In 221b Baker Street things were not going well. John Watson was naked and enjoying an unfettered view of the world's only consulting detective in his birthday suit. Sherlock was thin and pale and John supposed he had the same kind of aesthetic appeal as those statues you saw in museums and garden centres. But it just didn't do it for him.
Sherlock, apparently had got over his previous inhibitions and was carefully stroking his way over John's body with the occasional exclamation at just how buff John's muscles were. John was in hell.
In a Dockland's Apartment with Chandeliers, Greg LeStrade, whilst certainly enjoying the company of Mycroft Holmes and the close proximity to his surprisingly well toned body, was thinking of someone else. One Short, Stocky, Blond haired Army Doctor to be exact. Greg closed his eyes and tried to think of England. When that didn't work he tried to think of the resulting paperwork that would be generated if he didn't please Sherlock's elder brother.
Back at Baker Street Sherlock was beginning to sense something was wrong. John's penis was not cooperating. No matter how much Sherlock fondled it didn't seem to get any bigger or harder. This was not what he had been lead to believe would happen by the instructional books Mycroft had given him.
John Watson was finding it hard to believe that he had spent the previous evening deflowering Sherlock, no matter how drunk he had been. It was only when he briefly thought of his missed football match with Greg LeStrade that he felt a stirring below. And if that was the only way he was going to get through it, then so be it. John concentrated very hard on shutting his eyes and thinking of the Detective Inspector's spectacular thighs.
Sherlock smiled as John began to respond to his touch. He kissed a trail down John's chest to his groin, and then slowly began to lick John's cock, just like he'd seen in the DVD Mycroft had thoughtfully provided. John seemed to be enjoying it.
Mycroft realised that the response he was getting from Greg was not quite what he had been expecting. He ceased his groping and propped himself up on one elbow.
"What's the matter Inspector." LeStrade looked him straight in the eye.
"Please don't take this the wrong way but..."
"Oh." Mycroft had already worked out what Greg was going to say. "Oh Dear."
"Look it's not you. You are really quite lovely Mycroft, it's just that well, I kind of like John Watson. He's got that short, chunky, wounded hero thing going on, and he's a doctor, and he's sensitive, and... You know. Sorry." Greg was quite sure that he was going to be cemented in to a pillar on the M1 by morning. Mycroft sighed. "But if it helps you're just my twin brother Tony's type. And he's not seeing anyone at the moment."
"You mean there are two of you?" Mycroft's Genius brain did some very perverted maths before coming back down to earth.
"No there's only one of me. Now would you like to tell me what exactly I'm doing here?" And Mycroft decided that actually he would rather like to tell Greg LeStrade what was going on in return for Tony LeStrade's phone number.
John pushed Sherlock away from him. He just couldn't do it. He didn't care if Mycroft had him killed, cut in to tiny pieces and served as the Entree at the next state dinner.
"What's the matter John? Am I doing it wrong? Please tell me what I'm doing wrong."
"Sherlock this is so not a good idea."
"Of course it is. I love you. And I won't let Mycroft hurt you or take you away from me." Sherlock burst in to tears. Whilst his Brain was the size of three super computers he had the emotional development of a kiwifruit. John put what he hoped was a comforting, non sexual arm around Sherlock.
"You don't love me Sherlock. Not really. It's obvious I'm just a replacement for someone, or something else."
"But..."
"Shush." John was beginning to feel a little better about himself.
Greg LeStrade could count on the fingers of one hand the times he had been as angry as he was right now. Mycroft could count on one finger the times he had ever been the subject of such a dressing down.
"So poor John, Who is possibly the last decent man left alive on the planet thinks he did something terrible to Sherlock whilst he was drunk and has gone off to make amends? By offering himself as some kind of sacrificial hamster substitute?"
"Erm. Well when you put it like that it sounds a lot worse than it actually is."
"Hmm. Is your whole family like this or is it just you two."
"Mummy decided not to have any more children after Sherlock."
"I can't think why."
"Inspector, Gregory, I will sort this all out. I suggest you go and rescue Doctor Watson."
Greg pulled on his trousers and stormed out leaving Mycroft sitting on the silk sheets wondering how the hell he was going to fix everything this time. And also whether Tony LeStrade would like opera.