CHAPTER 6: THE PHOTO

Sherlock sat in front of his computer, staring at the image on his screen, unable to believe it, unable to look away. He worried at a fingernail, unaware that he was doing it. He needed a cigarette, badly.

On his monitor, maximized to full screen, was an image the likes of which he never thought he'd see in this lifetime. It was… shocking. Breath-stealing. Erotic. Terrifying. It called to someplace deep inside him as if it were the embodiment of a desperate need he'd never even known he had.

John Watson, 27-years-old.

The photographer was an artist, there was no doubt about that. Sherlock had found the entire calendar online, paid a stupid amount to get an illegal digital download. All the images were good. All of them had a certain quality Sherlock might have called 'magic,' if he'd been a less logical man. Since it was Sherlock, he called it 'taste'.

He understood at once why the photographer had chosen John. Although all of the images were nearly nude and sexually suggestive, they were far beyond what you'd expect to find in your average gay titillation magazine. The photographer didn't just select for beauty. In all of the models there was a softness, an innocence, a goodness, a genuinely open seductiveness that shone through, despite the acres of skin and suggestive poses. And August shone the brightest.

John.

He was posed in the sand – gold and white skin on an all gold background. The shot was taken from above, as if the photographer had been standing. There were no props, nothing cheesy to mar the art. Only his blue eyes broke the monochromatic theme, that and the bronze dog tags that lay against John's chest. He was laying on his back, one arm up and under his head while the other lay relaxed on his stomach. One knee was raised and the other was folded a little, opening himself up for the camera. He had been more muscular then, and still so young that his skin was like silk, unmarred by scars. The soft, rounded firmness of his biceps and chest, visible ridges in his stomach and thighs were… perfect. Not unnaturally large, but solid, dense, tight, reliable. He must have gone without a shirt at times while there, because his chest and stomach, while not as dark as his arms, were golden. The line at his waist where the white skin began, the line that marked where his belt would normally be, was somehow incredibly suggestive and it made something inside Sherlock clench tight.

And… his cock. It was difficult, embarrassing, for Sherlock to look at it, much less think about it. But it was just as difficult not to look, and how could he not think? John wasn't completely bare. He was wearing a stretchy nylon mini brief in a creamy gold color. But what it did for him… it was even more erotic than being naked. The nylon clung to every vein, ridge and curve of his erection. And what an erection it was. It wasn't huge, but it was undoubtedly large and… beautiful. It was strange to use a descriptive word like that about a cock, but honestly, there was no other word for it. It was thick at the base, very thick, rising to a thick middle that went on for at least… seven inches (as long as Sherlock's hand was wide?). Crowning it was fat, pouty head, perfectly shaped in a mushroom cap.

Sherlock's mouth went dry and he realized with shame he was hard, very hard. He shut his eyes, tightly. It didn't help. No wonder all of Scotland Yard suddenly wanted to get into John Watson's pants. How was he ever to take John to a crime scene again without inducing copious drooling? It was more than annoying. In fact, it was rather horrifying – no, infuriating - that anyone had seen John like this. Donovan? Lestrade? Anderson, for god's sake? That had to violate several critical universal laws.

No one should see this part of John. No one.

Except maybe me.

He catalogued various ways one might set about to remove someone's eyes and how he might get away with doing them to Anderson.

It took several minutes of deep breathing before Sherlock could calm down enough to open his eyes and look at the image again. And he had to look because there was one thing he had saved for last.

As inescapable and fascinating as the lower half of John was in this picture, it wasn't even the best part. The most mesmerizing part, thanks to the photographer's excellent eye, was John's face. His hair was very short on the sides, of course, but he had longer bangs bleached from the sun, far lighter than his hair was now, that pushed over his tan forehead. His blue eyes were warm and dancing. And his face was so young. Really, Sherlock had always thought John was an attractive man, but the younger, not-yet-broken John in this picture had a fuller, sweeter face that was, well, lovely. Perhaps it was his expression. His eyes teased the camera with a come hither look that was playful and entirely genuine, his red lips quirked into a soft, delighted smile, as if he were looking up at a lover in some private moment of joy, a lover and no one else. How the photographer had induced that expression, Sherlock had no idea, but he hated him.

And then Sherlock looked into those eyes, really looked, and felt the axis of his world tilt, maybe never to be righted again. He had the fleeting impression that John was looking at him, at Sherlock Holmes, across all those years and all those miles. And that face that he knew so well, his friend's visage, was looking just at him and saying things that it would never say in real life, things like I'm yours. I love you. Have all of me. Anything you want. Take me. Touch me now.

Sherlock slammed down the lid of his laptop and then ground the heels of his hands into his eyes for good measure. He felt the slick rush of a chemical cocktail suffuse him, hot and violent, making him light-headed. In the mix was self-loathing, embarrassment, intense arousal and… fear. He hated feeling anything, the weakness of it, and he was terrified by the magnitude of what he was feeling right now, things he had not allowed himself to feel for years. They were flooding his body and his intellect was powerless to stop them. Want, want, want, can't have, don't care, don't care, don't care!

Contrary to the beliefs of some, Sherlock Holmes was not a virgin. But the half-dozen experimental episodes he'd had in his younger years had convinced him of two things: 1) when he had sexual interest at all, it was for men and 2) mostly it wasn't worth the bother because the people attached to the bodies were, at best, annoying and, at worst, unbearably cruel. It was far safer not to let anyone that close.

And then there was John. If Sherlock had felt any sexual stirrings for John, his John, before this moment, and if he were honest, he had, he definitely had, he had pushed them aside impatiently and mercilessly as impractical and pointless. John was his friend. What they had together was good, better than good, just as it was. Besides, John had made it clear enough that he was straight. No, as attached as Sherlock was to John, he had never allowed himself to seriously consider that they could be lovers. He'd never let the idea get a toehold on his psyche. He'd been in tight control of his body and mind – just as he pushed down things like hunger and sleep, he had pushed down that. He was good at it.

But dear god, now.

I shouldn't have looked. How can I ever pretend I haven't seen that? How can I ever delete that image out of my mind? And how can I look at John again and not see that expression on his face, his body stretched out, warm and golden, ready to be touched? How can I not want that? Bear not to have that?

And then.

This is possibly the very worst thing I have ever done to myself. Bar none.

Another voice in his head, one that sounded suspiciously like Mycroft's, laughed.

He did try to warn you. Curiosity, Sherlock. Cats.

Author's Note:

So this is sort of my head canon about Sherlock and sexuality. I realize there are many others out there, but hope you can flow with this one for the length of the story. ... Any artists out there want to take a stab at Mr. August? -)