And here we go again! I promise at some point in the near to distant future I'll stop being such a tease, possibly... Soon.
John slowly comes awake, or he thinks he has, stretching in Sherlock's bed he can still smell the lovely, warm, herby-wooden scent. His slowly waking brain ticks over and with a flush he realises what he's smelling, the scent that pervaded his dreams, was Sherlock's cologne. Heaving himself upright, his stomach twisting in dismay, he cringes at the sensation of wet sticky pants.
Flipping the cover back he looks down at the sizable wet patch on his crotch and the shocking fact that he's getting hard again underneath the clinging material. Almost in a daze he reaches down and experiments, pressing the slippery wet material into his soiled skin. His breath catches as a knife of lust dances through him to burn low in his groin at the thought of his own slippery flesh and what he could do with it.
John has just laid his hand gently over his testicles when the door to the room opens up and Sherlock, who is standing in the doorway with a tray, comes up short. "John, I w.." he catches a full look at John, "I'll come back later, shall I?"
Deeply embarrassed and valiantly trying to ignore the twitching of his cock, not to mention increasing moisture, now Sherlock has arrived, John removes his hand with lightning speed and flips the cover back in place. "No Sherlock, please." thinking quickly as possible - Sherlock is leaving the room - which can't be allowed to happen! "I was just checking for tenderness and, well... autonomic reactions, you know how they are."
At this Sherlock turns back and looks John over carefully. Whatever he gleans is not offensive so he turns again, bringing the tray with tea and meds back to John.
He places his burden on the bedside table and offers John his cup before settling on the edge of the bed near his friend's knee. For a few minutes there is silence, to John it seems embarrassed, but Sherlock just sits there blankly passing him his meds till they are all gone. When the cup is empty and Sherlock has placed it back on the tray he inhales as if to speak, looks at John and then forges ahead. "John, I don't know if you are comfortable with talking about this, but... I thought it might be helpful."
The ex-army doctor just looks at him amused befuddlement, part of his brain saying 'he can't be suggesting he help with the erection?' While a less horrified section practically purrs at the thought. "What might be helpful Sherlock?"
The genus looks away for a moment, his gaze flitting around the room, "Well, I researched the hormonal supplement I collected from the chemist for you and as I understand it, having been on it a two days now, you shouldn't be experiencing any 'tenderness' from the cramping before..." The tall man is suddenly very interested in his own knuckles and John, for the first time since waking, feels amusement instead of embarrassment in reference to his flatmate.
Taking pity he picks up the narrative and Sherlock brings his full scrutiny to bare on him, "Well, I'm not talking about that kind of tenderness." He has to regroup, the calculated stare of the detective in full-on mode is distracting. 'So that's how he gets information out of people.' Flits through his mind as he tries desperately to think, "As I approach mid-cycle the general area gets tender, but I was surprised it kicked in so soon, so I was making sure it wasn't the result of some damage I can't see."
Sherlock nods, "Would you say your base desires increase as you get toward the middle of the month?" he pulls his feet up to sit taylor-style leaning his elbows on his thighs.
Trying to brush off the quivering in his stomach at the casual brush-press of Sherlock's right leg, which is now pressing solidly into his thigh, just above the knee. "Yes, well that just makes sense, as the body's last ditch attempt to fall pregnant before the egg ripens and menstruation occurs."
"But John, " Sherlock's querulous reply comes, "your medication imitates the hormones during pregnancy and as such your body does not allow another egg to ripen, or pass. Why would it continue this charade?"
John shrugs, almost certain his story has been caught out, "Well same is to be said of a woman's libido during pregnancy, must be a common enough issue."
Leaning forward slightly, Sherlock smiles, understandingly, "That is generally to produce hormones that help the growing fetus, something sex does as a by-product. Are you sure it isn't just that your sensitive post ejaculation? I know that makes me feel like a raw nerve."
There's a funny buzzing sound in John's ears as he struggles to remain impassive, he must have blinked a thousand times, but he can't seem to stop this nervous tick, as he feels his cheeks burning hotly. "Yes, well..." he fiddles restlessly with the cover not meeting Sherlock's eyes.
"Really John, I would think that, as a medical minded man, you would be aware that nightly emissions, or really any ejaculations that occur when you are sleeping are not within your control. Even I have acknowledged the inevitable function of the reproductive system."
John rolls his eyes, seising upon solid ground that bickering about medical matters gives, "Yes, of course I know it's not within the person's control, it's still embarrassing tha... Hold on a tick, I didn't think your 'reproductive system' enforced it's will on you, I thought the great Sherlock Holmes was above all of that."
The detective scans his friend's face for long minutes, cataloging his expressions: warm comfortable smile = not making fun of Sherlock with said comment, tight, strained shoulders and stiff spine = deeply uncomfortable about something, most likely being caught almost wanking in his own spend, still not able to hold eye contact = deep embarrassment, most likely over the wanking and the dream. As he watches, his deductions coming quickly, John trembles under the intense scrutiny from Sherlock, who's surprised to see John's pupils dilating and his breath increasing.
Tipping his head to the side Sherlock's eyebrows draw together curiously, "John?" He's interrupted by the sight of his flatmate's tongue slipping out and drawing slowly from one corner to the other, gliding gently over the lower lip. His eyes widening in shock, as he feels an electrifying spike of heat in his loins. As that thick, glistening muscle drags slowly (really how is it time is not behaving properly, he chides) across John's lower lip and then flicks up to tongue at the upper lip twice in the center swiftly, Sherlock moans, almost silently, as his cock becomes almost embarrassingly hard.
Leaping off the bed in carefully controlled alarm, "In any case, I think I should leave you alone to," looking any direction but back at the tousled siren in his bed, "uhm, yes! tidy up." The greatest detective that had ever lived exits the room as quickly as posable and doesn't stop running till he's out the flat door, down the stairs and running past Speedy's wishing he'd brought his greatcoat.
John, for his part, pants for a few moments, coming down off whatever precipice they were on and pulls back the covers to the bed. Taking care with his suddenly trembling limbs he hoists himself from the bed and with the crutches makes it into the bathroom, intent upon cleaning up.
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For four days they avoid one another, John moves back to the sofa and Sherlock isn't ever there when John is awake. Every time he wakes up though, there is fresh water, meds and a good amount of food sitting on the coffee table waiting for him. Mrs. Hudson brings him a late lunch and each day a take away, Sherlock seemingly calls in for John, from where ever it is he's holed up, arrives.
By the end of the fourth day John is starting to worry yet the arrival of Mycroft irritates him, more than anything else. "What do you want Mycroft, I'm not in the mood."
The unflappable politician arches an eyebrow, "Taking lessons in tact from my brother John? Not your usual considerate manner." The corner of his mouth quirks up to something similar to a smile, "Though, you are rather omitting the dramatic flopping he does, for good reasons."
John reaches into the back of the sofa and draws his pistol on Mycroft from it's hidden depths. Wordlessly he aims for the tall man's face.
"Really John, such manners and when I was going to tell you where Sherlock is too?" The moment draws out, neither of them move for several beats, then Mycroft sighs and sits down in John's chair. "Please John, safety the gun and put it on the table so I can tell you what I came to say and leave." For a second or two John keeps his sights on the suited man sitting stiffly in his chair, then he cocks the weapon back, thumbs on the safety and slides it onto the table.
"Thank you, I understand your upset about Sherlock's absence and that this makes you more likely to do something drastic. Now given some of our conversation will upset you," seeing the blaze of worry suffusing John's eyes Mycroft holds up a for-stalling hand, "no worries, it isn't about Sherlock, the upsetting bits, all the same I'd rather not get shot by you in a fit of temper." Saying so, he pops up and slides the gun off the coffee table and quickly deposits it on the table under the stuffed moose.
John's hands clench tight and then relax, the gun might as well be in his bedroom now for all the good it will do him from over there. "Then bloody well talk and get out!"
His guest's face pinches in frustration for a moment, "Fine, Sherlock has been hiding out at Mrs. Hudson's, he is quite safe and not endangered by anything other than that awful drivel that he's watching with her on the tele."
The muscles in John's neck jump as his entire body clenches and his head whips round to look down the stairs, as though he thinks that, once again, talking of Sherlock will summon his tall flatmate. When the hallway remains empty John shifts his gaze back to Mycroft, the silent command to finish the conversation plain in the angry heat of his eyes.
Clearing his throat, "Well, I was actually hoping to put some of your fears at rest, concerning my little brother. I think in this situation he is supposed," his voice is a touch raised on these words, "to be the reliable one that you can lean upon, while you sort yourself out. It's," his voice again rising in volume, "his job to do."
Mycroft fiddles with the handle of his umbrella for a moment, "Look, I know that neither of you find me like-able, but all of my actions come only from the best intentions. I want my brother to be safe and happy and it looks like his best shot at all of that is with you, John." The politician stretches his legs out in front of him, ankles crossed, lying the umbrella along the groove of his shinbones. "I know you are a very private man, and that is why I have never mentioned what I have known in all our years as... well frankly, as family, but you are the best 'person' I could have imagined for my little brother." Humourless smile on Mycroft's lips, seeming almost, "There were times when I believed you couldn't exist and he would be alone forever, and I think that future is certainly something to avoid. So cut through all the fuss and get back to where you both need to be."
John is staring agog at Mycroft when he hears a cleared throat in the doorway, "Yes, well brother dear, that is an appalling amount of sentimentality, I'm shocked. Though I do indeed agree that John is the linch-pin in my world, I'd rather discuss that without you around."
With a chuckle Mycroft is suddenly up and sashaying over to meet Sherlock in the doorway. "Do remember that the good doctor hasn't dealt with it yet."
Sherlock rolls his eyes, "Do shut up and get out."
John just sits there staring at Sherlock as the tapping of Mycroft's feet and umbrella disappear out the front door.