Chapter Text
Sherlock was in the living room, sitting on the armchair close to the window, and John was standing in front of the kitchen counter.
"Doctor Watson. Are you wearing a jockstrap?"
"What?"
John had felt Sherlock's gaze studying him for quite a moment, to be honest, Sherlock's view unobstructed by the now missing armchair. His armchair.
John's cheeks went crismon and he was suddenly hot all over at Sherlock's observation. He looked at him, Sherlock's blue eyes unwaveving, planted right into his, and he was unable to speak.
In his deep, confident voice Sherlock said:
"Answer."
"I'm not", he lied.
John could feel his cheeks grow even hotter.
"I can see the clear outline of it under your trousers. Don't lie to me, John."
Sherlock had that menacing inflection in his voice, and oh god... Could Sherlock stop reminding him he was a bloody sociopath?
John was used to all sorts of deductions from him, but never that intimate. How stupid was he, to think he could get away with it, though? And what would Sherlock think of him now?
"It's not what you think", he babbled.
Sherlock tilted his head and he had a teasing, knowing smile. He was clearly enjoying making John uncomfortable.
"And what do I think, hmm?"
I'm not a slut.
"I- I'm not gay", he opted.
He didn’t have the convincing tone from all his earlier declarations, and Sherlock let a chuckle out his mouth. John took a deep breath and gained some courage. He was a soldier, for fuck's sake!
"I'm not gay, Sherlock", he repeated with full confidence, looking right into his eyes. "I ran out of pants and had no choice."
Sherlock put his hand under his chin, interested, and defiant.
"Come here, then, John. Let me check if you're lying, let me observe your face properly."
"Why does it matter?" Oh, this was so delicious for Sherlock to see John squirm like that. He looked tormented, debating inside himself whether he should approach the beast or not.
"It doesn't."
John knew it was a trap, but he desperately wanted to prove Sherlock wrong. He had no choice. He moved and stood next to Sherlock's armchair. Sherlock looked at his face, his icy blue eyes planted in John's ones.
"Did you really run out of pants?"
"Yes."
Sherlock analysed his expression.
"You're not lying", he concluded.
"I'm not."
"But there's something else... You like wearing it, don't you?"
John felt his cheeks burn again, the beginning of an erection forming in his jeans. Oh no. Of course that bastard would get him.
Shelock was still analysing him out loud.
"You did buy it after all, John. Why is it that you like it so much? Comfort? No, you would not be blushing like that. An old reminder of your long-lost athletic years? Maybe. A gift from a former lover? Probably not. Why is it John? I want to know!"
Sherlock was getting frustrated. God, he was a genius but he could be stupid sometimes.
"None", said John. "I just like how it makes me feel. How I look in it, it's as simple as that."
He shrugged, felt he was regaining a bit of control when he saw Sherlock's confused expression.
Sherlock clearly couldn't picture John being so vain. He was wearing his soft grey jumper and jeans, after all, and the contrast was nonsensical.
Sherlock's eyes got darker behind his squinted eyelids, his tone curious.
"How do you feel John? How do you look exactly?"
God, Sherlock wanted to see him. It was painted all over his face, and John's dick twitched a little, not knowing if Sherlock realised how uncharacteristically obscene his interest was.
John ignored his second question, focusing on the "feeling" part, and took a small breath. He had a strange desire to confess, as if he was guilty of something.
"I feel- I feel sexy wearing it."
He closed his eyes, Sherlock's gaze becoming too much for him. When Sherlock's deep voice resonated in the room, he didn't laugh at him as John expected. No, he sounded even more curious now.
"Sexy..." Sherlock repeated.
God, that voice. Had he imagined it, or was it even deeper than usual? Was Sherlock as turned on as him by the conversation?
"What else? I want to know, John. Why do you feel sexy in it more than in your other pants? Is it because it bares your gluteus maximus?"
John huffed. Only Sherlock could use medical lexicon in such a charged moment. He found it kind of charming.
"I guess, yeah. That's the whole point of it, no?"
"Mmm", Sherlock thought. "Be more specific, John. I want to understand."
"It's a sporty underwear."
"I know", Sherlock cutted. "I want to know how it makes you feel. Other than sexy. Give me adjectives."
God, why wasn't he letting it go? Was it some kind of foreplay for him, seeing John embarrassed like that? Or was he so innocent regarding human feelings he geniunely needed understanding? John had no idea.
In the back of his mind, he hoped he could sway Sherlock off balance a little. Shock him even. Proove his interest wasn’t as scientific as Sherlock thought it was.
He thought about the adjective that would best describe his feelings and took a deep breath, getting the words out of his system in short hurried sentence before he had time to regret them.
"IFeelSluttyWearingIt"
There. His cheeks reddened at the admission and his heartbeat pounded in his eardrums. What would be Sherlock's reaction? Would he judge him? Would he choke on his own saliva? Would he laugh and take it as a joke? It was a great gamble John had taken, and he hoped the reaction would be worth it. But he was rewarded with only a flat:
"Ah."
WTF. There was no inflection in that "Ah", as if Sherlock wasn't the least surprised. John was a bit disapointed, and even more ashamed than before.
"John. Open your eyes."
He did. Sherlock was sitting in the armchair, legs spread, and he could see... God, he could see an erection tenting his suit pants. Sherlock was hard for him, he was turned on by this as much as himself. John felt dizzy.
Sherlock had a wicked smile as he followed John's eyes on him. He wasn't at all trying to conceal his erection, offering himself to John's scrutiny, not looking phased at all except for his erection.
He saw the moment John saw it, saw the flicker of realisation in John's eyes, his cheeks and ears reddening, breath fastening, hands shaking. "Are you okay John?"
"Yes", John glupped.
"Stand in front of me."
John did, like a dog obeying his master, and it was ridiculous how much he didn’t think this through. He was too turned on to decline anything.
Sherlock resumed observing John once he was standing in front of him, between his own spread legs. He had a superb view from here, his eye-level close to John's hard groin.
"Now turn around, back to me, facing the kitchen."
"What? Why?", John babbled.
"John."
Sherlock's tone was so authoritative it sent a shiver down John's spine. His cock was getting obscenely hard, and he figured it would be best hiding it from Sherlock anyway. He turned around, facing the kitchen, feeling Sherlock's eyes on his backside.
"Now, John. I want you to drop on your knees, get your trousers down your thighs, and put your hands flat on the carpet in front of you."
"Oh god, Sherlock."
"Would you do that for me John?"
He debated internally but his twitching cock had the last word.
"Fuck. Yes."
He dropped to his knees, unfastened his leather belt, and got his trousers down mid-thighs, baring his ass to Sherlock, just like he had told him. Ordered him, he thought, with a shiver.
"Good, John. Put your hands flat in front of you on the carpet. Right there. Now spread your knees a bit more, and rest your bare bottom on the heels of your feet. Like that. Yes, John. Amazing."
John's back was standing straight, his thighs bent in half, and his lower back was contorted in what he supposed made his ass look good in the jockstrap from Sherlock's angle. He felt objectified under Sherlock's gaze, under his best friend's gaze, like he was some kind of cheap slut ready to please anyone. God. It shouldn't turn him on that much.
"Give me other adjectives, now. Fast."
John tried to think fast, remembering Sherlock was looking for a description of his feelings earlier. Adjectives. Fast.
"Innocent. Waiting. Serving. Ready. Please."
His cock was throbbing in the white fabric covering his front. He removed his left hand from the carpet, miraculously keeping his equilibrium despite his age, and readjusted his cock through the jockstrap.
"Not now, John. Let me enjoy the show a bit more."
He put his hand back on the carpet.
"Please, Sherlock. I feel like I'm going to implode."
There was no point in pretending anymore. He needed it now. If only he could rut his cock on the carpet, he would only need two or three humps, just-
"Just follow my voice."
John closed his eyes, ready for the next instruction.
"Now John. Slide your hands farther from you, toward the kitchen, flat on the carpet. Yes. Shift your weight on your hands and raise your bottom higher. Good."
He was now on all four, feeling more exposed than before, showing more of his bare ass to Sherlock.
"Arch your back as much as possible."
Oh god. He did, showing his hole to Sherlock. Oh god.
He heard Sherlock shift behind him, the leather of the armchair squeaking. Still seated, Sherlock moved one leg up and planted his socked foot on John's asscheek. He kept it flat on his butt, applying a light pressure, not enough to make John lose equilibrium.
"Adjectives."
"Submitted. Possessed. Owned. Yours-- Fuck."
John didn't even recognize his own voice, the plea sounding desperate. What if Mrs Hudson was coming in, seeing him with his trousers unbuckled mid-thigh, Sherlock's foot laying on his bare ass? He could come just from the thought of it.
"Feeling slutty enough now?" Sherlock asked, and John could hear the cheeky grin in his voice.
"Yes, yes, just please-"
"Oh, John. Look at you. You look desperate for an orgasm. You must be leaking, I can smell your precum."
"Can I- Can I touch myself? Sherlock. I'm so, so close."
"You may."
John lifted his right hand from the carpet, reaching under the elastic band of the jockstrap and taking himself in hand. It wouldn't last long. Sherlock's foot was still on his bare ass and god, the possessiveness of it.
John readjusted his posture, feeling his thigh and arm muscles tremble, not keeping him straight anymore. He laid his face and torso down on the floor, hurrily jerking his cock with his fist rubbing against the carpet.
"That's it, John. You're going to come soon. Hurry up before Mrs Hudson brings the tea. She'll come up in exactly 32 seconds. We wouldn't like her to catch you like that, do we? Bent on the floor like a cheap slut."
God. As John was urgently jerking off his cock, Sherlock lightly kicked John's asscheek with his foot, prompting John to action as if he was slightly bored and wanted John to be done with it. "Come on, John."
And oh, John did come, spilling on the carpet under him, seeing stars. "Sher- sher-"
The next twenty seconds were a mess. John didn't even have time to come down from his high, to let his heartbeat slow down, because Sherlock was already standing and shouting.
"John! 15 seconds, John!"
John quickly put his trousers back on and got up stumbling. They heard footsteps on the staircase. No!
"The cum on the carpet, the cum, god the cum!", John mumbled, panicked.
"Smear, now!" Sherlock, said, pointing at the carpet.
John smeared the white spur with his socked foot to make it diasppear, a disgusted expression on his face, and it surprisingly worked as the movement absorbed the incrimiating wet spot. Good.
Steps approching. John rearranged his shirt in his jeans. He looked at Sherlock's face, and the bloody git was shoving back a smile. John huffed.
Mrs Hudson's voice from behind the door.
"Boys? It's teatime!"