Fic: Stolen Moments Sherlock/John

[velvet_mace]

Title: Stolen Moments
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Non-con, Hypnosis.
Summary: Sherlock has become obsessed with his flatmate. Hypnotizing John to let Sherlock do what he likes seems the logical solution. Written for this Prompt.
Word Count: 15,000


Sherlock had become obsessed with his new flatmate.

More specifically he was obsessed with John's skin. It was naturally fair, prone to showing rather than hiding its past, like a parchment full of secrets to be decoded. A small faded scar on the forehead told of childhood trauma. The freckling cross the back of the hand said that sun had once beat mercilessly on him for days. The uneven nails and the dry skin around his nose signaled that he had little vanity and didn't spend much thought on how others perceived him. Uneven stubble meant his razor was dull - a forced frugality.

There was more, much more, hidden away under his clothes and it absolutely maddened Sherlock not to be able to read it.

"Sherlock?" asked John as they sat eating excellent Chinese in a restaurant with an awfully unappetizing name.

"Yes?" He realized he'd been staring.

"Did you want something?"

I want you to take off your clothes from the waist up so I can see if you favored short-sleeves in Afghanistan. My theory is you didn't.

Sherlock blinked then moved his eyes away. "Your mobile."

"Ah, thought so."

John was a very modest man, wearing long sleeves (admittedly appropriate for the weather, which was terribly cold this year) night and day, and usually in layers. The damp chill of London's air seemed to bother him, making him stand with his arms held in, shoulders hunched, even in the relative warmth of the flat. His collars were always buttoned, though he didn't wear ties. He favored wearing pajamas and socks to bed. Even going to and from the shower, John always managed to be fully dressed. It was rare to see more than the briefest glimpse of flesh above the wrist or below the midpoint of his neck.

Sherlock found himself hunting for those glimpses, as if it were some competition. But John, even though completely ignorant of the game, refused to cede any points.

On the fourth day of living together, while shrugging his way out of a jumper, John had allowed his shirt to ride up in the back. For three seconds, he'd exposed a pale crescent of flesh around his middle.

Sherlock's eyes had eagerly latched on and drank it in. Ah and there, a scar, like the curl of a thumbnail on his back. Something had been removed - a cancerous mole? No, one of those oily cysts that grew harmlessly like marbles under the skin. It had become infected at some point. Not a spot John could see himself, he'd have had a fellow doctor remove it.

Sherlock tried to imagine the other doctor's gloved hands on John's skin, cutting the flesh with a scalpel…. For some reason it made him angry.

"Sherlock?" said John, staring as he shrugged his shirt down and covered himself up. "What?"

"Hmm?" Sherlock broke free of his thoughts. "Yes. We've got a cat-torturer in North London. Gregson asked me to look into it as a personal favor. His sister runs the animal shelter and is very upset. Abusing animals is often the first steps on the path to becoming a serial killer. We should go."

John sighed. "Well you could have told me that before I took off the jumper." He turned the massive woolen thing right-side-out and put it back on again. "Okay. I'm ready."

After interviewing the neighbors on the street, Sherlock found the likely culprit - an eleven year old with dead looking eyes whose younger sister shied away from him. The child's mother was a bit of a psychopath herself, Sherlock realized as he scanned her over. Though outwardly dowdy and plump, there was nothing cuddly or comfortable about her. She was adept at putting on a false smile, like she did when she met Sherlock at the door, but once he'd begun questioning about the cat, the smile went off and he could see that her face was far more accustomed to coldness than warmth.

"May I see the child's mobile," Sherlock asked.

"Not without a warrant," snapped the woman. "Get off my property." Then glancing past his shoulder, fury erupted behind her eyes. "Oi! Get away from my child! Don't you touch her, you pedophile!"

Sherlock looked and his eyes froze. John was talking to a little girl sitting on the curb. In kneeling in front of her, John's pant leg had ridden up his shin. His dark sock was slouched around his ankle revealing a good two inches of flesh Sherlock had never seen before. He let out a sigh of disappointment as John stood up at the woman's outburst and the pant leg dropped back down into place.

"Let's go, John," said Sherlock. "I have all the information I need."

As they left, he couldn't resist the notion, under the guise of speaking quietly in John's ear, to peer down his collar at the back of his neck. "Text Gregson for me please: Say that he needs a warrant for the mobile and the house. Mother aware of child's activities. Both children subject to regular abuse and should be seen by a doctor."

John jumped a little at the closeness. "That was what I was going to tell you. I think the daughter has been hit - her bruises aren't right for playground injuries."

"Queer!" And something smacked John's arm.

They both turned around to see the dead-eyed boy with another rock in his hand. "You are going to burn in hell," the boy said.

"You don't believe in hell," said Sherlock, dismissively. "If you did you wouldn't have hurt the cat. Tell me why did the it survive? Did you lose your nerve, or were you interrupted?"

Just then John, still wincing, unbuttoned his sleeve and pushed it up to inspect his forearm. Sherlock's attention was completely stolen. (less freckles, long sleeves not a fluke.)

The second stone hit him squarely in the chest. Sherlock winced and coughed.

John grabbed his arm and pulled him away. "Don't taunt the psychopathic child, Sherlock," John hissed as they found the relative shelter of the far side of a parked car.

A second later they heard sirens.

The police were able to confiscate the child's mobile, and sure enough there were pictures of the cat on it, in various stages of being injured. Two days later the boy and mother were in custody, the daughter placed with a relative of her father's.

Sherlock was left with two unmistakable conclusions. First, that last case was far too easy. Second, and more importantly, this obsession with John's skin had become an untenable distraction. There was nothing to be done about the first, sadly. But the latter had an obvious solution. The obsession would likely evaporate once he'd seen all John had to offer.

Ergo, all he had to do was get the man naked.

Unfortunately "obvious" was not synonymous with "simple."

Sherlock was quite certain that demanding John strip bare and present himself for inspection was far outside of the normal parameters of a flatmate relationship. Even asking politely would likely elicit an awkward laugh and then a very firm "no."

And yet, it was impossible for this teasing to continue. And teasing it was. It wasn't enough to see John's forearms when he washed dishes. Inspecting flecks of shed skin from John's pillow under a microscope had only fed the need to know more.

His obsession was moving beyond visual at this point. He wanted to be able to feel the skin, know it's many varied textures. He wanted to smell it, washed, unwashed, how the small of the back differed from the hollow of the chest. He wanted to taste it.

Sherlock was certain that even if he could convince John to shed his clothes, the man would draw the line before letting himself be licked.

"Do I want to ask why you are smelling my dirty laundry?" John asked.

Sherlock, caught with his face buried in cotton-poly blend, thought fast. "You dragged your sleeve along the counter at Mrs. Gossling's house. I needed to refresh myself on what cleaner she used."

John looked at the shirt. "Is it important?"

"Yes. Because it is the same brand that was used to clean apartment where the ring was stolen. The normal cleaning lady uses a quite different brand. It's now quite obvious that Mrs. Gossling was lying. She did agree to cover for her colleague, but while she was there she found something too tempting to pass up, and then left her friend out to hang for the theft thinking it would be her word against the other woman's."

This was all true, but he hadn't needed to smell John's clothes to figure it out.

"Not very friendly of her," remarked John.

"Opportunists seldom are." Sherlock reluctantly dropped the shirt back into the hamper. "This case isn't nearly distracting enough. Why are so many criminals stupid?"

"I wouldn't know." John thought. "Perhaps because the smart ones know how to get what they want within the law."

And that was the problem, Sherlock decided. That he couldn't think of how he could get what he wanted within the law.

"Within the law" boiled down one way or another to seduction. As painful as it was to admit, Sherlock's own ability seduce was largely haphazard, reliant either on putting on a false face, or the other being so overwhelmed by his physical appearance that they ignored his personality flaws. John knew him too well for him to alter his personality, and as of yet he hadn't shown any sign of an overwhelming physical attraction to Sherlock.

And should Sherlock succeed in the seduction, what then? John would almost certainly be expecting more than a through physical inspection. He'd want kissing. Intimate caresses. Exchanges of body fluids. He'd want romantic words and gestures. He'd want promises of fidelity. All the things that Sherlock didn't do. Full stop.

The flatmate relationship they both enjoyed would be ruined for the sake of sating curiosity. No. Not worth it.

Outside of the law, were a few more options. There were drugs that would render John unconscious and presumably none the wiser. Hidden cameras. Brute force. But each of those came with their consequences as well. John was getting more and more observant. As a doctor he'd recognize the effects of being drugged, he'd already been primed by Mycroft to look for hidden cameras, and as for force --.

No. Sherlock wasn't going to become a criminal for this.

There had to be a legitimate way. And soon. This obsession was like an itch.

The current case was blackmailer who specialized in taking paparazzi style photos and videos of men and women in flagrante delicto with people other than their spouses. Sherlock's initial urge was to turn down the case, after all, his client had dug her own grave. But she'd been adamant about her innocence, and Sherlock prided himself on being able to spot a liar.

Sure enough his investigations led to a glamour photographer whose specialty was in making homely housewives and snot nosed children into glittery airbrushed beauties. The software Sherlock was able to download from his computer was quite, quite interesting.

Here, at last, was the legitimate opportunity to get John's clothes off!

"It's for the case, please," said Sherlock, as he installed the camera on the highest shelf of John's bedroom. "Just do as you'd normally do when you are getting ready for bed. Undress, dress, I'll then digitize your image and use the program to -"

"Create your own porn with me as the star?" said John skeptically. "Like was done with the clients?"

"Yes," said Sherlock. "No. It doesn't have to be porn."

But it was too late. John had that expression on his face that came when he put his foot down on things.

"Can't you do it with my clothes on?" he asked. "I mean you can still manipulate my image to do all the things the photographer did."

"But it wouldn't be the same!" exclaimed Sherlock.

"What, because you wouldn't have naked pictures of me to show Lestrade?"

"I wouldn't show them to him."

"Then what would be the point of the demonstration? To prove to yourself? You already know that this is how the photographer did it."

Damn it. "Very well, clothes on."

John smiled happily and complied. And sure enough Sherlock was able to manipulate the image into a convincing image John dancing erotically on top of a moving car. John watched over his shoulder as he ran the clip and clicked his tongue. "Really, was all that bump and grind necessary?"

"Dressed, yes," said Sherlock, just a bit too bitterly. "It was the closest I could get to the flavor of the blackmail tapes, that still clearly showed that it was a manipulation."

"The flavor of the-" John laughed. "Oh god, never have I been happier that I didn't let you talk me out of my clothes."

Worse and worse.

The answer came in the form of a speeding black car. John, discombobulated from having been nearly run over, did little more than sit on the sidewalk and stare at its retreating fender. Sherlock had been unfortunately at the wrong angle to see the license.

"The plate," he said to John, lifting him up by the well padded elbow. "The numbers, did you see them."

"See them?" John stared wildly at him. "It was going 40 miles an hour!"

"It slowed momentarily after it passed you. You were looking in the correct direction. You were at the right angle. Surly you must have seen the plate."

"Yes, I saw the plate, but I didn't get the number." John brushed himself off. "And by the way, thank you for the concern about me nearly getting run down. I'm fine by the way. A few bruises, but otherwise perfect." He was in a snit, obviously. John had a tendency to be preoccupied with things that could have, but didn't, go wrong.

"I must have those numbers, John. It's the first solid clue we have. This will all be for nothing without them!"

Sherlock ran a hand through his hair. This was a tricky case. A stalker, but not one who had left incriminating letters under his own name. Instead he'd done everything in his power to disguise himself, using dummy emails and proxy servers. The surveillance style photos of the victim left no doubt that this person was close and dangerous.

John had reluctantly agreed to pose as the client's boyfriend. He'd done an admirable job at it. He and the client had stood, practically nose to nose outside the restaurant for a good five minutes, laughing and gazing into each others eyes, whispering in each other's ears, without a trace of awkwardness on either of their parts. The kiss outside her door hadn't been scripted, but it looked quite genuine.

It was good enough a show that Sherlock began to worry that John might be falling for the client, which just wasn't professional. Once her case was over, Sherlock would be heartily glad to see this particular woman go. She was… irritating.

Once he'd said good-bye to the client, John had then walked off to find a cab. Barely a minute later, a Volvo had screeched around the corner and Sherlock finally had his break.

"You know, I should be glad he didn't just shoot me," muttered John. "Ask your brother for CCTV footage, maybe he'll find a good frame with the license plate in it."

Sherlock held still, hand gripping John's shoulder. "That's it!"

"What, you are actually taking a suggestion from me?" John seemed surprised.

"Yes! Wait, no! You reminded me. Oh, why didn't I think of that before? My brother has a technique for hypnosis. If you'd be willing to submit to it, I could prize those numbers out of your mind. You stared long enough at that car, it shouldn't be a problem." He tapped John's head with a forefinger. "It's all in there."

"Hypnosis," said John scoffing. "Really?"

"Yes, John, it's a real thing. It requires a certain amount of willingness on the subject's part, which makes it rather problematic in the field, but the right pressure, the right words, and I can access parts of your brain that aren't readily available to your conscious mind."

John seemed to slump a little. "Okay, as long as you promise you won't make me cluck like a chicken."

"Why would I do that?" Sherlock was genuinely baffled.

"I don't know. Anyway, on with it."

"Not here," said Sherlock. "We need to call Mycroft. He's the one with the technique. This would better be done at home."

Mycroft was already sitting on the chair next to the window when they entered 221B. John didn't ask how he got in, but Sherlock could see the question poised on his lips, before he gave a little shake of his head. Sherlock, of course, knew how Mycroft got in. He had a key. Keeping Mycroft out was impossible and a key cut down on the damage to the doors.

"So," Mycroft said with a huge smile on his face. "You do realize this service comes with a price?"

"I figured as much," said Sherlock.

"Two jobs for me, no grumbles," said Mycroft. "I think that's reasonable."

Sherlock gritted his teeth. "Agreed. But on one condition. I'm the one hypnotizing John. You just show me what to do."

"Paranoia?" Mycroft tutted. "Afraid I'll turn him into a spy? Really, I have no urge to interfere with your friend. I think he's a rather good influence on you. It makes me happy to see you with a chum."

"Can we just do this," said John a bit tightly. "The man who tried to murder me is out there driving around right now. I'd rather not give him another opportunity to do something worse while you two bicker."

"Very well," said Mycroft. "Take off your shoes and lie down on the couch. Loosen what clothing might pinch or chafe or otherwise cause you discomfort." The shoes came off but to Sherlock's annoyance John didn't do anything about the rest of his clothes. Apparently he felt comfortable all bundled up.

John lay flat on his back staring at the ceiling for a second, then his eyes rolled over to look at them. "Okay."

"Relaxation is the key, John," said Mycroft. "Now I'm going to touch you and I don't want you to worry about it. It won't hurt. It will be just like a massage. Are you ready?"

"As I'll ever be," was John's tense reply.

Mycroft laughed. He strolled over to the head of the couch. His hands slipped under John's head. "Come close if you wish to view," he said to Sherlock. Sherlock crowded in. Mycroft turned John's head to the side. "The pressure points are at the back of the neck, right where the skull meets the spine. Roll your thumbs up and down and then -"

John let out a low moan and his eyes rolled into the back of his head. His body went limp.

Sherlock put a hand hastily over Mycroft's mouth. "John, do you hear me?"

"Yes," came the murmured reply.

"Who am I?"

"Sherlock." John smiled. His face had gone placid.

"You are hypnotized, John, in this state you will take orders from me - and only me. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"No one else, even if they put you in this state can order you, do you understand? You will ignore anything they say to you."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

"Yes."

Sherlock relaxed and dropped his hand. "Now remember earlier this evening. You were nearly struck by a car."

John's brow furrowed. "Yes." He sounded a little upset.

"Reassure him," whispered Mycroft. "He's totally open to you right now, you must be careful of his emotional state or it will have repercuss--." Sherlock pressed his hand over Mycroft's mouth again.

"Don't worry about the close call," said Sherlock as soothingly as he could. "You are safe."

"Okay," said John, placidly happy again.

"You sat on the curb after ducking away from the car. It slowed down. You read the license plate. What did you see?"

"Y-Two-fifty-three - N S E."

"Excellent, very good."

"Tell him to sleep for a little and wake up free of the hypnosis," said Mycroft. "I've discovered a gentle, natural awakening is less jarring and upsetting."

Sherlock did that. While John slept on the couch, Sherlock escorted Mycroft to the door.

"Always glad to be of service," murmured Mycroft. "And I will be seeing you shortly with the jobs. Remember, no complaints."

Sherlock glared. It pained him to be in Mycroft's debt like this. Two cases. "Choose wisely," he said. "It would be a shame to blow this opportunity on something dull and ordinary that your PA could solve in half an hour."

"Wouldn't think of it," said Mycroft, looking slightly wounded. "And you take care of him. I've handed you a very powerful tool. Do be judicious how you use it. There are consequences."

"Thank you for the assistance," said Sherlock firmly and closed the door on him.

While John took a post hypnotic nap, Sherlock put the case to bed. The license was registered to a rental company in North London, who had in turn rented it to the client's building manager. By the time John woke with a grunt and a stretch, Lestrade had the manager in custody and a computer filled with damning files in evidence.

"So it worked, did it," said John, yawning into the back of his hand.

"It did."

"No chicken clucking then?"

Sherlock raised a brow. "Don't you remember?" If John didn't remember, that opened interesting possibilities.

John put his hand to the back of his neck. "I remember Mycroft massaging me and then I woke up to see he's gone and you are treating yourself to a post case cuppa with that 'I've won' smile on your face. So, I deduced that it worked."

"You deduced correctly!" said Sherlock with a huge grin. He leapt to his feet and paced out the energy left over from the case. "Your would be murderer is being booked into Wandsworth as we speak. Lestrade will like your testimony tomorrow."

John nodded. He let go of his neck and stood up. "Well, glad I could help." He stifled a yawn.

"And, by the way, no," said Sherlock, reassuringly, "There was no clucking like a chicken, Mycroft will vouch."

John's response was a louder yawn.

"-- And you are still tired. It's past midnight, John, you might as well go to bed for the night, unless you are still upset about being run down earlier."

John looked off into the middle distance. His face squinched with bemusement. "Actually, no. It's a funny thing. I don't seem to be bothered by it at all anymore." He smiled. "Well, as you said, no point in dwelling on what didn't happen. Goodnight."

Sherlock watched his well clothed back as he wandered down the hall to the stairs, and suddenly clenched his hands and bit back the urge to groan.

Sherlock paced. There were so many reasons not to do this. The biggest of which was the very real chance that he'd do it wrong and be caught. On the other hand, if he didn't do something soon, he was going to do something really stupidly undignified, like launch himself at John and simply tear his clothes off.

John wouldn't approve. It would be a violation of his trust. If he wanted to keep his modesty that badly, then Sherlock should respect it.

On the other hand, what harm was there in simply showing Sherlock what he needed to see? John was always so accommodating in other areas. After all the man had bared his mind with little more that a mild protest. Physical modesty seemed positively trivial compared to that.

And yet the one time Sherlock had asked, John had balked. There was no reason to think he wouldn't balk again.

One thing for certain, this whole situation was ridiculous and unsustainable. It was far too distracting in all the wrong ways. It was a wonder that Sherlock could function at all with the way John was teasing and tempting him. No. It had to end. Tonight. He had the means at his disposal. He was clever enough to think of an excuse should it go wrong. John was already deeply asleep, he wouldn't even remember.

Sherlock snapped. Removing his shoes he took the stairs to John's room, carefully avoiding the creaky sixth step. The door was unlocked. It opened quietly enough. The street lamps cast a dim light around the tidy attic room. John lay, twisted in his bedding, covered from neck to wrist in soft cotton pajamas Sherlock stalked silently to the head of the bed then leaned over.

Without warning he lifted John's head and ran his thumbs down the back of his neck the way Mycroft had demonstrated. He was overwhelmed by a number of sensations. The first was that John's head was much heavier than it appeared. After adjusting for that, he was able to let the other details slip in. John's hair was soft and his skin pleasantly warm to the touch. Very different from the corpses he'd touched. And there was a definite pleasurable thrill to this that was not dissimilar to a new case. It ran like an electric tingle down his spine.

Almost immediately, he felt the sudden stiffening of John's body that signaled wakefulness. Sherlock concentrated on finding just the right touch, Mycroft made it seem so easy.

"Wha-- Sher-" John tried to lift his head and sit up, but just at that moment Sherlock found the right spot and the right pressure. John collapsed back to the bed and made that characteristic back of the throat moan.

Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief. Easy after all. "Do you know who I am?" he whispered, his voice tense with excitement.

"Sherlock," said John in a slow, drowsy tone.

"Obey my orders. Lie still, I'm going to turn on the light." John did nothing. Carefully, Sherlock set his head back on the pillow and edged away to switch near the door. Part of Sherlock waited for John to make some move, but he seemed to be as hypnotized as he'd been before.

The light was dazzling. Sherlock went and turned on the light and blinked as his overwhelmed eyes saw purple. When he looked back at his subject, John was lying as he had been before, his eyes closed, though Sherlock could see a slight bit of tightening in the lids.

"John, please stand up." Sherlock felt himself shiver and attributed it to nerves.

John rolled himself out of bed, much the way he did normally. His eyes were still shut but that was the only concession he seemed to make for being hypnotized.

Sherlock tensed and sucked in a breath. This was it. The point of no return. Not clucking like a chicken, but not any better really. "Remove your shirt for me, John," he said softly.

This was where John would open his eyes and say "jokes up." Or perhaps "What are you doing?" But he didn't do either. Placidly, his fingers rose to work the buttons on his pajamas, undoing the first few, then pulling the whole thing over his head, the way he must take them off every morning.

And there it was: positively acres of skin that John had been denying him for weeks. A cornucopia of information. Trembling with excitement Sherlock went to work, standing close by, his fingertips hovering over the skin.

The bullet wound first. He'd known about it for as long as he'd known John, but he'd never seen it. Never known it. 9 millimeter from the size of the injury, it had entered to the side of his armpit, bypassing his body armor and had nicked the lung before lodging in his scapula. Lung would have probably collapsed, filled with blood. Pneumothorax possible. Sherlock ran his thumb over the wound. The scar was a lumpy crimson knot. John grunted slightly as though the pressure was uncomfortable.

Sherlock jolted a bit at the sound. "I won't do anything to you, you understand, I just needed to see what you felt you had to hide from me," he explained. The frown on John's face smoothed. "You never needed to hide from me, you know. You never need to hide anything at all."

Guilt wiggled like an irritation in his chest. "It's okay for now. Put on your shirt and go back to sleep. I've seen enough for tonight."

John put on his shirt and crawled back into bed without a word.

The next morning John emerged from the shower with nothing but a towel around his waist. Sherlock stopped in his tracks and John, noticing his response stared back at him, then looked down, then back up with an expression that dared him to make a cutting remark. Sherlock said nothing. He simply absorbed. All the injuries were there, for his perusal in bright light of morning. The faint tan marks, almost all gone now. The cuts, the moles, the bruises from where he'd hit the pavement. All free for his inspection. Sherlock drank them in, eagerly.

"What?" John said at last, looking like his patience was wearing thin. "You act like you've never seen me before."

"You are normally quite modest," said Sherlock.

"Yeah," said John. "Well, do I really need to be around you? You've already deduced me down to the pound, and as for the bruises, you were there when I got them. However, if you're offended I'll make the effort. But really, after all we've been through, there didn't seem to be a point in it."

He doesn't remember, thought Sherlock, torn between relief and guilt. Mycroft had warned him that there would be consequences. Apparently this new less modest John was one of them.

And that was a good thing, Sherlock decided.

"Of course, there's no point in it," said Sherlock with scarcely a pause. "You can prance around naked, if you wish." It would give him the opportunity to see the rest of him.

But John just laughed. "And then scandalize Mrs. Hudson next time she brings up some biscuits? Oh god. What a picture."

And with that he turned and headed up the stairs. A few minutes later he was as covered up as normal, but Sherlock had already made inventory of his calves and feet, and was for the moment quite satisfied.

It was inevitable that John would get a job. He'd been itching to find one since they'd moved in. His fiscal jitters had grown worse with each passing week, even though Sherlock had happily shared the fees he'd collected from his clients. John's pension barely covered rent and left nothing for the thousand other little necessities in life. A cab ride here, a new umbrella there. A coffee. Plastic containers to keep Sherlock's experiments separate from the perishables.

It hadn't helped that the last three clients were too poor to give more than a token payment for his services and the Yard never paid at all. Sherlock didn't much care. He dipped into his trust fund when times were lean, and saved when times were fat. But John didn't come from money. For the better part of two months, he'd sucked it up and let his meager savings slowly dwindle, but he'd come to the point where he simply couldn't do it anymore.

The crisis came to a head when the last of John's savings gave out, embarrassingly enough at Tesco. To Sherlock, the solution was a blindingly simple one: John could use his bank account until such time as he found solvency again. But for John, taking charity was an affront to his masculinity.

The next day, he had a job. Just like that.

Sherlock had always suspected that John's lack of work had more to do with his motivation to find a job than his ability to land it. Perhaps he was expecting Sherlock to keep him employed, not understanding that Sherlock had no control over when the jobs came or in what form.

Sherlock reluctantly accepted the new job, but what he didn't expect was that John would further complicate his life with Sarah Sawyer. That was simply taking things too far.

As hard as it was giving up John to his profession, having to compete for his free time as well - and in the middle of a truly juicy job - unacceptable!

There was no practical reason for the girlfriend. She took up John's time and gave nothing in return. She doubtless expected John to pay for entertainments and meals that he couldn't afford. She was an interference.

"You see her all day at work, why on earth would you want to waste your time with her now. We have a case!"

John glared at him. "You know if I didn't know better, I'd say you were jealous."

Sherlock, mortally affronted, glared back. "To be jealous would mean that I considered her to be in some way a threat, which couldn't be farther from the case. She cannot possibly provide you with anything remotely like the stimulation I do. She certainly doesn't need your help as much as I do. What can you possibly get from her that you wouldn't from me?"

"Well she can certainly provide me one kind of stimulation you can't," said John.

"Oh, bah," sneered Sherlock, throwing his hands in the air. "Is your libido really so rampant that you'd exchange an exciting case with people's lives at stake for an evening of vapid entertainment and even duller conversation? All for possible promise of an orgasm, which you're more than capable of providing yourself?"

"Not all of us are married to our work," said John, in that patient, doctorly tone that all but dripped condescension. He then readied himself for his date.

It'll blow over, Sherlock consoled himself.

It didn't.

On top of being inconvenient, unwanted, and utterly irrelevant to Sherlock's life, Sarah turned out to be remarkably tenacious. She affably accepted his presence on her date. She coped with the circus suddenly turning into a brawl. She even, god help her, was helpful with the case. And at the end of the night, after giving her statement to Lestrade, she'd kissed John's cheek and thanked him for saving her life.

"Is she possibly insane?" Sherlock asked after John smilingly informed him of their impending second date. "You'd think after all that, she'd have second thoughts."

John sighed. "Well, luckily for her, this time I plan an evening of, what did you term it, 'vapid entertainment and duller conversation.'" He grabbed his coat. "And you are not invited. Don't wait up." He left, then turned at the door at ducked his head back in. "Oh and Sherlock, should you get called on a case…"

"Yes?" Sherlock asked, feeling a leap of hope.

"I'm busy."

Well that was just being snide. John had no call to be so huffy about the matter. It hadn't been his idea to involve Sarah on their last case at all.

Sherlock watched him through the window until he rounded a corner and then sat heavily down, considering the problem. He'd come to depend on John. And John depended on him as well. Neither of them needed Sarah, but there she was between them, and there was nothing that Sherlock could say that would prevent it.

He'd grow bored of Sarah, Sherlock was certain of it. Day in, day out, the same mindless, pointless drivel. It would all end badly. John needed to get his priorities straight.

When John came home reeking of strawberry scented soap, Sherlock pretended to ignore him.

"Oh, for god's sake," John said, irritably after a moment. "Sometimes you are like a child, Sherlock."

"I'm busy, don't bother me," Sherlock replied, keeping his face pointedly in a different direction.

John hesitated only a moment longer. "Well, I won't interrupt your wall staring contest. I'm off to bed, and by the way, it was an absolutely smashing second date." He didn't bother to disguise his smugness.

That last bit was just cruel. Sherlock flashed him an angry look before he could stop himself, but then went determinedly back to ignoring him. He heard John's feet tromping heavily up the stairs and then the various groans and creeks and he went through his normal bedroom routine.

Patience. Sherlock waited.

Half an hour. Too soon.

An hour. Possibly, better hold off a bit longer.

It wasn't fair that Sarah had seen more of John than Sherlock himself. She'd known him less than two weeks and already he'd doffed his clothes for her. It had taken Sherlock months and hypnosis to reach that point. Was sex really that important?

Two hours. That should be enough.

Sherlock crept up the stairs, let the door swing open on it's well oiled hinges, and sure enough, John's room was dark and he could hear the slow sounds of his breathing. This time John woke enough to cry out before Sherlock found the right spots. He breathed a sigh of relief as the man went heavy and limp again.

"Do you know who I am?" He asked.

"Sherlock," said John.

"Yes, I'm your friend. You're best friend."

John smiled. "Yes. Best friend."

"As your best friend, I'm your priority," said Sherlock. "Dating is second. You will come when I need you, won't you?"

"You always come first," agreed John.

"You won't let Sarah come between us."

"No," said John frowning a little. "I would never."

"I need you John. That's the only reason why I'm doing this. I really need you."

"I know," said John. "You're so lonely."

Sherlock held John's head in his hands and thought. He'd said really all he needed to say, but yet it wore on him that Sarah had been privileged to something he was not. It was jealousy, but not completely. It was rational that Sherlock defend his relationship against attack.

"Don't have sex with Sarah again," Sherlock knew he was being petty, but having said it, he felt much better. Without sex, Sarah had nothing to offer John and he'd soon give her up. Then everything would be back to normal again.

John's smile slipped away. "Okay."

"Sleep and forget that I visited you in your room tonight."

John fell back asleep.

John's relationship with Sarah went nowhere. Though Sherlock never inquired, the look of frustration on his face after the next two dates made it obvious that his bit of petty vengeance had hit home. After the third date he'd trudged straight to the shower. Sherlock waited patiently outside.

When John emerged in nothing but his towel and a deep glower.

"Was the wank unsatisfying?" Sherlock asked.

"Putting aside that question being ever so much not your business," grumbled John, "I just returned from a date with Sarah, why would I need to wank?"

"If you'd had sex, you would have showered at her place. Dinner and a movie is not enough on it's own to warrant a third shower for the day. Therefore you were using the sound of the shower to mask masturbation, possibly in an attempt to hide the fact that your date was less than successful to me." Sherlock gazed nonchalantly at his fingers. "Though I don't know why you should try to hide such a thing."

"Perhaps because I find it embarrassing?" John said. "Ever considered that."

Sherlock softened his expression. "I never meant to embarrass you."

"And yet you do," John accused. Sherlock felt suddenly guilty.

"Sorry," said John, with genuine contriteness. "It's not your problem, it's mine. Thing is, I've never had this problem before. You might not know it to look at me, but I've had a pretty darned good track record when it comes with women. And I find Sarah lovely. So why can't I … all of a sudden… Why doesn't she do it for me?"

Sherlock weighed several answers before going with the one he felt was most honest. "Perhaps you realize that she's a distraction from better pursuits."

John's glare was back. "What, following you around like some pathetic puppy? That's the only thing else I do." John waited a second and when Sherlock didn't respond, he went on: "For some of us, sex is important. Romance is important. Marriage… would be nice. So am I supposed to be satisfied with a wank in the shower and a life of devotion to a flatmate who ignores me for days on end? I'm not a monk, and you aren't my religion."

"If I had sex with you, would that make it better?" Sherlock blurted out. The moment he said the words, he wished he could pull them back. He wasn't sure how he felt about it. Part of him hoped John would say yes. Part of him was terrified he would. Sex was awkward, and though it felt good, it always came with strings and conditions. Expectations. It always ended badly.

"What?" John shook his head. "Oh god. No!" He looked horrified.

"Why not?" Sherlock feeling stung and insulted.

John rubbed his head. "Sherlock… you are my best friend. I've never had a friend even remotely as special to me as you are." Sherlock glowed. "And I'm secure enough to admit that I love you, as a friend. But, never mind that I'm primarily attracted to women and you are primarily attracted to… crime scenes, when two people start bringing sex into things, it changes the relationship. I don't want to risk losing what we have. Especially not for the sake of a pity fuck."

Sherlock nodded. It was more or less what he'd been telling himself for months now. Disappointment was irrational and Sherlock refused to believe that was the cause of the tightness in his chest.

John clapped his hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "It's very … you … of you to offer, but it's not going to fix my problem." He let go and headed towards the stairs. "Some mysteries I just have to solve on my own, Sherlock."

Intentional or not, the seed of a new obsession was planted. It grew, faster and wilder than all the others. He could not shake it.

Sex. Sex. Sex. Sex with John. What would it feel like? What would it taste like? What sounds would he make? How would their bodies fit together. Would it be good? It kept strobing back into his mind while he and John tracked down the missing thirteen-year-old girl and her forty-one year old lover to a seedy flat near the railway.

The confrontation started easy enough. The pedophile threw out a laundry list of reasons for forgiveness. He was a savior, her parents emotionally abused her, and no they'd never had sex. He thought of her as a daughter. Lies, lies, lies.

Sherlock cut through them with chilling observations.

At which point the victim, who up to that time seemed confident that her molester would talk Sherlock out of reporting them, suddenly realized the jig was up. Far from being grateful at being rescued, she threw a tantrum befitting the orneriest two year old. Shrieking, throwing everything within reach, punching walls. Hurling swear words that would have sent Sherlock to his room with a bar of soap in his mouth had he said them at her age. He wondered if Dimmock would fault him if he tied her up and gagged her.

John, the ever reasonable, attempted to talk her down with his kindest bedside manner. She awarded him with kick to the shin that sent him to his knees on the floor. Sherlock, for a split second, had to stifle an urge to backhand her.

… But then his eyes caught on John's position.

And suddenly all the screaming and bellowing, sirens and breaking seemed to dim. For the space for two seconds, Sherlock stared at John.

He was facing away from Sherlock, bent over on hands and knees, as through offering himself up for Sherlock's eyes. His buttocks were clearly delineated through his trousers. Sherlock fought the impulse to touch the stretched fabric, test for firmness. A pulse of pleasure went down his cock and he felt skin tighten pleasantly and his groin go heavy.

He hissed.

Then John staggered up, leaning over and holding his leg, his wince twisting his face. He groped his way to a chair and sat heavily down. "Watch out, I think the boots she's wearing are steel-toed."

The moment passed, the world crashed back in. Noises: the girl was now working her way through the plates in the kitchen, making a bigger heap of broken shards on the floor. Movement: The pedophile jerked in one direction then another, torn between stopping her from breaking his things and considering making a run for it. Sherlock's proto-erection faded as swiftly as it had started. No one in the room seemed to have noticed, and for that he was intensely grateful.

"There's no point in running," he said casually to the perp. To the girl he sneered, "Is that really how you think a grown woman behaves?"

Stunned she paused with a glass in hand and her face shriveled in like she'd suddenly sucked on a lime.

Then the door burst open and Dimmock took over, and Sherlock's part in this whole wretched thing was done.

Sherlock stood in a corner and sank fully into his disconcertion. He should not have gotten distracted like that. His mind had actually turned off for a second and had been filled with a lust every bit as inappropriate as the pedophile's.

How did normal people stand this? Was it going to happen again? It was bad enough having these impulses, but to have them come, will-he-nil-he, in the middle of a case was impossible. He had to find some way of turning this off!

"Good job," said the inspector, clapping his shoulder with a familiarity that normally would have had Sherlock bristling, but he was so far off his game, he let it pass without acknowledgement. Dimmock's men were hauling both the girl and her seedy boyfriend off and starting to search the flat for evidence. He was in the way.

Someone was patting his arm again, and he turned to look, irritated and distracted. It was John, looking concerned. "You seem bothered by this. Is there something more we should know?"

And just like that, the obsession was back. Sex. Sex. Sex.

Sherlock's impulse to reach out, lick and taste and feel and strip the man nearly overwhelmed him. He pulled away from John's friendly grip and sought refuge in another subject.

"She kicked you," he finally latched on to. "I wanted to kick her back."

Yes. Anger. Wonderful, appropriate, understandable anger.

"She's just a kid," said John. "A kid who thinks she's in love."

"A kid who needs a good spanking. She hurt you."

"Bruised. I'll be fine."

"She hurt you." Sherlock glowered, his righteous fury building.

John shook his head, then clapped his hand on Sherlock's shoulder and pushed him towards the door. "I'm tougher than that. Come on. Post-case celebration. I'm thinking Italian."

On to Part 2.