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Chapter IV

John didn't have a chance to protest as Sherlock abruptly (and rudely) left, but he wasn't really surprised. It was one of Sherlock's many odd (and annoying) habits. With a mental shrug, John finished his glass and tried to stand and follow Sherlock out, but found that he wasn't very stable on his feet. Squeezing his eyes shut, he leaned on the table, trying to focus his vision.

"Uh, hello?"

Abbey wasn't far out of the room (and had probably heard the most awkward phrases of their conversation), and got John back to balance quickly. She seemed quite practiced dealing with inebriated customers, for the next thing John realized, he was propped up with a steaming cup of rich black coffee, and an ironically thin slice of Anatole's famous cheesecake. Just sobering enough to get to a cab. Natasha walked him out herself, a hand on his shoulder.

"It really was lovely meeting you John. Sherlock seems like a lot to handle…and you seem quite good at it. He looks happier than when I met him." She opened the back door of the cab for John, held it as he climbed inside. "I doubt he's a very easy man to make happy."

"You have no idea," John grunted, feeling a bit miserable-this time he didn't bother to point out that they were just friends. Last minute he remembered his manners and thanked her for dinner, before he gave the driver his address. The cab ride back to Baker Street was a bit of a blur, but John opened his window a bit and the fresh air helped him clear his head a bit. When he stumbled up the stairs to his room though, he found that he was still quite drunk, though. He was a bit surprised to find Sherlock in the sitting room of their shared flat.

"What you doing here?" he asked, while trying to peel out of his jacket.

Sherlock was sitting with John's laptop balanced on his knee, cross-legged on the chesterfield.

"Research." His fingers danced along the keyboard with a flurry, before he narrowed his gaze at the screen again.

"What are you researching?" John flopped down next to him, squinting at Sherlock but not expecting an answer. Sherlock seemed immersed in his task and it was surprising that he had even bothered to answer John's first question. Naked, entwining forms on the screen, though silenced, answered for him instead.

John squinted at the screen and had he been sober his jaw would have dropped and he'd have excused himself to go to sleep-but he was bloody wasted and he really didn't want to tackle more stairs quite yet. He watched Sherlock's brow drew together as he refined his search parameters again, flicking between several windows and tabs of pornography.

"Found anything interesting?" John inquired and prepared for a second attempt to get out of his jacket. Sherlock hummed noncommittally.

"There is a gross amount of uninteresting pornography on the internet. Even in your own search history. Really, John, don't be boring," Sherlock reminded John as most of his focus stayed on the screen, pulling up a few windows of interest, "But I have narrowed down a few intriguing options." He gestured to the screen, "The fact that I don't care for any of these people still remains, so why would I become aroused at any of this, save for perhaps physical references in a contrived circumstance..." His brow furrowed again, and he sounded frustrated. He clicked the trackpad harder.

"My... my own history?" The uncooperative jacket wasn't all that interesting anymore. "Excuse my sexual f-fantasies for not being more exciting and up to your expectations," John pouted, because there was just no use in trying to scold Sherlock about ignoring personal boundaries. "Why don't you try to find your own porn." He sulked angrily, still stuck in the arms of his jacket. Sherlock chose not to hear him, and had enlarged a player where two girls were entwined on a bed. It was from John's browser history.

"This, for example," He unpaused the player, and unmuted the sound to unleash the one girl's orgasmic wail. He let it play for a few moments. "is one of the few real orgasms in your collection, and probably the only intriguing moment in the lot. Easily distinguishable-" He paused the video again, the girl's fingers clutched in her lover's hair, "By the unfocused gaze, the tension release here, here and here in her face and neck," he pointed to the spots on the screen indicative, "and the flush of blood along her cheeks and shoulders, especially." He opened another window, determined to prove a point. "It's the exact same expression here," He pointed this time to a man being bent over a desk, panting heavily as a man with his face out of frame thrust into him from behind. "It's as if they forget they're being filmed for that moment." He sounded as if he found the phenomenon both mystifying and amusing.

"Turn that off!" John grabbed the laptop and shut it with a fair amount of force. He jumped up from the couch and took his computer to the kitchen, out of reach. "I told you to stop analyzing! It's not that hard!" His gaze wandered back to Sherlock, then it turned contemplative for a few seconds-and finally determined. "Right. Shut your eyes."

Sherlock looked startled; yes, that was it, but after a moment to a raise an eyebrow, he closed his eyes.

"Right." John repeated, huffed heavily and walked behind Sherlock. He brought his hands to Sherlock's shoulders and he started to knead them. It was a bit clumsy, but John was a great masseur, a fact his former girlfriends had never tired to point out (and occasionally abused,) "Don't think about anything. Just sit there. Relax." John heard Sherlock sigh, and even though it was out of exasperation (and a hint of doubt), it was a start, because even as he breathed out, a bit of tension slipped from his shoulders.

"It's impossible not to think about anything, John." He pointed out, but it was out of habit rather than reproach.

"Shut up," John reprimanded, which caused Sherlock's mouth to twitch in a tiny grin, and he pressed a bit harder down on the muscles than was necessary. Now he was a bit at a loss of how to proceed but he decided to make it up as he went. It just seemed like a good idea. To a drunk person. "There's nothing on your mind. No case, no murder, no riddles, no mutilated bodies-nothing. Watch the black dots behind your eyelids."

"Entoptic phenomenon..." Sherlock muttered, and must have worked hard to not say anything else on the topic.

"Black dots," John emphasized, keeping up with his massage. Sherlock was awfully tense, there were so many knots in his shoulders and neck...all those tight shirts probably. "Follow the dots with your eye. Watch them drift..." John closed his eyes and followed his own advice. He always found this method to be very relaxing, so maybe Sherlock would too. "Are you relaxed?"

"No," Sherlock said, and John suspected that would be it then, but instead he tilted his neck slightly forward, "But I am starting to. Don't stop."

"All right." That was at least something. John was being optimistic and doubled his efforts. "Stop focusing on the dots and let your gaze drift. Does something appear out of the darkness? Shapes? Images? Maybe...sounds or a feeling?"

"Don't be ridiculous John." Sherlock's shoulders shifted under John's hands, but Sherlock remained seated. With his eyes closed, John's voice had nuances that he didn't usually hear, and he could discern the drunken lilt from the genuine care in his tone. He could have launched into the several theories behind the shifting shapes one saw with closed eyes, but it had suddenly become more important to just keep John talking. "What would it feel like if I were to feel something?"

"Well...you'd feel...warm." John furrowed his brows, tilting his head as if listening to something, as his fingers dug into the sore muscles languidly. Sherlock leaned into the rhythmic squeezes of John's hands. The slow circular pattern was different from before, and Sherlock felt himself be pulled back into the cushion of the sofa, and closer to John. His back relaxed and he tilted his head to give John access to the stiff muscles in his neck. John continued:

"You'd start to feel relaxed, but maybe a bit...restless at the same time." John paused a moment, but Sherlock for once seemed content to listen, so he sought the best ways to describe what arousal felt like, "A feeling of excitement would start to grow in your abdomen. Your pulse would quicken, your breathing accelerate... You might start to perspire."

Sherlock breathed in deep, and felt a jolt when he realized John breathed with him. His lips parted with a surprised exhale, and a feeling did start to grow in his abdomen, his pulse quickened.

"And if it continued...?" His voice was affected, but at the moment, he couldn't bring himself to correct it. John's hands squeezed his trapezius muscles to the brink of pain, before pressing insistently upwards, along the back of his neck. Sherlock's head dropped forward to his chest, giving John more access. John seemed seemed to be encouraged by Sherlock's passivity.

"Your skin might start to tingle pleasantly as the image in your head becomes clearer. Your senses may become heightened, especially what you feel." Sherlock's breath caught as he listened to John describe what his body was doing. It was ridiculous and arousing that he knew, and Sherlock was quickly losing the ability to explain it.

"You might feel a little dizzy, and...get an erection." John explained, trying to remain clinical sounding at least. Sherlock's hand moved to the top of his thigh as his hips lifted a little at John's words. John failed to notice his own trousers getting a little tight as he tried to concentrate solely on Sherlock's stiff shoulders.

"Usually you would show other signs of excitement, like the hardening of...nipples." The pause was almost nonexistent and John wouldn't have been caught dead saying the word 'nipples' had he not been drunk. It drew the world in to an intimate level, and Sherlock swallowed thickly.

"That's a good time to start touching yourself-wherever you like. The most intense experience will spring from touching your erection." John's words were practically permission, and Sherlock dared to rub at his now insistent erection through his trousers.

"Depending on what feels good for you, you can grab it harder, rub it... Sometimes it will cause you to moan-or breathe heavier..."

Sherlock wasn't expecting the intense sensation of it, and bit his bottom lip, his hips pressing up harder as he listened to John. He panted, still silent so he wouldn't miss a single sound. His cheeks were flushed furiously, and he felt a tightness in his abdomen as John dug his fingers hard into his shoulders, and the pressure and friction against his cock built so fast, he wasn't able to bite back the moan that escaped his lips as he tilted his head against John's wrist.

And then he was coming, with John's hands on his shoulders and his pajama bottoms still on, and for a moment, he didn't think anything, and the first thing he thought when he could again that he would have to apologize to John for getting that wrong.

Sherlock's moan made John go weak in the knees. A shudder ran down his spine and he thought that it was probably the sexiest sound he had ever heard-before a cold dowse of reality hit him. Opening his eyes, John's hands stilled, and he felt a bit as if he had just woken from a dream. Also, he was shamefully aware of his own erection that poked against the back of the sofa. Retracting his hands, he cleared his throat.

"Well, something like that." Only then did he realize what had just happened.

Sherlock didn't look relaxed anymore, and at the removal of John's hands, had stiffened up tighter than before. There was a moment's pause, perhaps considering what to acknowledge, perhaps waiting for John to say something.

Before he could, Sherlock decided to retreat to safety. With a speed that seemed previously improbable, Sherlock was up, off the sofa and forcibly slamming the door to his room shut. They weren't going to talk about it, apparently.

"Bugger!" John cursed under his breath, raising a hand to his forehead. He didn't feel drunk anymore, at all. This had sobered him up quite effectively. For a moment he contemplated whether he should try to talk to Sherlock. He walked to Sherlock's door uncertainly, attempted to knock, then turned to go to his own room. Eventually he paced back down the stairs and knocked briskly.

"Sherlock?" he asked, biting his lip and straining his ears to hear any sounds from within. "Are you-are you all right?"

"Go away John, I'm thinking." The reply was non-negotiable, and the door was locked when John tried the handle. John rubbed a hand over his mouth, deciding whether he should leave or not but then decided on the former.

"All right... Well then, good night." He paused, "I'm sorry," he added, feeling guilty. He waited for a reply but when none came, John went to his own room. Ignoring his own erection he lay down but it took him a long time until he could finally fall asleep.

tbc?


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