I can never get enough of Sherlock's soldier fetish...
"It doesn't fit like it used to."
Sherlock barely even registered John's remark, he was busy sorting through emails from clients. Far too many of them were boring or lies to gain his attention, which of course was what got the whole thing started. If he had been reading something interesting he wouldn't have looked up. Of course he had been reading boring emails from boring people and so didn't mind a distraction, and looked up just in time to see Captain John Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers fully uniformed and examining himself in the mirror above the mantelpiece.
Sherlock enjoyed five blissful seconds of staring at the army doctor before he realized two things. The first thing was that his mouth was hanging open, and the second thing was that his cheeks had grown terribly hot. Of course these realizations were followed by an equally important realization: John had noticed him staring.
"Its not that bad is it?" He asked. "I think I might have put on weight."
"You look..." Sherlock searched for a word and for once found himself at a want for something to say. "Look...look...uh..."
"Yeah, yeah. No need to save my feelings." John chuckled. "Just had the urge to try it on again." He played with his dogtags absentmindedly and for a moment Sherlock had a fleeting fantasy of pulling John onto his lap by those dogtags, and then letting them fall back against naked skin. Skin glistening with sweat, leading up to a reddened face with lips parted in a pleasured moan...
Sherlock jerked his head away from the man in front of him. His thoughts were racing and he was panicking. What had he just imagined?
"Any good cases?" John asked, walking back to his bedroom and stripping at the same time. Sherlock bit his lip until he tasted blood.
"...No." He answered back, trying to remember what he usually acted like. What did he usually say to John? He couldn't remember how to talk. "...Idiots, and paparazzi posing as clients..."
"Too bad. You could use a case, you've been restless lately."
Restless, maybe that was it. He was just itching for a case, or a good high, and John had just been in the wrong place at the wrong time and Sherlock's thrill starved brain had substituted that...that image...
Sherlock searched his brain, he'd never had a fantasy like that before...never truly had fantasies before. Fantasies were for children and boring people with boring lives. The only time he'd ever though about sexual reproduction of any sort was when The Woman had strutted naked into his life and even that had been tame and not as vivid as that last image.
Of course John was out of the uniform now, Sherlock was certain he could control himself and that would be the end of it. He'd never think of that again, right? There was an uncomfortable tightness in his pants that begged to differ. Sherlock glared down at it and blushed again. How annoying, brought down by sexual impulses and human emotion.
He crossed his legs, and swore not to think about it again. That today would be the end of his problem.
But of course, it wasn't.
"Sherlock?" John knocked on the unresponsive detective's door. It wasn't like Sherlock to sleep unless he'd wore himself out on a case or had gotten too bored without cases. Considering this was a nice midway point between his last case and what would hopefully be his next one, John expected Sherlock to be awake as usual sawing away at the violin or conducting experiments late into the night. When he'd awoken before the detective he'd been confused, but when by mid afternoon Sherlock had still not awoken he'd grown concerned.
"Sherlock, are you ill?" John asked, though he suspected he already knew the answer to that question. When no response came he considered it his duty as a doctor to open the door and investigate. All the lights in Sherlock's room were turned off and the detective lay in a messy pile of blankets on the bed. His hair was a tangled mess of black curls and he wore nothing except a pair of pajama pants.
John crept up to the bedside and put a hand to Sherlock's forehead to feel for a temperature, when his hand made contact with Sherlock's skin the detective's hand snapped up and grabbed John's by the wrist.
"I assure you am I in perfect health." He groaned, unconvincing.
"Well you're burning up." John shot back.
"Its not due to any illness." Sherlock grabbed his pillow and hugged it close, burying his face in it.
"What is it then?" John asked, and Sherlock couldn't think of an answer for that. "Yeah. I thought so. I'll get some medicine, and then you need breakfast." John chuckled, making his way out the door. Sherlock just buried his face deeper into the pillow and tried to stop blushing. It seemed he was incapable of thinking about, approaching, talking to, or making contact with John Watson without dire consequences. Namely this increased body heat, coloration, and on extreme cases...
Sherlock's hand dropped below the covers and he almost dared to fulfill an act most men learned to fulfill in their later middle school years. However he knew John would be back soon, and he had enough problems without the doctor walking in on that. So instead he tried to banish the visions of the solider in uniform or rather recently out of uniform from his mind.
John was trying to figure out a breakfast for Sherlock when his phone rang. The caller ID indicated Lestrade, so he answered it.
"Hello? Greg?"
"Why isn't Sherlock answering his phone?" The D. I. asked gruffly, going straight to the point.
"I don't know, I wasn't aware he wasn't." John shrugged, confused. It certainly wasn't like Sherlock to pass up a case with an action as trivial as ignoring phone calls.
"I've got the case of a lifetime down here and he isn't even answering texts." Lestrade complained.
"Well he is sick, that could be it." John mentioned, but Lestrade only laughed.
"Like that's stopped him before...Guess you haven't seen him sick before, don't think he's caught anything since you moved in with him." Lestrade explained. "One time he showed up with a raging fever and passed out at the crime scene, trust me nothing short of having his legs chopped off would keep him from a good case."
"Really?" John felt concern growing in the pit of his stomach. What could possibly be wrong with Sherlock to keep him from a case?
"Look just let him know that if he wants to stop sulking and sitting in bed all day he can come down here and have a look. We could use his help...don't tell him I said that." Lestrade said before hanging up. John thought for a moment and decided to put the breakfast on hold until he'd gotten to the bottom of the situation. He made his way back into Sherlock's bedroom where the detective was still languishing under his blankets.
"Lestrade says he has a case for you." He mentioned casually.
"Good for him." Sherlock grumbled. "Now go away."
"You're really passing up on a case?" John asked incredulously. "Just yesterday you said you'd murder someone just to have something to do."
"...I'll go later. Leave me alone." Was the sullen reply. John shrugged and retreated from the bedroom. If he didn't feel like going, who was he to force him?
Of course not ten minutes later Sherlock was dressed and headed for the door. It almost looked like he was trying to sneak out of the house.
"Want me to come along?" John volunteered, already used to getting dragged out to cases whether he liked it or not.
"...Actually I'd like for you to stay here this time." Sherlock averted his eyes, looking at his shoes. "You'd get in my way."
"Oh...oh well...okay." John tried to not sound offended but his anger was evident. "Well. Don't take me along if I'm just an obstacle."
Sherlock still refused to look up. Truth was he just didn't think he could be around John at a crime scene right now without being distracted. These new thoughts were like a switch that could turn off his deductive reasoning. Normally John helped him at a crime scene but today just wouldn't work.
"I'll be back." The detective murmured, but John just shrugged and went off to find something else to do.
"Anything?" Lestrade asked desperately.
Sherlock ruffled his hair with both hands and winced. There was the body in front of him clear as day, but there was nothing he could find from it.
"...l-left handed." He choked out, sounding unsure of himself.
"Brilliant so now we have...what, nothing?" Lestrade huffed impatiently. Sherlock tried to ignore the irritated D.I. and his pack of Yardies eager to leap at this chance to tear Sherlock apart. They'd never seen the detective so off his game.
Sherlock had never felt this off his game either, all he could think about was John looking so rejected and furious when he told him to stay home. Or John in his uniform making him blush again.
"Look, is this because you're sick or something?" Lestrade leaned down next to where Sherlock crouched right at the feet of the body. "Because you can go home, we can handle it if you're not feeling well."
"You're very polite when your subordinates can't hear you." Sherlock observed dryly.
"Yeah and you're very stupid without John Watson to follow you around showering you with compliments." Lestrade rolled his eyes. Sherlock visibly stiffened, a motion that was not lost on the detective inspector.
"Alright." He sighed. "Whatever it is go home and solve it."
"What do you..."
"I won't have your fights with John messing with my crime scene. Go home and fix it." Lestrade commanded, waving the detective away. Sherlock glared back at him, trying to decide if it would be more logical to obey or if he wanted to rebel and plant himself at the crime scene for the rest of the day. Finally logic won out.
Sherlock burst through the door, the doorknob hit the wall hard enough to leave a decent sized dent. No doubt Mrs. Hudson would have something to say about that.
John nearly jumped out of his chair, eyes wide with astonishment.
"Do you know why I left you home today?" Sherlock near yelled, his face was red and he was panting from running all the way home. "Because seeing you in your uniform caused an extreme and embarrassing reaction of a sexual nature, so severe that I was in bed all morning feigning illness just to keep away from you!" He admitted, and once the confession had left him he followed through with his urge to grab John by the shoulders, pin him against the nearest wall and snog him hard enough to make his lips bruised.
It was only when he ran out of breath that he realized what he had done and pulled back, awaiting the slap or the angry and disgusted remark.
"John I..."
Sherlock was suddenly pushed back into the opposite wall, and now John was on him kissing him back. Sherlock lifted the smaller man with a great show of strength and moved him over to the table, sitting him on it and pushing his experiments out of the way to make room for an even better bit of chemistry. He was in the middle of stripping the doctor of his jumper when a thought occurred to him. He leaned in close and growled:
"Go put the uniform on. Now."