A/N: The case in this chapter and the following is (very loosely) based on Arthur Conan Doyle's Adventure of the Dancing men.

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Chapter 9: Meddling (1)

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John was still stroking Sherlock's hair gently when the detective realized that now he'd probably want to 'talk' – what was there to talk about anyway? Everything had been said already. John had been kidnapped, he was sorry, he wasn't leaving... As for Sherlock, he really didn't feel like boasting about his success in the five orange pips case anymore. His enthusiasm and pride had been overridden by fear, then emptiness. And now he knew he'd been completely tricked.

The petting came to a halt and Sherlock bit his lips. In fact, he had another problem, much more urgent than to go and kill Mycroft. Even though that was his top priority, he couldn't exactly leave the flat with a hard-on. Nor could he properly listen to what John had to say under these circumstances. Jumping to his feet and turning before his partner could catch a glimpse of his erection, he made a run for the bathroom.

"What... Sherlock, where are you going?"

"Bathroom!"

John sighed and sat up straight on the bed. Was he trying to avoid the discussion that badly? Well, to be fair, Sherlock's post-coital attitude was in no way ordinary – how could it be? He always seemed to be thinking of something else right away, and it rather broke the mood. How could he be so quick to recover from... wait.

Had he come with John this time? He hadn't even had the sense to check. What kind of lover was he? Damn. Pretty lousy, to the least. Then he froze and blushed as it dawned on him. Sherlock had gone to the bathroom. His face cracked into a smile. That could be fun.

In a moment he was on his feet and hovering around the bathroom's door. He didn't knock and burst in on Sherlock who was standing in front of the toilet, his trousers and pants down at his ankles, glaring at the lavatory bowl, holding his erection with both hands and obviously very annoyed that he wasn't ejaculating already with his ministrations. He started in shock, gaping, not believing he'd forgotten to lock the bloody door.

"What... you..." he spluttered.

"Oh, so this is what you meant by 'bathroom'?" John smirked.

A very deep blush crept up the pale cheeks of the detective, who looked down in shame, trying to hide himself. John came in and closed the door behind him, this time effectively locking it. Sherlock looked up in fright like a trapped animal.

"Don't mind me," John commented sweetly, a sparkle in his eyes.

"You're joking."

"No, not at all. Sorry for interrupting. Please do go on."

Sherlock gulped, wondering if his friend was serious. Why would he want to see that? He'd already had his pleasure, and surely he couldn't derive any from...

"Sherlock..." John groaned, crossing his arms. He'd seen his partner naked under the shower already, but he hadn't even touched him then – not his most intimate spots, anyway. Sherlock had come merely from John coming himself – which was, in itself, a turn-on. But this was different. The doctor had seen many penises in his life, and never had he been aroused by one. It was just a piece of flesh, one he wasn't interested in in the least. But here he was, fascinated by the absurd sight of Sherlock standing in front of a bowl as if he were going to urinate, and desperately trying to make himself come. The thought itself was ridiculously pleasant, but witnessing the scene?

"Come on, Sherlock. Touch yourself."

Sherlock frowned at the commanding tone, and shrugged.

"Fine."

He turned back to the bowl and began pumping his very hard member forcefully. John goggled.

"What the... Sherlock, for goodness' sake, you're not milking a cow here!"

Sherlock glared defensively.

"How would you know? Have you ever milked one?"

The retort was so silly John couldn't help but burst out laughing. This unnerved Sherlock even more, and he pressed his poor shaft all the more vigorously.

"Sherlock, stop this!" John exclaimed between giggles, stepping in closer, putting his hand on the detective's own. Both froze as Sherlock's length throbbed under the newly added contact. Sherlock gulped, and John smirked, pressing himself closer to his lover's back, his arms encircling him and his fingers laced with his, brushing against his hardness.

Sherlock moaned and arched his back.

"John..."

"Your technique is so bad, I'm surprised you haven't hurt yourself already," John murmured, and he knew Sherlock was glowering.

"It's not like this is relevant to what I do! Why would I bother–"

"Wait, are you saying this is your first time masturbating?" John asked, dumbfounded.

The heat on Sherlock's face increased, and he grumbled back a response.

"Excuse me?"

"I never had the need to!" he snapped.

"What do you mean not the–"

"On the very rare occasions I woke up with what you all call 'morning wood', it just went flaccid with a cold shower and I was done with it!"

"You're kidding, right? You mean you never ejaculated before..."

John realized too late where this was going, and bit his lip. Sherlock sensed his unease, and replied straight away, mumbling:

"I had wet dreams."

Now picturing that was almost enough to get John hard again, but he was more concerned about his friend's mental state. He hugged him, resting his head on his back, and this could have just been a very manly friendly embrace, if his trousers hadn't been at his ankles, and John behind him. Not to mention the now pulsing erection.

Very slowly, John moved Sherlock's hands under his so they would grip his erect member gently. Sherlock started trembling and moaned.

"Shh... it's okay. I'll just show you, all right?"

His moan turned into a whine as John moved their hands up and down the shaft, testing, listening attentively for every sound Sherlock made in order to adapt the tightness of the grip and the pace accordingly. He grew more confident as he got the wails.

"John... John!"

"Usually, you should always use lube to avoid irritation. Well, you're already dripping, but..."

Sherlock bit his lip to stifle a moan, his head falling backwards.

"No, no, no, I'm going through all this effort to teach you something, so pay attention! Look down, Sherlock."

Shaking uncontrollably, his skin crawling under the unusual waves of pleasure, he complied with a whimper.

"Good." John smiled. He was enjoying this far too much. "Now, the basics are rubbing or just moving up and down, gently. Well, it depends what shakes your boat, I guess, but you can't just squeeze it and hope it'll all come out as if you were pressing a banana."

Sherlock squealed and started squirming.

"Then, you've got several variants... This one, for instance..."

Moving Sherlock's fingers around like a doll's, he made him form a ring with his thumb and forefinger, his own hand mimicking the gesture. He moved up, letting the ring slide down to sit around the base of Sherlock's penis, and repeated the same gesture with the other hand. Sherlock gasped, and John took this as a go-ahead, sliding the rings up to the base of the glans, stroking with one ring at a time.

"John...!"

"Good?"

Sherlock glared but thought it wiser not to open his mouth, for fear it would let out only a moan.

"Guess that's a yes."

Sherlock was in fact terrified. The overwhelming sensations were almost knocking him out, and he couldn't string together two thoughts properly. He was losing control, and it was utterly terrifying. That John could have such an effect on him, that he could have him wriggling and panting and completely helpless with a mere stroke on just the right place frightened him to no end.

"John... I'm com–"

Before he could end his sentence he felt the warm pair of hands suddenly leave his and gasped at the loss of contact, feeling disoriented and discarded.

"You got the moves. Now, make yourself come."

John didn't step back and embraced him loosely, his arms circling his waist, his head resting on his right shoulder.

"Come on, Sherlock."

Sherlock trembled in apprehension and shame, but also with a glimpse of anticipation. He moved the rings formed by his fingers up and down tentatively, crying out as he reached the tip.

"Good, that's good. Let it all out, Sherlock. There's nothing to be ashamed of. Pleasure isn't something to be ashamed of."

"You... you're lying..." he rasped strenuously, his voice hoarse.

John chuckled.

"Well, maybe common people would find it embarrassing, but since when do you care? You never give a damn about society standards. Have you ever felt ashamed when you've been examining a body gleefully, even though a person had just died?"

"N... no..."

"Did you care you were giggling at a crime scene?"

"You were the one who shot him... ah!"

John smirked. He'd never been especially turned on by partners masturbating in front of him, because they were always putting on a show, and it was never authentic – the moans were too loud, the thrusts too dramatic. Sherlock was authentic. When he jolted and writhed and groaned and wailed, he wasn't acting. It was so incredibly refreshing that John wished he could enjoy this every day for the rest of his life.

"I'm going to move now, so I can look at you."

"N... no! Don't... please.. ah! Don't!"

But John had already let go of him and was now standing by his side, fascinated by the view. Sherlock's body was shining with perspiration, his breathing strained, his face so flushed he looked feverish, his every limb vibrating with tension and pleasure. His hands were almost dripping with pre-cum, and his glowing penis was now racked with spasms.

John was positively enthused.

"Don't stop," he commanded.

Sherlock wailed resoundingly but complied. He was so scared and it felt just so good and John's eyes on him were innervating his whole body. I don't want him to leave... I don't want to lose control... I don't want him to leave... I don't want to lose control... I don't want him to leave... I don't want him to leave! He screamed as his orgasm hit him, his eyes rolling up into his head, his body thrashing back and forth. The pleasure was so intense he thought his legs would give way under him, and so he kept moving, writhing and swaying to stay upright. He vaguely felt the tears fill his eyes and streak down his face, drowning the anguish and the mortification, flooding the longing and the passion. It was all too much.

John gaped, subjugated by the movements. Sherlock was dancing to the orgasmic release. He was gorgeous.

As his climax came to an end, his vision became blurred and he felt all his remaining strength leave him. The blinding light behind his eyelids was replaced by darkness. He didn't even realize he was collapsing until he felt a pair of strong arms catch him and stop his fall. Trembling, gasping and sobbing, he held onto John with desperation, as if he were an anchor.

John embraced him securely, rocking him like a child, pressing his lips against his brow and his damp curls.

"You're amazing, Sherlock."

Because I'm pathetic? Oh, thank you, John.

"Truly incredible."

Glad I found such an easy – and whorish – way to get the same compliments you gave for my deductions. Now you're going to say I'm beautiful.

"You're beautiful..."

Here we go.

"... and I admire you so much."

I know that. …Wait, what?

John kissed his forehead reverently.

"And brave too... this must have cost you so much."

At those words Sherlock choked, and tears filled his eyes again. John pressed his lips to his pulsating temple and closed his eyes.

"Your courage is dazzling."

In this instant Sherlock hated his own pathetic self and his weakness so much; and he loved John all the more.

xXx

John was pacing in the living-room while Sherlock took a shower. He'd basically thrown him out of the bathroom, saying he needed to wash and get prepared to meet Mycroft – to "kill" him, more precisely.

That had reminded John that stupid Big Brother had put cameras all over the flat – or so he said. Maybe he'd just been messing with his mind. But then again, maybe he hadn't, and if there was even just one camera in their home, filming their most intimate moments, John had to find it and get rid of it. Or better even, avoid doing anything in front of it. If Mycroft had managed to bug the flat once, then he'd be able to do it again. He sighed.

He'd have to talk to Mycroft. Convince him to just leave them alone and stop meddling. What would Sherlock say if he found out his own brother had witnessed his first sexual experiences? John didn't even want to think about it.

Then there was also the fact that he wasn't so sure of himself anymore. What if he went too far? What if he truly hurt Sherlock? What if he really was manipulating him for his own pleasure? He shivered, appalled and disgusted with himself. He loved the man so much, of that he was dead certain. But love was no excuse. Whatever he did or said would have consequences – not only for himself and their relationship, but for Sherlock's mind and body too. And those were in his eyes the most important things in the world.

Speaking of body... When was the last time Sherlock had eaten? According to Lestrade, he'd been in pretty bad shape when he'd come to the Met, although he had acted like his usual insufferable self. He'd actually deduced everything in record time. As always. Except it wasn't exactly as always, was it? John smiled. Brilliant. Sherlock was truly brilliant.

He was just finishing to prepare sandwiches when Sherlock burst out of the bathroom, running to the staircase.

"I'm going out, John, I'll be back later!"

"What? Wait! Where are you going? Just... what the hell are you wearing?"

"A disguise, John. Obviously."

"You disguised yourself into... a bag of rubbish?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, clicking his tongue irritably.

"A vagrant, John. A very drunk vagrant, actually."

"You're drunk?"

"God, John, are you familiar with the concept of disguise?"

"Right. Wait! I've just fixed something to eat."

"Not hungry!" he shouted, already rushing down the stairs.

"Sherlock!"

John stood in the living-room, astonished. What had just happened? Well, he does that sometimes, doesn't he? Yes, but not since... Moriarty. Sherlock really could switch moods easily. John sighed and went back to the kitchen, considering taking his shower before he ate anything. He wasn't actually hungry, and he had just gone out of his way to get Sherlock to eat something. Oh, whatever. He'd just locked the bathroom door when he thought he heard something in the flat. He froze.

"Sherlock?"

No answer. He swallowed with difficulty. His handgun was in his room, there was no way he could get to it if this was yet another kidnapper. He waited a few seconds, but there were no more noises. Maybe he'd just invented it all. While he was under the shower, he remembered something Sherlock had said. Moriarty said he didn't have you. He'd contacted Moriarty. Damn.

He finished showering quickly and rushed out of the bathroom wearing nothing but a towel, turning his laptop on. While it was loading, he went back to the kitchen to have his sandwich. He stopped and stared at the plate. Out of the two sandwiches he'd prepared, only one was left.

"Oh, Sherlock..." he murmured fondly.

"Excuse me?"

John jumped and held his towel into place as he turned to meet eyes with a complete stranger, who'd just entered their flat unannounced. The man was tall and ruddy, his eyes clear, his complexion sanguine. He looked as embarrassed as the doctor felt.

"Your landlady said I should just come in... Are you Mr. Sherlock Holmes?"

"No, I'm his... colleague."

The man seemed to doubt that very much.

"... I see. Well, do you mind if I wait here for him? I've come quite a long way, and I'd like to be back to Norfolk tonight."

"Norfolk? You came all the way from Norfolk?"

The stranger nodded.

"And I am very intent on going back tonight. You see, such strange events have occurred, and I wouldn't want to leave my wife alone even for one night."

"I see... No I don't. Please have a seat, and, uhm... can you just wait a second while I..."

"That would probably be better, indeed. I wouldn't want your... colleague to get any ideas when he comes back."

John blushed.

"...Right. I'm John Watson, by the way. Dr. John Watson."

"Hilton Cubitt."

Half an hour later, they were having tea as John took down everything their new client was telling him.

"So... You've been married for a year, and you've come because about a month ago your wife received a strange email with very queer smileys and when you asked her about it jokingly you saw she was very pale and looked utterly terrified, and she deleted the email right away. But since you promised her the day before the wedding that you'd never ask her anything she didn't want to talk about, you didn't press the matter further?"

John was disbelieving, but Hilton was dead serious.

"Exactly."

"... Right. And you decided to come because she kept receiving those weird messages, both on her email and her blog."

"Yes. I found them most peculiar because it was a mysterious sequence of stick figures that looked like a child's drawing of..."

"... a series of little dancing men," John finished pensively.

xXx

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tbc