John was left feeling strangely despondent after Sherlock's retreat. Having enough sense to follow the detective's example and grab a large water bottle from the fridge, drinking half of it in the dim hopes of fending off a hangover, he decided that it wasn't worth staying up on his own, and was soon making his way into his bed, still buzzing with booze.
He was still drunkenly revelling in the twisted blur of carnal confusions in his head, already half-forgetting what had been said and done, but knowing that it definitely all sprouted from the same root – Sherlock.
He was literally staring at his ceiling in the dark, watching the strained little snowstorms of his nocturnal vision in the thin gloom, when his phone beeped on his bedside table. Wearing just his boxers but feeling unseasonably hot and uncomfortable, he giddily retrieved his phone, kicking his duvet off in the process.
I wanted to apologise in advance. -SH
John peered at the eye-wateringly bright screen. He thought it best to keep his response playful.
Do you mean I should get the earplugs out? : ) - JW
It would certainly help. -SH
Before John could figure out what to say back, he received a considerably more lengthy text. If he didn't know better, he'd say Sherlock was feeling self-conscious.
You know I said that when I have to indulge in bodily needs I do so with full vigour? That includes sleep, which is why you don't usually hear me...indulging in pleasure during the night. But this is an unexpected problem and I know from experience that if I don't deal with it now, it won't simply go away on its own. -SH
John didn't know whether to laugh or baulk at what Sherlock was intending on doing. He'd given him fair warning, but it didn't stop John from straining his ears.
It would go away eventually, but yeah, I understand. - JW
There was a minute of silence, and John was about to settle back as best he could considering the new tension in his body, that had successfully galvanised him away from any idea of sleep. His phone beeped once more.
Why do you seem to think that everyone is desperate to fall into bed with me? The only people who express their attraction to me are odd women, or criminals. Or odd women criminals. -SH
The text took him by surprise, to say the least. Not only that, but the hesitation implied that Sherlock had contemplated before he'd sent it.
Sherlock, come on. You know you're a good-looking man. You attract far more than odd women criminals. Sometimes it's like fighting off the paparazzi with you. – JW
It really isn't. You're the one who has partners, relationships. Did you know I've never been kissed? – SH
John felt a sickly thrill of shock at the silent words before his eyes.
He had to take a moment to reply, because the sounds he heard that morning indicated a lot of pleasure. Pleasure like that must create a connection eventually? Sex without kissing... it made it seem so - what was the word? Selfish?
But you've been with the nameless man since before me. How can you not have been kissed? –JW
He doesn't like me like that. I tried once. - SH
John frowned, re-reading the message three times.
What? How could he not? That doesn't make sense.-JW
I thought it seemed right to want to kiss him. But he reacted...negatively. -SH
The thrill of anger that raced down his spine was shocking, if understandable. The more John was learning about this stranger, the more he didn't like him. It had nothing to do with the fact he was fucking Sherlock Holmes. At all.
That's a really cold thing to do. -JW
Even I thought so. Which should tell you something of how disappointed I was. -SH
Maybe he's not a great guy, Sherlock. He sounds a bit like he's using you. –JW
I'm well aware he's not a 'great guy.' If he was, maybe I'd be a happier person. But it seems to me that all the things I don't get from him, I get from you. Bar the kissing, of course. -SH
John bit the inside of his mouth, squirming a little.
Why not find someone who would do both? -JW
You of all people should know that's easier said than done. -SH
Yeah, you got me on that one. But you haven't exactly been looking and surely it would be better to be on your own than with someone who just uses you for your body. -JW
...John, I thought that chatting to you would maybe make my arousal subside. But I think's it's actually made it worse. - SH
John opened and closed his mouth, blowing out a long breath from between his lips. Had he said something? He didn't think he'd said anything remotely sexy. Then again, what turned Sherlock Holmes on could be far different than a regular man.
Oh, sorry. You can stop talking to me if it helps. –JW
Are you drunk? I'm quite drunk. I think I should have stopped talking ages ago. Talking about having sex with men. That's pretty gay - SH
The bark of laughter was quickly stopped by the back of John's hand, but he was still smiling as he tapped out a reply.
It is pretty gay, but I'm pretty drunk so it's fine. For what it's worth though, you're a good guy Sherlock. You deserve someone who makes you happy. Not just someone who makes you feel good for a little while. – JW
Yes, I do deserve that. And kisses. -SH
John rolled his eyes, shaking his head.
Yes, and kisses. Everyone deserves kisses. - JW
He won't kiss me. : ( - SH
Aw, you poor thing. Find someone who will, I'm sure the list is endless. – JW
Would you ever kiss me? Do you like kissing? Is it unusual for men to like kissing? - SH
John felt his mouth go dry, and for a moment he just stared at the screen trying to digest what Sherlock was asking him. How was he supposed to reply to that? Carefully.
Kissing is an intimate thing, everyone likes it when it's done right. It doesn't matter whether you're a man or woman. -JW
There was a long pause, and finally the underwhelming beep of another message.
I'm going to try and masturbate now. Goodnight. - SH
Well, that was blunt. And far too revealing for the heat now dotting around certain points in his body. He sent a feeble 'Goodnight ' text, but as he expected, there was no reply.
Instead he was left in the suffocating silence. A silence that was humming with the tension he was emanating.
He swallowed thickly, straining far more than he should have. Would Sherlock be as loud as this morning? The most pressing question though was not if Sherlock would be howling like earlier, but more along the lines of why the fuck am I listening for it?
He was starting to get impatient, when, after about fifteen minutes, he was feeling rather agoraphobic in the dark, seeing little to ground him in his own bedroom except the tipsy stars in his own vision, and the weak, jaundiced streetlight outside.
The anticipation of Sherlock's voice was getting unbearable.
Finally, that vocal anchor was thrown out to him, and a few soft grunts were distinctly heard below him in the black silence.
His whole body went rigid as a heavy rhythm started in Sherlock's baritone, but even as he listened, the voice was far deeper. Raw, guttural, as if Sherlock really couldn't care if anyone heard. John licked his achingly dry lips, his heart starting up a breathless tempo. He turned his body, facing away from the door, but that only focused the grunts to his right ear, making it seem louder. Christ.
He was bemused to sense right away that something was different in Sherlock's tone. The voice that seemed to be practically vibrating through his own mattress sounded angrier. Frustrated. He thought he could hear the occasional murmured swear word.
Sherlock had said that he found it difficult to get himself off without assistance, and part of his brain gave him the clever idea to offer him help. That left him feeling dizzy, especially as Sherlock gave out another frustrated growl. Shit, it was a growl, too. There would have been no other way to describe it. It sent a sharp jolt down his abdomen and John took a steadying breath, turning his head into the pillow.
A sexless voice in his head decided this was the time to remind him, 'Good thing you don't have the same problem. You don't have 'preferences' like him. You don't need something inside you.'
Sherlock's voice seemed to carry like an amplifier and he took a shuddering breath. "God's sake, Sherlock," he muttered into his pillow. Did the man have to sound so fucking sinful?
What was he doing to himself down there? Did he... have toys? Donated by the oh-so-considerate mystery man who refused to kiss him?
John felt slightly comforted in his distress by the hand that he had slid inside his boxers, which was massaging his turgid, slippery shaft reassuringly.
"..uck!"
John took a sharp breath, the heel of his hand running from base to tip, adding just enough pressure to ease the ache that had started. Sherlock's frustration was almost palpable as his yelps and grunts got louder. The cries were deep, and quivering with need, and John had the blinding urge to go and help him.
He stiffened at the next sound, a hard thump and a mumble of pain, which he knew, from bitter personal experience, was the sound of someone punching a wall. The other noises died down completely.
John knew Sherlock hadn't finished. He knew he shouldn't do it. But he was tipsy and horny and he needed more from the detective downstairs.
Grabbing his phone with one hand and typing as quickly as he could, he texted Sherlock with the dizzy, drunken confidence that it would all work out, probably.
That sounded like it was good, now you can sleep : ) – JW
John bit his lower lip as he heard a hearty scoff, his phone still hard in his grip as there was another thump. His body was rigid, almost expecting Sherlock to come storming up the stairs and punch him in the face, and with one hand on his cock he couldn't tell if that would be a bad thing or not.
There was a hard slam and John perked up his head, recognising the sound of a door. It was too muffled to be his own (because he might have, maybe, accidentally, left his own open) and John arched his back, waiting.
There were a few minutes of tense silence, until he became aware of heavy breathing that wasn't his own.
He sucked in a sharp inhale, his hand halting on his cock as he realised that Sherlock wasn't storming up the stairs.
The man was already in his room.
Sherlock was almost lost in the darkness, barely a ghostly pale glow and a disembodied pair of lungs.
"Fuck! Sherlock, Jeez...What's wrong with you? You're supposed to be sleepy after an orgasm," John grumbled aloud, covering himself up and shivering with shock at the fright he'd gotten.
"I didn't ejaculate. Well...I didn't...couldn't orgasm. I don't always ejaculate. I can control that aspect if I choose to. It comes in handy," came Sherlock's voice flatly, as if he wasn't standing in the dark, in his flatmate's room in the middle of the night, talking calmly about controlling his semen output.
Deciding not to respond to pretty much everything the detective had just said, John spoke to the gloomy figure.
"Sherlock...look, I'm impressed by your ninja skills, but why are you up here?"
The detective paused, as if he didn't quite know himself.
John had lifted one of his knees so that his lower half was tented, an instinctive reaction despite the fact that it would have been almost impossible to see his hard-on in the blind darkness.
He wished he could turn on a light, to see Sherlock in all his ruffled glory. Would that pale skin be plastered in a flush? Those glossy curls all unkempt and messy?
"Sherlock?" he asked softly after another moment, worried despite himself at the detective's silence.
"I'm not sure, I'm sorry. Can I sit here for a bit? I won't make you uncomfortable. Well...not intentionally. This must be like a nightmare for you."
It could have been the alcohol, or the echoes of Sherlock's earlier frustration, but John found himself shifting up his bed a little.
"Sure," he said after another moment.
"Indebted," Sherlock said politely, and sat down. He took an impressively deep inhale, and then expelled a massive, world-weary sigh. "...This is a new experience, too."
"Not having an orgasm, or sitting on my bed?" he asked playfully, wanting to shake his flatmate from his slightly sombre mood.
Sherlock grinned in the dark, and John could hear it in a tiny wet click of lips and teeth. It warmed him exponentially.
"Sharing a bed with someone without anything sexual being involved. I've never slept beside anyone, either."
John let out a soft chuckle, shifting even further up the bed. If Sherlock was staying then the least he could do was actually give him some room. He probably should have questioned the fact that he was totally fine with having Sherlock sleep beside him.
"Take it Mystery Man doesn't stay?"
Sherlock hadn't made any suggestion of sleeping with John, but the doctor couldn't help but hope that it might happen. Hopefully after his hard-on went away.
"No, of course not. Far too intimate. ..I'm sorry John, I've been terribly rude and waltzed in here while you were midway through pleasuring yourself."
John let out some kind of strangled noise, before covering his eyes with his hand.
"…It's fine. You're fine."
What else could he say? Deny it? What would be the point?
"John...you forget that I can hear everything you're thinking," Sherlock teased. It had been a running joke ever since John had insisted early on in their acquaintance that the detective was a mind-reader. "And even if I couldn't, I can smell your pre-ejaculate."
"Yes, thank you," he said in a slightly clipped tone. "I would rather you didn't keep pointing it out, that would be great."
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to cause distress. You can carry on if you want." The words were light, and carefree, and possibly the most shocking thing John had heard yet. He turned to the disembodied voice beside him in the gloom, and almost didn't know what to say.
"…Uh, no it's... I'm..."
Eloquent, his mind provided cheerily. Was he supposed to answer? Just carry on with Sherlock sitting there? His erection had only softened a little, and that was mostly due to the shock of his flatmate appearing.
"I really won't mind. It might even help my problem. The sense of somebody else close, losing control of their body, giving in to pleasure, sweating, moaning, helpless...it's a wonderful catalyst to climax."
John let his hand drop, blinking up at the detective. His body was humming with the drink still in his veins, in the pent-up frustration at being interrupted before, and the proximity of the man sitting next to him.
It wasn't as if he'd never wanked in the same room as a friend before. John was slightly torn until he realised that if Sherlock started enjoying himself, then those moans wouldn't be muffled by walls or floors or doors. They would be right next to him.
He had to swallow a few times before he found his voice to respond.
"…Okay."
"Oh, fantastic," came the pleased, rumbling response. "...Don't worry, I won't touch you. Um...would it bother you if I...penetrate myself?"
John heard himself take a sharp breath, and it took another moment for him to regroup his senses. He was blown away by the calm clarity of his own voice.
"…If you like."
This was happening. This was really happening. Really?
Oh, Christ.
But John was already turning onto his back, letting his leg fall down so that the sheet that settled over him left nothing to the imagination.
"John?" came the low, familiar voice. It sounded tentative. How could that same voice be so open and shameless in pleasure? "...Are you sure this is okay? I won't ejaculate. And I'll try and keep the noise down."
There was a pregnant pause, before John delivered his reply.
"…No, it's okay. Don't hold back."