John stepped off the tube, shoulders slumped, feet dragging. He was completely knackered. He normally got home by six. It was late, half 11, well past his bedtime. He just wanted to trudge the rest of the way to Baker Street, fall into bed, and sleep the next two days away. He wasn’t even going to stop in the kitchen for tea. He didn’t have the energy to fix two cups and one couldn’t go into the kitchen and make only one cuppa. It just wasn’t done.
He entered 221, taking each of the 17 steps to their flat as if he was going to his own execution. Why was it that you could push yourself through a gauntlet of obstacles only to have the toughest part of the journey occur when the goal was within reach. John shook his head. Random thoughts. Yeah. He was tired alright.
When he reached the landing in front of 221B, he held one hand on the doorknob and leaned his head against the door in exhaustion.
Please, lord. Let Sherlock be out on a case or in the middle of an experiment. God forbid that he should want to talk to John which was more of being talked at, than to. John already knew that there wasn’t a chance in hell that Sherlock had gone to bed. He hadn’t slept in days. He’d been distracted by some experiment. John had no idea what it was about, nor did he care. He might regret that tomorrow but for tonight? John didn’t care if Sherlock was building a bomb out of everyday household utensils in the bathtub. The house could blow up around John and he’d sleep right through it at this point.
He pressed his ear to the door; all was quiet within. He knew he had no hope of sneaking past Sherlock without notice but he was going to give it his best try. It was ridiculous, he knew. All of this just to avoid his flatmate but John wasn’t really thinking that well at the moment; all he could think about was getting into that soft, fluffy bed.
Sherlock spared no expense with anything that might touch his body and although he slept probably 10 hours a week at most, he still wanted to spend that time in as decadent a manner as possible. This was fine with John who did his best to get at least seven hours of sleep a night. He was more than happy to pick up the slack.
Turning the handle, John pushed the door open slowly, wincing as the hinges squeaked. Sherlock forbad oiling them, he considered them, along with a couple of creaky stairs up to the flat, to be an excellent warning system.
Not that Sherlock couldn’t figure out if someone entered the flat without a sound. John swore that he could sense a shift in air as soon as it had been displaced. Normally, that was very impressive and had saved their arses on more than one occasion. When he was this tired, though? Not so much.
He didn’t open the door completely; just enough to squeeze himself through the narrow opening he’d made. Why he thought that would make a difference, he didn’t know.
Closing the door softly, he looked up and saw that Sherlock was sat in his chair, looking down at his lap. John noted that he was wearing one of his silk robes…’Ooh. I love when he wears the red one,’ flashed quickly through John’s mind.
He felt a faint stirring in his trousers. ‘Don’t even think about it! We’re going to bed!’
He slipped off his shoes and quietly hung his coat on the rack making no sudden movements. Sherlock seemed perfectly engrossed in whatever he was looking at so John thought that his chances were slightly higher than usual that he’d be able to make it to their bedroom without attracting his attention. With any luck, Sherlock was visiting his Mind Palace and wouldn’t notice anything.
He’d almost, although probably not, made it to their bedroom when;
“John! Good. You’re home. I have something amazing to show you.”
John, foot still raised for the next step, turned to look at Sherlock and said,
“Not tonight, Sherlock. I just want to go to sleep. It’ll keep until the morning, yeah?” John asked hopefully.
“I don’t appreciate being punished for your tardiness, John.”
That woke him up a little.
“You don’t appreciate it? Really? Some of us have to work for a living. We don’t get to sit about the flat all day working on a new method of destruction,” John said angrily. No one could make him loose his temper faster than Sherlock. He knew it, and Sherlock not only knew it but enjoyed it. Immensely.
“My work is important…” Sherlock began.
“Stop. Just stop right there. My work is important too. Actually, I’d say that it was often more important than yours seeing as most of my patients usually start out alive and I tend to keep them that way.”
Sherlock jaw dropped and he stared at John in stunned amazement.
“That was uncalled for, John. Catching a murderer saves the lives of others.”
“I’m sorry, it’s just that I’m exhausted and all I want to do is turn in. Could we please do this in the morning?” Now he felt guilty about putting Sherlock off. John knew that if Sherlock decided to press his case, he’d would drag his tired arse over to where he was sitting and dutifully listen while Sherlock droned on and on about the latest type of fuzz he’d discovered. It was complete and utter shite, is what it was. He was a pushover where Sherlock was concerned.
He decided right then and there that tonight would be the night that he finally said ‘no’ and actually stuck to it. He had a life too. He had a right to go to bed when he wanted. To fix tea just for himself without automatically making two cups. And, not only that but he was sick to death of the constant visits to Tesco. That was going to stop too. If Sherlock wanted to eat, he could go to the store. John would just grab something on the way to work and on the way home. There. It was settled. He was ready for whatever Sherlock decided to throw at him.
John thought all of these things in a matter of seconds and felt quite satisfied with himself. Almost smug, even. And perhaps a bit childish.
“What are you smiling about?”
“Nothing. I’m going to bed. We’ll talk in the morning,” John said, heading for their bedroom. With a “goodnight” thrown over his shoulder, he crossed the foyer in record time, opened the bedroom door and shut it quickly behind him.
He undressed down to his vest and pants, keeping an ear out for any complaints from Sherlock. Not that he would go back out there. No. He wouldn’t be doing that.
John stood by the side of the bed, waiting. Not one peep out of Sherlock. He’d made it!
He slid between the cool sheets and duvet, rocked his head back and forth on his pillow a bit to make a nice dent for his head, closed his eyes and went to sleep - for approximately 15 minutes -and now he was wide awake and worrying.
Why hadn’t Sherlock said anything else. That was suspicious. For something so important, he’d been awfully accepting about being put off. He’d never accepted John not bring at his beck and call before so what was different about tonight?
John lay there, watching the digital clock roll over 15 minutes, 30 minutes, 45 minutes.
“Bloody buggering fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” John yelled as he whipped the covers off, slammed his feet into his slippers and stomped his way to where Sherlock sat, still focused on his lap.
“Well, fuck face? What’s so bloody important that it can’t wait until morning, you insufferable twat?”
“You said that we’d talk about it in the morning so we’ll talk about it in the morning. I feel quite confident in my ability to recreate the results tomorrow so your attention isn’t urgent. I’ve been practicing for over a month and today I finally perfected it. I was just flush with success and wanted to share it with you. No worries. Go to bed, John.”
Sherlock had said all of that, not looking up from his lap once. What the hell was he…”Christ! Why is your cock out? More importantly, why is it rock hard? Have you been masturbating all day? Is THAT the great achievement because, I hate to break it to you but you’ve enough experience to turn pro at this point. In fact, you could teach a course. You took to jerking off like a duck to water.”
“John. You’re distracting me and I’m losing my erection, now I’m going to have to start all over again.”
“Could you please spare a moment from looking at your cock so that we can talk?” John asked, getting angry again.
“I don’t need to look at you to talk to you, John. I need to have one more orgasm tonight and then I’ll be satisfied.”
“I don’t doubt it,” John snorted. “Can’t it wait until morning? I’ll be more than willing to help you with your,” he nodded his head in the direction of Sherlock’s lap, “‘experiment’ tomorrow.”
“This is a one man experiment, John. I am quite capable of handling this on my own.”
“Are you doing that on purpose?”
“Throwing out those god awful puns about your cock.”
“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about. I don’t do ‘puns.’ You’re making it hard to concentrate, could you please leave.”
“There. You did it again!” John suspected that he might be a little slap happy at this point. He was dead on his feet, arguing with Sherlock about cock puns. He started to leave but pivoted on his heel immediately.
“I can’t stand it. What’s the discovery?”
“Tomorrow, John. Busy,” he said, waving John off as if he was a nuisance. That was it then!
“No. We’re doing this now. I won’t be able to get any sleep until I know why you’re sitting here in the dark, staring at your hard cock, and have done all day apparently. Or every day for a month. Whatever. Just…tell me so I can go to bed.”
Sherlock looked up through his curls and said, “Are you sure, John? I hate to beat a dead horse but I had stroke of genius and finally discovered what I was missing. I’ve had the experiment in hand ever since,” Sherlock said, a slight quirk to his lips.
“Just tell me what you’ve found before I do something that you’ll regret,” John seethed. His anger did seem a little over the top. Maybe he really should just go to bed…
“I’d hate for us to come to blows over this,” Sherlock chuckled.
“Right. I’ll just go to bed then,” John said, turning to leave.
“No! Wait! I apologize. Come over here and look at my penis,” Sherlock said innocently. John just stared at him, waiting.
“That was completely unintentional, truly. Ok, get closer. You need to almost be on top of me to completely appreciate the…I did it again right there, didn’t I?”
“Just get on with it,” John said as he stepped closer.
“Wonderful!” Sherlock said, eyes sparkling with excitement. “Now, watch this!”
Staring at Sherlock’s now semi-soft cock, John waited for something amazing to happen. Although he had absolutely no idea what that could be.
“Is that it? Shouldn’t you, I don’t know, at least be touching it to get it hard again.”
“I’m embarrassed to say that I might have a bit of performance anxiety.”
John rolled his eyes.
“Ah! There it goes! Now watch!” Sherlock said, his attention riveted on his still untouched cock which had begun to rapidly thicken.
“Congratulations. You’re able to get a hard on without doing anything. No mere mortal man can duplicate these results.”
“Shush. Just keep watching.”
“Is this a trick to see how long I’m willing to stare at your hard cock because I’m not impressed. Already seen it. A LOT.”
Sherlock didn’t reply this time, his eyes never once looking away.
Actually, that was pretty impressive. John was fairly certain that he’d never seen Sherlock’s cock so engorged before and it was still growing.
Beads of sweat had begun to appear on Sherlock’s forehead, his breath becoming shallow. John realized that his cock had gotten hard as well, without him noticing and now he was wide awake and thinking about just bending Sherlock over and fucking him right then and there.
He was just about to make that suggestion when Sherlock shouted out, “JOHN!! Oh god. John, I’m coming!” And sure enough, Sherlock’s cock began pulsing with what seemed to John at least, an unusually large amount of come. Not a freakish amount but, well, the volume seemed to be more…plentiful than usual, to John.
When several minutes had passed, and Sherlock’s cock had finished spasming, he looked at John triumphantly and waited for the praise that was sure to follow such a performance. His cock was now completely limp, looking like nothing so much as an empty balloon that had been overinflated and was now empty.
John licked his lips. Sometime during this, he’d taken out his cock and begun stroking it without realizing it, all thought centered around the need to fuck Sherlock right then and there.
“Well?” Sherlock asked impatiently.
“Well, I want to fuck you. Right now. Right now, Sherlock.”