Bathtub
"It is just for a case!"
That´s what Sherlock said as he dragged John by the hand into the Hilton.
The poor concierge, naïve newly wed, to-be father of a girl, looked them over from head to toe as they checked in, two blokes with British accent, no luggage, demanding a double room in the middle of London. John could almost hear him declaring, that this is no love hotel, and he fought back the urge to explain himself. After all he was in the presence of the worlds´ only consulting detective, and it was just for a case.
John got suspicious. Sherlock didn´t ask for a special room number, or floor, and a nightly trip through hotel floors seemed out of question, since Sherlock hadn´t emerged from the bathroom for two hours now.
Watching Doctor Who on the big hotel TV has nice, but slowly John got worried. Maybe Sherlock had drowned himself "for a case" in the giant hotel bathtub.
"Honey, are you all right in there?" John asked, feeling a little insecure.
"I am more than all right." Came Sherlocks´ purring answer.
"What…?"
"You might as well come in, love." More purring.
Johns´ jumper was almost instantly soaked through, as he entered the steam filled bathroom. As soon as his eyes had adjusted to the dimmed light, he saw him. A vision of Sherlock with flushed cheeks, full pink lips, erect nipples, hands barely hiding his smooth chest. Like Aphrodite he stood in the shell-shaped bathtub, giving the image of a young god. The light was reflecting from his moist skin, the shadows marking his strong biceps, and single drops of water fell from his dark locks.
"I need you to fuck me now, John."
Well, this Aphrodite had a not-so-god-like mouth.
"It´s for a case." Sherlock clarified.
John was out of his clothes within seconds.
After all, he did everything for a case.
To be continued.