During the interchange with Sherlock, John had started to feel an increasing heat between his legs. When the detective had asked John why he liked him, this heat had been joined by a familiar warmth in John's stomach. Describing Sherlock's beauty had done something with the former army doctor which hadn't happened to him in ages.
Yes, it was true that the fumbling with other men in Afghanistan had only been the result of absent interesting (or interested) women. It was also true that he had always made sure that everybody knew he was straight. But he had also always known that he would make an exception if the "right guy" came along. Maybe this was because he could never get it quite right with a woman. Maybe it was because, as a doctor, he was very aware of his prostate. And he and hadn't been able to keep himself from "experimenting" with it. And this had felt oh so good! Of course, some women had been willing to finger him during intercourse. But he could never keep himself from wondering how something bigger would feel like in there. And how it would feel like if the other person would enjoy anal just as much as he did.
But John didn't know what to expect from Sherlock. Would he just turn up for some dirty sex and then leave again? Would there be snogging and whispered nothings in the dark? Or a combination of both, lasting through the whole night and leaving John utterly wrung out, but helplessly happy, hoping for the beginning of something longer, something permanent? John shook his head. This was nonsense and he knew it. Someone like Sherlock Holmes wouldn't fall for someone like him, if he fell at all. And he couldn't imagine any "whispered nothings" from someone seemed to have already undressed him in his mind and kept a riding crop in the mortuary. The best John could hope for was a good shag, a shag which would possibly blow his mind.
But then he would have to be prepared! Hurriedly, the former army doctor got undressed and searched his suitcase for the red pants and fatigues. He sniffed his ankles and groaned. But no time for a shower, deodorant would have to do. When he was dressed and had made himself as presentable as possible in the bathroom, he took up his mobile again and typed a hurried message: "I'm ready, where are you? Am waiting for you ;) "
After ten minutes, there was still no reply. John could kick himself. He could have waited patiently, but no... He re-read his text. Did he sound desperate? Needy? John huffed, and started pacing the floor.
After half an hour, there was still no sight of Sherlock. John re-read all of their messages, searching for a clue for what could have delayed the detective. Finally, the last of Sherlock's texts caught his eye: "Hold on, right there!" Right where? Had Sherlock meant… but no, he couldn't have! But then the detective had seemed so full of himself on their first meeting that John wouldn't put it past him to actually get off on someone describing him.
John shook his head again. This was bloody bullshit! He really needed to get laid soon. The other man had played with him for a bit, because he was bored, that was all. Sherlock hadn't masturbated while texting him. And now something more interesting had come up and the detective had abandoned his new toy. And of course Sherlock wouldn't show up. John got out of his clothes, throwing the red pants all over the room in self-disgust. Sure, some gorgeous, brilliant creature would just show up in his life and provide him with amazing sex and all the affection he could ever wish for. As if something like that would happen to him.
Suddenly, John felt very tired. He just put on some boxers and a t-shirt and crawled under the blanket, too wrung-out to take a shower. But even though he was completely exhausted, he couldn't seem to find sleep. Anger and self-loathing was welling up inside of him. The only guy he could possibly fall for was the one he could end up sharing a flat with. Of course! And then the guy had nothing better to do than to wind him up completely. After they had only met once, for crying out loud! Of course! This was just his luck. Angrily, he pushed a hand between his legs and started rubbing furiously. It only took a few minutes before he silently came in his pants.
It was kind of disgusting just letting the stuff dry there, but he would clean himself up in the morning. Let that be a reminder that he would never be that stupid again. Let that be a punishment, so he would be very aware in the morning that he was NOT in love with Sherlock Holmes and that he would behave like a decent flat mate from now on. This might just work. John Watson drifted off into a dreamless sleep.