This story is getting both sillier and more serious at the same time, I think.
But enjoyable, nonetheless.
Right?

-ooo-

Sexting

"It was Professor Plum in the-"

"No, Sherlock, you can't-"

"John, let me finish," the man insisted, "I've figured it out. You see, it could only have been the revolver if the murder was committed in the wine cellar."

"Why the wine-"

"Otherwise the gunshot would have been heard, though anyone in the kitchen would have heard it as well. So it was obvious Mr. Green hadn't done it because he was nowhere near the-"

"Sherlock, there's no wine cellar."

"With a house this size and of this caliber? No. No, John there is most definitely a wine cellar. And the fact that they kept this from plain sight is obnoxiously suspicious…"

"You do realize that this is just a game, don't you?" Watson eyed his flat mate with a weary look. The detective didn't seem to care, until he finally met his friend's gaze.

"You told me it was 'wrong' to consider it a game when lives are at stake. That was when Moriarty was toying with me, remember?" He knew he was twisting the man's words, and that he was going to get a rise out of Watson, and that's precisely the reason he continued on.

"Sherlock, that was real. This is just a board game."

"Who's to say this isn't real John?"

"No...no, don't you start pretending you like to think deeply about some cardboard game."

"It isn't simply cardboard. It's also-"

"It doesn't…Sherlock, Professor Plum couldn't have done it." He was beginning to lose his patience with the man.

"Why not?" This seemed to perturb the detective.

"Because he was the bloody victim," John replied, obviously exasperated.

"Bloody? Hardly. And perhaps he faked his death so as to-"

"You can't…See, this is why we can't play games!" He threw his arms up, as if it were a finalizing motion. Sherlock watched him for a moment, trying to decide if he should respect that. No, he would simply shove on.

"…yes, well…let's play another round and this time-"

"No," the doctor grumbled, "No more games. You'll just have to entertain yourself for now."

"But John, I'm bored," he nearly whined as he rose to his feet. He didn't seem to mind that the game was still precariously perched on the edge of the coffee table or that several of the pieces had been sprawled across the floor – and at the moment, neither did John. The detective paced the room, likely to go off at any minute.

"Don't you still have some cases?" he finally sighed, reaching up to rub the back of his neck. At those words, Sherlock dropped onto the sofa with a look of disgust.

"Those were boring, a waste of my time," he insisted, "So now I'm bored."

"That isn't my problem," his flat mate muttered under his breath. The other man went silent, watching his friend with a pitifully disguised expression of hurt. After the moment of quiet, which seemed to stretch on much longer than a more moment, Holmes stood up.

"John, you seem to be stressed. Why don't you let me give you a massage?" Rather than waiting for an answer, the man simply stood from the sofa and strolled over to Watson's chair.

"No, Sherlock…I'm fine, really."

"I insist, John." He put his hands on the doctor's shoulders and automatically began to massage the tightly wound muscles. Carefully, his fingers worked a sort of magic on John Watson and he began to relax – even slumping in his seat slightly.

"If you weren't such a brilliant detective, I'd tell you to start your own massage parlor or…oh, right…yes, right there." He angled his shoulder into the other man's deft hand.

"John," he murmured while leaning closer towards the man, his fingers buried against the bundle of nerves that had coiled itself through all the stress and adrenaline.

"Mm?" the doctor seemed hardly coherent as a sort of tranquility overtook him. This was his friend's goal, though, and Sherlock couldn't help but give a coy smile.

"Would you mind sending a quick text for me?" he continued with an uncharacteristically soft voice, "I would normally just borrow your phone, but with my hands held up at the moment…" The blond was already digging the cellular device out of his pocket. The detective's smile widened as his friend was poised to start a new message.

"Who's it to?" Hands became gentle and prodding, with Sherlock whispering the number into his ear. He ignored the shivers dancing down his spine and typed the digits in, hoping the fingers would return to their magic. The doctor believed he asked something about what its content would be, but Holmes knew exactly where to knead into his flat mate's back – causing a sharp intake of breath, only to be released as a low moan.

"Something sexy," he breathed, enjoying his game, especially how Watson gained a sort of blush when he said that.

"I, I'm sorry…what?"

"You heard me. Text something sexy, something you'd say to your lover," he explained, massaging slightly lower on the blond's back. Another moan, though it was accompanied by the delayed shake of John's head.

"I don't know them, Sherlock. And…I wouldn't know what to say."

"Don't you message your girlfriends?"

"I send them cute things that girls might like," he retorted, "But we've seen how bloody well that works." The detective made a shushing sound, his hands becoming more firm in their ministrations. His friend was straying from the plan, and it seemed that Holmes was going to have to influence him a little more directly.

"Then send something a little more…salacious," he urged.

"…like this?" He typed into the small keyboard and angled it for the taller man's viewing.

Let's have sex. Soon.

"No, John. You need more. You need to titillate them with your words. Seduce them with the text." The doctor felt his cheeks heat up, but begged his body not to show such a ridiculous display. Him, blushing. And just from a massage.

"It would be helpful if I knew who I was texting," he frowned, "At least if it's a girl or a bloke."

"It's a man, John." The simplicity of that statement sent several ideas scurrying through the doctor's mind. The first and foremost, however, was that this was some sort of sex-play for Sherlock, and somewhere he was hiding a second phone and would use the text for his – for lack of a better term – enjoyment.

"How about this then?" he murmured, almost embarrassed about this next one.

I'd have you on the table, begging for me.

"Add twice," Sherlock cooed, "The more the merrier. Isn't that how it goes? Oh, and sign my initials at the end."

"Your initials?" It surprised him; he wasn't that narcissistic, surely. Still, the doctor typed a bit more and showed it to him.

I'd have you on the table, begging for me.

Twice.

SH

"Perfect," he commented, his hands now only half-focused on the shoulders that ached from anxiety. Watson sent the message, expecting the detective to continue his massage. Instead, he wrapped his arms around John's neck and rested his head on blond locks, as if waiting.

"Sherlock, what're you…" And to John's horror, a message was received on his phone, from the number he had just texted. He had sent that to a real person, a real living person. He frantically opened the message to type a hurried but over-apologetic text back. That is, until he read the other man's reply.

hello, pet~
tell mummy if he's bored, daddy could come home soon.
always in the mood to play a game or two of fetch.
xxx

"…Sherlock," his tone was suddenly grave, "Did I just send a text to Moriarty?"

"Not just any text, John. You offered him sex through a text message. I wanted to find out to what extent he was watching us. He knows which cell phone is which, and moreso than that, he can tell which of us has texted. It's actually quite-"

"Unsettling?"

"I was going to say brilliant." John regarded his friend, who looked much too excited for his own good, with suspicion. These were both men, both geniuses, who appeared to have eyes for no one but each other. No, John reluctantly knew that wasn't true. But if their little "game" became more than that, if the tension was brought to a head, he couldn't help but selfishly wonder…

What would happen to him?

No, he didn't need to wonder. That reply answered everything. A game of fetch…

He was going to be right smack in the middle of it.

"Oh god," he groaned, "Why…why did you make me text him?"Sherlock finally stood up straight, sliding his arms up and away from the blond's chest.

"I told you, John. I'm bored." He snatched the phone from his flat mate's hand and strolled back over to the couch. While he began texting fervently once he sat down, John thought about going over to his laptop and typing up another entry in his blog. This one would simply be to ridicule Holmes about his immaturity. But then, John realized, he would have to recognize how easily he went along with it, how Sherlock put on a little sensual act and had the doctor practically at his beck and call.

Watson decided he would rather keep this secret, and hoped that the detective would keep his boredom a secret from Moriarty.

For both their sakes.

-ooo-

Mm, today feels groovy, my dear readers.

And just to remind you, there will be no intercourse between John and Sherlock. (Because I'm part of the wave that believes Sherlock is asexual.)