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The fact Sherlock had a fetish seemed almost secondary to everything else John experienced with him—murder, blood, gore, hostage situations, bombs, kidnappings—the idea of liking a little kinky stuff in bed paled in comparison. John wondered why it took almost a year into their 'official' relationship for Sherlock to say something; it just proved how Sherlock's mind worked, though. He didn't consider destruction and mayhem as awkward to approach as sexual preferences.

Admittedly when Sherlock brought it up and said the fetish was 'extreme' John expected and braced himself for something weird: a foot fetish, or a confession he liked to wear women's underwear, or have sex in the mud while wearing latex, or some equally strange proclivity. John didn't mind. He was adventurous and would try almost anything at least once, especially in the confines of a comfortable, committed relationship.

"Pissing?" John asked, when Sherlock told him. John sat in a chair by the fireplace. Sherlock, across the room, peeked over his laptop and actually looked a bit shy. "Hm," John said.

"I told you it was extreme." Sherlock ducked back down in front of the screen. "And unusual."

"It can't be that unusual. I've seen entire porn websites dedicated to it."

"Unusual doesn't necessarily mean uncommon."

John shrugged. "So why have you waited so long to tell me?"

Sherlock peeked back over. "It doesn't bother you?"

"I'm a doctor." John gave him a stern look. "Bodily fluids don't bother me."

"It's not just about that."

"All right then, help me understand it."

"It's—oh I don't know." He sounded flustered, but John could tell he was trying to pass it off as impatience. "I'll send you some links to study up on. You know, fetishes are fascinating subjects. Most of them are cultivated in childhood, created by impressions cast before we're even sexualized."

"I hope this isn't leading to some story of Mycroft holding you down in the sandbox and peeing on your head."

Sherlock gave him a look of revulsion. "Are you trying to scar it out of me?"

John chuckled. "I'm not surprised, actually."


"At this confession. I mean, I'm a little surprised, but now I look back, it isn't wholly unheralded."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean you barging in on me constantly in the bathroom."

"I don't do it constantly!"

"You've done it more as we've gotten comfortable and familiar with each other." He mocked, "Oh, I forgot to brush my teeth! Oh, I need my shirt I left in there! Oh, I need that jar of hydrochloric acid!"

Sherlock looked affronted. "John, I swear to you I have no ulterior motives like that!" He pushed his chair back. "I would never, never force a sexual situation upon you using subterfuge and without your consent." He seemed genuinely upset at this, though John wondered if the idea or the revelation he might have been doing it subconsciously bothered him more. Either way, John smiled fondly.

"I love you too, Sherlock."

"As I said, it's not just about that anyway. It's not just about watching you take a piss. There's nothing overly interesting in just watching."

"Then tell me what turns you on about it."

"Just—read what I send you!"

John smiled. He rather liked his bashful and blustering Sherlock.


John didn't need Sherlock to send him links, though he did. Sometimes Sherlock forgot, drifting about on his sea of great wisdom, that John, though not as smart as him, was perfectly capable of simple tasks like dressing himself and using Google.

He spent an afternoon while Sherlock was out reading up on the subject on the internet. Sherlock had been right—it wasn't so much about watching someone piss as being pissed on. Still, John didn't feel any revulsion at this. Being a doctor meant he'd long ago had any traces of squeamishness battered out of him, and a bit of—sterile—urine was hardly the worst thing he'd ever had to deal with.

John was happy to be off that day, alone in the flat, and generally feeling good about the state of things. He and Sherlock were still early enough in their relationship to be in the 'honeymoon stage,' and far enough along to be blissfully casual, which meant sex happened on average two or three times a week. Mostly in bed at night, but still at the odd, surprising, exciting times as well. For example, Sherlock had been ready to go out the door that morning, on an assignment for Lestrade, and was already dressed. But then the goodbye kiss got heated, and Sherlock reasoned he could take a later bus, and they ended up having sex on the couch. The incident left John feeling happy and content the rest of the day, and the more he read up on the fetish, the more his mind got to working. He thought it was a real shame a couple weeks had passed since they went two rounds in a day, and it was time to change this.

Sherlock came home around five, with dinner for both of them, and humming. It was amazing what regular sex had done for his disposition. Of course he was still histrionic and demanding, and his mind still worked at dizzying speeds, but he had gotten a little more thoughtful, a little more content, and had a bit more humor in him—oftentimes inappropriate, and sometimes rather dark, but it was a start.

"So what did you do all day?" Sherlock asked him as they ate the take away. "Cook and clean and watch the talk shows like a proper wife?" He winked at him over his lo mein.

"Of course dear." John chased a piece of chicken with his chopsticks. "How was the office? Hang out with the boys? Flirt with the secretary?"

"No, but I did get all the components to make a proper pipe bomb."

John frowned. "Sherlock, you promised after last time—"

"I won't assemble it in the kitchen sink again. I did promise."

John had two cups of tea with dinner. Usually he didn't finish even one because the caffeine made him edgy so late in the day, but he'd found the last of the decaf Sherlock had tried to hide from him—caffeine makes the mind work faster, John!—and brewed it up for himself. Sherlock was too busy talking about blast radius's to notice, and that was another thing John liked about the new kinder, gentler Sherlock. He could get a few things by him.

However, he waited until Sherlock left the kitchen to gulp down a glass of water. That, he would have noticed.

The substantial amount of liquid worked rather quickly and within fifteen minutes he started to feel the pressure. By this time Sherlock was on the couch, glowering at the telly and shouting at the quiz show he liked to watch in the evenings. John got up casually and wandered to the bathroom. Once inside, he called out. "Sherlock, would you come here, to the bathroom?"

After a moment he heard footsteps, Sherlock's bare feet slapping on the hallway floor. He appeared in the doorway. "I swear I didn't leave any of my experiments in here. I took them—" He paused, staring at John. John sat on the edge of the bathtub, hands in his lap, just smiling at him. "What?" Sherlock asked cautiously.

John looked around at the tub and then back at Sherlock. "Do you want to get in the bath?"

Sherlock knitted his brow. "Right now? You know I usually take a shower before bed. Am I offensive? I wasn't around any chemicals today." He turned his head and sniffed at his shoulder.

John chuckled. "No, you don't smell. I thought we could get in the bath together, if you're in the mood."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, clearly trying to work the situation out. "In the bath, together? Didn't we try that once? With my 'overgrown limbs' as you called them, and both of us in together, there wasn't enough space to breathe let alone have it off."

"Well, I thought maybe if we didn't put any water in there would be more space, you know."

Sherlock's expression of puzzlement intensified.

"I thought maybe you could just take your clothes off and lie down in there naked."


"And I could take mine off and get on top of you."

"To what end? We could do that much more comfortably on the bed."

John smiled patiently. "And then I thought maybe I could empty my bladder, because it really is starting to hurt."

Sherlock stared at him a moment, then, though he didn’t move at all, he seemed to be drawing in on himself. His cheeks turned pink and his eyelashes fluttered, clearly overcome with a conditioned bashfulness which hurt John's heart to see any time the response was brought out of him. John wished he could find every person who had ever said an unkind word to Sherlock, or made him feel inadequate, or like a freak, and drown them in hydrochloric acid.

"I read up on it," John said, keeping his voice soft, so Sherlock would relax. "I think I understand it now. If you're not in the mood I'll understand, we can do it another time. I really do have to go though, so if you don't want to, I'll just take a piss and come out and join you and watch—"

"No." Sherlock took a step into the room. "It's all right, it's as good a time as any." His cheeks were still pink; darker now, though perhaps not wholly from embarrassment.

"All right then," John said. "And I thought the tub might be the best place. Easy clean up, and we can shower after."

Sherlock parted his lips, as if he wanted to say something, but then he just nodded. John stood up.

They both got undressed. Sherlock closed the door, though John wasn't sure why, it wasn't as if there was anyone to walk in on them—a psychological comfort, perhaps. John was interested to see Sherlock was already half hard. John tried to keep himself from responding, at least for the moment, as an erection would make it harder to aim.

Sherlock got in the tub and lay down, though he was so tall he had to recline against the back with his head at the lip to fit in, so he was half-lying, half-sitting. He was silent, watching John intently. John got in and settled over him, straddling his hips. It felt odd to be in the empty, dry tub, the porcelain sticking to his skin and making squeaky noises. They had to shift a bit, and it still wasn't really comfortable, but John tried to make the best of it.

"All right?" John asked him, and smoothed a hand up his stomach to his chest.

"Yes," Sherlock said softly. He was still only half-hard.

"This is going to be awkward," John admitted. "I've never done this before."

"Of course it will," Sherlock said. "First times are always awkward, just like the first time we had sex. But you have to get the first awkward time over with so the other times will be better."

John smiled. "Very sensible."

John tried to relax. Even though he had to go quite badly, he found when he concentrated on it, nothing would come. His internal muscles were all bunched up. It was too quiet in the bathroom. He felt weird, even though he very much wanted to try this. Sherlock shifted his gaze between John's face and his penis, breathing shallowly. John tried to think about something besides peeing—kittens, sugar cookie recipes, the peeling paint on the wall above the tub. Finally, he relaxed enough a small spurt shot out and splattered Sherlock's stomach.

Sherlock gasped, softly, and the sound made John tighten up again and stop the stream, which hurt. After easing his muscles down again he managed to finally start going.

He gripped himself and aimed the stream across Sherlock's stomach and up to his chest. Sherlock's mouth went slack and his eyes drooped. John wasn't surprised to see when he guided the stream downward and between Sherlock's legs his cock was filling out fully, lengthening and twitching.

John had just enough left to go up his belly and chest one more time, clear up to his throat. He had to admit, there was something beguiling about seeing the pale yellow fluid slide down Sherlock's collarbone, trickle down the hollow of his throat, and slide in fat droplets across his chest and nipples. Finally the stream slowed to a trickle, and then stopped. Sherlock's chest and stomach were glistening and yellow fluid had pooled around his hips in the bottom of the tub. He was fully erect, his cock jerking against his lower belly.

"All right?" John asked him, and leaned down for a kiss. Sherlock kissed him back, open-mouthed, and moaned softly.

"Oh yes." Sherlock slid his hands down his own chest, slow and luxurious, then down his stomach and to his cock. He rubbed both palms through his dark pubic hair, as if rubbing John into him.

"How does it feel?" John asked.

"Warm," Sherlock said, closing his eyes. "Intimate."

John smiled at that. He wasn't bothered at all. It really wasn't much different than the times he had come on him. He reached down and gathered up Sherlock's cock, wet with his piss, and started stroking him.

Sherlock didn't take long. Sometimes it took a bit to get Sherlock to orgasm, because he tensed up at times, and became unsure of himself rather easily, but this time John barely had twenty strokes in before he was shooting over his stomach. He groaned and lifted his hips as he came, and John kissed his mouth. "I love you," he whispered against his lips.

"Thank you John," Sherlock whispered back, and relaxed beneath him.

"Ready to have a shower?" John asked.

"Mm," Sherlock murmured, "give me just a few more minutes like this."

"Of course. Anything at all."


They didn't talk about it again until a couple days later. John had half an hour before he had to leave for work and he was moving around the kitchen. Sherlock stood in the doorway, long and luxurious in his dressing down, pajama bottoms, and t-shirt, sipping a coffee. He was watching John going back and forth from counter to table, packing his lunch.

"John," Sherlock said, and his tone suggested he had something serious to say.

"Yes?" John didn't look up from wrapping his sandwich.

"Thank you," Sherlock said. "For what you did."

John smiled up at him, not bothering to ask which something. "It's all right."

"And thank you, for not being repulsed when I told you."

"We had this discussion. Not having it again."

"I'm very grateful to you."

John finished with his sandwich and stuffed it in his paper bag. "So very grateful." Sherlock licked his lips and he seemed tense. John could hear the 'but' on his tongue.

"However?" John asked.

Sherlock made a distressed face. "I don't want to sound like an ungrateful wretch. You've been so good and accommodating."

"Say what you need to say."

"It's just—" He looked down at his cup. "It's not how I would prefer it." He looked up, expression pained again. "Oh, I don't mean to sound so rotten, after you tried so hard!"

John smiled. He had learned sometimes when Sherlock said selfish things, he wasn't actually trying to be selfish, he just didn't know how to use tact.

"So how would you prefer it?" John asked. "Talk to me."

John got in the refrigerator to fill his thermos. Sherlock sighed.

"Well, it was very thoughtful of you to want to get in the bathtub, where it wouldn't cause a mess and we could clean right up. But that's—rather the opposite of the point."

John looked over and arched an eyebrow at him.

"And that we should be naked, yes, that's convenient. But." He fidgeted.

"Say it plainly, Sherlock."

His cheeks turned that lovely shade of pink. "I would like it more if you pissed on me with my clothes on."

"Oh?" John asked, and then he chuckled. "I remember reading, there's different variations on the fetish. Knew I'd probably get the wrong one right off."

"Well it's just if—you piss on me while I'm dressed, it's dirtier." He bit his lip. "Then my clothes are wet. I'm soiled. It's shameful and—exciting."

John closed the refrigerator door. "Thank you for telling me. See how easy that was?"

John finished packing up. Sherlock remained in the doorway, watching him. John finally had everything ready and looked up at him, noting the silence.

"You always go to the bathroom just before you leave," Sherlock said, his voice a bit husky. "Do you have to go now?"

John swallowed and glanced at the clock. "Sort of."

Sherlock swept forward, suddenly and finally decisive it seemed, and put his cup on the kitchen table. He then, much to John's surprise, dropped and knelt right on the kitchen floor. "Go ahead," he said, and his eyes shone with lust. "You won't be late, you don't have to get yourself dirty at all."

John gaped at him. "Sherlock, I can't just piss on you and leave you on the kitchen floor, like you're some sort of, of—" He didn't have an analogy. He wouldn't do that to anything.

"I want you to." He sounded insistent. To John's amazement, he saw he was tenting his bottoms. "John, please. I want this, right now."

John just stared at him another moment. He did have to go. He always saved it for last thing, so he'd be empty during his commute. Sherlock gazed up at him with a pleading expression and that was all it took. John undid his trousers.

"You don't have to stay below the neck," Sherlock told him, scooting a bit closer on his knees.

"You mean—"

"I can wash John, it's all right."

John didn't think he could bring himself to piss on Sherlock's face, but by the time he started going he already had nothing to lose, so he just tried to go with the flow—so to speak. Sherlock groaned as John soaked the front of his shirt and his bottoms, making sure to guide the stream over his cock poking up there. He felt even more absurd to be pissing in the kitchen than in the bathtub. Sherlock closed his eyes and tilted his face up. John felt the stream slowing and forced himself to give him what he wanted, splashing him briefly across the face.

When he finished he shook off and tucked himself away. Sherlock was breathing hard. He opened his eyes, and obscenely, his eyelashes were wet. He licked his lips and John's breath caught.

"I can't leave you here on the floor in a puddle of my piss," John said. "Stand up here."

John tossed him off, Sherlock leaning against the table, John careful not to get too close so he wouldn't wet his clothes. Sherlock instructed John to just let him come on his shirt, since he had to wash it anyway. Afterward he slumped back onto the floor.

"I'll clean up," Sherlock said. "You best be off to work."

John wasn't sure what else to do, so he did as Sherlock said. He had a very thoughtful, strange commute.


As was Sherlock's way, once he found something he enjoyed, and when he became comfortable in expressing his pleasure, he went mad indulging himself. As he'd predicted, the awkwardness faded, and he began his very favorite activity—experimenting.

John didn't mind the experiments. They still had regular sex, without urine involved, but once or twice a week John didn't mind indulging Sherlock's fetish. He soon no longer found it odd to piss on Sherlock while he was fully clothed, and then Sherlock came up with another idea. He wanted John to piss on him through his clothes. He swore he would do the laundry, every time, if John indulged this.

John wasn't entirely sure of the mechanics, but he knew timing had to be involved—he could only do it when he'd no longer be needing the clothes he was wearing. He finally had the opportunity one night when he came home from work and had to go rather badly. He pushed Sherlock up against the wall next to the door—where there wasn't any carpet—ground their crotches together, and pissed on him right through both their clothes. There was something fantastically naughty about pissing in his pants, and Sherlock went off like fireworks.

After that, the game was on. John saw quite a bit of amusing sport to be had as well as eroticism. He jumped on Sherlock on the couch one night, cackling, wrestled him down, and pissed through his pajama bottoms on him. Sherlock groaned and writhed underneath him and they had amazing sex after, and it only took a bit of upholstery cleaner to get it out of the cushion.

John then formulated a devilish surprise, because he loved seeing Sherlock in a madly turned on state. He got a pad for the bed, the sort they used in senior's homes, and put it under the sheets without telling him. In the morning, John woke up curled against Sherlock's back, his arm around his chest. He kissed Sherlock's long, graceful neck until he stirred.

"Mmm," Sherlock murmured, his voice even throatier first thing in the morning. "Good morning."

"Good morning." John smiled against his skin. He pressed his morning erection into the small of Sherlock's back and slowly relaxed. When he started to go, it was so quiet he heard the soft hiss of the stream escaping. Then Sherlock gasped and stiffened against him.

"Oh God," he gasped out. "John! In the bed?'

"Shhh." John rubbed his lower belly and pressed more firmly into the curve of his back. He felt the liquid pooling warm around his hip and creeping up his side. "Just enjoy it."

Sherlock was trembling by the time John finished. He slid up and kissed Sherlock's ear, feeling the pad squish beneath him.

"John," Sherlock choked out, and gripped his hand against his belly. "I need you to fuck me. Right now."

"Oh, I have every intention."

It was probably the most obscene thing they'd done so far, fucking on the soaked sheets. Sherlock was absolutely astonished John had set up the whole thing, when John stripped the bed and showed him the pad afterward.

"I've underestimated you, John Watson."

"I doubt it'll be the last time."

John discovered, as their games continued, he had a related kink of his own. Sherlock liked being pissed on, but John wanted to turn the tables on him finally, and this was how he discovered he liked Sherlock in desperation.

Sherlock tried to crawl over him one morning, naked and warm from sleep, and John stopped him.

"Where are you going?" John asked.

"I have to piss," Sherlock said.

John smirked lazily and tightened his arm around his waist. "Well isn't that a problem?"

Sherlock frowned down at him. "I have to go, John. Quite badly. I didn't before bed."

John widened his smile and held Sherlock's naked body firmly against his own. "You should have gone then, shouldn't you?"

"John!" He squirmed. "I really need to piss!"

His struggle, his urgency, made John's mild morning stiffness twitch and harden further. His breath caught. Sherlock might have softened a bit around the edges, but his observational skills hadn't dulled a bit. He paused, eyes narrowing. John knew he had just given far too much away.

"If you don't let me go, I'll piss the bed!" Sherlock said imploringly. He knew full well the pad was there.

"That would be embarrassing," John said.

"It would, so—oh God, let me go." He was obviously acting now, but it didn't matter. John was really turned on. Sherlock squirmed, until he was fully on top of him, and John held him in place. "John, please! Please, I need to piss so badly…" He whimpered then, and John didn't even know Sherlock was capable of whimpering.

"I guess you're just going to piss the bed then," John said breathily. His cock was positively aching as he pressed it up against Sherlock's belly.

"Please, it's so humiliating." Sherlock gasped, writhing against him. "I need to—John please. Oh God."

"Just like a child, wetting the bed. You ought to be ashamed. Can't you hold it?"

"No!" He wailed. "John, you're so cruel! I can't hold it! Please let me up!"

John realized he was almost on the verge of orgasm, and that was positively insane. Sherlock was wiggling hot and smooth against him, and then he groaned despairingly. "Oh no John, I'm going to—"

And then Sherlock let loose on him, a hard, hot stream all over his stomach, whimpering the whole time like it was the most mortifying thing in the world, and John came so hard his vision went fuzzy.

Afterward, John lie catching his breath and staring at the ceiling, while Sherlock sprawled next to him, looking smug. "You know," John said, "I had not the faintest clue in all the word I had a humiliation kink."

"We learn new things every day, John."

Allowing Sherlock access to this information was the worst thing that could have happened to John—because Sherlock didn't just indulge, he tortured. He took everything to the next level, especially if the end result was him getting a nice, hard shag. And apparently, he deemed John needed a great deal of reciprocation for all he'd given.

Sherlock was way too good an actor. John came home two evenings later to find him on the couch, hands stuffed in his crotch, thighs squeezed together, blushing and moaning. "Oh God, I have to piss so bad John," he gasped. "I don't think I can make it to the bathroom…"

After Sherlock pissed himself on the floor, John nearly broke the coffee table fucking him on top of it. Their two-to-three times a week went up to four and five.

The worst was when he'd start it up in public, putting on a show of distress, whispering to John how badly he had to go, then barely making it through the door of their flat before he had an accident. John really didn't think he could take it any further.

He should have realized he was dealing with Sherlock Holmes.

One night on the way home in a cab from having dinner out, Sherlock started his act. He'd started when they left the restaurant actually, but it was raining and John got a cab quickly, so he didn't have time to go back inside. In the car he shifted restlessly on the seat, squeezing his thighs together, making soft, barely perceptible sounds of distress. John was getting hard and he gazed out the window at the rain-washed streets to distract himself. He glanced over as he saw Sherlock pick up his phone. He typed something in then put it down.

John's phone beeped a moment later. He picked it up and read the text he'd just gotten.

I have to go so badly. I had to let a bit out. It hurts so much.


John looked over at him, wide-eyed with alarm. He quickly typed back.

You can't piss in the cab! Don't!


Sherlock just gave him a helpless, distressed look, which made John's cock nearly rip through his trousers yes, but he could not, not piss in the damn cab. John scooted toward him a little, thinking he might be embellishing, and sneakily slid his hand onto his crotch. And oh God, it was damp. Not soaked, not enough to be on the seat, but definitely wet. As John pressed there Sherlock made a soft sound and fresh wetness seeped through. John gritted his teeth and shook his head at Sherlock. He bit his lip and looked positively miserable.

John flung money at the cabbie when they got to their flat, and got out, practically pushing Sherlock along. It was still raining steadily. As they went up the steps, Sherlock said, "I'm sorry, I'm not faking it this time. I really had too much wine at dinner."

John had no idea if that was the truth or just part of the game, but his hands were shaking as he tried to unlock the door. And then suddenly Sherlock grabbed him, turned him around, and pushed his body up against his. Sherlock groaned and John felt heat flood his crotch, where Sherlock had pressed his own against him. Sherlock was pissing himself right against their front door, right there on the stoop, right out in public. Thankfully it was nighttime, and no one was around, and the rain would wash it away. Even over the sound of the rain John could hear it trickling out his trouser leg on the steps.

"Oh my god," John groaned, and pushed against him, just trying to enjoy it. "That's it Sherlock, no more of this. You've paid me back in full. You don't have to do this anymore."

Sherlock sagged against him with a sigh of relief. "You're too wonderful to me, John."

"You deserve it. But for Godsakes, can we go inside now before someone catches us? I don't at all have a voyeurism kink."


The piss-play died off. After all the excitement, all the times they'd indulged, it got a bit boring. John was glad he'd gotten to share that part of Sherlock with him though, and he hoped they'd indulge in it now and then in the future. He kept the pad on the bed just in case. However, even though Sherlock seemed satisfied, John couldn't shake the odd feeling there was something Sherlock hadn't gotten from it that he wanted, something he couldn't ask for, something which going without made the whole experience incomplete. John wasn't sure what it could be, and Sherlock didn't offer up any information, so he let it go.

One evening, after work, John went out with some mates from the army and had a few beers. It was a good time, and he enjoyed himself, but afterward he was happy to be off for home and to see Sherlock, who had been sending him innocuously cute texts all evening. Or at least, what passed for cute with Sherlock.

Your side of the couch is all empty and forlorn this evening.

I just spent ten minutes talking to you and then realized you weren't there.

Skull thinks you're out carousing so I stuffed him in a drawer to shut him up.

On the way home on the bus, the rocking motion made John realize he should have emptied the beers from his bladder before he left the pub. The sensation increased, to a real sense of pain, by the time he reached his stop. When he got to the front door he needed to go so badly he considered going behind a bin. He was nearly there though, so he just went inside, and had to resist undoing his trousers as he went up the stairs.

Sherlock was in the kitchen making tea, in his pajamas and dressing gown. "Have a nice time?" he asked, as John whipped off his coat and threw it in a chair. He looked up, frowning. "What's wrong?"

"I have to piss like a racehorse!"

He caught the sudden change in Sherlock's expression. They hadn't played in over two weeks, but John didn't have time to wait. He started back to the bathroom.

"John," Sherlock's voice stopped him.

John turned back to the kitchen, gritting his teeth.

"If you want this, that's fine," John ground out. "But say it now, because I have got to go."

Sherlock beckoned him and quickly, gracefully fell to his knees. John wobbled over. "Hurry up," John told him.

Sherlock started undoing his trousers. "John, I want to do something."

"I really don't want to piss these trousers Sherlock, we can't do the washing for another couple days."

"No, that's fine, it's fine." Sherlock tugged his trousers and pants down and gripped his penis. "There's just—something I want to do, but promise me you won't get freaked out."

"I can't imagine at this point how anything about this would freak me out. Just, fuck—" He couldn't hold it any longer. He pissed down the front of Sherlock's shirt, but Sherlock had a hold of him and was guiding the stream. He opened his mouth wide, and the next thing John knew that was where he directed it.

John gasped, and jerked his hips, but there was so much force he couldn't stop. Sherlock moaned, eyes closed, tongue out, and lapped at the stream. Some went in his mouth. A lot ran down his chin and his throat and dripped onto his shirt and bottoms, through which he was wildly fisting himself. John groaned and reached out to clutch the table for support.

As the stream slowed, Sherlock slid his mouth fully over him and swallowed down what was still coming out, his throat working. John started getting hard.

When he finished pissing, Sherlock didn't stop. He continued bobbing on him until he came, and then swallowed that down with the same perfect grace, groaning around him as he shuddered in his own release into his hand.

When Sherlock slid his mouth off John slumped against the table, panting. He gazed down at him and Sherlock licked his lips.

"Are you disgusted?" Sherlock asked.

"Disgusted? No." He gave a breathy laugh. "No. But you might be drunk now. I think that was pure lager."

Sherlock smiled. "Thank you, John."

"You should have just told me that was what you wanted to do."

"It's not the first time I tasted it. When you left that morning, after we were here in the kitchen. I licked it off my fingers and sucked it out of my shirt."

"You need to learn to just ask plainly for what you need." John offered him a hand up. "Save you a lot of trouble and sucking on your filthy t-shirt."

Sherlock got up. "There is another fetish I'd like to try. One where we dress like animals and have sex with each other." He gave himself ears with his fingers and said "Meow meow meow," without sounding anything like a cat.

John frowned at him.

"I'm completely kidding, of course," Sherlock said, and lowered his hands. "I'm getting better at jokes."

John rubbed his forehead and laughed. "It's a good thing. Some things are too kinky even for me."