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Sherlock was confused.
He's just watched John get aroused from him.
From him.
John had been in the kitchen, fussing with the kettle and mugs and saucers and a tin of biscuits. There were vials and beakers and various other bits of equipment scattered all over the countertops, and John was moving some to the side to make room for his morning tea. Sherlock was in his bedroom changing out of his pajamas and into a nice pair of trousers and a tight-fitting button-up, when he heard the glass beakers and metal gauges sliding across the laminate countertops. Without a thought to how much (or little) clothing he was currently wearing, he flew out of his bedroom, through the living room, and into the kitchen.
"John! What are you doing? Don't touch that, it's an experiment!" Sherlock bellowed in his deep, commanding voice, as he rushed right up to John and grabbed at the smaller man's hands, forcing him to let go of the items. Sherlock then began to quickly move the parts back to their original positions, leaning his lanky torso across and past John, his long arms moving quickly and precisely around the counter.
John stared at his flatmate, stunned. Sherlock was clad only in his boxer-briefs, which were very tight fitting, at that. Sherlock's body was perfect. It looked sculpted out of white marble. There was almost no hair on his body, only a pale dusting of it across his chest and on his forearms. He was long and lean, slender and elegant. All of his muscles were nicely defined but not overly bulky. As he moved and reached, the muscles in his shoulders and upper arms stood out, alternately flexing and relaxing as Sherlock continued to reach and retract those beautiful arms. His dark pink nipples stood erect in the chilly flat's air. John suddenly had the mad desire to lick them.
He had surmised the general shape and contours of Sherlock's body from his slim silhouette, as Sherlock preferred fitted clothing. But he wasn't at all prepared to see that smooth, creamy expanse of skin mere inches from his own body. And certainly not at this time in the morning, before he'd had his tea, before his brain had fully woken up.
Sherlock was aware that John wasn't moving and that his mouth was hanging open. But he was too busy with his annoyance at his experiment being disturbed to pay that much attention to John at the moment. He was more concerned with preserving the integrity of his experiment as much as possible.
John slowly tore his eyes from that gorgeous form to look up at Sherlock's face. Sherlock's eyes were still looking at the items on the countertop. John would be in his peripheral vision, but for now, he wasn't noticing John... who hungrily looked back at his flesh. He was immediately rewarded by another intense desire to suck on Sherlock's nipples, to lick and nibble at them while twining his fingers through that hair. His eyes darted up to Sherlock's hair. Oh gods, that thick, soft hair that always smelled faintly of spice. He wanted to grab Sherlock's head by his hair and yank it down to his level, to slam his mouth into Sherlock's, to thrust his tongue into that mouth, that perfect mouth with the strange, beautiful, full lips--
Sherlock looked at John. John visibly started, flushed red, and quickly looked away. Sherlock frowned at him curiously for a moment, then returned his gaze to the counter, where he was tweaking the placement of his equipment. John clenched his jaw and chided himself. Oh gods, what was he thinking? What was he doing? Why was he looking at Sherlock like that? Sherlock wasn't, say, a sex god, or anything. Sherlock hadn't even had sex--
John's eyes grew wide and his body grew perfectly still with that thought. He was violently willing himself to stop thinking, stop thinking now. He swallowed thickly.
...But... had Sherlock had sex? No, he couldn't have. He wasn't interested. He probably didn't even wank. And with that thought, John found his eyes being ripped down to Sherlock's slim hips, where the only thing between John Watson and Sherlock's prick was a thin layer of cloth and spandex, tightly hugging Sherlock's package. John stared. It was pretty unreliable to guess a man's erect cock size from his limp one, but for some reason John suspected Sherlock was well-endowed. John unconsciously licked his lips. He had never been remotely interested in another man's prick before, but he found himself wondering what it would be like to suck off Sherlock.
Next to him, Sherlock straightened up. "There. I don't think any major damage has been done. The results will have a larger margin of error than I would've liked. Do try and be more careful," he finished, looking at John. John hurriedly looked away and again colored crimson. From the strange way he was breathing, it seemed like he had been holding his breath. He was staring at a fixed point off in the distance. Sherlock frowned a little at him. The way his eyes were glassed over, Sherlock knew he was thinking, not looking. What was he thinking about so intently?
"I, erm-- I, uh, I need to, ah..." John spluttered and gestured vaguely ahead, then trailed off while quickly moving away from Sherlock and out of the kitchen. But before he did, Sherlock glanced down... and saw John's erection straining at his pajama pants.
Sherlock's eyebrows shot up as his flatmate disappeared into his room, quickly closing and locking the door behind him. Sherlock's mind whirred and clicked. He grabbed a number of tiny moments from recent past where John had acted similarly, though not as obviously. Ah. He hadn't quite been able to place those little moments, mostly because it hadn't occurred to him that anyone, let alone John, would be sexually interested in himself. But now, now that he had seen the (very obvious) evidence, he quickly and methodically filed away the previous similar moments in their now-proper places in his mind palace.
Once that was done, Sherlock found himself standing in the kitchen, a bit taken aback. John was aroused by him. Why would anyone get aroused from him? He was lanky and weird, and-- He glanced down at himself and noticed how little he was wearing. One corner of his mouth quirked up a little. His eyes went distant as he considered what this meant. John, his John, his beautiful, solid, trusted John, was sexually interested in him. John was attracted to him. John thought him sexy. Sherlock's lips then parted in a full grin. He was very flattered, and he didn't often get flattered. (Excepting, of course, when John was impressed with him.)
Sherlock leaned back against the counter for a moment and just basked in the warmth he now felt all over. He was slightly tingling. John wanted him. The more he thought about it, the warmer he got. For one mad moment, he considered rushing after John, bursting into his room, and--
And what? Sherlock frowned. He had no idea what he would do then. What do people usually do when they realize their best mate is attracted to them? Have sex, probably. Sherlock's frown deepened. He didn't want to have sex with John. Maybe just snog him a little.
Sherlock startled himself with that thought. Wait... really? Snog John? Sherlock closed his eyes and imagined it for a moment, and his smile crept back on his face. Maybe that wouldn't be so bad. John was always warm. His lips would be warm, and they looked soft. His tongue would probably be warm and soft, too.
Sherlock's eyes flew open. What on earth was he thinking? He couldn't think like that. His brain was put to much better use with higher thinking, not primitive, basal bodily desires.
But he couldn't shake that thought. Snogging John. What would he taste like?
Confused and irritated, Sherlock stalked out of the kitchen. He would get dressed, like he had been doing when he was so rudely interrupted, and go about his day. If something were to happen, John would cause it. So he'd just see how it played out.
Sherlock strode past John's closed door and into his own room, closing the door behind him. Their rooms shared a wall, and Sherlock was very close to that wall, grabbing the clothes he had dumped on the floor in a hurry, when he heard a noise. Sherlock froze.
John had moaned.
It was soft and strangled, like he was trying to be quiet. Sherlock had heard it before, had heard John moaning, when Sherlock knew him to be wanking. He always shrugged it off, knowing that simple minds do simple things. But this time... Sherlock knew John was wanking to him.
The detective's mouth fell open. His mind went blank. John was wanking... to Sherlock. He had no idea how to process this. Should he be flattered? Annoyed? Aroused?
He didn't move, he was barely breathing, as he strained to listen. He wanted to hear John moan again. He didn't know why, and he shut down his mind, refusing to question it. But he wanted to hear it again, desperately.
Oooh, there it was. John had let out a slight squeak. Sherlock wondered what he was imagining. Him, obviously, but what were the details? Were they snogging? Probably something a lot more... graphic than that. Sherlock knew about sex, he had educated himself on everything he could get ahold of. You never knew what would come in handy, when. He knew how two men would have sex together. But there were always handjobs, oral sex, anal sex... Sherlock winced a little. He felt overwhelmed... but intrigued. His flatmate was through the wall, wanking over him. Moaning over him. The corners of Sherlock's full lips twitched again, a smile threatening to break over his pale face.
Okay, so Sherlock didn't want to think about anal sex. So maybe he'd just imagine that John was thinking about, say, handjobs. Sherlock slowly, quietly moved against the wall separating their bedrooms, pressing his ear against it. Yes, John was thinking about handjobs. Would he want to give or receive one? Or perhaps both...? Maybe at the same time?
Sherlock's eyes glassed over as he started to work out the mechanics of it all. John would want Sherlock to thoroughly snog him, kiss those thin but soft lips, their mouths moving in tandem, like a dance. Their lips would part, allowing for their tongues to caress each other. Sherlock took a moment to imagine what John would taste like. He couldn't quite define it and was annoyed with that fact. Regardless, he resumed imagining John imagining kissing his flatmate. Those rough, sturdy hands groping his body; his own thin, long fingers trailing over John's hard muscles, starting at his neck and working his way slowly down, until he felt that hard warmth between John's legs. Sherlock's eyes closed and his lips parted as he heard John groan through the wall.
He'd slide his hands into John's boxers, gently teasing that hard, thick cock while John moaned and heaved against him. John would return the favor, reaching indelicately into Sherlock's boxer-briefs and fisting his prick. Mmm... John's hands, stroking Sherlock... moving up and down his length, playing with the swollen head a bit before rigorously pumping up and down the shaft several times. Sherlock emitted a panting groan-- and realized his hand was in his underwear, playing with his erect cock.
Sherlock's eyes popped wide and he started down at his groin like it was completely foreign and had no right to be there. And it was alien, in a sense: he would have morning erections like all healthy men, but he never paid it much attention. In fact, he was a bit annoyed with it that his body still sometimes did things without his consent. But this... this was new. He was masturbating. He was actually masturbating.
The sleuth frowned at it for a moment. This was... not good. He was being normal, giving into his body's urges like this. He was past that; he'd spent the last two decades mastering his body completely. He--
John moaned again. This one had a slightly desperate quality. He was approaching orgasm.
Sherlock's mind stopped. Ohhhhhhh. His eyes wandered away, his lips parted, his breathing grew faster again. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall. Gods, John sounded so sexy when he moaned. Sherlock tried to picture his face... mouth open, eyes closed, brow furrowed, face slightly spasming with pleasure....
Sherlock's hand gripped himself again, of its own accord. Sherlock wasn't paying attention to it. He began slowly stroking himself as he pictured John Watson's face. The face he would make while he was coming.
The detective considered this carefully, almost lovingly. Would John's face shut down, growing still as he came? Or would he be expressive? Sherlock smiled a little to himself: John would be expressive. Oh, most definitely. John would dig his nails into Sherlock's back, those rough, beautiful hands gripping Sherlock tightly enough to leave marks. He would drop his head back, exposing his neck, that beautiful, strong neck. His eyes would softly close. His mouth would open... wide... gasping Sherlock's name as he--
John abruptly groaned loudly through the wall, and Sherlock joined him. Sherlock's face tightened and his breathing grew ragged. Gods, it was hot in here! And his abdomen, his lower abdomen, was so warm. There was a strange sensation there, almost like an itch he couldn't reach, deep in his gut. His lips trembled as he considered this. He looked warily down to his stomach and saw his thick, dark red cock in his hands. The tip was leaking precome, which he had unconsciously used to lubricate his stroking. It had just felt glorious to flick the side of his thumb across that slit every time his fist reached the swollen mushroom head, and in doing so, he had slicked the whole of his cock in his own fluids.
Sherlock considered the strange feeling in his stomach, that hot, itchy coil that continued to build, even after he had stopped stroking. He was slightly alarmed (and intrigued) by this sensation -- his body was doing things without his permission again. But he could hear John panting and moaning regularly through the wall, and his brain just shut down again.
He bit his lip, closed his eyes, and vigorously resumed fisting his cock. Oh gods, that felt good. No wonder people did this. That felt so, so good... oh god... yes, John, fuck yes...
He heard John reach orgasm: a sharp, shuddering intake of breath, followed by one and a half seconds of silence, then a loud, agonized moan, broken several times by spasms of ecstasy. Sherlock's mouth dropped open all the way as he writhed backwards against the wall. "Oh my god, yes, John!" Sherlock moaned and panted. "Yes! ...oh god... John, oh, yes, John, yes-- oh--" His words were suddenly cut off as his brain exploded.
Sherlock Holmes lost his mind.
White, hot light exploded behind his eyes and in his brain. He had no idea where he was or who he was. All he knew was this ecstasy, this perfect, body-wracking bliss. He was dimly aware that he was yelling, but he only faintly registered it as something far away and unimportant. Every time he thought the insanity would end, it instead escalated. He writhed and bellowed, slamming backwards against the wall.
Then, quite suddenly, it quickly began to fade. He was panting, and his throat burned. The back of his head was throbbing where he had slammed it against the wall. Sherlock's mind groggily returned, and he was surprised to find his annoyance with that fact. It felt fantastic to lose it. He figured he'd appreciate its return in awhile, but for right now, he was content with it being somewhere else.
He looked down... and was startled to see the mess he'd made. His hands, prick, and boxer-briefs were covered in strings of thick, white semen. And jesus, there was a lot of it. He wasn't sure how to react to this mess. He settled for being mildly amused.
In fact, he felt quite content right now. A bit drowsy, even though it was morning and he'd actually gotten some sleep the night before. He felt warm and comfortable. Almost like he wanted to curl up with a cup of tea and eventually nod off. Sherlock surprised himself with that thought. That was very unlike him.
Suddenly, with an unpleasant realization, he remembered yelling when he came. Yelling a lot. And loudly. John probably heard that. Sherlock bit his lip, unsure of how to proceed. His eyes twitched back and forth for a moment. He pressed his lips together and closed his eyes, feeling the closest he'd ever felt to being embarrassed. He chided himself: he had never felt embarrassed before, why start now?
Because you want to preserve your relationship with John. You don't want him to know that you just wanked over him.
But he wanked over me first, Sherlock grumbled back at his inner voice. Then he sighed. Perhaps he should just pretend it hadn't happened. Don't bring it up unless John does. Let John set the tone of things to come.
With a sigh, Sherlock heaved himself up and away from the wall. He stripped off his ruined boxer-briefs and put on a fresh pair, followed by his pajamas. Hell, might as well. Tea on the couch, under a blanket, really did sound nice. Maybe that's how he'd spend the day.
Sherlock smiled contentedly to himself and headed out into the living room, wrapping his dressing gown around himself.