Case is done? Good. Cases mean no sex. Return to Baker Street ready to go at it. Seventeen steps, close door, turn to you and cup trousers. Feel you go hard and grin. Look up to face. Why are you frowning? Case is over—this is okay. …Is this okay?
“Not now, John.”
Oh, not okay. I’ll wait, Sherlock. Up to my room alone. How long until it’s okay? Should I wank?
Four days. What’s taking so long? Try to touch, you move. Try to kiss, you leave. Case is over. Why can’t we romp? Is it me?
Out of milk. I’ll get it. You don’t care. Short walk to Tesco, good time to think. Surrounded by bosoms and arses. No, can’t cheat, you still love me. ...Right?
Forget worries at chip machine. Bloody thing. Return home, seventeen steps, open door.
Trousers down, hand around beautiful cock. You wank? Feel turned on. Let’s have sex, Sherlock.
You notice me. Mortified? Wait, don’t put it away, don’t leave. Grab arm. Skin feels wonderful. Been a week. Accidentally brush against bulge. God, your moan. Press lips against mouth. Feels so good, hot—
You don’t move. What? Don’t pull away. What’s wrong? It’s me, huh? “I see.”
Sigh. “John, I’m sorry. I... I deleted... all this. I didn’t realize—”
Stare. “Get in my bed.”