Author's Note: Okay, you have stuck with me through the angst. I promise it will all turn out alright in the end. Now for the smutfest, starting with a little solo John...

Minutes later I am locked in my bedroom, standing in front of the mirror.

It turns out women's lingerie is not easy to put on when you have no experience and no one to help you. I almost put my thumbs through the silk stockings. My cock barely fits inside the panties flaccid, and now, when I am insanely hard, it pokes from the waistband, the elastic digging into the shaft uncomfortably. And trussing myself into a corset, especially one tailor-made for a man who is a substantially different shape to me, is not an easy task.

The trouble is that it feels fantastic. The silk rides my skin in a cloud of delicate sensation. I feel like I'm wrapped in rose petals. I think of him similarly enfolded and my balls ache with need.

This is one kink I am definitely willing to entertain.

The only other problem with it, apart of from the obvious access issues, is that silk stains badly. Lube and semen are going to wreck this costly outfit, and it is obvious that Sherlock has been extremely careful to avoid that. I want to keep the corset on, but the rest will have to come off if I am to pursue my plan for this evening. The demands of my penis are the only thing that is keeping me separate from a bottle of Talisker, after all. I reason that it is in my liver's interests to experiment.

The stockings, suspenders and panties come off, however reluctantly. Now it is time for something even more daring.

I start with a condom, pulling it over the bulbous end of the prostate massager. The box contained a liberal supply and although I am pretty sure I am clean, I haven't washed myself out so it is only sensible from a hygiene point of view, regardless of any infection concerns I might have. I lay out a towel on the floor and kneel on it, spreading my thighs sufficiently to get my hand in between. I spend a little time on my cock and balls, caressing, enjoying. If this all goes to pot, I want to at least be able to say not just that I tried, but that I enjoyed some of it. Then I reach for the bottle of lube. Sherlock is clearly no ascetic when it comes to sexual lubrication, no matter how much he wants pain. I smother my fingers with the sticky goo and slide my hand down over my cock, past my balls to rub my perineum. I've never fingered myself before. Its all new to me, but I'm a doctor and my knowledge of anatomy is excellent, so I figure I can't go too badly astray. I circle my fingertips around my hole, observing the sensations and trying to relax the muscles in my pelvic floor as much as I can. The anus is packed with nerve endings, but it is still a surprise that a gentle caress to this part of my body can feel so pleasant. It occurs to me that I could learn a lot from Sherlock. The fact that I have reached the grand old age of 42 and am so ill acquainted with my body's responses is a shame to say the least. This feels good, and I begin to realise what I have been missing.

I go a little further, slip a fingertip in, and the ring of muscle tightens reflexively. I take it slowly, working my cock with my free hand, and am amazed at the amplification of pleasure that results. A little more effort and I am up to my middle knuckle, and the room is full of an obscene squelching noise. That in itself is surprisingly erotic.

I decide to go for broke.

I lube up the massager and ease it into my body in place of my finger. It feels unyielding and cold, but I work it in and out a bit, taking it slow so as not to force my sphincters into a painful spasm. The heat of my body warms the plastic until the intrusion feels less alien, and I ease it in a little more. Now the internal muscles start to work, naturally pulling the toy deeper. Still, by the time I have managed to take the entire length, my whole body is dripping with sweat and my legs are screaming from being folded under me for so long. I've probably already wrecked the silken corset so I pull it off, and suddenly miss the caress of it holding me. I wonder if that is what Sherlock's arms will feel like, wrapped around me. That's sentiment, and he'd hate it, but I'm a sentimental man. And his love is what I want.

Tonight is not about love, though, at least not right now. It is about distracting myself from his absence, and from my own drive to drink. So I struggle over onto my back, feeling like a flipped tortoise, and give myself a moment to acclimatise. I feel full, stretched. The mouth of my anus burns, but I can feel the pressure inside, on the right place, and it is teeth-clenchingly good.

I take a deep breath, and turn the dial.

Instantly the world lights up and fireworks start exploding inside my pelvis.

'Oh, fuck!'

This isn't going to take long. I grip my cock in both hands and start wanking for all I'm worth, my head filling with the idea of Sherlock's mouth in place of my fists.

The orgasm unfurls like a bullwhip. I come so hard that I scream (thank God Mrs Hudson has gone to stay with her sister). The sharp, snapping waves overtake me, and I am writhing on the towel, my balls pumping, my back, bowels, legs, everything, engulfed in sparkling white heat.

Consciousness floods back to me in a shock of over-sensitivity and I fumble desperately to turn the infernal machine off, then lie there gasping like a beached fish. I can't believe what just happened to me. There are still lights at the back of my eyes, flashing. How can sex be this intense?

When I finally stop shaking, I ease the massager out of my arse and drop it on the towel. Everything relaxes. I'm sore, but Oh, God, I feel so good. Who needs booze when you can have this? I realise now how people get addicted to sex. I tug the towel up to wipe my belly and then just lie there, staring at the ceiling. I wonder if he felt this good last night, I wonder if all those men fucking him made him come this hard. I wonder if I can ever make him feel this good.

And then I find I am crying. Lying on my back on my bedroom floor, stark naked, on a spunky towel, a grown man afraid of his own shadow, and afraid of how much he loves the man who is the centre of his life, this man who has a gaping fissure through his soul that I may never be able to bridge.

It takes four days for me to ride out my cold turkey, which I realise thankfully is nothing. It shows how early on I am in the progression of my disease. To be frank, Sherlock's cracker box, as I have come to think of it, has helped a lot. I've had more orgasms in the last four days than I've had since I was about 12 and just discovering masturbation. I've tried out everything in the box except the sounding wand. (I'm trying to work out a way of discreetly throwing it away without Sherlock noticing, which of course he will do, immediately.) I was careful to leave one hand free when using the cuffs, so I could avoid the embarrassment of having to be rescued from much a compromising position, but I got the gist of why it can be so exciting. The spanking paddle left me cold – I presume it must require two people for the full effect. Even the smaller dildo is going to take a lot more practise. I've been through three sets of batteries with the prostate massager. I've had to put an internet order in for more of his favourite lube. And I've had the lingerie professionally dry-cleaned.

After four days, yes, I reckon I've pretty much got it all out of my system.

He sends me a text twice a day, morning and night. Each one says the same thing, but it is his way of reassuring me that he will return:

Continuing to improve. Back 7pm Sunday. Put the kettle on. S

I miss him, horribly. Not because of sex, and not because I am so used to all the row he makes stomping about the house, doing his 'Being Sherlock' thing. I miss him because this separation reminds me of what it was like after he jumped. Those three long years of hopelessness, of life lived without colour or light. Sometimes I catch myself thinking I've dreamt his return and here I am, back again in my days of mourning.

And then one of his stupid, repetitive texts arrives and I am walking on air for an hour or two with relief.

On the fifth day, I start to think clearly. The post-orgasmic haze has worn off, and I haven't had a drink for a full working week. I realise I need to think about what I'm going to do in two days, when he gets home. I lie on the sofa and imagine what it will be like when he walks through the door on Sunday night. I speculate on the words we will say to one another. I think about how I want to feel, how I want him to feel. I realise that it is up to me to set the tone, to make him see what a functional relationship between us will look like. I start making plans.

I go out shopping. The credit card takes a hammering, but decent silk sheets don't come cheap. When I put them on the bed for the first time, though, I realise the expense is worth it. They look amazing, and feel even better. I am tempted to strip off and roll around on them, just to experience them against my skin. I don't. I want to save them for him. I want to share that first silken touch with him, to associate that feeling with his body, with us.

I buy more candles than I can reasonably carry home, enough to cover every available surface. And then worry about whether I'm going to set the whole house on fire.

And let me tell you, fresh rose petals don't come cheap in December.

I ring Molly and ask her if she knows what I could drink that's like champagne but is non-alcoholic. I have no idea why she presented herself in my mind as the person who would know, but she suggests Elderflower Presse. I borrow an ice bucket from Mrs Hudson (ignoring the inquiring looks asking for it provokes), and buy a six pack of bottles from the supermarket, along with a bag of ice and some extortionately priced chocolate ice cream. Sherlock's favourite brand doesn't come cheap. Of course.

Then I clean the house from top to bottom. If nothing else, it keeps my hands occupied while I wait.

And it's a long wait.

Tomorrow, Sherlock comes home…