As he immerged through the alley onto the main street, a large demon walked past and eyed him up, smiling. Flinching slightly, Sherlock ran for the door and flung it open, slamming it hastily and flying up the stairs.
When he ran into the flat, John turned around in surprise. "How far were you? That was a record of two minutes and a half."
"What was my other record?" Sherlock breathed out, catching his breath.
"Uh, three minutes and four seconds." John said, his face a bit scrunched. "Sherlock, I'd rather you don't breathe everywhere. You're hormones are filling up the damned room like a fog."
Sherlock whipped around and headed to his room, before John could see the apologetic look that for some reason had come to rest natrally on his face. He also shut his mouth before the kind words 'I apologize' tumbled out of his lips.
"Tea? I think we have some Sarga soother herbs burried back here somewhere." John called out. Sherlock heard sounds of suffling boxes from the kitchen.
What Sherlock really needed was a hot shower and John in the bed fully naked, but tea would have to do. Sherlock sighed, plopping down on the edge of his bed and unwrapping the scarf on his neck that suddenly felt too tight and constricting. His wings rested and stretched out limply on the bed, and he felt a wave of hot desire flood his system and override his body.
Flinging his jacket to the floor and walking swiftly down the hall, he found John putting the kettle on and getting the cups and tray ready. Rolling back and forward on the heels and balls of his feet, he took in every detail of John with smoldering consentration. John's anger towards him about the date he had ruined was slowly fading from his face. That was good, because if Sherlock were to force him to bend over with his pants down when John was angry, it would most likely end in Sherlock getting a swift punch on the jaw and a hard quick strangle followed by hateful glances and mumbles about how he was totally, utterly NOT gay, despite what others say and/or imply. Sherlock sighed as John turned around and realized he was in the kitchen.
"I thought you were in your room," John mumbled, his eyes flickering to his wings almost self consciously. His fingers folded and unfolded a take-out menu for a chinese place down the block that rested crinckled on the tabletop. Sherlock could see John was trying hard not to breathe the surrounding air in too deeply. "Um, Sherlock, it doesn't just affect demons. The sarga, I mean. So can you just..." he gestured back down the hall, to Sherlock's room. "I'll bring the tea, and if you're really good, I'll give you a patch or two, to calm down your, um, nerves." John started fidgeting with the menu more urgently before as Sherlock felt a wave of heat overtake his body again.
"John, John you need to fix this. You akways fix things. Put me back to normal." Sherlock was aware of his surroundings but only slightly aware of what his mouth was saying.
John sighed, clenching his jaw as he rounded the countertop and guided Sherlock-without touching him-into the hall and to the door of Sherlock's room. "Sherlock, for once in your life, just do what your told and stay in your room, please. I'll get you the tea, so just... I donno, sit and think about what non-explosive activities you could do in the next six to seven days, or whenever your sarga ends."
John left Sherlock standing in the doorway staring at his retreating figure, wandering his way to the screaming kettle and wondering if he himself, John Watson, super straight and totally not gay guy, could even keep it all in his pants for a whole week when Sherlock was giving off such a sweet and horny smell.