Purely Medicinal Part 2
Author: k8matty
Title: Purely Medicinal
Pairing: John/Sherlock
Rating: NC-17+
Warnings/kinks: Masturbation.
Summary: Most men do it for fun, but for Sherlock it's purely medicinal.
Word Count: 1440
*
Later that evening as the two ate dinner at Angelo’s, Sherlock noticed John was acting strangely. And for the life of him, Sherlock couldn’t figure out why.
“You’re not making eye-contact.” Sherlock observed, as John quickly glanced away from Sherlock’s unrelenting gaze for the twelfth time that evening.
John obligingly looked up, but Sherlock could see that it was an effort as physically difficult as pulling up carpet. John tried to school his features into a blank mask, but he was too distracted by memories of cocks and bathroom sinks. Bathroom sinks… Sherlock’s cock… John’s cock, as he’d shamelessly rubbed out his own need not two minutes after Sherlock had attended to his own. John took a sip of cold water, as though it would drown his shame.
“You’re embarrassed by something.” Sherlock deduced, ever the mind-reader.
“Wonder what that could be.” John muttered, the first words he’d spoken since The Bathroom Incident.
“Walking in on me masturbating?” Sherlock asked, making the elderly couple at a nearby table look up in alarm. John’s eyes went wide as he glanced around in a panic.
“Yes, that. And don’t say that word in public.” John said through gritted teeth.
Sherlock frowned, ignoring John’s objection to his use of a perfectly functional word. “No, that’s not it. You’re… feeling guilty.” Sherlock said slowly, his eyes crinkling as he struggled to figure John out.
John thanked whatever gods were listening that his guilt was to do with the one area Sherlock seemed to know little to nothing about. “Fine, yes, I’m embarrassed. And maybe a little guilty that I walked in on you, though frankly I have nothing to feel guilty about.” Except that you had a wank over your flatmate, John’s brain added helpfully, like the bastard it was.
Sherlock’s eyebrows hitched in surprise. “You’re lying.” He said simply, before finally turning his attention to his own meal.
*
From then on, John learned to hover outside the open bathroom door if he wasn’t 100% certain of Sherlock’s whereabouts. If he was perfectly still, he could hear the gentle sounds of Sherlock’s movements, and he would then wait patiently for his flatmate to finish before trying to gain access to the bathroom. John told himself it was purely because he’d come to know Sherlock well enough that trying to talk him out of an annoying habit was a waste of everyone’s time. It had nothing to do with the butterflies John got in his stomach as he heard the quick, slick sounds emanating from the bathroom door. Because that definitely wasn’t enjoyable, John told himself firmly. Not enjoyable at all.
Eventually, this became routine, and John learned to live with this slightly altered state of affairs. His crush - not that it was a crush or anything, but it was definitely some kind of fascination that John intended to take to the grave - on Sherlock had ebbed, or at least John had learned to hide it enough to stop Sherlock bloody observing him about it.
Things seemed more or less back to normal.
That is until a week or so later, when John and Sherlock were sitting in Lestrade’s office, listening to him drone on about a serial murderer loose in London. John could tell Sherlock was already bored, but was simply holding out in hope of some grisly detail that might make this a case worth pursuing. Just as it seemed Lestrade was getting to said detail, a loud beeping interrupted his stream of dialogue.
“Ah, so sorry gentlemen, you’ll have to excuse me.” John glanced at Sherlock, and noticed that the beeping seemed to be emanating from a cheap digital watch on his wrist. John frowned curiously - that was an odd fashion choice for Sherlock, who despite claims of being strictly practical, was rarely seen out of designer label garments. Besides that flimsy dressing gown, John’s brain cheerfully pointed out. Not to mention that nearly-transparent sheet he likes to prance around in, with not a stitch on underne-
No. He wouldn’t think like that. Shut up, brain, John admonished.
“Sherlock, where the hell are you going?” Lestrade barked as Sherlock rose from his chair and made to leave the room. Out of habit, John stood to leave with him, but Sherlock halted him with a raise of his pale hand.
“Won’t take a minute,” he said, gesturing for John to sit. “I just need to pop to the loo for five minutes or so.”
John’s eyes became as wide as saucers. No. Surely he wasn’t going to… in a police station?
Lestrade frowned, evidently concerned, and John prayed to whoever was listening that the Inspector would let Sherlock take his leave silently. “Sherlock, are you okay?”
“Oh fine,” Sherlock said easily. “It’s been nearly twenty four hours since I last masturbated, you see. And since you seem to be taking your time with this presentation, it’s best not to delay these things.”
John groaned and put his face in his hands, peeking up between his fingers to see Lestrade gaping like a fish out of water. “Sherlock are you trying to be funny?”
Sherlock’s features darkened. “There’s nothing funny about prostate cancer.” He said simply before closing the door behind him with a curt snap.
*
“Sherlock!” John bellowed, slamming the door to the bathroom and pounding on the one occupied cubicle. “You come out of there right now.”
“Do take it easy, John. I can’t wrap things up that quickly.” Sherlock drawled from his cubicle. “I’m not a teenager, you know.”
John put his forehead in his hand and tried to calm his voice. “Sherlock, I’ve just spent the last five minutes convincing Lestrade that this is your weird way of messing with him and that you didn’t actually sneak off for a wank in a fucking police station.”
“Would you please stop saying it like that?” Sherlock had the gall to sound annoyed with John. “I’m not ‘sneaking off for a wank’. I told you, this is purely medicinal.”
“This wank is purely illegal, Sherlock. This is a police station.”
“So? I’m not the only man who’s masturbated in here today. Once I’m done, I can point them out to you, if you’d like.”
“Once you’re… no! No, Sherlock. You get your arse out here right now!” John barked at the door. The only response he got was a low moan and a series of quick, wet sounds that went straight to John’s cock.
God dammit.
“Sherlock.” John said quietly against the door, not playing anymore. “Sherlock, please.”
Another moan, more a whimper really. More sounds, faster this time. If John didn't know any better, he'd say that Sherlock was actually responding to John's voice, and John batted away an urge to grope the hard lump that was forming fast in his jeans.
Sherlock, come out of there. That’s what John had meant to say. But he never got past the first two words, and the next second the room seemed to hum with Sherlock’s moan.
Christ, he’s coming. That thought shouldn’t be making John’s cock leak a damp patch into his underwear, but it was and the next second Sherlock was opening the door to find a red-faced John Watson breathing heavily and sporting a very obvious erection. Sherlock glanced down unashamedly, cocking an eyebrow at John's crotch. John's cock twitched in response, the traitor.
“Hypocrite.” Sherlock chastised, nudging past John to wash his hands. “Try to hurry John. It would be rude to keep the Inspector waiting too long.” Sherlock left the bathroom, and John along with it.
For a few seconds, John stood alone, breathing heavily and truly feeling the ache in his loins. Could he really…? No. John was a civilised human being who (unlike Sherlock) had a certain respect for the law and the social custom of not masturbating in a public bathroom and...
Oh sod it, John thought, wrenching open the cubicle door and locking himself in as he sat on the toilet seat. God the cubicle actually smelled like Sherlock’s arousal, and John bit down his fist to stifle a moan as his other hand thrust itself down his pants. He pulled roughly at his cock, like he was punishing it for getting hard over Sherlock, but it was possibly the least effective deterrent imaginable. John's hips started jerking into his fist as John bought himself to the brink faster than he'd gotten there in years, frantically trying to bring himself off before Lestrade grew suspicious of his absence, or before John had time to really consider what he was actually doing. In a police station bathroom, no less.
John's orgasm hit him like a punch, and he barely managed to catch his load in his palm before the bathroom door banged open and the faint tinkling of someone at the urinal could be heard. John blushed, knowing he couldn't possibly step out of the cubicle with semen all over his hands. A quick glance to his left showed that the stall was annoyingly out of toilet paper.
Nothing for it then, John thought as he bought his sticky fingers to his mouth and sucked away all evidence of his crime. John closed his eyes and allowed himself to imagine that the salty fluid in his mouth belonged not to himself, but to a certain raven-haired detective.
Once he’d cleaned up and splashed some cold water on his face to dull the heated blush that just wouldn’t go away, John sheepishly went to the break room to help himself to a coffee so he had some kind of excuse for his prolonged absence. Lestrade was still talking about the case when John returned, but Sherlock smirked at the cup in John’s hand, clearly seeing through the flimsy prop.
John took a defiant sip, glaring at Sherlock, who glanced away and returned his attention to Lestrade’s presentation.
“You’re not to do that again.” John muttered in the cab on the way home. “I mean it, Sherlock. You can’t do that in a police station.”
Sherlock smirked, not taking his glance away from the cab window. “I won’t do it again if you don’t.”
John’s ears burned the rest of the ride home, but Sherlock remained blessedly silent.
Title: Purely Medicinal
Pairing: John/Sherlock
Rating: NC-17+
Warnings/kinks: Masturbation.
Summary: Most men do it for fun, but for Sherlock it's purely medicinal.
Word Count: 1440
*
Later that evening as the two ate dinner at Angelo’s, Sherlock noticed John was acting strangely. And for the life of him, Sherlock couldn’t figure out why.
“You’re not making eye-contact.” Sherlock observed, as John quickly glanced away from Sherlock’s unrelenting gaze for the twelfth time that evening.
John obligingly looked up, but Sherlock could see that it was an effort as physically difficult as pulling up carpet. John tried to school his features into a blank mask, but he was too distracted by memories of cocks and bathroom sinks. Bathroom sinks… Sherlock’s cock… John’s cock, as he’d shamelessly rubbed out his own need not two minutes after Sherlock had attended to his own. John took a sip of cold water, as though it would drown his shame.
“You’re embarrassed by something.” Sherlock deduced, ever the mind-reader.
“Wonder what that could be.” John muttered, the first words he’d spoken since The Bathroom Incident.
“Walking in on me masturbating?” Sherlock asked, making the elderly couple at a nearby table look up in alarm. John’s eyes went wide as he glanced around in a panic.
“Yes, that. And don’t say that word in public.” John said through gritted teeth.
Sherlock frowned, ignoring John’s objection to his use of a perfectly functional word. “No, that’s not it. You’re… feeling guilty.” Sherlock said slowly, his eyes crinkling as he struggled to figure John out.
John thanked whatever gods were listening that his guilt was to do with the one area Sherlock seemed to know little to nothing about. “Fine, yes, I’m embarrassed. And maybe a little guilty that I walked in on you, though frankly I have nothing to feel guilty about.” Except that you had a wank over your flatmate, John’s brain added helpfully, like the bastard it was.
Sherlock’s eyebrows hitched in surprise. “You’re lying.” He said simply, before finally turning his attention to his own meal.
*
From then on, John learned to hover outside the open bathroom door if he wasn’t 100% certain of Sherlock’s whereabouts. If he was perfectly still, he could hear the gentle sounds of Sherlock’s movements, and he would then wait patiently for his flatmate to finish before trying to gain access to the bathroom. John told himself it was purely because he’d come to know Sherlock well enough that trying to talk him out of an annoying habit was a waste of everyone’s time. It had nothing to do with the butterflies John got in his stomach as he heard the quick, slick sounds emanating from the bathroom door. Because that definitely wasn’t enjoyable, John told himself firmly. Not enjoyable at all.
Eventually, this became routine, and John learned to live with this slightly altered state of affairs. His crush - not that it was a crush or anything, but it was definitely some kind of fascination that John intended to take to the grave - on Sherlock had ebbed, or at least John had learned to hide it enough to stop Sherlock bloody observing him about it.
Things seemed more or less back to normal.
That is until a week or so later, when John and Sherlock were sitting in Lestrade’s office, listening to him drone on about a serial murderer loose in London. John could tell Sherlock was already bored, but was simply holding out in hope of some grisly detail that might make this a case worth pursuing. Just as it seemed Lestrade was getting to said detail, a loud beeping interrupted his stream of dialogue.
“Ah, so sorry gentlemen, you’ll have to excuse me.” John glanced at Sherlock, and noticed that the beeping seemed to be emanating from a cheap digital watch on his wrist. John frowned curiously - that was an odd fashion choice for Sherlock, who despite claims of being strictly practical, was rarely seen out of designer label garments. Besides that flimsy dressing gown, John’s brain cheerfully pointed out. Not to mention that nearly-transparent sheet he likes to prance around in, with not a stitch on underne-
No. He wouldn’t think like that. Shut up, brain, John admonished.
“Sherlock, where the hell are you going?” Lestrade barked as Sherlock rose from his chair and made to leave the room. Out of habit, John stood to leave with him, but Sherlock halted him with a raise of his pale hand.
“Won’t take a minute,” he said, gesturing for John to sit. “I just need to pop to the loo for five minutes or so.”
John’s eyes became as wide as saucers. No. Surely he wasn’t going to… in a police station?
Lestrade frowned, evidently concerned, and John prayed to whoever was listening that the Inspector would let Sherlock take his leave silently. “Sherlock, are you okay?”
“Oh fine,” Sherlock said easily. “It’s been nearly twenty four hours since I last masturbated, you see. And since you seem to be taking your time with this presentation, it’s best not to delay these things.”
John groaned and put his face in his hands, peeking up between his fingers to see Lestrade gaping like a fish out of water. “Sherlock are you trying to be funny?”
Sherlock’s features darkened. “There’s nothing funny about prostate cancer.” He said simply before closing the door behind him with a curt snap.
*
“Sherlock!” John bellowed, slamming the door to the bathroom and pounding on the one occupied cubicle. “You come out of there right now.”
“Do take it easy, John. I can’t wrap things up that quickly.” Sherlock drawled from his cubicle. “I’m not a teenager, you know.”
John put his forehead in his hand and tried to calm his voice. “Sherlock, I’ve just spent the last five minutes convincing Lestrade that this is your weird way of messing with him and that you didn’t actually sneak off for a wank in a fucking police station.”
“Would you please stop saying it like that?” Sherlock had the gall to sound annoyed with John. “I’m not ‘sneaking off for a wank’. I told you, this is purely medicinal.”
“This wank is purely illegal, Sherlock. This is a police station.”
“So? I’m not the only man who’s masturbated in here today. Once I’m done, I can point them out to you, if you’d like.”
“Once you’re… no! No, Sherlock. You get your arse out here right now!” John barked at the door. The only response he got was a low moan and a series of quick, wet sounds that went straight to John’s cock.
God dammit.
“Sherlock.” John said quietly against the door, not playing anymore. “Sherlock, please.”
Another moan, more a whimper really. More sounds, faster this time. If John didn't know any better, he'd say that Sherlock was actually responding to John's voice, and John batted away an urge to grope the hard lump that was forming fast in his jeans.
Sherlock, come out of there. That’s what John had meant to say. But he never got past the first two words, and the next second the room seemed to hum with Sherlock’s moan.
Christ, he’s coming. That thought shouldn’t be making John’s cock leak a damp patch into his underwear, but it was and the next second Sherlock was opening the door to find a red-faced John Watson breathing heavily and sporting a very obvious erection. Sherlock glanced down unashamedly, cocking an eyebrow at John's crotch. John's cock twitched in response, the traitor.
“Hypocrite.” Sherlock chastised, nudging past John to wash his hands. “Try to hurry John. It would be rude to keep the Inspector waiting too long.” Sherlock left the bathroom, and John along with it.
For a few seconds, John stood alone, breathing heavily and truly feeling the ache in his loins. Could he really…? No. John was a civilised human being who (unlike Sherlock) had a certain respect for the law and the social custom of not masturbating in a public bathroom and...
Oh sod it, John thought, wrenching open the cubicle door and locking himself in as he sat on the toilet seat. God the cubicle actually smelled like Sherlock’s arousal, and John bit down his fist to stifle a moan as his other hand thrust itself down his pants. He pulled roughly at his cock, like he was punishing it for getting hard over Sherlock, but it was possibly the least effective deterrent imaginable. John's hips started jerking into his fist as John bought himself to the brink faster than he'd gotten there in years, frantically trying to bring himself off before Lestrade grew suspicious of his absence, or before John had time to really consider what he was actually doing. In a police station bathroom, no less.
John's orgasm hit him like a punch, and he barely managed to catch his load in his palm before the bathroom door banged open and the faint tinkling of someone at the urinal could be heard. John blushed, knowing he couldn't possibly step out of the cubicle with semen all over his hands. A quick glance to his left showed that the stall was annoyingly out of toilet paper.
Nothing for it then, John thought as he bought his sticky fingers to his mouth and sucked away all evidence of his crime. John closed his eyes and allowed himself to imagine that the salty fluid in his mouth belonged not to himself, but to a certain raven-haired detective.
Once he’d cleaned up and splashed some cold water on his face to dull the heated blush that just wouldn’t go away, John sheepishly went to the break room to help himself to a coffee so he had some kind of excuse for his prolonged absence. Lestrade was still talking about the case when John returned, but Sherlock smirked at the cup in John’s hand, clearly seeing through the flimsy prop.
John took a defiant sip, glaring at Sherlock, who glanced away and returned his attention to Lestrade’s presentation.
“You’re not to do that again.” John muttered in the cab on the way home. “I mean it, Sherlock. You can’t do that in a police station.”
Sherlock smirked, not taking his glance away from the cab window. “I won’t do it again if you don’t.”
John’s ears burned the rest of the ride home, but Sherlock remained blessedly silent.