Need new fire extinguisher. Both the ones in the flat got used up. -SH

Also new kitchen table - structural integrity of old one is no longer reliable. -SH

Do try to find someone who can deliver it by tomorrow - Mrs. Hudson won't let me finish this experiment on the floor, even though this type of tile isn't flammable. -SH

John? -SH

The second time was much less of an accident. It was the middle of allergy season, which meant scores of sniffly children wiping their snotty fingers on every conceivable surface at the surgery, which meant John was already in a tetchy mood when he finally got a chance to check his phone and saw Sherlock's texts. Just what I fucking needed today.

By the time he got back to the flat (had curry spilled on him on the Tube escalator, was sandwiched between two particularly odoriferous specimens of the unwashed masses on the platform, nearly missed his stop because a mob of teenage wannabe-thugs insisted on standing right in front of the car doors and wouldn't move), John was spoiling for a fight. He was just waiting - itching - for Sherlock to say one damn thing, just one, so he could either yell loud enough to alarm Mrs. Turner's married ones or just haul off and give Sherlock the split lip he so often deserved. If he perhaps stomped a bit childishly while coming up the stairs, it was his bloody right - especially after a day like that-

"Did you pick up a fire extinguisher? And could you hand me my phone?"

Sherlock was sprawled on the sofa, in his dressing gown and very little else (like sodding usual), looking like a particularly lazy pasha just waiting for a servant to come fetch him some grapes or maybe to fan him with a palm frond. John just stood inside the doorway and stared.

"Right," he finally said. And headed for his bedroom before he really did punch his flatmate.

"John?"

"Not in the mood, Sherlock."

"But my phone . . ."

"Is two feet from your fucking head."

He may have slammed his bedroom door behind him.

Half an hour later, John realized he was hungry. Starving, in fact - thinking back, he didn't remember actually ever stopping for lunch. Christ, I'm turning into Sherlock. He briefly considered the idea of going somewhere, getting out of the flat, but even a non-genius could tell he was in no fit state to be around people at the moment. That left takeaway - which would require waiting too fucking long - or actually cooking something. All things considered, cooking was the easiest solution.

And then he had the most perfect idea ever in the history of perfect ideas. It would either provoke Sherlock into a fight - well, into something - or make him disappear into his room and sulk for hours. Either was an acceptable outcome given John's current mood. It was also dangerous and rash and probably stupid and those all fit his current mood perfectly as well.

It only took a moment of rummaging to find the red pants. They were a sort-of gag gift from Harry, given for his birthday soon after he and Sherlock had moved in together. No matter how many times John swore he was straight and wasn't interested in Sherlock like that, Harry held out hope that he was at least bi. And since she was actually probably right, and John knew he was crap at lying about that sort of thing, he just generally avoided the topic whenever possible. Which she found hilarious.

But the pants - they were kind of a secret guilty pleasure. Fire-engine red briefs with black edging, a perfectly normal cut but silk. Something silky-smooth and cool to the touch, anyway. John had immediately hidden them in the back of his sock drawer, actually stuffed inside one of the horrendously ugly handmade winter socks his mother had given him once during her knitting phase, so Sherlock wouldn't find them even if he snooped (which he almost certainly had, at least once - Sherlock bored had absolutely no personal boundaries whatsoever). He only pulled them out when he was absolutely certain Sherlock wasn't around, and only dared to put them on when Sherlock was actually out of town at least overnight. They felt like they almost weren't there at all, the fabric was so light and thin, and John knew he looked fucking amazing in them. He certainly felt amazing.

And it was damn well time to stop hiding them, wasn't it? If the fucking pants make me happy I should bloody well be able to wear them. It sounded so easy when presented like that. John stripped off his work clothes, slid on the red pants (relishing the whisper-silky glide against his legs as he pulled them on), and headed downstairs to cook dinner.

Sherlock's reaction was everything he could have hoped for and more. A shuffle on the sofa, a loud intake of breath as he started to issue yet another irritating demand - and then blessed, beautiful silence. Broken only by the sound of Sherlock's phone clattering against the wooden floorboards.

John smirked a bit to himself and wandered into the kitchen.

"You." Sherlock's voice was almost quavery, which was very nice indeed. "You - pants - John?"

"Mmmm?" John turned to lean against the doorframe and cocked his head to the side, perfectly attentive. It was a bit posed, of course, but fuck, it seemed to be working. Sherlock's eyes were about to bug out of his head and he was having trouble stringing two words together.

"What-" Sherlock sat up a bit straighter on the sofa, phone entirely forgotten. Mouth still hanging open in shock. "What're you doing?"

"Cheating, I suppose." John flashed him a bright smile and went back to rummaging in the fridge. "Is this cheese still good, do you think? I could do something in the skillet."

"Ngh."

"Is that a no? Oh, never mind - we've got some leftover pasta. I'll just reheat that."

"Ngh." The noise came from much closer this time - Sherlock now just inside the kitchen doorway, eyes still wide. Ogling John's arse as he leaned over to dig through the bottom shelf of the fridge. "They're red."

"Yeah, they are." He pulled out the pasta and transferred some to a plate he was relatively sure was still clean. "Brilliant deduction, really. Amazing."

"They're silk."

"Also true. You are clearly the most intelligent man to have ever observed anything, ever."

"But you're heterosexual."

"Straight men can't wear red pants?"

"Silk pants."

"Yeah, well, I've got a bet to win." John shot a glance over his shoulder back at his flatmate - he wasn't aiming for sultry, but Sherlock's quick intake of breath seemed to indicate it was being interpreted that way. "I'm also bloody pissed at you, by the way. You can buy your own sodding table. And fire extinguisher."

"If this is you angry at me, John Watson, I swear I will do my utmost to annoy you every single day for the rest of my life."

He couldn't help it - he laughed at that. At the words and at the sight of Sherlock so completely undone. Pupils so wide they nearly overtook his irises, flush staining those delicate cheekbones, practically panting. For him. It was absurd, for someone as gorgeous and well-put-together as Sherlock to be so totally knocked on his arse by something as simple as his flatmate in pants. Absurd and wonderful and amazing and flattering as hell.

"I want to touch you," Sherlock growled.

"You're trying to refrain from coming for another week and a half, remember?"

"Yes, damn it," he snapped back. "Not me - you. If I can't come yet, at least I can back you up into the counter and kneel at your feet and pull your cock out from that divine red silk and swallow you down until you come. I want something of you inside me."

Fuck. It was all John could do not to tear off his pants and take Sherlock at his word - what had he come down here for, anyway? Oh, right - angry. He was angry and Sherlock was Sherlock and this was supposed to be making Sherlock go sulk and then John could eat some supper in peace and not ever admit he wasn't completely as straight as everyone (well, everyone except Harry, apparently) assumed.

"Can I touch you, please?" Sherlock flexed his fingers like he was imagining already curling them around John's cock.

It took all John's strength to keep his voice light and even. "No touching."

"Can I touch the pants, then?"

"The . . ." John allowed his tight-wound nerves to escape in the form of a sigh. "Fine. Yes, you may touch the pants. Why the hell not."

"John." It was almost a whisper - and before John could react, Sherlock was right there, on his knees between John's legs, gazing reverently at the bulge which did absolutely nothing to hide the state of his cock and the effect Sherlock kneeling had on it. So much for keeping my attraction a secret.

Although this wasn't entirely a giveaway, was it? It wasn't completely unheard-of for straight blokes to get hard just from proximity and nothing else, it didn't really matter the gender of the person involved. Especially when the person in question was - Christ, now Sherlock was leaning forward and breathing on it.

"Sherlock-"

"Not touching, John." Sherlock let out another long, warm breath, closing his eyes as he did so, already looking like he had been thoroughly fucked and bloody hell, John was in for it. "I'm only going to touch the fabric. Not touching your skin." He leaned forward fractionally, allowing the tip of his nose to trace feather-light up the length of John's cock through the thin silk. "Although I intend to make you come anyway."

"Fuck."

"Can't without taking these off, I'm afraid. Maybe another time." Sherlock reached up to gently fondle the underside of John's bollocks, lifting their weight with one elegant hand and pressing a kiss onto them from above. Something slammed into John's tailbone, and he dimly realized it was the edge of the counter. Or more accurately, he had tipped over backward and staggered into the counter, and it fucking hurt, but he couldn't be arsed to care because now Sherlock was licking slowly, tonguing little wet spots into the fabric which were warm under his mouth and grew slowly cooler the longer he kept his tongue moving.

"It's working, you know," Sherlock murmured. "You did this to make me bloody miserable, and now I'm aching. I blame that on you. The least I can make you do is ache, too." His free hand moved up to swiftly capture John's cock, squeezing it through the fabric in a grip which was just a shade tighter than was comfortable. "I may call you an idiot sometimes, but this may be the most brilliantly evil thing you've ever done."

The signals from John's hand finally reached his brain - wet, slimy, cold - and he somewhat belatedly realized he had been leaning his weight on his palm which had, in turn, been planted solidly in the plate of not-yet-warmed-up leftover pasta. It still didn't seem as important as what Sherlock was doing to his cock. "Evil?" he managed with a tiny groan.

"Despicably evil," Sherlock answered. "Positively Machiavellian. Because you know I can't possibly delete this, can't delete the sight and smell and taste of you in these delectable red silk pants, and I still have a week and a half to go. You are a terrible person."

"Not the first time you've called me nam-oh!"

Sherlock pulled away with a self-satisfied smirk, the saliva-wet stain still encompassing the majority of John's cock and making the silk cling to his skin like a caress. He admired his handiwork for a long moment, then stretched forward to swallow John down once again.

"Fuck." It was too restrained, too delicate to be quite enough friction, but it was a close thing. The fabric kept Sherlock from being able to actually get him all the way inside his mouth, but he definitely got enough to make John piston his hips in a completely reflexive reaction. Any other partner would have complained and pulled away, but Sherlock just let out a dirty moan and did something with his lips and tongue to ratchet the sensation up that much more, a little dart and a flick and gentle pressure with his hand on John's shaft and then he was coming, Christ he was coming, the silk pants now warm and sticky and probably would never be the same again and fuck, he was a horrible person for thinking about laundry at a time like this.

"Mrphglf." It was all his brain was capable of vocalizing.

"It's not fair - I can't taste you." Sherlock drew back and pouted, actually pouted there on his knees in between John's legs. "If I make you come, the least you could do would be to let me lick you clean again. But I can't taste your ejaculate with those stupid red pants in the way."

The sudden Sherlock-ness (for lack of a better word) of that little rant went a long way toward bringing John back to the realm of the not-just-shagged-senseless. He glanced down at his crotch - a soggy mess at this point - and took a few deep breaths. Right. "What would you want to do that for?" It was probably a stupid question - why did Sherlock do anything? - but it was the only thing in his head right then so he said it.

And Sherlock frowned. "Because I want to?"

"This wasn't supposed to be about your wants, Sherlock." John took another deep breath and extricated his hand from the plate of cold pasta. "You're still not going to come for another nine days. Unless you want to forfeit the wager?"

Sherlock blinked, then blinked again. He looked dazed enough to pass for being high. And it was doing wonderful things for John's ego to know that he put that look there.

"Fuck," Sherlock finally said.

And John grinned. "Can't without taking these off, I'm afraid," he said, mimicking Sherlock's inflection from earlier. "Maybe another time."