A/N: I don't even know. The scenario popped into my head, took root, refused to go away. So rather than a post continuing any of my in-progress stories, here's this, hopefully lovely little PWP. Un-beta'd, un-britpicked, so if there are any crazy errors, please get in touch!
Special thanks to IShouldBeOverThis for the suggestion for the title of this fic!Warnings: Abuse of disabled toilets, some subterfuge involving feigning a disability - this is not intended to be parody or ridicule, so I hope I don't cause offence. Please let me know if it is offensive, and I will delete this story.
Comments are very much appreciated!
xxRegretteRienxx
The killer had been elegant, creative, interesting enough to string Sherlock along for three days, anyway. But finally, Sherlock's suspicions that there was some sort of pattern were proven, when the Fibonacci sequence – of course, why had it taken him so long to see it? - had been found to fit with the location of every murder, and it was child's play to use the formula to predict the location of the next murder, and the killer was caught.
Until he'd been able to identify the Fibonacci involvement, Sherlock had been overanalysing every aspect, searching for the touch of Moriarty. That had been a mistake, had slowed things down, and John worried that now the case was over, it signalled the beginning of one of Sherlock's all-consuming sulks.
He fidgeted as Sherlock turned away from where he'd been talking to Lestrade. It had been well over a week now since they'd spent a decent night in bed together, and although John wouldn't exactly describe himself as being an entirely sex-driven maniac, he did have a damn healthy interest, and for god's sake, he had a boyfriend who should try to remember that it was quite nice to spend time together. Particularly in the bedroom. Without forensic textbooks, or severed limbs, or terrifyingly grisly experiments – all of which dampened the mood somewhat.
He needn't have worried too much, though. Sherlock's smile as he approached John was full of intent and teeth. To the average bystander, the smile broadcast an unmistakeable message: Run! I'm gonna get you! The smile made John's stomach flip. Oh, yes. He returned a smile of his own, not nearly as predatory, sure, but more than determined. Words were not necessary when actions were far more effective.
A firm grasp of long fingers locked around John's wrist, not delicately intertwined with his own, far more functional than flighty fingers, indicated that Sherlock would not brook refusal. That he was starved; ravenous, and not simply because he had artfully dodged all meals for the last six days, not to mention his bare acquiescence to consume anything even when there was no case.
His hunger was of a different sort.
John had to push himself to match Sherlock's strides – not due to a lack of enthusiasm on his part, but due to the simple laws of physics.
He kept his eyes peeled for a cab – there was no way they were going to run the whole distance home and still have the energy for what they wanted, and John refused point-blank Sherlock's wheedling requests for sex in alleyways. Neither of them were drunken teenagers; John argued, nor homeless, nor ignorant of social norms.
"Social norms are ridiculous, though." Sherlock always pouted in response to this, persisting with his attempts to cause John to lose his inhibitions and just come in the alley already (yes, in more ways than one – Sherlock didn't care how much of a terrible pun that was).
But John was one of those soldiers who, had there been an award for greatest diligence on parade, would have been presented it, many, many times over. Called to parade formation at midnight, because the sergeant-major wanted to debrief everyone after a day full of attacks from the enemy, beginning at 2am the previous morning, John was practically dead on his feet, having spent the day sewing, extracting, setting, diagnosing – and still, he was faultless, perfectly aligned, posture erect, not slack, eyes fixed to the front.
His endurance, stamina, and downright stubbornness easily withstood Sherlock's barrage, despite his own obvious arousal.
"It's not as though anyone we know is likely to walk past," Sherloock whispered into John's ear, attempting to push John backwards by applying pressure to his right shoulder. John didn't move.
"It's not as though anyone will confront us for our indiscretion," Sherlock whispered into John's other ear, now pushing against John's weaker, left shoulder, hoping that the defences on this side would be more penetrable. John didn't give.
"It's not even winter," Sherlock pointed out, pressing their bodies together, and making sure that particular pressure between their groins was maintained. "I'm not going to get any snow on you." he promised, fighting with John's belt buckle while leading a trail of kisses down John's neck.
"Not the point!" John rebuked, batting Sherlock's hand away, and stepping around him towards the street. "Taxi!" he called, waving one down.
He didn't allow Sherlock anything more than kisses and light petting while in the cab, and sure, Sherlock had been rewarded for his almost-patience once they finally had reached home, but it had been a damned hard effort, and Sherlock was still undeterred from expressing his desires – physically – when they struck him, even if it was in overwhelming public.
He had, however, realised that some of his actions mortified John, and so, had held back on many an occasion out of pure, unbelievable consideration for the other man's feelings. Not that John would agree on that point.
Sherlock? Restrained? Hardly.
No cab was forthcoming today, however. John couldn't believe the traffic-filled street, entirely bereft of cabs. He stared in amazement for a moment, willing one to come into existence, when he was yanked - completely off his feet - in an unexpected direction.
Oh. A coffee shop, he managed to surmise, as he was dragged through at breakneck speed. Perhaps John was wrong, perhaps Sherlock's ravenousness (was that even a word? John wasn't sure he was quite able to think straight anymore) was aimed at food after all, not John.
But they didn't stop at the counter. No, their momentum was only stilled when Sherlock found himself confronted by three wooden doors: emblazoned with the universal hieroglyphs for male, female, and disabled, respectively. Two doors bore small red arches on them, which cause Sherlock great consternation – however, the third bore a small green arch, and this was the one Sherlock launched himself – John in tow – directly at.
"The disabled's, Sherlock?" John protested, only barely comprehending, and baulking at the semi-publicity. "We can't – it's not – what if someone with a handicap needs the loo?"
Dammit, he could barely string a sentence together to express just how morally wrong he found this, particularly with his work as a doctor, and encountering patients with physical hindrances every day, who shared the common complaint that able-bodied people were using their damned conveniences.
"We'll only be a moment," Sherlock pledged, and from anyone else, the prospect of a brief sexual rendezvous would be cause for ridicule and mirth, but John knew that when Sherlock had sex quickly, it truly was intensified. The experience of what could be a half-hour encounter compacted into five minutes was indescribable. John had never had such a time with anyone else he had been with; nor had he heard of anyone else achieving such a thing.
His knees weakened, but he refused to show it.
"Besides," Sherlock continued, turning to John after locking the door behind them. "There were no physically disabled individuals outside just then, so I'm quite certain we're not inconveniencing anyone."
"Your pillow-talk is rubbish," John teased, but all coherent thought was knocked out of him when Sherlock absolutely snogged him.
"Wasn't pillow-talk," Sherlock growled, working John's trousers down just enough, just too much.
John tensed; it was still a public location, and he had an instinctive aversion to making himself so vulnerable in front of others – it wasn't as though the locks on the doors of public loos were exactly infallible.
"Please, John." Sherlock whispered, stroking his cock gently. "I've been thinking about fucking your for so long. We've been too busy. I need you now. I've needed you for weeks, and I haven't been able – please?"
Ugh, his voice was irresistible. John's lust took over for a moment. It was almost never that Sherlock actually verbally admitted to being weak and human and having desires. John returned his kisses with interest, and helped Sherlock out of his trousers.
"Quickly," he instructed in a fervent whisper. "Oh, quickly," he said, stroking Sherlock's already-hard cock and loving the searing heat of it against his palm. Where was that deliciously sticky pre-come? He stroked with greater intensity, and Sherlock juddered, stopped his attentions to John's cock with a groan.
"Stop, stop." he murmured, kissing John firmly, and grasping him by the shoulders. John did so, and a second later, found himself facing the toilet bowl.
Without thinking, he grasped the vertically-stretching handrails, and was only partly aware of how far apart his feet were spread now, how his pants and trousers were hanging much lower down on his legs. It was difficult to focus on these things, because Sherlock's fingers were already in his arse, clever as always, nimble, and completely impossible.
He must have gasped, because Sherlock kissed him behind the ear – his apology kiss – and said, "There's no lube. I don't have any. You don't have any? No. It's alright, though. We can do it. You can do it. It doesn't matter."
There was hardly a question in there, but for some reason, John was nodding. "It's fine. I'll – don't worry. Come on."
Another kiss behind his ear, and then the fingers were removed – they had been slicked, spit, not that he could hardly notice, really, and another heat was pressed to John's entrance. All instinct, he shifted, bent, took a deep breath to relax himself, and Sherlock was slowly pushing in.
It was a brilliantly debilitating pain, and he didn't care. His teeth were gritted against it, and fingers were dug so hard into his hips, he knew he'd bruise, and he didn't care.
Sherlock panted against his back, held fast, and John was still seeing stars when he shifted his hips against Sherlock and said, "Oh, fuck. Go."
Every push into John was shaky, it was unbearable, and not nearly enough, and John's knuckles turned bone-white, death-white, with how hard he gripped the railings, and he never wanted it to end.
Sherlock didn't speak now, barely uttered a grunt with every thrust, but John could tell, he was muted by the distraction of lust, not disinterest. It was somewhat flattering. When the detective was seriously turned on, his technique went to shit: rhythm flew out the window, and the location of the prostate might as well be as mythical and elusive as the structure of the solar system, for all Sherlock knew about it.
Finally, however, and perhaps by sheer fluke, he managed to find John's (with only a little assistive realignment from John himself), a direct hit, as it were, blinding contact, and John was so amazed, so unprepared for the contact that his hand slipped from the rail – he was falling!
The logic, that he'd only slipped one hand, and Sherlock was still grasping him firmly, did not occur to him. Instinct took over.
Falling! Catch hold of something!
Luckily, he did. When his eyes focused, however, a new shock ran through him.
Disabled emergency cord. Please note that staff will enter this toilet when cord is pulled.
He had seconds. He didn't warn, couldn't warn. Military reflexes kicked in. A surge of strength, and he whirled; Sherlock now had his back to the toilet.
John ignored the startled exclamation from the other man, and focused. He, to put it as nicely as possible, disengaged. And FUCK, thank FUCK he'd had experience in war, in pain, in torture, because FUCK, his arse! That was NOT a good way to remove a fully-erect cock! John bore it, somehow managed to keep his feet and keep from crying out, pulled his trousers back up in a split second.
"What the – what? John?" Sherlock stammered. He'd dropped to sitting on the loo, and in any other circumstances, his dishevelled, bewildered look, with his pants down, would be priceless, pure comedy gold for John for at least a month. But right now, it was serious. Oh, so serious.
John couldn't even begin to explain, when – Slam! The cubicle door struck the wall with considerable force. John twitched, a willpower alone prevented him from shouting in alarm and ducking for cover, away from what could be perceived as an attack.
"Gentlemen..." the voice was younger than anticipated, and emotions were convoluted in it, as the owner attempted to come to terms with the sight of two men in the disabled loo, rather than one, and no wheelchair in sight. "The emergency cord was pulled. Is there an emergency here?"
Something like a 50-pound fine applied to misuse of the emergency cord, John knew, not to mention possible subsequent charges for indecent conduct, etc. This was why he didn't want to get caught up in all this stuff. Sure, Mycroft could make it go away, but it was far better all around, if the situations just never existed in the first place.
"Good response time." John began, flashing the nervous-looking waiter a smile that he used with particularly anxious patients. It said, 'I am completely in control here. All will go well as long as you cooperate.'
"I'm very sorry," John continued, "But the cord was pulled in error. I was assisting my patient here," he gestured to Sherlock, who was slumped on the loo, remarkably silent for a change, "and he simply managed to catch hold of the cord by accident. You know how it is."
A tinge of 'I don't get paid enough for this shit.' was portrayed in John's voice and posture now, and the waiter nodded in empathy.
"What does he have?" The waiter asked curiously, uncertain about the entire situation.
John hardly needed to think, so many conditions were entirely plausible with Sherlock. "I'd truly prefer you didn't talk about him as though he's not here," he chided. "Cystic fibrosis. It's not a mental disability; he's completely aware of everything around him, he's just weak from symptoms."
The waiter's eyes widened, as embarrassment suddenly struck him. He'd been staring at Sherlock's only slightly softening cock quite obviously on display, trying not to be too blatant about it, but now that it was clear that the eyes that met his belonged to an entirely sentient being, a guilty blush overtook him.
"Erm, you're, um, his carer?" The waiter attempted to confirm, gaze averted, and John pulled out his clinic card.
"Doctor, actually. You can check my credentials. But, look, we're kind of in the middle of something here, I have to help him – do you mind?"
"Sorry." The waiter offered, and flicked his eyes to Sherlock again, and a question seemed to be on the waiter's lips. John tensed in anticipation of how much more awkward the situation was about to get.
However, a sound from out in the café distracted the waiter, and, after throwing another "Sorry," in their direction, he was gone, the loo door closed behind him.
"Jesus." John gasped, and now he did drop to his knees, relief flooding through him. Sherlock was by his side in an instant, wrapping his arms around the blonde man comfortingly, supportingly, and pressed a kiss into his hair, before stretching an arm out to lock the door.
"Oh my god, Sherlock. Public places are just – never again. Ok? Seriously!" John tried to regain composure so that they could get out of there and go home.
"Ok." Sherlock whispered, holding John close. "Ok." and the embrace was so lovely, so soothing, that it was mere seconds before John could climb to his feet again.
He straightened his shirt, and gestured for Sherlock to pull his trousers back up. "Come on, you've already flashed one total stranger today, let's not make a habit of it." Sherlock's answering giggle contained more hilarity than John expected.
"What?" John demanded.
"Your flies are undone, Doctor." Sherlock chuckled, but stepped in close in order to zip them up himself, planting a kiss on the corner of John's mouth as he did so.
"Oh god." John groaned, resting his forehead against Sherlock's shoulder. "What must he have thought?" John despaired, remembering the waiter's shocked expression. "Sherlock." he announced determinedly. "We are never coming back to this café ever again. Even if the world's most fascinating murder spree takes place here. I don't care. You're not solving it, you're not working on it – We. Are. Never. Coming. Back."
"You're overreacting, John." Sherlock pointed out, mildly, tucking himself back into his pants.
"Just because you're a shameless exhibitionist, doesn't mean that we all want to go about exposing ourselves." John disputed, giving the room and themselves a final look over, to make sure everything was in place. Nodding in satisfaction, he unlocked the door and stepped out, Sherlock by his side, clinging to his arm in a pale semblance of seeking support to be able to walk.
"I don't see why not," Sherlock murmured into John's ear, his breath tickling John's neck, "Your body is marvellous, it should be shared. It's such a shame to only allow a select few people such a magnificent view."
John blushed and ducked away, but Sherlock chased him, and licked a deliberate stripe up John's jaw to his ear, which he delivered a small nip. John didn't think he could get more embarrassed, when he caught the gaze of the young waiter from across the café.
"Sherlock." he hissed, gripping the other man's arm forcefully. "If you don't get us into a taxi and away from here right now, I swear, you will not get even a glimpse of my 'marvellous body' ever, ever again."
"I hardly think you're capable of preventing that," Sherlock grinned, but he took John's point.
Fortunately for him, it was only minutes later that John was able to prove just how grateful he was for Sherlock's uncharacteristic cooperation.
END