John lay in his room staring up at the ceiling. He had barely slept. But it was six in the morning and he was due for a shift at the clinic. Fuck. Damn it.
The previous night he had collapsed on the bed without changing out of his clothes and tried to switch off his mind. But every sense was focussed on what was going on downstairs. It was more than twenty minutes-twenty four exactly, his brain supplied helpfully- before he had heard Sherlock switch off the living room lights and then heard his bedroom door open and close.
His imagination was running wild.
Too restless to go to sleep, he got up and paced a bit. He toyed with the idea of going out for a walk or something. But the cold was enough to freeze one's balls right through and it was late.
Besides he did not want Sherlock to think that he was upset by what he had just witnessed. Fuck it to hell, he was an experienced man of the world and yes, in this world people fuck casually, God he had done it at times, but usually after a few dates, women don't put out that easily, but apparently handsome men in business suits who own their own factories did put out, the fucking tarts, and in this world they somehow had the fucking right to touch what was fucking his. And it should have been fucking me who was downstairs undressing Sherlock…. and…. And….Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Damn it.
His pacing was getting more agitated and his brain felt scrambled.
Sherlock had sex! He was not a virgin, not asexual. Sherlock was about to have casual sex with a relative stranger. This man, this Peter was going to touch him, see him naked, see and touch his erection, that perfect arse. His mind helpfully supplied him with visuals of every gay sex act he had ever watched on his laptop.
It was not as if he had not thought about Sherlock that way before. He had given in to the occasional fantasy especially when it had become obvious to him how Sherlock felt. But In all his fantasies, he was the aggressor, either forcing Sherlock down on his knees to suck his cock or pulling those pyjamas down to reveal that lush arse and just pushing in to take his fill. And Sherlock thanking him brokenly for it, for teaching him about sex, for accepting the gift of his virginity.
Ha! Bloody Ha!
Well, the joke was on him, and wasn't that just fucking typical of this fucking universe to use him as its favourite fucking punching bag. And Sherlock! Like a massive crazed bull-dozer who periodically ran rough-shod over the barren pastures of John's miserable existence and plucked out all the weeds of ennui and depression, only to fucking fill the field with anger and frustration and….. And….. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Damn it.
It appeared that not only was Sherlock comfortable with the idea of sex but also that he was the one in charge, at least tonight. In retrospect, John felt he had been crazy to imagine it any other way. After all, Sherlock was self-confidence personified and made human. The thought that he would ever cede control to John or any man in any activity, let alone during sex, was ludicrous.
But fantasies were free and unencumbered with any obligation to follow reality.
He sat down on the bed for a while, elbows digging into his knees, hands running wearily through his hair. God, Sherlock, why do you always confuse me so much? I don't know what to think. Here I was blissfully wallowing in deep self-pity and dejection and you can't even allow me that… He decided to at least try to get some sleep.
After another hour of just lying there and then tossing and turning and having his thoughts churn round and round, John gave in and opened his laptop. Tonight he searched for gay porn and perused a few videos as he undressed. Checking once more to ensure the door was locked, he got in naked into bed and played with his half hard cock with one hand, while clicking random videos with the other hand.
He settled on a scene in the bedroom where a brunette was on his hands and knees. The top massaged and pinched his cheeks as he spat a couple of times on his anus. A finger entered inside and moved in and out, even as the brunette moaned. John grabbed his cock and started stroking himself. The top grabbed the brunettes arse and then spread his cheeks and sank in. John's hand speeded up. Slapping sounds mixed with crude grunts as the fucking began in earnest. The top pulled the brunette's hair and started riding him like a pony using the hair as leverage. Sherlock has long hair, but he is so goddamn tall, I don't think I could ever even reach his hair in this position, not unless he arched his back for me, thought John as he too started grunting, his hand now a blur on his wet dick, pulling and tugging. He timed his climax to match with the top in the video who spurted his spunk on the gaping hole of the brunette.
He panted as he lay there in the aftermath and then stood up and cleaned himself and put on a pair of pants before climbing back in. It was crude and dirty and more than a 'bit not good' what he had just done, but he was damned if he felt sorry for it. It was one of the few pleasures of life left to him. Besides the fantasies of his mind were his alone, they were private. So private in fact, that John succeeded in hiding his guilty desires most of the time, even from himself.
His respite was short-lived though as his traitorous mind zoomed straight back to wondering what was going on downstairs. Had they finished? If Sherlock had needed sex, why had he not tried to approach John for it? So he was gay, he had wanted John once, now I am available, surely he knows that, why would he even think about getting a relative stranger to satisfy him…..What satisfies him? What turns him on? How did his back undulate while he is fucked? What do his thighs look like when he fucks, the flex of those muscles must look incredible? The thought of those perfect lips and how they must kiss made John moan sometimes. How does he look when he comes? Just imagining his face in the throes of an orgasm made John want to whimper. Which of the myriad of changeable colours that graced his eyes glowed when he climaxed?...and…..And….Fuck. Fuck. Damn it all to sodding hell.
Maybe he should go down to get a glass of water? But Sherlock would know, Sherlock always knew everything. It was one of the laws of nature or something. And God knows what he would think if he caught John lurking around like a perverted old man.
God he felt his age! The younger generation was committing whoopee downstairs and here he was all wrung out. Well, John old boy, the tables sure have turned on you, he thought wryly. After all he had brought plenty of dates home in his time at Baker Street and taken them into his room for a night of passion. In full view of Sherlock. As if to say, this is how normal people live, they go out with people they like and have some fun and then come back and fuck each other's brains out. And he had certainly paraded Mary in front of Sherlock. As if to say, is what normal people do, Sherlock, they get married, have a family, children. They don't go around chasing after criminal masterminds and pine for slinky dominant lesbians.
And he had tried. So hard. To get laid in the past few months. But perhaps it was the air of misery he carried around that warned women off, perhaps his heart was not in it. So he continued dating his hand.
He ran a weary hand over his face and lay there all night. Fuck, Sherlock. What am I meant to do now?
So now it was morning, time to get up, eat and while away some time before leaving for his surgery shift. John felt strangely reluctant to go downstairs. On the one hand, he wanted to find out more, maybe run into Peter again and quiz him some more. On the other hand the thought of looking at either of them with post-coital bliss on their faces aroused a kind of possessive fury he did not think he would be able to mask. He was not that good an actor!
He glanced at the clock. 6.30 am, it blinked back at him. The urge to soothe his nerves with a cup of hot tea eventually dragged him out of bed.
Some minutes later, the toaster pinged and the kettle light went off. John went through his daily ritual of tea and toast making as he reflected on the silence in the house. Sherlock's bedroom door was still closed.
John settled down at the kitchen table and sipped some tea before taking a bite of his toast, marvelling absently at the fact that for once the table was uncluttered with the detritus of Sherlock's experiments. He was tired to his bones and his mind would not let go of the events of the previous night. He wondered if he was up to going and playing doctor that afternoon in such a fatigued and distracted condition. But there really was no other option. Locum doctors were paid depending on the hours they put in and he needed the money. Besides, if he stayed at home it merely would be a repeat of the entire night, just thinking….thinking…..agonising.
The sound of Sherlock's bedroom door opening jerked him out of his reverie. He looked up to watch Peter walk into the kitchen, obviously just showered and dressed in soft cotton shirt and trousers, the same ones he had come in with the previous night.
He looked dazed and lost in thought and looked startled when he saw John sitting at the table.
"Oh, Good morning, John," he gave a small self-conscious laugh. "I didn't expect to see you up this early."
John waved his hand, "I've a shift at the surgery this morning. Can I get you some tea?" He tried valiantly to sound normal even as his eyes roamed all over this man as if just by staring all could be revealed. Damn it, if I was Sherlock I would take one look and know everything; John wished he had that kind of superpower.
Peter smiled absently, "Thank you, John. I'll just get some tea myself, if that's okay." He moved towards the kitchen platform and poured hot water in a cup.
"Is Sherlock up?"
"Hmmm?" he turned his head towards John. "Oh, sorry… yes, he is just having a shower. Someone from Scotland Yard called and he said something about a case and that he needs to go."
"Right."
He turned around and stood by the table a steaming cup of tea in hand and stared into space.
"Here, sit down," John said, gesturing at a chair.
"Hmmm…." Peter looked blankly at John, like the question hadn't quite registered. A moment later, he gave a brief shake of his head as if trying to wake himself and smiled apologetically. "Please forgive me, John. I'm not normally this preoccupied when I'm with company. It's just that….. it has been quite a night."
He leaned back against the kitchen counter gingerly and chuckled, "As for sitting down, I'm afraid, it is going to be hard to do that for a little while." Peter's face blushed a deep red even as he spoke, his expression almost shy, a small private smile on his face.
John fought to keep a neutral expression, while his heart clenched with agony and he wanted to scream and throw something. Just as he felt his face try to do some complicated manoeuvres to settle in a nonchalant look, he heard the bedroom door open again and Sherlock's unmistakable footsteps. Hurriedly he started to pick up his plates.
As he stood up he observed as Peter straightened up from his slouch and put his cup down. Sherlock went about his business quietly, buttoning his suit jacket and donning his scarf in that precise economical way he had and then put on his coat. Only when he was done did he pause and looked at both men in the kitchen.
"Lestrade called. I need to go, John. Peter's PA will be coming around 9 to pick him up. I know you will leave before then, so I've told Peter he can lock up," he said.
John glanced at him briefly and then back to his dishes, unwilling to meet his eyes. He didn't want Sherlock to read his emotions even though he was no doubt broadcasting all over the place anyways. "Yeah, that's fine," he said briefly.
Scrubbing the plate with added vigour, he could not help watching out of the corner of his eyes, all of his senses were trained on the scene a mere four feet away.
Snapping on his leather gloves, Sherlock walked right up to Peter. The two men stood close looking at each other. John took in Peter's adoring gaze, the parted lips, the sway of his body towards Sherlock, even as his arms stayed down. He gave a small gasp as Sherlock leaned forward till his lips were brushing against Peter's temple, his arm had come up to lightly encircle Peter's waist. John's hands gripped the plate so hard, he felt it would break under the strain. He caught Sherlock's gentle murmur against Peter's ear, "You did very well, Peter." He turned his head to place a light peck to Peter's forehead. And then he whirled around and left.
Trying to resist the urge to fling the plate right across the room, John looked up. Peter exhaled with a shuddering breath as he leaned forward to grip the back of the chair with both arms, his head bowed down, as he breathed deeply.
John continued to watch him as he began to wipe the plates, Peter murmured absently, as though he was thinking aloud, "Victor was right."
"Sorry?"
Peter shook his head as he came back to himself, "Forgive me. I was just saying that Victor Trevor, the friend who introduced us, was right. Sherlock is far and away the most glorious Dom I've ever submitted to." He shook his head ruefully, "Victor actually warned me against coming here. Said once I've experienced him, no one else will ever come close….. And that Sherlock Holmes just does not do relationships."
John's brain seemed like it was trying to swim in molasses as he gave up all pretence of cleaning up and gaped at Peter. Dom? Submit? What the fuck?
Peter straightened up and rubbed his face with his hands. He brought his hands down slowly and gave a short laugh. He leaned back slowly on the kitchen counter again and said reflectively, "John, I am a wealthy man. I am young, I have my health and great prospects." He looked up and met John's gaze steadily. "I would willingly give everything up in a heartbeat to trade places with you. I hope you realise how lucky you are."
"I told you we are just friends!" John voice rose.
"I know you did." Peter raised his arm in a placating gesture. "But it's just like you say in your blog…. he is amazing. Even being able to spend everyday life with him must be quite something."
He paused as his mobile phone rang. "Excuse me, John. I need to take this," retrieving his phone from his trouser pocket. He started walking towards the bedroom, murmuring in the phone, "Hello, Laura? Yes, I'll be ready in another thirty minutes. The address is 221B Baker Street."
John looked at his retreating back and then turned and walked slowly to his room, mind whirring again.
Sherlock stood on the pavement, waiting for the empty cab he'd waved at, to turn around and get to him. He brutally clamped down the fierce urge to hasten back upstairs and reassure John somehow.
The one brief, clinical glance he had permitted himself had been enough to reveal all; the slumped shoulders, the tired despairing eyes, the bags under the eyes, the wrinkled clothes, the tight grip on the breakfast plates. Masturbated last night fantasizing about me. Again. He clenched his teeth, determined to not allow sentiment to win this time.
The cab drew close.
Time to put a definitive end to this absurdity that has been perpetuating for five years now. He opened the door.
'Needs, must,' he thought grimly as he got in.