A/N: Thank you so much for all your reviews, not to mention your calls for "MOAR" :) Someone made the comment that I should make chapters a little longer, so hopefully this complies with that.

And maybe it will help me not feel so terrible when I tell you that I'm about to go on my summer holiday, so I won't be updating for the next 10 days... No, I still feel terrible. Sorry! But I shall spend that time plotting, scheming and writing, and so when I get back I promise at least 4 days of constant uploadage of good stuff. Forgive me? Please?

I promised smut, too... Next time, I promise. Pinky promise.

In the meantime, REVIEW, or PM me and tell me if there's something you would like to see more of/less of/the possibility of, or even just how you've found the story so far.

Stay wonderful! Forever yours,

The Plot Ninja

By the clattering going on downstairs, John figured that Sherlock was attempting to divert his attentions and energy into his scientific exploits. John was almost tempted to go back down and see how that was working out for him; it would take Sherlock something pretty stunning to distract him from what was undoubtedly still burning a hole through his trousers.

A problem John also faced.

Frowning down at the lump in his work trousers, he decided to give Sherlock's tactic a go; ignoring it until it went away. Sure, it didn't work so well for Sherlock, but, unlike his flatmate, John didn't have Theridion gelbus venom coursing through his system, which would hopefully give him an advantage. He flopped down onto the bed and settled into his book again. It was his favourite sort, a crime, with lots of gore and running – his psychologist would have a field day trying to analyse that, he realised with a smirk.

"Gareth swung down from his perch, sending one punishing kick into his enemy's crotch..."

John winced, his attention redirected to the lower portion of his body again. Damn it, he was trying to avoid thinking about that. He flicked forwards a couple of pages, through the floor-rolling and the part-clutching.

"He could see her through the arch, beautiful even in defeat. Her arms were pulled tight by ropes, dark hair a curtain in front of her face, and her head was lowered in desolation; the pose showed off her delicate alabaster-white neck like a glint of moonlight. The thin, lightly coloured shirt-dress she wore was wet, and clung to her body, accentuating the curve of her hip and the roundness of-"

Curse this writer, John thought, shifting and pulling at the front of his pants to try and accommodate his hardening erection. He had picked up a crime novel, not a Mills & Boon. After a quick rearrangement of himself, he flicked forwards at least ten pages – not surprisingly, he now found himself rather closer to the end of the book than he had meant to be.

" 'Come on, now,' the blonde man urged, rushing through the entrance.

'I am coming.' Elba moaned as her weight went down on her leg. 'I'm coming as fast as I can.'"

John did a double take. How had he managed to take a perfectly innocent action scene, with the concerned hero and the injured, limping heroine finally reaching their safe-house, and turn it dirty in his mind? He had just ruined the climax of the book, he realised with a disappointed sigh.

Then he snapped the book shut. Climax. That was it, the last straw. His genitals were begging for help, and now his brain had joined its cause.

He set his book down on the bedside table and reached for the box of tissues.

-OoOoO-

Sherlock was still wound up as tight as a spring when John emerged, in much more a stable state than he had fled in. He did feel sorry for the consulting detective – it couldn't be comfortable, sitting at the table whilst staring through a microscope, all the while trying to ignore a hot, rock-hard lump in your underwear. And, yes, now that he looked a little closer, the detective did seem to be holding himself a little above the seat to avoid contact.

John shook his head. Remember, he told himself, Sherlock was the one that has the spiders here in the first place, and let it bite him; and if he wanted to relieve it, all he had to do was swallow his pride and find the Vaseline.

'Two hours four minutes.'

John looked up at the sound of Sherlock's deep voice; however, he couldn't be sure if the man was addressing him, or the arachnid that was currently in the microscope's spotlight, as Sherlock didn't raise his head from his task. 'Pardon me?'

'You have two hours and four minutes during which you can still change your mind,' Sherlock informed him, his voice bored and neutral, as though simply recalling the results from his latest experiment. 'After that I will be back to my usual under-control, asexual, unobtainable self. Your choice.'

'Hmmph,' John half-chuckled, turning towards the kitchen with the vague intention of Earl Grey. 'You do have a rather high opinion of yourself, don't you? I'm straight. And, just because for once in your life you have a stiffy, doesn't mean that I need to beg sexual favours of you. I can control my urges.'

At this, Sherlock finally tore his eyes away from his favourite toy and looked John up and down, eyes raking in every detail. 'Yes, I suppose you can,' he agreed absently, the words curled at the edges by a touch of distaste; he had deduced what John had done in the blink of an eye. 'Two sugars no milk for me, thank you John.'

John stood still for a moment, looking over his clothing to try to find the clues Sherlock had found so easily; then, giving up, he retreated to the kitchen, his cheeks flushed bright red. There was no doubt in his mind what he had to do to relieve the embarrassment – he was English.

No tea had ever been made so precisely.

-OoOoO-

He took a slow, savouring sip, then allowed the mug to rest gently on the floor beside the couch. Really, he should get a coaster for that; but, it was such perfect tea, it deserved to be enjoyed fully, without such insignificant things distracting him from it. He sighed contentedly, finally loosening his tie and his top button since he had come rushing in from the clinic.

'It's getting on for dinner-time, actually, Sherlock,' he realised aloud as he glanced at the clock. 'Any requests?'

'Not hungry.'

John shook his head. 'Come on, you have to eat something. It'll probably help your body to get rid of the toxin faster.' He had no idea if that were true or not, but it sounded reasonable enough.

'No. Oh...'

That voice... It either meant serious trouble or an amazing breakthrough. 'What?' John asked, taking a larger gulp of his tea. If they had to rush off anywhere, then God help him, he was going to finish this amazing tea first.

'John,' Sherlock said slowly, standing up and peering cautiously around the room, 'if it's alright, could you please stay right where you are? I think we may have a problem.'

'... Alright,' John agreed hesitantly, scratching an itch on his neck. 'What's the problem?'

'Well, you see,' Sherlock replied slowly, making nervousness creep through John with each second – his flatmate was all about getting straight to the point, so when he drew things out, it meant that something very Not Good was going to happen. 'I may possibly have looked into Theridion gelbus' enclosure just now-'

'Enclosure? It's a jar, Sherlock,' John corrected impatiently. 'So what?

'Yes, yes, I looked into its jar, and... It's not there. I have lost it.'

'You've... Wait, you've what?'

Sherlock tutted, ducking down to look under the sofa. 'Really, John, I am loathe to repeat myself. I lost the spider. There was a spider of the Theridion genus sitting in that jar there, and now there isn't.'

John had a sinking feeling. 'Well in that case, would you like the good news or the bad news?'

Sherlock leapt to his feet again, looking into his eyes eagerly. 'Both, of course. You've found it? Excellent work, John. I'll grab the jar.'

'Yes, that's the good news,' John agreed; he slowly reached his fingers towards the second highest button of his shirt. 'The bad news, however...' He pulled his shirt open a little, exposing his chest. 'It seems to have found me first.'

As he carefully pulled away the third button, Sherlock's eyes widened. There, sitting quite happily on John's chest, was one long-legged, bright yellow arachnid, barely moving at all. From this angle, John realised his mistake before. The marking on the spider's back wasn't a bright red spade pattern; it was a heart. If he hadn't been so terrified and trying not to breathe to keep the spider as content as it seemed to be now, he might have laughed.

'Hold on, John.' Sherlock had returned with a jar and a piece of cardboard before John even knew he was gone. With precision and control that John hadn't known possible of his firecracker of a flatmate, Sherlock lowered the jar down around the little creature, making sure not to disturb it.

'Careful,' John uttered lowly, but the vibration through his chest was just enough that the spider felt it, and it scuttled a couple of centimetres to the left. John resumed his stone statue act.

'Here we go.' The cardboard slipped easily under the jar, trapping a few of John's chest hairs in the process but making quick progress towards the spider.

And suddenly, when there was just a finger's width of John's bare skin left uncovered by cardboard under the jar – that was when Theridion gelbus decided to strike.

No sooner than John had felt the pincers pierce his skin, Sherlock managed to shuffle the piece of paper under the arachnid and scoop it up, but it was too late. It wouldn't be long now before the effects started to take hold. John lifted one finger and pointed at Sherlock, accompanied by a sharp, accusatory glare that promised to unleash hellfire.

'Once I get through this,' John hissed, his voice deadly quiet, 'I'm going to strangle you.'

Sherlock looked slightly shocked by this statement, unsure whether to feel insulted or take it as he probably deserved. He came to a decision.

'I'm going to the morgue,' he announced, slipping his coat on and almost tripping over himself to get out the door. 'I may be a while.'

And with that, the door slammed shut.

John stood, re-buttoning his shirt. 'That man,' he confided in the spider that had just bitten him, 'is going to kill me one day, I can feel it.' And then he turned tails, stopping only to retrieve Vaseline and a new box of tissues, to wait out the inevitable effects.