******Sorry guys, just a bit of 'here to there' stuff ******
When next Sherlock is aware of himself, his eyes feel dry and grainy, from gazing sightlessly into the aether. Clearly some time has passed whilst he was sorting things out (hiding from his libido) in his mind palace. With some confusion he parses the visage of John's bedroom, which is what his eyes are relaying to his brain, and he blinks slowly trying to moisten his burning eyes. Not sure how long he's been lying supine on John's bed, Sherlock lays his prayer-clasped hands across his chest and tips his head in the direction of the window, clearly, by the outdoor light levels, he's not been in the room for very long.
Only a little more than two hours, his body clock assures him, not even yet time for John's next round of meds. Swinging his feet up and off the bed and levering himself into an upright position Sherlock grimaces at the damp stickiness in his pants. The sensation of it has him wincing a bit, with every step, as he strides out of the room and down into the sitting room; before suddenly checking his pace. The intent had been to go shower away the unpleasantness, but now he was about to do so, he sees the flaw in his plan. Into what would he change afterwards? Even the promise of his dressing gown being on the back door of the bathroom is no real help, as he'll still be nude underneath it and eventually have to go into his room...
With a grim look on his face, Sherlock's attention is drawn downward, to acknowledge the uncomfortable feeling of getting hard in soiled pants. Trying to battle the rising tide of lust, Sherlock starts going over some mundane facts pertaining to the case he solved online earlier. But his mind-palace revolts and starts throwing rapid fire thoughts up.
Like the feel of the smooth softness of the dressing gown caressing him along the length of his thighs, then John looking back at him wantonly over his shoulder chanting his name loudly for all to hear, or trying to stealthily remove his clothes from the wardrobe without calling to attention the fact that he's naked, ruined by the 'pitch of the tent' in his dressing gown.
This flickering of imagery, both real and imaginary, continues for a breathless moment till Sherlock roars out his rage at this treachery. The sound bounces around in his palace, down the halls, the very sound waves themselves visibly slamming doors shut till the front door is the last to slam and he's mentally standing outside it, in front of that door, breathless.
He doesn't realise he's roared out loud as well until he hears John's voice, "Sherlock?" Turning he sees his flatmate standing in the doorway of the kitchen, 'So my sense of making noise for a considerable time was not-only within my mind.' John is hovering, leaning on his cane and a hand steadying him with the doorframe.
"I'm sorry John, I wasn't aware I was making noise externally." Feeling a need to fuss to make up for the out burst he strides to his violin, only to hesitate with his fingers barely brushing the polished wood, "Or would you rather I call for some Chinese first?"
John smiles gently at his best friend, "A Chinese would be brilliant! After my impromptu nap I'm starving."
Sherlock nods, letting his fingers fall away from his instrument and pulling out his mobile to fire off a text to his favourite take-away, Sherlock drifts, seemingly against his will, towards John in the doorway. "Did you sleep well? I'm surprised to see you without your crutches, but I suppose that is good progress."
Face reddening slightly John ducks his head and shifts his grip on the cane handle fussily, "I did yes, I feel well relaxed now. Though I think I just grabbed the cane because I was a touch worried, what with you shouting the house down, so no big deal there. Your lucky Mrs. Hudson must be out, or she would be up here giving you grief for the noise."
Sherlock snorts a laugh and slips swiftly past John, "Be that as it may be, a few days ago you'd have fallen without the crutches." And now that his path is clear Sherlock kicks his stride back into gear, "I'm going to take a quick shower, unless there is something I can do for you first?"
John's blush darkens again for a second, "No Sherlock, I'm fine. I might take a shower after you though." Seeing the hesitation in his friend's stride as John turns away, he knows Sherlock is about to offer to help him, even with that. Stomping viciously on the warmth blossoming out from his groin, John shakes his head no to the unvoiced offer, "Now that there is a bench in the shower I can get myself clean, ta."
A quietly voiced, "Of course John." Wends its way to John as the doorway to the bedroom shuts and moments later the interior door to the bath clicks open and the water hisses on.
With a conscious shrugging of his shoulders (a vain attempt to untangle the mess his nerves have become) John steps cautiously toward his chair and tries to relax into it, while he waits his turn.