A/N: So this is the first of my two 'solo pleasure' chapters, where basically Holmes and Watson test what it would be like to switch roles in the bedroom.

Sorry if this is a little short and sweet. More smut soon, I promise :)

And thank you to the lovely readers and reviewers, I treasure every scrap of feedback so don't be at all shy xD

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Chapter Seven-

It had been three days since Holmes had ordered Watson out of Baker Street and Holmes was just finding the will to leave his bed in the morning. His rooms were in a worse state than ever before, as was his person.

He was conscious of the fact that he smelt overwhelmingly of stale unwashed clothes, sweat, smoke and opium but the thought of washing, shaving, dressing for no one and nothing seemed like entirely too much effort to just make himself miserable and distraught.

What made it worse was that, do what he may and distract himself as he could, he found his thoughts always occupied by Watson. He was always there. There had been a time when he had been able to shut off all emotional thought without the slightest effort, but now his every thought was possessed by John Watson and still it wasn't enough. He was obsessed, he was infatuated. And he blamed the doctor squarely.

He had been treated badly. He did not intend to make the mistake of letting his emotions control his dignity and self-respect again. Not even for Watson, who besides had made no indication that he thought of Holmes as anything more than a convenient supplement to his marriage. Holmes may be unhappy all his days, but he wouldn't live knowing Watson could abandon him at any moment. Holmes didn't like the feeling of having someone else in control of his emotions.

He actually got out of bed that day. He got dressed and went into the living area. Then he stood and stared about the room, the stained drawn curtains, the dust coating almost everything, the strange objects here and there which he couldn't remember even bringing into the house. He felt restless.

The silence, the lack of human interaction inevitably made him think of Watson. What would the doctor be doing at this very moment?

Of course, that was a question he should have learnt by now not to ask himself because it always caused the most unnerving images to come to his confused and wounded mind. Even as angry as he was with Watson, he couldn't easily shrug away his attraction, his desire for the doctor.

He had never been used to such feelings. He may have felt almost similar things for Miss Adler. But even then, not really. He had never wanted to take her clothes off, bed her, wake up beside her. The thought of Watson acting out that part made his whole form burn. What had Watson done to him?

He was at a loss of how to quash such thoughts. He did not quite know how he was supposed to 'deal' with such thoughts. Well, actually. That was a lie. He did know how one 'dealt' with such thoughts, but unfortunately he had never attempted it and he found the very thought humiliating and dirty. He was sure that he would not be able to banish the feeling that he was being watched and judged from some hidden place.

On the other hand, he thought, peering down at the front of his trousers where a rather present bump was straining visibly, he didn't know when he would again be with Watson.

The most filthy images of Watson, wrists tied to the bed head, legs spread and his heat begging for Holmes's penetration were already crawling out from the dark parts of his mind. He couldn't seem to banish them; they elbowed their way stubbornly into his mind's eye.

Now as he stood alone in his rooms in Baker Street, staring around the dishevelled interior, feeling the dull ache of his unfulfilled arousal, he thought perhaps it was time to learn the act of which he had heard so much and knew so little.

He didn't know whether to sit or stand or lie. He pondered for a few moments, puzzled, considering the mechanics of each position. He finally decided to sit, and perched himself on the edge of his armchair. He felt uneasy and awkward. He knew he needed to relax but that did not come naturally or easily to him.

He gingerly sat back in the armchair, peering down at himself and wondering vaguely how he was supposed to begin. It was all so entirely foreign to him.

He undid the buttons on his trousers and shimmied them awkwardly down his thighs, gritting his teeth against the moan which the friction almost extracted from him.

When his trousers were around his knees, he peered down. He blushed to see his own erection straining away from his body. It was unnerving for the detective to look down at his own aroused flesh and see himself in this desperate state of desire. The head was already wet.

He closed his eyes. Looking at himself made the whole process vastly more humiliating.

But what was he supposed to do now?

He felt completely out of his depth. How did people do this? It was confusing and... embarrassing.

He moved his hand to take a hold of himself but lost his nerve at the last moment and lowered it again with a frustrated tut at himself.

He wished he had Watson with him to help guide his movements.

"Now, Holmes." He would say in his most businesslike tone, lying his strong, callused hand on Holmes's. "You need to relax. You're getting all tense, you'll overexert yourself."

"It's hard." Holmes whined, not opening his eyes.

The conjured image of Watson chuckled. "That's quite the point, old boy." Holmes pressed his hand harder into his skin. "Now just... move slowly. Let your body decide what it likes." Holmes's hand, as though guided by the imaginary Watson's hand moved itself gradually down Holmes's stomach to where his excited manhood was beginning to ache for contact.

The imagined image of Watson smirked, its grip on Holmes's hand tightened.

"Touch yourself." It hissed, voice husky and low, making Holmes dizzy with want. "Show me how I make you feel." He imagined Watson's lips against his skin; wet and sticky and soft.

Holmes knew he was making up the dialogue in his own mind but even the pretend Watson seemed to have an irresistible influence over his body. A surge of intense arousal went through him, filling every limb with heat. Without completely realising what he was doing, he found his hand suddenly around himself and immediately cried out at the contact.

"Oh G-God. W-Watson... Oh, God..." He felt his mouth moving, but no more words came. He was utterly too bewildered by the new sensation of touching himself, of pleasuring himself and having complete control of exploring, stroking, experimenting with his body.

He thrust his hips upwards, hardly able to comprehend the wave of pleasure that had broken over him at the simple contact of his fingers around the straining appendage.

He began to move his hand over himself. He was clumsy and slow, he didn't quite know how to handle the movement but now that he had started, he didn't know if he could stop.

He stroked, his hand seeming to know how tightly it wanted to grip, his hips rocking as though on their own accord into the tight space between his palm and fingers. He was almost alarmed by how his body reacted to the tightness. This is how Watson felt, this is how it would feel to be inside of Watson.

He pushed hard into the back of armchair, trying to keep control of himself when he had never felt more out of control in his life.

"Oh, Watson." He moaned. "Oh, p-please, please Watson..."

He hardly needed help sustaining his arousal but the depraved images of Watson, submissive and helpless with pleasure, which he had been fruitless in resisting in past days certainly aided in his pursuit.

If he had given Holmes a chance to prove himself, Holmes would have done everything within his power to pleasure and comfort Watson. It would have been an unnerving reversal of roles but Holmes would have been gentle and he was sure Watson would have guided him, helped him. Why did the doctor have to be so damned proud? It would have been hard for Holmes too, to admit he knew nothing about giving pleasure in that fashion but he would have been willing to swallow his vanity. Doctor John Watson seemed to think himself far too sensible and... married to make himself vulnerable, even to Holmes.

"Stupid... idiot." Holmes panted, straining his back forward against the build of tension under his hand. "Bloody fool- Uh!"

A sudden intense, tight throb had run through his aching shaft and he felt warm moisture burst under his hand. He had come.

He froze where he was, back arched upwards, hand wrapped tightly around himself, his eyes shut, his dry mouth open.

He flattened himself against the chair again, panting and feeling exhausted by his efforts, however brief. He stared up at the ceiling, a slight frown on his face. There was a pang in his chest.

He did not release himself yet. He felt uneasy and disappointed. How could he have climaxed so quickly? True, it had been intensely pleasurable, but so brief and abrupt that he thought he must have done something incorrectly.

He felt suddenly inadequate and foolish. How could he pleasure the doctor when he couldn't even pleasure himself for longer than a few minutes?

"Blast it." He hissed, finally unwinding his hand from his softening member.

He had wanted to show Watson that he was able to do more than just suck his cock but this was not an encouraging start.

With miserable sigh, he irritably yanked up his trousers and sunk sulkily into the chair.

To be continued...