Chapter Text
John pushed the door open hard and grinned at Sherlock. "I feel fucking amazing."
"Wonderful," said Sherlock. "The kettle's on."
John walked inside the room and dropped his jacket down on the back of the chair. He slumped into it and rested his head against the back. For the first time in a long while, a date had gone spectacularly well. The restaurant was good, low lighting and a helpful waiter who didn't stare at Michelle's breasts when they took their order. A tall measure considering how ample they were. John struggled not to stare at them at first but Michelle was a bright, well read and above all amusing woman and he found himself entertained and drawn into a conversation that didn't drag once.
Better still, when they left the restaurant and he suggested they go for a drink, she invited him back to her place and pounced on John as soon as the door shut behind him. His body still tingled from sex so easily on offer and though she insisted that he didn't stay the night, (all explained through sweet and rather touching gestures about it only being a first date) John couldn't have asked for things to go better. You couldn't wipe the grin off his face if you tried.
Sherlock, no doubt, would give it a good attempt.
John turned to look at Sherlock. He was still fully dressed despite the hour and his violin is rested on the arm of the chair. He'd clearly been playing, though John didn't hear anything when he walked upstairs. A cup of tea sat at the base of the chair that John thought was there when he left. It was probably icy cold and John wondered whether Sherlock spent the entire evening devoting himself to the violin.
When it had happened previously and John was home, he spent the time watching Sherlock play. John was always fascinated with people who could do things well and music always reminded him of school. The kids who could play were taken out of class and sent on mysterious trips to receive medals and certificates. His own attempts were reasonable but nothing for his parents to be excited about. John had sometimes wondered if there was a pile of trophies somewhere hidden, Sherlock's achievements from a bygone age.
The sound alone was incredible, but watching Sherlock lifted it above that. He played as though he and the violin were a single, perfect piece of machinery, the bow a natural extension of his own arm. John found himself fascinated with the shape of his hands as they picked at the strings and the way the violin tucked in under his chin. Sherlock's throat drew the eye most of the time anyway, what with the number of times the scarf went on or came off, but John thought he liked it best when Sherlock was playing. His throat seemed vulnerable then and John worried sometimes that the urge to press his lips against the pulse point would grow too much to resist.
That was beyond the line they'd drawn between them. Best friends, flatmates and partners in crime. John had heard the term heterosexual life partner and thought it was the closest he could get to what they were. It certainly described what they were from the outside and made for an interesting life together. Provided that the line was never crossed, John could see the future between them and believed that it could be something a man could live for. All it took was the simple sacrifice of no sex and no kissing and denying they were a couple whenever anyone inquired. Sherlock could clearly live with it and after that first, restaurant based conversation, John intended he would never put Sherlock in that awkward position again.
John grinned across at Sherlock and gestured. "Had a good night?"
"Fine," said Sherlock and narrowed his eyes briefly at John before he arched an eyebrow. "Didn't let you stay?"
John's grin twitched, just a little before he shook his head. "It was only a first date."
"So I gather," said Sherlock. "The kettle-"
"Isn't on," said John and pushed himself up again. "You did move while I was gone?"
"Not as much as you did, evidently," said Sherlock and closed his eyes. He rested his head back against the back of the chair. "What was this one's name?"
"Michelle," said John as he headed into the kitchen. "She's a speech therapist."
"Save us from those," said Sherlock and tapped a hand against the bare arm of the chair. "Was the service spectacularly quick at the restaurant?"
"About average," said John. "It was a good place. You'd like it if you ate."
"I eat what you make," said Sherlock. "So you left around nine thirty?"
"You eat what's in," said John. "When I make you and yes, about then. Why?" He stepped back into the room and glared at Sherlock. "Good sex doesn't take hours."
"I said nothing."
"You didn't need to. It was right there on your face," said John and walked back in the kitchen to organise tea. "Look, I had a good night. No-one died and everyone was happy."
"Clearly you're far more efficient than I expected," said Sherlock. He looked up sharply. "A speech therapist?"
John walked back in with two cups and replaced the one by Sherlock's chair. "Yeah. Why?"
Sherlock smirked and took a sip. "Nothing," he said and smiled beatifically at John.
"What?"
Sherlock shrugged. "Lots of rounding her vowels then?"
John stared and Sherlock drank his tea, his expression innocent in a way that it seemed only John understood completely. "No one faked anything," John said eventually and took a drink.
"I'm sure you're an excellent lover," said Sherlock and nodded sagely. "You're considerate, experienced and adventurous outside the bedroom. I'm sure that translates inside as well."
John leaned forward. "You know the difference between you and me?"
"Oh Lord, let me count the ways," murmured Sherlock. "Do enlighten me, John. What is it that you do that makes you so different to me?"
"I like having sex," said John and Sherlock laughed. John grinned at him and took another sip of his tea. "Or you're very discreet. I can't decide which."
"Perhaps you're unobservant."
"You've said that before and I'm still not insulted," said John and tilted his head as he watched his flatmate. "Seriously? What happened to it not being your area?"
"I said girlfriends aren't my area," said Sherlock.
"And there isn't a boyfriend," said John and considered. "Still isn't?"
"I don't have time," said Sherlock. "There's just you. And you take up a ridiculous amount of memory."
"Ah," said John with a nod. He cleared his throat. "Have you said that to other people? Because it would really explain a lot."
"Other people don't interest me," said Sherlock and rolled his eyes at John's glance. "Oh don't be like that. You know what I mean."
"I thought I did," said John and frowned. "Sherlock?"
"Yes?"
"Are you looking for someone?"
"I just said I don't have time," huffed Sherlock and drained the cup. He held it out toward John. "Another one would be lovely."
John shook his head. "Not now," he said and stood up. "I'm going to grab a shower. Get to bed."
He stepped toward the bathroom and ignored the proffered cup. Sherlock might need tea but John's body had reminded him that he wasn't nineteen anymore and a good hot shower might just soak through the muscles he'd used. John stepped into the shower and closed his eyes, letting the hot water blast over his skin while he mentally replayed the better parts of the evening. He liked being appreciated. He liked being touched and held and being told he was doing well. He really liked being touched and being able to be touched back.
His hand slipped down to his groin and John touched the flesh that still tingled and felt sensitive to the touch. He wrapped his fingers round and rested his head against the tile. Being touched always worked for John, not always just his dick but anywhere on his body. Being touched felt like being seen and John wanted very much to be significant. Each date he went on he hoped that this time he would find someone who saw him completely. Michelle wasn't that person, though he wouldn't mind seeing her again. No-one had been the person so far and so John dreamed of having someone who would know him so intimately that they'd touch him in all the right places.
He stroked lightly, fingers gripping the heavy length as he let the water splash over his skin. His hair stuck to his scalp and he spread his feet against the edge of the cubicle as he moved. When it came down to it, John knew how he liked it better than he could explain it and Michelle, while she was indeed a wonderful woman, was not intuitive enough to know what John liked best. No one had been so far and John groaned as his fingers quickened.
He'd intended to use the night's best bits as spank bank material for this, especially bare breasts that bounced when she laughed. He wanted to be thinking about that, but John flashed on a long stretch of neck, curved in to play a violin and he blinked. The tiles were very white in front of his eyes and when he closed his eyes again, he could visualise it again. It wasn't the first time he'd thought about Sherlock's throat and he was certain it wouldn't be the last, but given he'd actually had sex this evening, John wasn't at all sure that it should be what his dick should be reacting to best of all.
Still, a hard dick had no conscience whatsoever and, confident that his thoughts were his own, John shifted focus again and slid his fingers easily over the hard length of his erection. He'd thought about touching, about licking Sherlock's throat so many times he could have kept his own bar chart. He knew that peak times came when they were in the middle of a case and Sherlock was on fire. John found himself dropping words like 'amazing' and 'brilliant' instead of leaping on the man. He found himself staring when he should be thinking.
Doing it in public was bad. Indulging in a little wank in the privacy of his own shower was very good indeed and the night's adventures with a one date girlfriend faded away quickly as John replayed the flashes of skin he had. He fixated on Sherlock's throat, then his mouth as he sipped his tea. A perfect mouth that was used to explode with wonder and insults and John reveled in every bit of it. His hand worked faster and his dick throbbed until he was almost there and as the cold water cut in, he yelled loudly and dropped his hand.
"For fuck's sake," he snapped and swiped at his eyes to brush the water away. He grabbed a towel and stomped out of the bathroom with it wrapped round his hips. Sherlock was filling the kettle from the sink in the kitchen when John walked in. The detective glanced over at his flatmate and raised an eyebrow.
"I thought you'd finished."
"Obviously not," said John and pointed at the taps. "You just switched them on when I was washing."
Sherlock twitched a smile at the corner of his mouth. "That's not what you were doing."
John glanced down at his still healthy erection, barely hidden by the towel. He tugged the material tighter to very little effect and looked back at Sherlock. "Not the point. You knew I was still in there."
"I miscalculated," said Sherlock and set the kettle on to boil. "Usually you use the shower for seven minutes, unless you're masturbating and then it's twelve. Naturally I thought tonight would be a seven minute affair." He glanced toward John's groin and then up to his eyes. "You said it was a good night."
"Stop monitoring my showers," said John and realised he was dripping onto the carpet. He huffed and then pulled the towel off to rub at his skin, determined to be unembarrassed by his own nakedness. Sherlock had no doubt seen him naked before. He'd seen Sherlock naked before. He'd stored it in the bank, but he hadn't thought it out of the ordinary, unlike this. "It's not healthy."
"It's observation," pointed out Sherlock. "I wouldn't mind if you kept an eye on how long I spend in the shower."
John scrubbed over his hair and looked back at the man, noticing only now that Sherlock had stilled entirely and appeared to be following the movement of John's hand. Everywhere, it seemed, from the hair that John dried on his head, his chest and his groin, even the heavy flank of muscle in his thighs. John paused and gestured with the towel. "Normal people don't keep check on how often their flatmate has a wank."
Sherlock's teeth caught his bottom lip briefly. "What boring lives they must lead," he said and stepped closer to John. "Perhaps I was wrong."
"Yes, I should think so."
"Not about the shower," said Sherlock and reduced the distance between them. "About who faked what."
John rolled his eyes. "Men don't fake orgasms, Sherlock. They just don't."
"Well that's not true," said Sherlock and licked his bottom lip as he looked at John. "They do think about other things, though. Other people."
John huffed. "We've all been in that position."
"I haven't."
"Yes, well you're special," said John and stood his ground. Scarcely six inches of air stood between Sherlock and John's still damp torso and John was damned if he had to be the one to give way. He could touch Sherlock, at this distance, just put one hand out and touch the man, feel the muscle behind the shirt when it tugged tight in all directions. He could, but he wouldn't, not tonight. Not when his dick still felt like it had business to tend to and Sherlock could only think of tea and what John might have done wrong on his brilliant date. He raised his chin. "You probably think of yourself."
"No," said Sherlock and tilted his head as he watched John. "I don't."
John watched, unable to help himself as Sherlock's tongue made an all too brief appearance. He found himself licking his own lip in return. All he had to do was ask. Just one question and John would know the truth that he'd spent studiously avoiding for the past eighteen months. One question and John's dating career might come to a standstill.
So might everything else.
He cleared his throat and looked back up at Sherlock. "Fine. Make your tea. I'm going to bed."
John turned on his heel and headed for the stairs. Some questions just shouldn't be asked at all and while Michelle might not work out, he could always find someone else who might just make John feel a little bit special. That feeling shouldn't be reserved for his flatmate, even if he did become John's only masturbation material, no matter how many women John slept with. While it stayed in John's head he was safe and he resolved to sleep, ignore all of this and smile at some other girl tomorrow.
So decided, John went to bed with an uncomfortable ache in his lower belly and a dick that reminded him he was still owed five more minutes in the shower.
He could always get another date.