A/N: And so it begins! I know it isn't much, but consider it an appetizer. There is more yet to come.
Warning: There be masturbatory events in this chapter! Beware!
There was nothing more painful than an obvious question. John wanted to stop thinking about it, wanted to shut it out of his mind and forget the whole thing happened - forget that there was SH-signed graffiti on his wall, forget that he had a flat mate that seemed to be able to read what was on his mind. Why hadn't he picked one of the stupid-looking ones? John tossed himself onto his bed, burying his face into his pillow. He was frustrated. Frustrated, confused - he was going out of his mind with everything that was happening. He took in a deep breath, and with it came the scent of the fabrics, Sherlock's pillows, Sherlock's sheets - he hadn't changed them since, only actually slept in them once or twice. Even the things in the room were exactly as they'd been left - it didn't even occur to John to think of it as strange that the room hadn't been tussled like the rest of the house.
John flipped over onto his back, his chest heaving. His body was on fire - tingling with prospect of being targeted by a criminal, with the prospect of Sherlock's return - with excitement, with anxiety, with… frustration. How long had it been? John's attempts at relationships since Sherlock's death had been half-hearted at best. The activity recently, Niles' close proximity to his face - it was those damn eyes, they were too much alike - all this talk of the detective, how close they were… it was getting a rise out of the doctor that he couldn't ignore.
Well, he didn't have to think about it, just take care of it. Right?
Making sure the door was closed, he stripped off his pants, kicking them to the floor amongst his things - he hadn't unpacked into the room yet, despite the time. He was already hard - and he flushed with the idea of it having been noticed by Niles. Wrapping his hand around it he began, feverishly, pulling a low moan from his lips. He could almost feel the detective's eyes on him, those perfect grey-blue, unbearably intense eyes, roving over his body, inspecting, analyzing, devouring. John's breath hitched as his body tightened, muscles clenching, his eyes half-lidded as the name slipped past his lips.
"Sherlock…"
His fantasy Sherlock poured over him, hands probing, moving over muscle, exciting his nerves, sending shivers across his skin. His fingers slid across his chest, down his legs, The thought of Sherlock touching him was electrifying - John was already getting close, careening towards climax, his cock stiffening in his hand, sack sucking up towards his torso - and when he imagined his hands wandering back, back between his cheeks, pressing in -
John exploded all over his shirt. Warm, white stickiness weighed it down over his stomach, and he quickly removed it, tossing it aside before it soaked through to his skin. He fell back against the pillows, his heart racing, his mind blank. He could take a shower later - for now, all he wanted to do was sleep.