FIC: Experimental Physics 1/1 (Sherlock/John, NC-17) Sherlock BBC
Title: Experimental Physics
Author: Keelywolfe
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Rating: NC-17
Pairing(s): Sherlock/John
Spoilers: Through 'Scandal In Belgravia'
Word Count: 2500
Summary: There were times when John really wished he'd learned to keep his mouth shut.
Warnings: None
Notes: I am, actually, working on a longer story in between these bits of smut, but hey, it's been a long day. Time for some Monday Masturbation! I'm not sure if this is even worth posting to any of the communities but I thought you guys might enjoy it. ^_^
Again, I am going to blame this on sithdragn, my partner in obsession. Next time, we'll watch the episodes on my television. ;)
~~*~~
There were conversations one enjoyed. John considered himself a likeable sort of bloke, friendly enough to have a chat with most days. He could talk about popular movies, football, restaurants. A regular fount of idle chatter, was John, and perhaps that explained why he often found Sherlock, well, if not relaxing than at least interesting. Sherlock said nothing that could be construed as idle and normally, John found it secretly fascinating and amusing to watch him work himself into a proper state of agitation.
"Crimes of passion I understand but this!" Sherlock shouted it at a volume that made John wince as he hid once again behind the barrier of his newspaper. Not that it hid the sound as Sherlock threw himself back on the sofa again with a loud whump. "This is murder over an orgasm. Pointless!"
Normally, he did. This time, with Sherlock ranting about their last case and how moronic it was, for a man to murder the mistress he’d already paid off and for what? “Pointless,” Sherlock muttered again and John didn’t have to peek around his guardian paper to know Sherlock was staring at the ceiling, hands clasped and his first fingers pressed against his lips as he considered.
Later, John decided what he should have done was kept quiet. He could have nodded a little, mumbled some sort of agreement, and in the morning all would be well. That was what he should have done. What he did do was open his big mouth and invite all sorts of Sherlockian trouble to toil and bubble out and ruin his evening.
It was a skill, he supposed, to be able to say exactly the wrong thing at just the right time. And what he said was, almost absently, "An orgasm can be a powerful thing.”
And there it was. Meant as an idle sort of thing and instead, it got him a Look. A Sherlock look, aimed in his direction like a laser. Firmly, John kept his newspaper in place.
A tick of time, two, and then Sherlock all but sneered at him, "A powerful thing that can be achieved anywhere and by anyone, even by oneself."
"A wank is hardly a substitute, you know?" John said and promptly made it worse. He folded down one corner of his paper. Sherlock was giving him a look that was an interesting cross between scathing and blank. "Do you not…" John trailed off, not entirely sure he wanted an answer to that question, just in case the answer was no.
Christ, could he really not…of course he could really not, this was Sherlock. Probably thought a good wank was tedious or some such thing. Wheels were turning behind those pale eyes, thoughts burbling up, and oh, dear, he shouldn’t have said a thing, he shouldn’t have…maybe it wasn’t too late. Quickly, John snapped the newspaper back into place and pretended to read with fierce determination. It was past midnight, they’d been on this case all day, no experiments, no experiments--
"Interesting,” Sherlock murmured and John’s heart sank. “I need data, I need an experiment, a test subject. I can use the fingertips of a dead man to determine the deterioration of fingerprints during decomposition due to ambient temperature and humidity-"
"Try saying that three times fast," John muttered, already mostly resigned to fate. He hoped whatever experiment Sherlock came up with was a quiet one.
"But for this I need a live subject. I need you." In a flash, Sherlock was on his feet, dressing gown swirling like gargoyle wings as Sherlock leaned over John, both hands on the arms of the chair pinning him to his seat as Sherlock loomed far too deep into John's personal space. His paper crinkled in protest.
"And why not do it yourself?" John argued, sinking deeper into the chair in a futile effort to get a few more centimetres of space between them. To no avail, Sherlock only bent in closer and the newspaper finally gave up its scant protection and tore straight down the middle, both halves still in John’s hands.
"I'm hardly a trustworthy test subject in this instance and even if I were, engaging in the act would interfere with the collection of data."
"All kinds of porn right on the internet-" John cringed back in his seat, abandoning any pretense of bravery in the face of a determined Sherlock Holmes.
"And none of it realistic! I need an accurate performance that I can witness." Grey eyes narrowed, flicking over John, taking in God knew what information. "Fine, I'll simply find another test subject."
"You'll what?" John sputtered. Oh, that did not sound good.
"I will find another test subject," Sherlock enunciated, biting off each word with savage precision.
"And how are you planning on doing that?" John demanded, tossing aside the sad remnants of his newspaper. "Going to put out an ad? Oh, I know, you can add a posting to your webpage, any wankers available, soonest possible."
"Don't be absurd, there are any number of places in London where a monetary exchange can give me the results I'm looking for." In one smooth move, he shucked off his dressing gown, still fully dressed beneath it and as usual, he was barely rumpled, the prat.
"Monet…" John trailed off. Sherlock couldn't possibly be suggesting, oh, dear Lord, he was. He was going to hire a prostitute to test his theories on wanking. John was no Sherlock, no genius, if a word as pale as genius could even be applied to someone like Sherlock. But what he lacked in absurd levels of intelligence he certainly made up for it with practicality and he could imagine any number of outcomes to this little plan.
Most of them ended up with Sherlock being arrested for solicitation, waiting in a cell for John to show up and then what? Explaining this mess to Lestrade or worse, to Mycroft?
Sherlock had never told him the results of Irene's meeting with the Holmes brothers. Mycroft had, down to the last detail. According to him, John of all people needed to know, needed her exact words and his. Not as observant as Sherlock, he needed every piece of the puzzle to keep a proper eye on his friend.
The Iceman and the Virgin, the Holmes brothers, that's what she'd said. Said it was Moriarty's nicknames for them. Mycroft hadn't so much as twitched, not a blush or a fidget when he'd told John. Iceman, indeed. The iceman and…the virgin.
Bloody hell.
"All right," John sighed. Sherlock paid him no heed, already tying on his scarf. "I said all right," John repeated louder. "You can stop now, I said I'll do it."
"Nonsense, I would so hate to put you out," Sharp, just on the edge of a sneer.
"Then stop being a bastard and come here! I'll show you, if that's what you need."
Sherlock went still. "You'll show me."
"I said I would. Now come sit down and tell me what you want me to do."
~~*~~
It was John who insisted on locking the door, locking it and throwing the bolt. Too many comings and goings, Mrs Hudson was wont to wander in, clients, the police, criminals. They had a regular revolving door and John didn't want to chance anyone walking in on this. Trying to explain it to himself was already giving him a headache; he didn't much want to consider explaining it to anyone else.
Gray eyes, elbows propped on his knees, chin resting on his folded hands. Watching. No, no, that wasn't right. Observing.
Never had eyes on him, not like this. Public schools, no private dormitories, secret wanks in the dark with other boys. Not in the military either; John had been a soldier, true, but he'd been the doctor. Much older than the young lads and it would have been inappropriate besides, getting involved with any of his patients. None of that would have stopped him, he supposed, if he'd ever actually wanted it, if he'd had the urge.
That was what he'd lacked, the urge. No masculine face or body had drawn him, never, only soft, sweet curves, delicate feminine flesh. John closed his eyes and thought of it now, blocking out that clear grey gaze as he rubbed his thumb over the soft bulge in the front of his trousers.
He half expected Sherlock to complain that he get on with it, stop being so predictable, so boring. Nothing, not a word. Only the occasional sound of his breath, nearly silent.
Perhaps he knew that John wasn't as young as he once was and he needed a moment to get things going. Or more likely, he knew not to interrupt an experiment in progress. Impatient as Sherlock often was, he was accustomed to waiting days, even weeks, for end results. A few minutes shouldn't matter.
Surprisingly, the thought helped John settle, calmed a performance anxiety he hadn't even been aware of. If ever there was a brutal commentator it would be Sherlock and just considering the kind of scathing criticisms he might send John's way was enough to kill even the faint stirrings of an erection that he'd managed.
The on-going silence relaxed him, only the rasp of his thumb against denim, the deepening of his own breathing as he finally coaxed some small amount of arousal. Not enough to even make it worth opening his zip, not yet, and John squirmed a little in his seat, trying to ignore the niggling discomfiture of being watched, no matter that Sherlock was quiet.
Something to think on then, to get things moving along. Sara, perhaps, or no, no, no one that Sherlock knew, nothing that might be revealed in the flick of his wrist, the catch of his breath, whatever little detail that Sherlock would read as easily as type. A fleeting, guilty memory of Irene, her delicate, perfect nudity skittered behind his eyes and John firmly set that aside. Something older, then.
Alyssa Cosworth, he decided. Years and years ago, that was, and he remembered the crisp pink of her lipstick, the pertness of her small breasts, the way they'd bounced when she straddled him, riding him in the backseat of her mum's car in frantic little couplings before curfew.
Yeah, that was the ticket. John sighed, tipping his head back against the chair as he thumbed open his zip, tugging it down before sliding a hand into his pants, cupping his hardening prick. His hand felt cold, nerves combined with the ever-present chill of their flat. Old houses heated poorly and they rarely bothered with the fireplace, not with the way they were usually coming and going. It warmed quickly enough, circled around his cock, body heat and friction combined. Felt nice enough, too, enough, enough, no, it wasn't enough. Here it was, wasn't it, the moment of truth. He was hard and Sherlock was watching silently, waiting, and…John took a deep breath before tugging down his trousers and pants together to the tops of his thighs.
Kept his hand curled around his prick and he didn't need a keen observer to inform him that he was trying to hide, just a little. He gathered up his courage and his thoughts, concentrated on the sensation of it and started again, stroking firmly. A few quick tugs reminded him of just how nice wanking was supposed to be, rising pleasure letting his legs relax apart, let him rub his thumb over the head, pushing down the foreskin to slick through the growing dampness there.
"Oh," John groaned, biting his lip as he remembered he wasn’t alone but that wasn't quite right, was it? He wasn't locked away in his room in the late night or hiding any sounds beneath the spray of a hot shower. Sherlock had wanted to observe and if John stifled his natural inclinations, then the experiment would be ruined. He tightened his grip, stroking a little harder and let the sounds fall out like they may.
Movement, John noticed it dimly, the faint squeak of the chair springs across from him though at just this moment, he was more concerned with the heat rising in his bollocks, on the almost unconscious hunch of his hips up into the brilliant pressure of his gripping hand.
Orgasm was starting to become more reality than abstract thought, nearly startled away at a touch on his other hand where his fingers were gripping the armrest. John's eyes flew open, his vision briefly blurred as he tried to focus on a figure suddenly close to him, the fluttering edge of a dressing gown grazing his cheek.
"What-" he started then two fingertips, cool and precise, pressed to the inside of his wrist. A familiar gesture, measuring his pulse and John relaxed again, allowing it. Right, observation, didn't much matter if Sherlock was right here or across the room, he supposed, and there was some data that couldn't be simply observed.
John resumed his faltering rhythm, let the pleasure build again, and tried not to focus on the touch at his wrist. At the faint movement in front of him, the click of joints from abrupt movement and oh, god, oh, Christ, Sherlock was kneeling in front of him, leaning in to watch, to observe, his breath just a light, damp gust over the back of his hand, and John arched up hard, gritting his teeth as he came.
He hissed out a groan and a warning through his clenched teeth, shuddering as he spilled liquid heat over his own hand and slumped back in the chair. Bloody hell, he felt wrecked, his clothes clinging stickily to his sweating body, cooling streaks of semen over his hand. All from a simple wank where he hadn't even gotten his trousers off.
It took several long, deep breaths before he could slit open his eyes and meet Sherlock's gaze and he had to blink, lean back a little because Sherlock was close to his face, too close, matching him in a brief stare before they flicked away. Sherlock's eyes moved like a hummingbird, taking it all in, taking everything. John still felt weak in the knees and blurry himself, so it took him a minute to see the damp streak on Sherlock's cheek, just a single line of wetness. For a moment, all John could do was stare at it, uncomprehending, and then it hit him with the force of a trolleybus.
He'd come on Sherlock Holmes.
He sat there, mostly sprawled on the chair with his trousers undone and his shirt clinging to him uncomfortably, until Sherlock had looked his fill and finally stood. While John watched, mutely, Sherlock swiped two fingers across his cheek, wiping away the smear.
"Hmm, thank you," Sherlock said absently, rubbing his fingers and thumb together, testing the consistency. He was already stepping over John's legs and away when he touched his finger to his tongue, humming again thoughtfully as he wandered into the kitchen. After a moment, dishes began clanking gently.
John still hadn't moved by the time the kettle whistled cheerily. The sound made him jump and he hastily clambered to his feet and into the toilet before Sherlock could bring him a cup of tea. Much as he could use a cup, John wasn't sure he could hold one without it clattering in the saucer and that would reveal a bit more than he was willing to show, just now.
-fin
Author: Keelywolfe
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Rating: NC-17
Pairing(s): Sherlock/John
Spoilers: Through 'Scandal In Belgravia'
Word Count: 2500
Summary: There were times when John really wished he'd learned to keep his mouth shut.
Warnings: None
Notes: I am, actually, working on a longer story in between these bits of smut, but hey, it's been a long day. Time for some Monday Masturbation! I'm not sure if this is even worth posting to any of the communities but I thought you guys might enjoy it. ^_^
Again, I am going to blame this on sithdragn, my partner in obsession. Next time, we'll watch the episodes on my television. ;)
~~*~~
There were conversations one enjoyed. John considered himself a likeable sort of bloke, friendly enough to have a chat with most days. He could talk about popular movies, football, restaurants. A regular fount of idle chatter, was John, and perhaps that explained why he often found Sherlock, well, if not relaxing than at least interesting. Sherlock said nothing that could be construed as idle and normally, John found it secretly fascinating and amusing to watch him work himself into a proper state of agitation.
"Crimes of passion I understand but this!" Sherlock shouted it at a volume that made John wince as he hid once again behind the barrier of his newspaper. Not that it hid the sound as Sherlock threw himself back on the sofa again with a loud whump. "This is murder over an orgasm. Pointless!"
Normally, he did. This time, with Sherlock ranting about their last case and how moronic it was, for a man to murder the mistress he’d already paid off and for what? “Pointless,” Sherlock muttered again and John didn’t have to peek around his guardian paper to know Sherlock was staring at the ceiling, hands clasped and his first fingers pressed against his lips as he considered.
Later, John decided what he should have done was kept quiet. He could have nodded a little, mumbled some sort of agreement, and in the morning all would be well. That was what he should have done. What he did do was open his big mouth and invite all sorts of Sherlockian trouble to toil and bubble out and ruin his evening.
It was a skill, he supposed, to be able to say exactly the wrong thing at just the right time. And what he said was, almost absently, "An orgasm can be a powerful thing.”
And there it was. Meant as an idle sort of thing and instead, it got him a Look. A Sherlock look, aimed in his direction like a laser. Firmly, John kept his newspaper in place.
A tick of time, two, and then Sherlock all but sneered at him, "A powerful thing that can be achieved anywhere and by anyone, even by oneself."
"A wank is hardly a substitute, you know?" John said and promptly made it worse. He folded down one corner of his paper. Sherlock was giving him a look that was an interesting cross between scathing and blank. "Do you not…" John trailed off, not entirely sure he wanted an answer to that question, just in case the answer was no.
Christ, could he really not…of course he could really not, this was Sherlock. Probably thought a good wank was tedious or some such thing. Wheels were turning behind those pale eyes, thoughts burbling up, and oh, dear, he shouldn’t have said a thing, he shouldn’t have…maybe it wasn’t too late. Quickly, John snapped the newspaper back into place and pretended to read with fierce determination. It was past midnight, they’d been on this case all day, no experiments, no experiments--
"Interesting,” Sherlock murmured and John’s heart sank. “I need data, I need an experiment, a test subject. I can use the fingertips of a dead man to determine the deterioration of fingerprints during decomposition due to ambient temperature and humidity-"
"Try saying that three times fast," John muttered, already mostly resigned to fate. He hoped whatever experiment Sherlock came up with was a quiet one.
"But for this I need a live subject. I need you." In a flash, Sherlock was on his feet, dressing gown swirling like gargoyle wings as Sherlock leaned over John, both hands on the arms of the chair pinning him to his seat as Sherlock loomed far too deep into John's personal space. His paper crinkled in protest.
"And why not do it yourself?" John argued, sinking deeper into the chair in a futile effort to get a few more centimetres of space between them. To no avail, Sherlock only bent in closer and the newspaper finally gave up its scant protection and tore straight down the middle, both halves still in John’s hands.
"I'm hardly a trustworthy test subject in this instance and even if I were, engaging in the act would interfere with the collection of data."
"All kinds of porn right on the internet-" John cringed back in his seat, abandoning any pretense of bravery in the face of a determined Sherlock Holmes.
"And none of it realistic! I need an accurate performance that I can witness." Grey eyes narrowed, flicking over John, taking in God knew what information. "Fine, I'll simply find another test subject."
"You'll what?" John sputtered. Oh, that did not sound good.
"I will find another test subject," Sherlock enunciated, biting off each word with savage precision.
"And how are you planning on doing that?" John demanded, tossing aside the sad remnants of his newspaper. "Going to put out an ad? Oh, I know, you can add a posting to your webpage, any wankers available, soonest possible."
"Don't be absurd, there are any number of places in London where a monetary exchange can give me the results I'm looking for." In one smooth move, he shucked off his dressing gown, still fully dressed beneath it and as usual, he was barely rumpled, the prat.
"Monet…" John trailed off. Sherlock couldn't possibly be suggesting, oh, dear Lord, he was. He was going to hire a prostitute to test his theories on wanking. John was no Sherlock, no genius, if a word as pale as genius could even be applied to someone like Sherlock. But what he lacked in absurd levels of intelligence he certainly made up for it with practicality and he could imagine any number of outcomes to this little plan.
Most of them ended up with Sherlock being arrested for solicitation, waiting in a cell for John to show up and then what? Explaining this mess to Lestrade or worse, to Mycroft?
Sherlock had never told him the results of Irene's meeting with the Holmes brothers. Mycroft had, down to the last detail. According to him, John of all people needed to know, needed her exact words and his. Not as observant as Sherlock, he needed every piece of the puzzle to keep a proper eye on his friend.
The Iceman and the Virgin, the Holmes brothers, that's what she'd said. Said it was Moriarty's nicknames for them. Mycroft hadn't so much as twitched, not a blush or a fidget when he'd told John. Iceman, indeed. The iceman and…the virgin.
Bloody hell.
"All right," John sighed. Sherlock paid him no heed, already tying on his scarf. "I said all right," John repeated louder. "You can stop now, I said I'll do it."
"Nonsense, I would so hate to put you out," Sharp, just on the edge of a sneer.
"Then stop being a bastard and come here! I'll show you, if that's what you need."
Sherlock went still. "You'll show me."
"I said I would. Now come sit down and tell me what you want me to do."
~~*~~
It was John who insisted on locking the door, locking it and throwing the bolt. Too many comings and goings, Mrs Hudson was wont to wander in, clients, the police, criminals. They had a regular revolving door and John didn't want to chance anyone walking in on this. Trying to explain it to himself was already giving him a headache; he didn't much want to consider explaining it to anyone else.
Gray eyes, elbows propped on his knees, chin resting on his folded hands. Watching. No, no, that wasn't right. Observing.
Never had eyes on him, not like this. Public schools, no private dormitories, secret wanks in the dark with other boys. Not in the military either; John had been a soldier, true, but he'd been the doctor. Much older than the young lads and it would have been inappropriate besides, getting involved with any of his patients. None of that would have stopped him, he supposed, if he'd ever actually wanted it, if he'd had the urge.
That was what he'd lacked, the urge. No masculine face or body had drawn him, never, only soft, sweet curves, delicate feminine flesh. John closed his eyes and thought of it now, blocking out that clear grey gaze as he rubbed his thumb over the soft bulge in the front of his trousers.
He half expected Sherlock to complain that he get on with it, stop being so predictable, so boring. Nothing, not a word. Only the occasional sound of his breath, nearly silent.
Perhaps he knew that John wasn't as young as he once was and he needed a moment to get things going. Or more likely, he knew not to interrupt an experiment in progress. Impatient as Sherlock often was, he was accustomed to waiting days, even weeks, for end results. A few minutes shouldn't matter.
Surprisingly, the thought helped John settle, calmed a performance anxiety he hadn't even been aware of. If ever there was a brutal commentator it would be Sherlock and just considering the kind of scathing criticisms he might send John's way was enough to kill even the faint stirrings of an erection that he'd managed.
The on-going silence relaxed him, only the rasp of his thumb against denim, the deepening of his own breathing as he finally coaxed some small amount of arousal. Not enough to even make it worth opening his zip, not yet, and John squirmed a little in his seat, trying to ignore the niggling discomfiture of being watched, no matter that Sherlock was quiet.
Something to think on then, to get things moving along. Sara, perhaps, or no, no, no one that Sherlock knew, nothing that might be revealed in the flick of his wrist, the catch of his breath, whatever little detail that Sherlock would read as easily as type. A fleeting, guilty memory of Irene, her delicate, perfect nudity skittered behind his eyes and John firmly set that aside. Something older, then.
Alyssa Cosworth, he decided. Years and years ago, that was, and he remembered the crisp pink of her lipstick, the pertness of her small breasts, the way they'd bounced when she straddled him, riding him in the backseat of her mum's car in frantic little couplings before curfew.
Yeah, that was the ticket. John sighed, tipping his head back against the chair as he thumbed open his zip, tugging it down before sliding a hand into his pants, cupping his hardening prick. His hand felt cold, nerves combined with the ever-present chill of their flat. Old houses heated poorly and they rarely bothered with the fireplace, not with the way they were usually coming and going. It warmed quickly enough, circled around his cock, body heat and friction combined. Felt nice enough, too, enough, enough, no, it wasn't enough. Here it was, wasn't it, the moment of truth. He was hard and Sherlock was watching silently, waiting, and…John took a deep breath before tugging down his trousers and pants together to the tops of his thighs.
Kept his hand curled around his prick and he didn't need a keen observer to inform him that he was trying to hide, just a little. He gathered up his courage and his thoughts, concentrated on the sensation of it and started again, stroking firmly. A few quick tugs reminded him of just how nice wanking was supposed to be, rising pleasure letting his legs relax apart, let him rub his thumb over the head, pushing down the foreskin to slick through the growing dampness there.
"Oh," John groaned, biting his lip as he remembered he wasn’t alone but that wasn't quite right, was it? He wasn't locked away in his room in the late night or hiding any sounds beneath the spray of a hot shower. Sherlock had wanted to observe and if John stifled his natural inclinations, then the experiment would be ruined. He tightened his grip, stroking a little harder and let the sounds fall out like they may.
Movement, John noticed it dimly, the faint squeak of the chair springs across from him though at just this moment, he was more concerned with the heat rising in his bollocks, on the almost unconscious hunch of his hips up into the brilliant pressure of his gripping hand.
Orgasm was starting to become more reality than abstract thought, nearly startled away at a touch on his other hand where his fingers were gripping the armrest. John's eyes flew open, his vision briefly blurred as he tried to focus on a figure suddenly close to him, the fluttering edge of a dressing gown grazing his cheek.
"What-" he started then two fingertips, cool and precise, pressed to the inside of his wrist. A familiar gesture, measuring his pulse and John relaxed again, allowing it. Right, observation, didn't much matter if Sherlock was right here or across the room, he supposed, and there was some data that couldn't be simply observed.
John resumed his faltering rhythm, let the pleasure build again, and tried not to focus on the touch at his wrist. At the faint movement in front of him, the click of joints from abrupt movement and oh, god, oh, Christ, Sherlock was kneeling in front of him, leaning in to watch, to observe, his breath just a light, damp gust over the back of his hand, and John arched up hard, gritting his teeth as he came.
He hissed out a groan and a warning through his clenched teeth, shuddering as he spilled liquid heat over his own hand and slumped back in the chair. Bloody hell, he felt wrecked, his clothes clinging stickily to his sweating body, cooling streaks of semen over his hand. All from a simple wank where he hadn't even gotten his trousers off.
It took several long, deep breaths before he could slit open his eyes and meet Sherlock's gaze and he had to blink, lean back a little because Sherlock was close to his face, too close, matching him in a brief stare before they flicked away. Sherlock's eyes moved like a hummingbird, taking it all in, taking everything. John still felt weak in the knees and blurry himself, so it took him a minute to see the damp streak on Sherlock's cheek, just a single line of wetness. For a moment, all John could do was stare at it, uncomprehending, and then it hit him with the force of a trolleybus.
He'd come on Sherlock Holmes.
He sat there, mostly sprawled on the chair with his trousers undone and his shirt clinging to him uncomfortably, until Sherlock had looked his fill and finally stood. While John watched, mutely, Sherlock swiped two fingers across his cheek, wiping away the smear.
"Hmm, thank you," Sherlock said absently, rubbing his fingers and thumb together, testing the consistency. He was already stepping over John's legs and away when he touched his finger to his tongue, humming again thoughtfully as he wandered into the kitchen. After a moment, dishes began clanking gently.
John still hadn't moved by the time the kettle whistled cheerily. The sound made him jump and he hastily clambered to his feet and into the toilet before Sherlock could bring him a cup of tea. Much as he could use a cup, John wasn't sure he could hold one without it clattering in the saucer and that would reveal a bit more than he was willing to show, just now.
-fin