Time the First
The first time it happened, John had just gotten off of clinic duty and was looking forward to a quiet day relaxing, provided that Sherlock didn’t get any texts about a new case.
However, when he walked into 221B, John quickly realized that he would have to make new plans.
“Sherlock, what are you doing, and who are all these people?” he asked as calmly as possible.
Sherlock looked up from where he was draped over the arm of the sofa, his head pillowed on his arms with his bare ass raised. Behind him stood an unfamiliar young woman holding a wooden spoon in one hand, her other arm draped over Sherlock’s waist to steady him and hold him in place. Her lower half was also naked and reddened, and she was partially bent over in front of yet another naked person.
“You have interrupted a very important experiment, John,” he replied.
“Looks more like a five-way spanking party to me,” John answered as he finally began to take off his jacket and shoes. He was steadfastly trying to ignore the naked people in the room, but failing.
Sherlock rolled one thin shoulder in a shrug. “Semantics. Bring in some biscuits, would you?”
John sighed, but walked into the kitchen and fetched a plate of biscuits and placed it on the end table in the sitting room.
“Can I at least know why you are experimenting with spanking?” he asked.
“The end of humanity begins on Saturday, and I felt it was prudent to explore as many nuances of human sexuality as feasibly possible before my test subjects have deceased.”
“Of course,” John said, walking up the stairs to his room. He sounded a lot calmer than he felt. “Aliens or zombies?”
“I am quite unsure as of yet, but Mycroft has informed me that he is investigating the situation. It is rather likely, however, that the end of humanity will not be brought about by either aliens or zombies,” he told John. “Don’t just stand there, my healthy glow is starting to fade,” he then snapped at the woman behind him.
As John walked into his room and closed the door behind him on the sounds of pleasure coming from the floor below, he felt his mask slipping. Leaning against his door, he dragged his hand down his face, taking in a deep, shuddery breath. The apocalypse is apparently coming, and all the while his roommate is exploring human sexuality in the front room of the flat. Just lovely.
Time the Second
The second time John is treated to one of Sherlock’s pre-apocalyptic sexuality exploration orgies, he’s walking in from the local shop with a bag of milk in his hand.
When he opens the door to the flat, it’s only to discover a roiling mass of groaning people in the middle of the room, with Mycroft standing off to the side trying in vain to look away.
“There is a safe house in the Swiss Alps capable of sustaining up to six people for a minimum of ten years. If you would stop this foolish exploration of – no, you cannot sodomize yourself with my umbrella, Detective Inspector – human sexuality, then we can quickly remove you and Dr. Watson to safety.” Mycroft looked rather exasperated, so he must have repeated himself multiple times by that point.
John resolutely ignored the people in the room, and walked towards the kitchen, doing his best to avoid getting pulled into the orgy.
“What are you exploring today?” John asked, rather calmly, he felt. He wasn’t even going to ask why Lestrade was involved in the sex party - he really did not want to know.
“Object insertion into the anal cavity,” Mycroft answered John as he followed him into the kitchen. “Sherlock appears to be occupied at the moment, so I would like to extend the offer of rooming in a safe house in the Swiss Alps until the emergency situation has passed. I have been conducting an inspection of the top secret studies currently in progress, and it appears likely that one of the doctors will be soon losing control of his exploration into human reanimation,” he stated, pulling out a handkerchief from his suit pocket and then sneezing into it.
“Wrong!” Sherlock yelled from the other room. “No, don’t stop,” he then snapped.
John paused and looked at Mycroft closely. “Are you okay?” he asked, noting that Mycroft looked unusually pale and his brow was covered in sweat. “You don’t look like you feel well.”
Mycroft smiled tightly. “Just a mild case of the cold, no doubt, Doctor. Nothing to worry about. If you change your mind…”
“We won’t!” Sherlock yelled.
“I’ll keep that in mind. Are you sure you don’t want me to examine you? It looks like you might have more than just a cold.”
“Thank you, Dr. Watson, but I have a doctor on retainer perfectly capable of performing the same duties. Now, if you would excuse me, I must be going,” Mycroft said, leaving the kitchen. Before leaving the flat, he paused, “The offer is also open to you, Detective Inspector, if you are so willing. You have my card.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Lestrade shouted from somewhere within the mass of people in the middle of the flat.
Mycroft nodded, before leaving the flat altogether. He then placed a call to his assistant, who was waiting in the car out front.
“Fetch me a bucket, Pandora,” he told her. “I fear I am going to vomit.”
Inside the flat, John finished putting away the milk before heading upstairs. Looking over, he stated, “Please tell me you are at least using protection.”
“John, even if we did, it wouldn’t matter because we are all going to be dead by Saturday. And Lestrade is trying to build up the courage to approach my brother, which he should do so soon.”
“It’s not like your pining was subtle,” he responded to Lestrade’s enraged cry. “Did I tell you to stop? Keep thrusting!” he groaned.
John simply sighed, and continued up the stairs. Only a few more days of this, and it would be done, one way or the other.
Time the Third
When John entered the flat, the sitting room was mercifully empty for once. Assuming that Sherlock must be on a case, he put his coat up before heading to the sitting room to watch some telly. With Sherlock hogging the sitting room so much, he hadn’t been able to get in his fix and there was no way in hell he was watching the telly while an orgy of some sorts was going on on the floor.
As the telly turned on, Sherlock yelled from the kitchen, “John, is that you?”
There’s silence and the sound of things moving, before Sherlock padded in naked, his body covered in heavily bleeding cuts and gashes.
John’s eyes widened as he stared at his flatmate, before ushering the man back into the kitchen. Sherlock had obviously been trying to treat his injuries himself, as the contents of the first aid kit, a bag of cotton balls, and hydrogen peroxide were strewn across the table. John grabbed one of the cotton balls from the bag and soaked it in hydrogen peroxide before gently cleaning a cut on Sherlock’s left cheekbone.
As he worked, he glanced down at Sherlock in concern. “Another case?”
“No. Apparently bloodplay is not as stimulating as some would have you believe,” Sherlock replied.
“Bloodplay! Sherlock, what the fuck? Why aren’t one of your experimental friends giving you aftercare?”
“It was not necessary, as we are not involved in a romantic relationship.”
“That’s absolute bollocks, Sherlock.” John paused for a moment. “Wait, then why are you letting me help you?”
Sherlock was silent for a moment. “Because I trust you.”
John flushed, and nothing more was said between them.
Time the Fourth
When John stumbled into the flat, he ignored the people in the middle of the sitting room and slumped down in his armchair, draping one arm over his face.
It had been a hard day at the clinic, as it seemed like every single person around the clinic for ten blocks and their mothers had been in with bacterial pneumonia or other bacterial illnesses and most of the regular doctors had been out sick.
He hadn’t heard from Mycroft or Lestrade lately, and as far as he was aware, neither had Sherlock. It was entirely possible that they were both sick and bedridden, though.
“Oh, oh, Doctor, more! More!”
John blinked and raised his arm to look in disbelief at Sherlock and - was that Moriarty? - as Moriarty did something questionable with a speculum. There were five other people around the room, all of them engaged in similar activities.
“Sherlock! Why is Moriarty here?” John yelled. He figured he had one of two responses: indignation or sheer and utter embarrassment. He went for indignation.
Braced on all fours, Sherlock snorted and said, “I felt it necessary to compare the quality of sex with someone rivaling one’s own intelligence to the quality of sex with those of lower intelligence.”
John had to hold back a grin at Sherlock’s typical response. At the same time, Moriarty turned his head to smirk at him. “Why, John, wouldn’t I? After all, it is one of my only chances to…sample…genius similar to my own.”
“Don’t tell me you believe this apocalypse thing either?”
“Of course not. But tell me, Doctor, do you wish you were in my place?”
Yes, John did, but he was not a stupid man, and all the chasing Sherlock had done in the past few months since the pool had dug up some interesting information.
Instead, John simply sighed, and stretched, getting up out of his chair and grabbing the newspaper from the nearby end table as he did so. He nonchalantly walked by where Moriarty was standing near Sherlock and hit him in the ass with the paper as he did so.
“Well, he does seem to be faking it,” John observed. “Don’t you have a second in command somewhere?” John asked as he walked into the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea. “With you here, he must be pretty lonely. Maybe I’ll go keep him company,” he called as he filled the kettle with water and set it on the stove.
There was silence from the other room, followed by a cry of dismay as Moriarty left Sherlock, throwing on his clothes and running out the door.
By the time John walked out of the kitchen with his cup of tea, someone had taken Moriarty’s place with Sherlock.
Time the Fifth
Today was the day that Sherlock claimed the apocalypse would occur on. If John wasn’t so exhausted, he probably would have been more worried. As it was, the clinic had been absolutely packed with patients and John was only one of two doctors who hadn’t called in sick.
Therefore, when he stumbled into the flat, more asleep than awake, he almost tripped over Sherlock, Molly, and the skull. He didn’t really compute what they were doing; he just noticed that it involved nakedness and full body contact.
Sherlock pushed Molly off of him, much to her dismay, and instead chose to get up and follow John up the stairs, like a duckling following its mother.
Showing a rare moment of insight and concern, Sherlock asked, “John, are you well?”
“No, I’m bloody not well!” John snapped. “Do you know how many people I saw today? I don’t know, because I lost count at well over fifty! All I want to do is sleep, but how the bloody hell can I sleep when you’re fornicating all over the bloody flat?!”
The absolute mess of jam and chocolate syrup that John had discovered in the kitchen, in the sitting room, and on the stairs had left him rather irritated that morning. The sex toys in the fridge hadn’t made him much happier. It made him miss the random body parts. At least the petri dishes full of bacteria that had been sitting around had disappeared about a week ago—it was less for him to worry about.
Sherlock hesitantly reached out towards John, before grabbing him by the back of his neck and pulling him into his embrace. He gently stroked a hand through John’s hair, feeling the other man shudder and slowly relax in his arms.
They silently stood in the middle of the hall for a few minutes, before John reluctantly withdrew from Sherlock’s embrace.
John looked up at Sherlock. “What?”
“I’m done with my experimenting. I’ve collected enough data to reach an appropriate conclusion.”
“And what would that be?”
Sherlock pulled back in order to look into John’s eyes. “There’s only one person who satisfies me and is inherently compatible with me in all ways.”
John pulled out of Sherlock’s arms and walked into his room. He turned back to look at Sherlock, and forced himself to smile. “Congratulations.”
The door shut behind him, leaving Sherlock staring blankly at the door. Molly, now dressed, came up the stairs, took one look at Sherlock’s face, and excused herself from the flat.
In the silence of the flat, Sherlock whispered, “It’s you, John. It’s always been you.”
Time the First, Last, and Only
On Sunday morning, John jumped in surprise as Sherlock threw the door to his bedroom open and leaped into the bed on top of him.
“Hello, John,” he greeted, smiling down at him.
“Hello, Sherlock. Er, where are your clothes?”
“I threw them out,” he replied, trying to sneak a hand under the covers.
John batted it away. “And you’re in here, why?”
“I want to have sex. With you. Now.”
“I won’t be another data point for you, Sherlock,” John snarled, glaring up at him. “I thought you said you were done. And isn’t it Sunday? The apocalypse never happened, Sherlock. Now get off.”
Sherlock let himself drop fully onto John, nestling his head underneath John’s chin and grabbing John’s hand in his, twining their fingers together.
“You’re the only one I want. The others...I could barely bring myself to touch them. But you, I find myself touching you every chance I get. I don’t feel for them what I feel for you. With them, it was boring, they were boring. Not with you, never with you.”
John didn’t move. “Get off of me, Sherlock. You know I don’t believe that. What could possibly be interesting about me, more interesting than even Moriarty?”
Sherlock simply shrugged, and didn’t move from on top of John. “There are a number of reasons why you are better than Moriarty,” he commented, running his spare hand over John’s chest. He could feel the solid thump of John’s heart, and a slight rasp in his throat signaling the first signs of sickness.
He glanced up at John. “I was wrong. I’m never wrong,” he said abruptly, coming to a sudden conclusion. How could he have missed it?
John blinked, and wrapped his arm around Sherlock’s back, holding him close. “What do you mean?”
“The apocalypse didn’t begin yesterday.”
“I thought that was obvious,” John snorted.
“It began Wednesday, at the latest. I first noticed when Mycroft entered our flat showing the signs of illness, but it’s neither the cold nor the flu season, and Mycroft always has been rather concerned about cleanliness. He’d been visiting top secret projects recently, one of which probably involved disease but was improperly secured.
“Shortly after that, Lestrade called in sick - presumably after his rendezvous with Mycroft. The remainder of Scotland Yard then proceeded to call in sick. You began coming home from the clinic more tired and irritable than usual - therefore there was an increase in patients and a possible decrease in doctors available, especially considering that you are a locum doctor only, and don’t regularly fill in. Yesterday you went in early and came home late, which indicates that there was still a large amount of patients to see to, as well as a high probability that many of your fellow doctors and nurses had also come in sick. By yesterday, the only people well enough to participate in my sexual experiments were those who had little contact with people—people like Molly Hooper, whom you effectively tripped over.
“You yourself are showing signs of sickness: increased heart and breathing rate, slightly higher body temperature than normal, difficulty tracking, a slight rasp in your throat and a soft wheezing which indicates possible mucous in your lungs. You have managed to become sick, and are therefore likely to pass it on to me, as well as to anyone with whom you have had prolonged contact recently. Therefore, I can only conclude that we have some form of sickness on our hands, one which has been detected too late to treat and cure, considering that the original scientists have most likely perished by now or are in no condition to provide information regarding their research.”
“Or, I have simply contracted the bacterial pneumonia that has been going around,” John countered.
“I lost contact with Mycroft and his assistant on Thursday. As Mycroft would refuse to take a sick day, he has likely passed his illness on to the other high-ranking government officials that he has had contact with. Also, as Mycroft would not remain silent in such a situation, it is likely that he is unable to communicate either due to increased illness or death. As only Mycroft and a select few others who have likely been exposed to the illness know its source, it is unlikely that that information will be uncovered before the death of the remainder of the population,” Sherlock continued, ignoring John’s comment.
John worked his jaw silently, hoping that Sherlock was incorrect. He rarely was, but it seemed like Sherlock may be jumping to conclusions. It was just a case of bacterial pneumonia. Nothing to worry about; just take an antibiotic regimen and he’d be fine. But he didn’t really believe that, not with that serious, slightly scared look Sherlock was giving him.
Sherlock let the tension flow out of his body, so that he practically melted where he was sprawled over John.
“Fuck me?” he asked.
John coughed. “What? First you say that Mycroft, Lestrade, all the others might be dead - I might be dying - and now you want to fuck? Because I’m the only remaining option, is that it?” he demanded.
“With you. Only with you, ever with you.”
“You’re sounding rather romantic there, Sherlock,” John grinned wryly, despite himself. He’d expect a girl from a romance novel to say that, not Sherlock of all people.
Sherlock sighed, before quickly moving and pinning John’s wrists to the bed, levering himself up over the doctor’s body. “Fuck me. Fuck me now, John.”
John felt his breathing speed up, and he grinned at Sherlock, baring his teeth. “In all those times you ‘experimented,’ did you ever do the fucking?”
Sherlock’s eyes widened as a slow grin spread across his face. He lowered his head down to breathe in John’s ear, “Is that an invitation?”
A slow warmth filled John’s body as he shuddered in arousal. Sherlock began to bite gently at his neck as John took in a deep breath, fighting the urge to cough as he did so.
John spread his legs, still covered by his now-tented sheets and slightly raised his hips. He moaned in pleasure as Sherlock bit at a particularly sensitive spot on his neck. He continued to bite and nibble his way down John’s body, withdrawing the covers from John’s naked body with one hand as he went. He released John’s wrists as he drew down lower.
“I do believe it is,” John stuttered, his eyes rolling back in his head as his cock was finally encased by Sherlock’s mouth, all warmth and wetness. All thoughts of the apocalypse and illness vanished from his mind as his breath hitched at the feel of Sherlock’s tongue against his glans and the slight graze of teeth, only to be filled with thoughts of Sherlock.
Sherlock groaned deeply at the weight of John’s cock on his tongue, drawing deep groans from John with each talented caress. He moved one questing finger back to John’s arse hole, drawing forth another groan as he gently teased the opening. There was nothing like how John felt, tasted, smelled, or sounded as Sherlock pleasured him. He could only mourn that that was the first - and possibly the only and last - time he would get to have John in this way.
If only he hadn’t wasted this last week with the others, then maybe he could have had this, had John before it was almost too late. He hadn’t told John everything; he didn’t dare, even if John still didn’t fully believe him. He had lied when he had said that the disease came from the top secret laboratories that Mycroft had investigated.
John knew that Sherlock had been experimenting with antibiotic resistances in bacteria. But how would John react to knowing that the apocalypse had been accidentally engineered in their own kitchen, simply because Sherlock failed to follow correct sanitation procedures?