Short chapter undeniably short, here's another not quite so. Thought I'd mention I was more than a little inspired to write this after watching the Sherlock fanvid 'Sherlocked In His Pants' – absolutely hilarious, YT it, I insist. I fell off my chair twice before I sat down and wrote and then had to go and spend some time staring incredulously at myself in the mirror.
Thanks again to Lyrium Flower. This is all your fault, woman. Slash.
Five Times Sherlock Came In His Pants…And The One Time He Didn't
Two
In fact his brother's face was a sufficient deterrent to any further lap related incidents for the next couple of years – Margaret Thatcher had nothing on Mycroft in the throes of lofty disapproval and all Sherlock had to do on encountering any potentially embarrassing situations was to picture him. He refused to consider what would happen if his perfect recall tossed the image up, as it were, within the context of any other encounter. Cross that bridge etc. if and when.
Unfortunately this strategy failed him utterly when he was fourteen and playing in his school's orchestra. The solo 'cello was a sturdy, scholarly sort with cropped blond hair and glasses, not much to look at, but oh when he started to play - and Sherlock's mouth would go unaccountably slack at the sight - his eyes would close, his head thrown back in abandon, and his thighs would tighten around his instrument as if it were a recalcitrant lover, utterly lost in the music. Even during rehearsals Sherlock had to fight to concentrate - not on the music in front of him, he'd already committed his part to memory - but on not staring at the soloist like a love-struck teenaged girl or, worse still, some sort of starving dog. Yes, he had a mild crush, he was aware of that. Something that was completely age appropriate and nothing to be ashamed of. As his hormones settled so would his…preferences and this rather distracting fixation would pass. The music was undeniably erotic as was any sort of advanced skill, no matter to whom it belonged, so this sort of thing was absolutely to be expected. Nothing to be concerned over.
The end of term concert traditionally required the whole orchestra to be suited and booted in formal dress, carnations and all. Sherlock was just settling himself into his chair, tugging irritably at his shirt collar, when the soloist strode on, instrument in hand. He sat down with a theatrical sweep of his tailed jacket, adjusted his spike and gave a few brisk pulls of bow over rosin. An answering flare of arousal at this simple display told Sherlock that he was already in deep trouble. The cumulative currents of performance anxiety and an unresolved crush were wreaking havoc on his already rebellious hormones and the resulting hyperawareness of the other boy's body flooded heavy pressure through his groin, bringing back unsettling memories of a long-ago coach trip home.
As the concerto progressed the soloist's movements gradually became both more languid and more urgent. Mycroft's derisory grimace, summoned for the purposes of distraction since he couldn't actually see his brother from the floodlit stage although imagined tendrils of disdain were already starting to curl around him, was shoved further to the back of his mental landscape and Sherlock could not tear his eyes away from this suddenly illuminated, most mundane of boys.
The growl of the cello was hypnotic, a throaty groan to the orchestra's answering sigh. The cellist's fingers danced up the neck of the instrument, and, watching him with a mouth that was suddenly as dry as a desert, Sherlock's overheated brain called forth images of calloused fingers stroking up his throat and tapping a light pizzicato across his ribs. He could hear the quiet panting of the violinist seated next to him, and, tongues of heat running up and down his body, felt the sound as a myriad of unformed words whispered into his neck.
He tried to re-gather himself in the quiet of the next break by focusing on the music in front of him, plucking at his shirt discreetly, feeling sweat trickle and pool in the hollow of his sternum. The sudden firm strum of thumb on string reverberated his spine with another bolt of sensation and he jerked involuntarily. He risked a quick look at the source and instantly knew that it was the worst possible thing he could have done under the circumstances. The boys in his class, usually vacillating between intimidating, ignoring and outright mocking him, all had a running joke about cumfaces and if there were ever a more perfect illustration it was writhing in front of him with curled toes and furiously sawing wrist.
His meticulously constructed layers of diffidence and self-control were being ripped from him, incinerated in the roaring blast furnace of want and he found himself suddenly naked and terrified in front of an audience of strangers. With distant horror Sherlock felt the pressure in his lower belly increase in tandem with the intensity of the concerto, his eyes flicking helplessly between the conductor and the soloist who was becoming more and more rigid, swept away on a crescendo of building tension.
As Elgar's most famous reached its climax, with a barely stifled groan, eyes fixed on the swaying, transported boy, so did Sherlock. The crash of the orchestra was loud enough to conceal his ragged gasps and the ferocity of the finale easily explained his contorted expression as he squeezed his eyes shut and tried frantically to control his breathing so as not draw any further attention to his flushed, dishevelled state.
All eyes were already on him at the crash of his overturned music stand, however, and that did not help matters in the slightest.