Practical Angora Goat Raising (John/Sherlock, R)
Title: Practical Angora Goat Raising
Rating: R (yes, I know!)
Word count: ~1,800. Again.
Pairings/Characters: John/Sherlock
Warnings: Don't read if you don't believe asexuality exists.
Summary: John loves sex. Sherlock doesn't.
Notes: The title is from a book on, you've guessed it, the raising of (possibly practical) angora goats; an undertaking I imagine to be as harrowing and demanding as trying to maintain a relationship with Sherlock Holmes. The book was published in 1905 and is available on The Project Gutenberg, so if you're interesting in reading it you can find it here. I heartily recommend it, if only for the picture of the prize winners at the St. Louis World's Fair, 1904. Also, many thanks to mirasol for Brit-picking and beta.
P.S. houseinrlyeh: hah! *g*
~~~
1.
John loved sex.
He loved everything about it: the sweat, the smell, the way it felt to kiss someone until his lips were hot and swollen. He loved the orgasms, and to run his hands over flushed skin, and to watch goosebumps rise in the wake of his fingertips. He loved to make his partner twitch and tremble, moan and sigh, and watching someone's eyes slip shut and their hips rise to meet his own was just about the giddiest rush in the world.
So yes, John loved sex, and he threw himself into it with abandon.
Which made it all the worse that he couldn't have any.
~~~
2.
"The simplest solution seems to be to obtain your sexual gratification elsewhere," Sherlock said. It was the first thing he'd said in four hours, so it took John a moment to get it.
"I'm not cheating," he said.
"It's not cheating if you have permission," Sherlock pointed out.
"No," said John.
Sherlock made a dissatisfied noise and turned away. John went back to answering comments on his blog.
Permission didn't change anything.
~~~
3.
They'd turned the telly to face the sofa and were making their way through the first series of Columbo, which Sherlock seemed to find endearing for some reason. John was only half-watching, keeping one eye on Columbo's antics and the other on the comment war he was having with Harry over which was better, Marmite or Vegemite. Sherlock appeared to be as absorbed in the goings-on on screen as he ever got, fidgeting and shaking his head and occasionally shouting at Peter Falk to look at the facts, the facts, idiot, couldn't he see that the victim's brother had entirely the wrong shoe size?
He threw up his hands when Falk failed to take his advice - just like the last dozen times - and his arm brushed John's, warm and solid and surprisingly muscular.
And just like that, John was hard.
He tried to ignore it. When that didn't work - because now that he'd noticed how close Sherlock was sitting to him, he couldn't unnotice - he tried to adjust himself to relieve a bit of the pressure. He shifted, then shifted again, keeping his movements as casual as possible.
Of course, there was no such thing as subterfuge when in the presence of Sherlock Holmes.
"John." Sherlock sounded exasperated, and perhaps a little worried, although the latter had to be in John's imagination.
"I don't want to talk about it," he said. After a moment, Sherlock turned his attention back to the brother's shoes, and John tried to sit still.
He didn't entirely manage, but Sherlock didn't comment on it again.
~~~
4.
He jerked off. Of course he jerked off; he'd go out of his mind if he didn't get some relief, but it just wasn't the same, dammit.
He wondered if Sherlock ever got this frustrated. Then he remembered the expression on Sherlock's face whenever the police - and John - couldn't follow his deductions, and felt slightly vindicated.
~~~
5.
Sarah had moved on to Paediatrics shortly after that thing between them had fizzled out, though John didn't think that one had anything to do with the other. He met her in the hall sometimes, both of them nodding and smiling and perhaps exchanging a few words about the state of her private life or the last time John had almost died while following Sherlock on a case. He went to her if he couldn't patch himself up, and if they had a bit of free time, they'd go out and have lunch together.
"You look tense, John," she told him over salad and crisp white bread. John, who was tired and not really hungry and sort of remembering how good her breasts had felt in his hands, took his time chewing on a particularly crunchy leaf and following it down with a long sip of water.
"It's fine," he said, trying to mean it, "I'm fine."
If he kept repeating that, it might even come true. Maybe.
~~~
6.
Phone sex ads were beginning to look appealing. God help him.
~~~
7.
John was sitting in his armchair reading the paper when Sherlock came up behind him and put his hand on John's crotch. John jumped.
"Sherlock! What -"
"Be quiet," Sherlock said firmly, "unless you have something original to say." He unzipped John's jeans, and John's capacity for originality fled at the first touch of cool fingers on his prick.
Sherlock jerked him off quickly, efficiently, and John let his head fall back against the headrest and spread his legs and tried not to come right away. It was still over embarrassingly fast - John hadn't been touched in far too long, and that it was Sherlock doing the touching made him come all the harder - and John was left red-faced and panting, feeling equal parts guilty and relieved, grateful and mortified.
Sherlock wiped his fingers on a white handkerchief and said briskly, "There. Now stop moping, it's distracting."
He wasn't even breathing hard. John tucked himself away, smoothed out the crumpled paper, and did his best not to wonder why he was with Sherlock in the first place.
~~~~
8.
He imagined Sherlock that night, flushed and out of breath like he was after a chase, begging John to touch him, and John came so hard he was dizzy afterwards.
Restraint. He had to get some. Desperately.
~~~
9.
Housekeeper or no, Mrs. Hudson made a mean tea. They were watching Bargain Hunt - John seemed to be spending all his free time on crime scenes or in front of the telly these days - and exchanging comments about how the overpriced ceramic swan was really quite ugly when Mrs. Hudson put down her cup and said, "You look tense, dear."
Dear god, why was everyone so preoccupied with his sex life?
"I'm fine," he said tersely.
"Are you sure? You look -"
"It's bloody fine!" he yelled. "Will you stop pestering me!" Almost immediately, he added, "Oh god, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to snap at you."
"That's alright, dear," she said, patting his arm, "my husband had a temper, too. Maybe you should take up yoga."
John blinked at her. "Your husband did yoga?" He hadn't expected a man committing multiple murders to be the type for yoga.
"No," Mrs. Hudson said with a significant look.
Alright, this was not a conversation John wanted to have.
"I'll look it up," he said, took his tea and a handful of biscuits, and commenced a strategic retreat to his room.
"John!" Sherlock called when John passed the living room door, but John wasn't in the mood for mental acrobatics.
"Busy!" he called back, and went on to do what any reasonable man in his situation would have done.
He sulked.
~~~
10.
Sherlock gave him two days, which was about 48 hours more than John had thought he'd get.
"Show me," he said, barging into John's room as if there were no such thing as privacy.
John carefully closed his laptop and set it aside. "Show you what?" he asked.
"For yourself," Sherlock said, in the tone of someone who'd just asked for a little more milk in his tea. He sat on the slim chair next to John's bed, crossed his legs, and steepled his fingers beneath his chin. "Show me what you do."
John stared at him. Then he got up, undressed, and lay back down, because that was easier than to ask why. He hesitated before he put his hand on his prick. It was soft and he stroked it slowly, wondering if he'd be able to get it up. He wasn't self-conscious about being naked, but that didn't make him an exhibitionist.
Then Sherlock leaned forward, looking at John like he might at a particularly interesting puzzle, and alright, yes, that worked.
That worked very, very well.
His erection grew as he pulled and squeezed, trying not to wonder when his life had become so surreal. He knew the answer, anyway. Sherlock was watching him, as if each and every one of John's movements was a vital clue; as if the way John played with his foreskin told Sherlock everything he needed to know. The idea sent another shiver down John's spine.
His legs spread on their own accord, and he reached down to rub his thumb over his balls. He kept his touch light, but sweat was breaking out all over his body.
"Interesting," Sherlock said, his voice cool and detached. John gasped at the sound, stroking harder, adding more pressure, and it felt good, so good, better than anything in a long time. Sherlock wasn't even touching him - no kissing; god, his mind would probably implode if they ever kissed - but he was looking, dissecting, learning, and John's eyes fluttered shut, the pleasure growing almost unbearable but he could hold out, he could, just a little longer, just a little -
"John," Sherlock said, and it was his undoing.
John came with a shout, something he hadn't done in years, and curled up on his side, panting for air, one hand cupping his softening member with dripping fingers.
"Hmm," Sherlock said, still in that same relaxed pose.
"Did that do anything for you?" John asked. He tried not to sound breathless, but Sherlock's mouth twitched anyway.
"Not in a physical sense."
John fought down a wave of disappointment. He'd thought this was great - or, well, as great as sex without any actual sex was likely to get - and to know that Sherlock was just as disinterested as always was rather a low blow.
Sherlock tipped his fingers against his lips. "Do you always add a twist to your strokes when you are close to coming?"
"What?" John frowned. He'd never paid particular attention to what he was doing; he just tried to get off. "I don't know."
Sherlock hummed. "A long-term observation then. To collect more data." He didn't exactly sound displeased at the prospect.
John had never loved him more.
"Brilliant," he said, and didn't mind the smugness in Sherlock's smile.
~~~
11.
"Look at you. Don't you look cheerful," Donovan said as she raised the tape to let Sherlock and John pass.
"Yes," John said with a nod. He thought of whistling, but that might be a bit much at a crime scene.
Sherlock threw him an amused glance, like he knew exactly what was going on in John's head, and John grinned.
~~~
12.
Life wasn't perfect. But it was good.
~~~
Rating: R (yes, I know!)
Word count: ~1,800. Again.
Pairings/Characters: John/Sherlock
Warnings: Don't read if you don't believe asexuality exists.
Summary: John loves sex. Sherlock doesn't.
Notes: The title is from a book on, you've guessed it, the raising of (possibly practical) angora goats; an undertaking I imagine to be as harrowing and demanding as trying to maintain a relationship with Sherlock Holmes. The book was published in 1905 and is available on The Project Gutenberg, so if you're interesting in reading it you can find it here. I heartily recommend it, if only for the picture of the prize winners at the St. Louis World's Fair, 1904. Also, many thanks to mirasol for Brit-picking and beta.
P.S. houseinrlyeh: hah! *g*
~~~
1.
John loved sex.
He loved everything about it: the sweat, the smell, the way it felt to kiss someone until his lips were hot and swollen. He loved the orgasms, and to run his hands over flushed skin, and to watch goosebumps rise in the wake of his fingertips. He loved to make his partner twitch and tremble, moan and sigh, and watching someone's eyes slip shut and their hips rise to meet his own was just about the giddiest rush in the world.
So yes, John loved sex, and he threw himself into it with abandon.
Which made it all the worse that he couldn't have any.
~~~
2.
"The simplest solution seems to be to obtain your sexual gratification elsewhere," Sherlock said. It was the first thing he'd said in four hours, so it took John a moment to get it.
"I'm not cheating," he said.
"It's not cheating if you have permission," Sherlock pointed out.
"No," said John.
Sherlock made a dissatisfied noise and turned away. John went back to answering comments on his blog.
Permission didn't change anything.
~~~
3.
They'd turned the telly to face the sofa and were making their way through the first series of Columbo, which Sherlock seemed to find endearing for some reason. John was only half-watching, keeping one eye on Columbo's antics and the other on the comment war he was having with Harry over which was better, Marmite or Vegemite. Sherlock appeared to be as absorbed in the goings-on on screen as he ever got, fidgeting and shaking his head and occasionally shouting at Peter Falk to look at the facts, the facts, idiot, couldn't he see that the victim's brother had entirely the wrong shoe size?
He threw up his hands when Falk failed to take his advice - just like the last dozen times - and his arm brushed John's, warm and solid and surprisingly muscular.
And just like that, John was hard.
He tried to ignore it. When that didn't work - because now that he'd noticed how close Sherlock was sitting to him, he couldn't unnotice - he tried to adjust himself to relieve a bit of the pressure. He shifted, then shifted again, keeping his movements as casual as possible.
Of course, there was no such thing as subterfuge when in the presence of Sherlock Holmes.
"John." Sherlock sounded exasperated, and perhaps a little worried, although the latter had to be in John's imagination.
"I don't want to talk about it," he said. After a moment, Sherlock turned his attention back to the brother's shoes, and John tried to sit still.
He didn't entirely manage, but Sherlock didn't comment on it again.
~~~
4.
He jerked off. Of course he jerked off; he'd go out of his mind if he didn't get some relief, but it just wasn't the same, dammit.
He wondered if Sherlock ever got this frustrated. Then he remembered the expression on Sherlock's face whenever the police - and John - couldn't follow his deductions, and felt slightly vindicated.
~~~
5.
Sarah had moved on to Paediatrics shortly after that thing between them had fizzled out, though John didn't think that one had anything to do with the other. He met her in the hall sometimes, both of them nodding and smiling and perhaps exchanging a few words about the state of her private life or the last time John had almost died while following Sherlock on a case. He went to her if he couldn't patch himself up, and if they had a bit of free time, they'd go out and have lunch together.
"You look tense, John," she told him over salad and crisp white bread. John, who was tired and not really hungry and sort of remembering how good her breasts had felt in his hands, took his time chewing on a particularly crunchy leaf and following it down with a long sip of water.
"It's fine," he said, trying to mean it, "I'm fine."
If he kept repeating that, it might even come true. Maybe.
~~~
6.
Phone sex ads were beginning to look appealing. God help him.
~~~
7.
John was sitting in his armchair reading the paper when Sherlock came up behind him and put his hand on John's crotch. John jumped.
"Sherlock! What -"
"Be quiet," Sherlock said firmly, "unless you have something original to say." He unzipped John's jeans, and John's capacity for originality fled at the first touch of cool fingers on his prick.
Sherlock jerked him off quickly, efficiently, and John let his head fall back against the headrest and spread his legs and tried not to come right away. It was still over embarrassingly fast - John hadn't been touched in far too long, and that it was Sherlock doing the touching made him come all the harder - and John was left red-faced and panting, feeling equal parts guilty and relieved, grateful and mortified.
Sherlock wiped his fingers on a white handkerchief and said briskly, "There. Now stop moping, it's distracting."
He wasn't even breathing hard. John tucked himself away, smoothed out the crumpled paper, and did his best not to wonder why he was with Sherlock in the first place.
~~~~
8.
He imagined Sherlock that night, flushed and out of breath like he was after a chase, begging John to touch him, and John came so hard he was dizzy afterwards.
Restraint. He had to get some. Desperately.
~~~
9.
Housekeeper or no, Mrs. Hudson made a mean tea. They were watching Bargain Hunt - John seemed to be spending all his free time on crime scenes or in front of the telly these days - and exchanging comments about how the overpriced ceramic swan was really quite ugly when Mrs. Hudson put down her cup and said, "You look tense, dear."
Dear god, why was everyone so preoccupied with his sex life?
"I'm fine," he said tersely.
"Are you sure? You look -"
"It's bloody fine!" he yelled. "Will you stop pestering me!" Almost immediately, he added, "Oh god, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to snap at you."
"That's alright, dear," she said, patting his arm, "my husband had a temper, too. Maybe you should take up yoga."
John blinked at her. "Your husband did yoga?" He hadn't expected a man committing multiple murders to be the type for yoga.
"No," Mrs. Hudson said with a significant look.
Alright, this was not a conversation John wanted to have.
"I'll look it up," he said, took his tea and a handful of biscuits, and commenced a strategic retreat to his room.
"John!" Sherlock called when John passed the living room door, but John wasn't in the mood for mental acrobatics.
"Busy!" he called back, and went on to do what any reasonable man in his situation would have done.
He sulked.
~~~
10.
Sherlock gave him two days, which was about 48 hours more than John had thought he'd get.
"Show me," he said, barging into John's room as if there were no such thing as privacy.
John carefully closed his laptop and set it aside. "Show you what?" he asked.
"For yourself," Sherlock said, in the tone of someone who'd just asked for a little more milk in his tea. He sat on the slim chair next to John's bed, crossed his legs, and steepled his fingers beneath his chin. "Show me what you do."
John stared at him. Then he got up, undressed, and lay back down, because that was easier than to ask why. He hesitated before he put his hand on his prick. It was soft and he stroked it slowly, wondering if he'd be able to get it up. He wasn't self-conscious about being naked, but that didn't make him an exhibitionist.
Then Sherlock leaned forward, looking at John like he might at a particularly interesting puzzle, and alright, yes, that worked.
That worked very, very well.
His erection grew as he pulled and squeezed, trying not to wonder when his life had become so surreal. He knew the answer, anyway. Sherlock was watching him, as if each and every one of John's movements was a vital clue; as if the way John played with his foreskin told Sherlock everything he needed to know. The idea sent another shiver down John's spine.
His legs spread on their own accord, and he reached down to rub his thumb over his balls. He kept his touch light, but sweat was breaking out all over his body.
"Interesting," Sherlock said, his voice cool and detached. John gasped at the sound, stroking harder, adding more pressure, and it felt good, so good, better than anything in a long time. Sherlock wasn't even touching him - no kissing; god, his mind would probably implode if they ever kissed - but he was looking, dissecting, learning, and John's eyes fluttered shut, the pleasure growing almost unbearable but he could hold out, he could, just a little longer, just a little -
"John," Sherlock said, and it was his undoing.
John came with a shout, something he hadn't done in years, and curled up on his side, panting for air, one hand cupping his softening member with dripping fingers.
"Hmm," Sherlock said, still in that same relaxed pose.
"Did that do anything for you?" John asked. He tried not to sound breathless, but Sherlock's mouth twitched anyway.
"Not in a physical sense."
John fought down a wave of disappointment. He'd thought this was great - or, well, as great as sex without any actual sex was likely to get - and to know that Sherlock was just as disinterested as always was rather a low blow.
Sherlock tipped his fingers against his lips. "Do you always add a twist to your strokes when you are close to coming?"
"What?" John frowned. He'd never paid particular attention to what he was doing; he just tried to get off. "I don't know."
Sherlock hummed. "A long-term observation then. To collect more data." He didn't exactly sound displeased at the prospect.
John had never loved him more.
"Brilliant," he said, and didn't mind the smugness in Sherlock's smile.
~~~
11.
"Look at you. Don't you look cheerful," Donovan said as she raised the tape to let Sherlock and John pass.
"Yes," John said with a nod. He thought of whistling, but that might be a bit much at a crime scene.
Sherlock threw him an amused glance, like he knew exactly what was going on in John's head, and John grinned.
~~~
12.
Life wasn't perfect. But it was good.
~~~