protect him against the elements, plus it made him look more professional. The fit was superb and he felt (although he would never admit it) like a superhero, walking around with his coat leaving a flourished trail. He supposed it was the closest thing to becoming a pirate.
The two flatmates had lived together for at least three years at this point. They were the best of friends, but there was an undercurrent of something in their relationship. John stopped fighting himself a long time ago in denying that he was attracted to his flatmate. There was that ever-present air of danger and adventure around Sherlock that John craved and got off on. Not to mention that they were essentially two halves of a whole. Sherlock considered John his moral compass because he was always striving to be good. He knew he was a great man, but he wanted to be good. John had helped him learn more about it meant to be good, and for that he was grateful. In addition to that, John was a rock Sherlock clung on to when he felt like he was going to go over the edge again.
Their home life could be considered comical: Sherlock did what he could to help out, but he often did more harm than good. John was the more domestic of the two, leaving him to do most of the chores, including the laundry: except for Sherlock's coat. Sherlock went out of his way to make sure that his coat was taken to the dry cleaners, coming back with it pristine and free from whatever evidence there was of their adventures. John had never really paid much attention to the coat and how much care it got until they came back to their flat one hot summer day, bruised but triumphant. Sherlock wasn't as thrilled as usual because in the row and resulting chase with the thief, some portions of his coat ripped. It was still wearable, but the damage to the coat was the equivalent of Mrs. Hudson taking his skull: something that he could never really stand. They took turns showering and then settled down in their respective chairs in front of the fire, trying to warm up. It was a comfortable silence between the two of them. John was writing on his blog, while Sherlock went through the police reports in order to piece together the evidence.
The chirp of Sherlock's mobile broke the silence. He picked it up, still looking at the reports.
"Sherlock Holmes," he stated.
"We're going to need you to come back. Anderson missed some evidence," Lestrade sighed.
"When does he not miss evidence?" Sherlock grumbled under his breath.
"Look, just come down, yeah?"
"I'll be there," he stated then hung up the phone. He got up and walked over to the coat rack by the door, weighing his options on another coat to wear.
John looked up from his laptop curious. "Did you need me to come with you?"
Sherlock's hand hovered over the coat rack. He rolled his eyes and threw on an old pea coat that he wore before the one Mycroft gave him. "I don't think so. It shouldn't take very long."
"You sure?"
"I'll be fine. Don't wait up," he offered, while wrapping the scarf around his neck.
"Hey wait! Do," John hesitated before going on, "you want me to take your coat to the tailor to get it fixed? I mean, I don't understand why you would still wear it in the summer, but I figured you'd want it to be in the best condition..." he trailed after he realized how stupid he sounded.
Sherlock narrowed his eyes for a second at John, who looked like a rabbit caught in the headlights. Was it really that bad of an idea?
"Don't worry about it. There's really no rush for it," Sherlock said.
"Go on and fix whatever Anderson did wrong this time," John chuckled.
"Obviously," Sherlock replied with a smile. With that, he left.
John went back to blogging as usual. After a while, he tidied up around the flat, stopping to check his work schedule at the clinic. As fun as it was working with Sherlock, the lull in cases meant that he needed to work more hours to work at the clinic to help pay the rent.
A lesson John learned a while back was that "Don't wait up" was Holmesian code for "I'll be home at an extremely unreasonable hour and I'll make a ruckus when I get back, disturbing your sleep." With that in mind, he went down to the Chinese place at the end of Baker Street to get some takeaway for both of them later. He left Sherlock's food in the fridge, along with a note on the kitchen table in the event John was sleeping when he got back.
It was quiet in the flat late into the night and Sherlock still hadn't returned. Around 1 in the morning, John passed the coat rack on his way upstairs to his room. As he picked up the coat, the most ridiculous and tempting idea popped into his head. Before he lost his courage, he ran with the coat upstairs into his room.
After getting ready for bed, he crawled into his bed, curling up with the jacket. The smell of the coat was something that was purely Sherlock: musky, reminiscent of a lab, and of London itself. John's thoughts took off from comforting into something more sexual and more akin to what he really wanted to happen in real life. It should have felt wrong, wanting a flatmate in this way, but he was beyond reservations.
John touched himself through his boxers, damp with pre-cum. He eventually took a firm hold of his throbbing cock, imagining Sherlock assisting him. He visualized Sherlock's long fingers getting him off, stroking and setting a strong rhythm. The movements were fluid, constantly changing speeds to build anticipation. Sherlock's hands were large, but they would have wrapped around his cock perfectly, making him beg for more. Sherlock probably knew more about John's body than he did, even with his medical training. He stroked himself, his hips stuttering on his bed as his breathing became heavier and more ragged. He coated his cock with pre-cum, the friction delicious.
His thoughts shifted to other parts of Sherlock that he appreciated, like his lips. John stared at those damn lips more than the average person should. They were far too plump to belong on a man...and more often than not, he wanted nothing more than to suck on them and snog Sherlock senseless, leaving them bruised. He imagined them wrapped around him, doing things with his tongue that would leave him panting. Sherlock's hands fondled his balls and stroked his base firmly while he sucked John for all he was worth and fuck.
The temperature in the room heated up, making it almost insufferable. It was bad enough that it was summer in London, but this was just mad. Before he knew it, he was stripping off his clothes in an attempt to cool off. This didn't do it for him though; he slipped into the coat like a cloak and almost lost it. The cool silk lining of the coat against his skin felt carnal, making him stroke faster. He was writhing on the bed, moaning far too loudly for a wank. But it wasn't often that John could be left all along with his thoughts.
The smell of Sherlock surrounded him like a cocoon, making John feel like Sherlock really was here with him. Against his own expectations in his mind, he visualized Sherlock on top of him, the smell of sex entering the mix as he brought John to climax, his narrow hips driving into him like it was very last time.
John had enough sense in him to throw the coat off of him as he released himself. God forbid Sherlock found semen on his coat. It would have resulted in a very awkward explanation and even more awkward trip to the dry cleaners.