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"I'm certain it's not bird flu, Mrs. Johnson."

The elderly woman seated in the chair opposite his desk sniffed indignantly. "I have all the symptoms, Dr. Watson. I found them on the internet. My grandson helped me, and he's quite clever."

John sighed and forced a smile. "Have you recently traveled to Asia?"

"No."

"Have you come in contact with anyone who has just returned from travel in Asia?"

"No. I did eat Chinese on Friday, though."

John clenched his jaw and let that one pass. "How old is your grandson?"

"Michael is fourteen." She smiled proudly and opened her purse, presumably to rummage for either a photo or a tissue. "And his sisters are five and nine, little darlings. The lights of my life, since I lost my dear Harold last year."

"Yes, I'm sure they are. And did you see the younger ones recently as well?"

"Yes, they all came to visit on Sunday afternoon." She blew her nose into a lacy handkerchief.

John nodded and focused on the chart he was making notes on. "Did any of them have any symptoms? Cough, sniffles, runny nose?"

Mrs. Johnson frowned. "Well, children have always got runny noses, haven't they?"

John's lips pressed together in a tight smile. "You have nothing more than a common cold, Mrs. Johnson. Just rest and take plenty of fluids, and you'll feel better in a few days. Perhaps pick up a decongestant at the pharmacy on your way home."

Mrs. Johnson's face began to turn red. "I've told you, it's bird flu! I've a fever, haven't I?"

"Only just," John muttered at the chart.

"I had chills this morning. I was shaking. I had every symptom on that web page!"

John's phone buzzed in his pocket – again – and he stifled a groan. Whatever Sherlock wanted, he wasn't giving up.

John looked up at his patient and plastered on his best doctor face. "If you read the webpage carefully, then surely you also know that human-to-human transmission is extremely rare. Unless you've been plucking chickens that were recently imported from Shanghai, I seriously doubt you've got bird flu."

"But—"

"It's a common cold, and that is my final diagnosis. If you'd prefer a second opinion, my colleague Dr. Bikram may have an opening later this afternoon."

Mrs. Johnson scowled at him and stood. "I just may." She marched past with her nose in the air, muttering about the abysmal state of the National Health Service.

John closed the door behind her and sighed. She'd be back in less than two weeks, convinced she had some new dire illness. He had a running bet with Dr. Bikram about how long it would be before she came in and demanded to have her prostate examined.

He plucked his phone from his pocket and thumbed it on. Three texts from Sherlock, of course, all within the last fifteen minutes.

Come home immediately. I need your assistance. –SH

What is your ETA? –SH

If with a patient, prescribe unnecessary antibiotics and then come home. Now. –SH

John sank into the chair behind his desk and tapped out a response. Are you bleeding?

The response was immediate; apparently Sherlock was staring at his phone and waiting. No.

John clenched his jaw. I'm at work. We had an agreement about this.

I have a non-bleeding medical emergency that requires your assistance. –SH

That was highly doubtful. Call 999.

It was a full minute before John's phone buzzed again.

Considered, but no. Your skills should be adequate. –SH

"Thanks," John muttered.

There was a knock at his door and the receptionist poked his head through. "Dr. Watson? Could you take a call from The Independent on line four? I assume it's the weekly 'what's going around' column. Everyone else is with patients."

"Yes, of course, put it through." He tapped quickly at the screen of his phone. I'm not leaving the office for less than a 7.

The phone rang and he picked it up. The reporter on the other end asked him several questions about the number of cold cases he'd seen this week, and he rattled off the numbers as best as he could remember. His phone buzzed again and he turned it over to glance at the screen.

More than a 7.

Click to download <img03121.jpg>

He clicked. The gasp that left his lips was completely involuntary. The photograph was of a penis. More specifically, an erect penis. John could only gape at the screen of his phone in horror.

"Dr. Watson? Are you all right?"

"Yes, sorry." He dropped the mobile face-down on his desk and rubbed a hand over his eyes. "Spilled tea on myself is all. What else did you need?"

He managed to muddle through the rest of the call, though his mind was spinning. The moment he hung up the phone, he picked up the mobile once more. Was that… Sherlock's erect penis? It had to be; there was a bit of one of his dressing gowns visible in the foreskin. Er, foreground. Shit. John shook his head, incredulous.

What conclusion about your medical emergency am I meant to draw from this photo?

The response was immediate. I have an erection. –SH

John blinked at the screen. And this is an emergency how?

It won't go away. –SH

John laughed before he could stop himself. Surely he didn't mean… but then, what else could he mean? Have you tried pulling on it?

Don't be ridiculous. I do know how to masturbate. It's not working. –SH

John's mind was filled with an image of Sherlock wanking on the sofa, and he winced. God, no.

Try porn.

He shoved the phone in his pocket again, and began preparing for his next patient. The phone remained blessedly silent for nearly five minutes.

He felt it buzz in his pocket just as he was going to open the door for the next patient. He glanced quickly at the screen.

Didn't work. The porn on your computer is boring and repetitive. –SH

John clenched his jaw. Try GAY porn.

His phone buzzed twice during the meeting with his next patient, and it took an astonishing amount of willpower to wait until the door was closed behind her before looking at it.

Also not working. Might have made it worse. –SH

I need medical assistance. –SH

John groaned. Did the man seriously not know how to wank? He supposed nothing about Sherlock ought to surprise him. What else have you tried?

Ignoring it. Cold shower. Thinking of Anderson. –SH

John couldn't help but smile at that. His phone buzzed again.

<Click to download video attachment>

Oh, bloody hell. John didn't dare click; the thumbnail alone showed him enough of what the video contained. He began to compose a snarky response, but then it occurred to him that he might be missing the big picture of what was going on.

What sort of medical assistance do you need?

There was no response for a full minute.

I need you to help me make it go away. –SH

How exactly do you think I will be able to make it go away?

You're the expert in this area. –SH

John's eyebrows rose into his hairline. Sherlock was suggesting—he couldn't be suggesting that.

I'm not coming all the way home on my lunch hour to help you get yourself off. Surely you're capable of doing that on your own.

He hid the phone in a desk drawer while consulting with the next patient. He could still hear it buzzing its text alerts.

"If you need to get that—" the young woman began.

"No, of course not. It's not that important." He was going to kill Sherlock. In the most painful way possible.

Five minutes later, he opened the drawer with a great deal of trepidation.

John. Please. –SH

Stop ignoring me. I know you hear the text alerts. –SH

Texted Lestrade out of desperation. His response: 'Fuck no. That's John's job.' See? He agrees with me. – SH

I am extremely uncomfortable. Can't accomplish anything in this state. –SH

BORED. –SH

John's thumbs hovered over the screen, ready to tell Sherlock he was going to turn off his phone for the rest of the day, when an unpleasant thought occurred to him: this had been going on for more than an hour. Erections didn't last that long under normal circumstances. He closed his eyes. Shit.

Is there something you're not telling me?

His phone was silent for two minutes. When it finally buzzed, he nearly dropped it in his haste to see the text.

I took Viagra.

Oh, for fuck's sake. John felt like banging his head on his desk. WHY?

Case.

Of course. Right. "Fuck." He tapped furiously. My room, bedside table, top drawer. There is a tube of lube. Use it.

I tried that an hour ago. I need medical assistance. I'm completely serious. Please.

John squeezed his eyes shut as an even more horrible thought popped into his mind. How many did you take?

Another minute of silence. John tapped his fingers against his desk.

Three.

John swore loudly. On my way.

*****

He rescheduled his next three appointments and took a taxi to Baker Street. Sherlock was on the sofa when John burst through the door, and he looked about as ridiculous as John had expected: dressing gown open, t-shirt inside-out, naked from the waist down, and his erection jutting out.

John stripped off his jacket and crossed the room in four paces. He dropped the kit he'd brought with him from the surgery and leaned over to stare into Sherlock's eyes. "Any headache? Do you feel lightheaded at all?"

"No." Sherlock's expression was one of mild annoyance. He didn't even seem to be embarrassed.

John started to reach for Sherlock's hand, but considering its current location, thought the better of it. He pressed his fingers to the pulse point on Sherlock's neck instead. "Your heart rate is slightly elevated, but nothing out of the ordinary. I need to take your blood pressure." He reached for his kit.

"John—"

"No, Sherlock, this is critical. You've put yourself at risk of a heart attack, among other things. How could you do this to yourself? No case is worth you overdosing or causing yourself permanent injury." He gestured vaguely in the direction of Sherlock's groin. He pushed up the sleeve of Sherlock's dressing gown and wrapped the cuff around his bicep.

Sherlock sighed and fell back against the sofa. "I lied. I only took one."

John snorted and began pressing the bulb. "I don't believe you. Now shut up so I can get a proper reading."

Sherlock's blood pressure was slightly elevated, as was his pulse, but it was nothing out of the range of normal. John stripped off the cuff without a word and sat next to him on the sofa.

Sherlock sighed. "I didn't think you'd come if I said I'd taken the normal dosage."

"You were right. I would've told you to wank harder."

Sherlock ran a hand through his hair and looked up at the ceiling. "I've never been very good at it. When I'm half-asleep, or very aroused, it's fine, but... Most of the time it just sort of… goes away."

John exhaled through pursed lips. "But this one didn't, because of the Viagra."

Sherlock clenched his jaw, seeming to steel himself. "I know you've done it before, definitely in the army, and probably while at university. Is it really so much to ask that you do it for me?"

Jesus. John's cheeks heated. "Those times involved alcohol and adrenaline and lots of darkness."

"We've got vodka and we can draw the curtains. I think we've got the adrenaline fairly well covered." There was a hint of humor in Sherlock's voice, and it made John smile, unexpectedly.

"Not even porn worked?"

"The details are too distracting. I can't keep my focus enough to bring myself to orgasm."

John inhaled, exhaled. "And what makes you think I could do it any better?"

Sherlock was silent, and John turned to look at him. He stared back at John with an expression of near-vulnerability on his face. His eyes were wide and dark, and his lips parted, and then, to John's astonishment, he blushed and looked away.

Oh. Oh.

"John, please don't think any less of me."

"No, of course not, I just… Why didn't you tell me?"

Sherlock made a sound like a pained laugh and looked away. "What good would it have done? It would only have made you uncomfortable."

"And you think this doesn't?" John glanced down at Sherlock's erection for the first time, hard and dark and clearly, uncomfortably, not going anywhere.

"This was a last resort, believe me."

John snorted. "No, A&E is a last resort."

"I'd hoped to avoid an official diagnosis of priapism."

"And the treatment as well, I imagine." John winced at the thought. Surely a hand job between friends wasn't too much to ask, with that as the alternative. He took a deep breath. "Okay, fine. Just give me a minute. I'll be right back."

He felt Sherlock's eyes on him all the way to the bathroom, almost boring through the wall as he washed his hands and stared at his reflection in the mirror for a full minute. It was just a hand job. He'd done it dozens of times, and it had never been a big deal. It was just getting someone off, and in this case, it was for a good cause. So why did he feel so hesitant?

No matter; it was best to get it over with. He walked back to the sofa and sat next to Sherlock again, and forced himself to look into his eyes. He held out his hand. "Give me the lube."

Sherlock's eyes widened almost comically, and he fumbled for a moment before producing the bottle from somewhere between the sofa cushions. He looked petrified, and it was a moment before John realized why: if this didn't work, he'd be in real trouble.

So John had to make sure it worked.

"Relax, okay? I'm actually quite good at this. Or so I've been told." He grinned and squirted some lube into his left hand.

Sherlock nodded, but he didn't relax. His entire body seemed to tense up even more.

John shifted sideways and reached up to touch Sherlock's cheek with his dry hand. "Look at me. It's going to be all right."

Sherlock stared back at him, and John slid one hand down his cock. Sherlock's mouth opened slightly at the contact, and his eyelids fluttered shut.

"Oh my God."

Those words, from that mouth – shit. John had definitely not expected the jolt of desire that shuddered through him. He looked down at Sherlock's cock, watched the slow slide of his own hand down the shaft, up again, tugging the foreskin with it, swirling his thumb over the glans, spreading lube as he did. It was surprisingly erotic, more than he had expected.

It had been a while since he'd done this to someone else. Sherlock was right that it had been in the army: the last time had been with a corporal named Charles. He'd been almost a decade younger than John, freckled, and boyishly beautiful, and he'd said he'd never got off with a bloke before. The blow job he gave John afterwards had indicated otherwise, but John hadn't complained.

And he wasn't complaining now, with his hand sliding down Sherlock's cock, alternately watching the movement and Sherlock's face. He was lost, flushed, beautiful like this. John hadn't thought of him as a sexual being at all, had just assumed Sherlock wasn't interested in that sort of intimacy.

John twisted his hand experimentally, and Sherlock whispered, "Fuck," and just like that, John was hard.

Well then.

He leaned in, closed the distance between them enough to feel heat rolling off of Sherlock's skin, and Sherlock turned his head to look at him. His eyes were dilated, pupils blown wide, and his respiration had increased, and John couldn't remember a time he'd ever seen him look more enticing.

He surged forward and pressed his mouth against Sherlock's before he could lose his nerve. Sherlock inhaled sharply through his nose, surprised, but he didn't resist as John pressed the tip of his tongue between his lips. He made a soft sound and slid a hand around the back of John's skull, and John was momentarily lost in the soft slide of tongues and lips. Sherlock was better at this than John might have imagined, and now that he thought of it, yes – he had imagined it once or twice, in lost moments wanking in the shower after they'd solved an especially brilliant case.

He was beginning to lose focus on the task at hand, though. He pulled out of the kiss and looked down at Sherlock's cock again.

"How do you like it?"

Sherlock's head fell back against the sofa cushions. "I don't… That, that's good."

John sped up his strokes and let the thumb of his free hand stroke lightly along Sherlock's neck.

"Oh, that's even better."

John grinned and leaned in close enough to whisper against his ear. "It's too bad we can't take our time with this. I'd like to experiment on you, see what makes your eyes roll back in your head and what makes your toes curl. God, I can't wait to see you come."

Sherlock closed his eyes. "Oh, God."

"Fuck, look at you. Sherlock Holmes, always so perfect and logical and cool, and I can take you apart with just my fingers, can't I?" He trailed his tongue along the shell of Sherlock's ear. "Just wait until you see what I can do with my mouth."

Sherlock's eyes flew open and his hips jerked up against John's fist, and John pumped his hand against the head in short, quick movements.

"Yes, yes," John whispered, his forehead pressed against Sherlock's temple, his eyes focused on the sight of the glans disappearing and reappearing into his own fist, over and over. "My God, I want you. I had no idea, but I want you so fucking much right now. Want to see you come, want to make you come, want to—"

Sherlock cried out and his hips pressed up, and there, there, John kept his hand moving through it, watching with fascination as his jaw slackened, his eyes squeezed shut, and then there was a wet warmth on John's fingers and oh God -- he'd done that. He'd made Sherlock come, and he couldn't remember the last time he'd been so hard.

He wiped his hand on Sherlock's dressing gown and scrambled back on the sofa, unfastening his trousers, he lifted his hips enough to push them down and out of the way, and took his own aching cock in hand.

"No, wait," Sherlock said, and then he pushed John back, slid to the floor. Before John quite realized what was happening, there was a dark head in his lap and his cock was engulfed in wet heat, and oh, oh. Sherlock had definitely done this before.

It was quick and dirty and so fucking good. Sherlock seemed to understand that John needed to get off, had to come, and he wasn't taking his time. He sucked hard and his tongue was a marvel, and John sank his hands into that mop of hair and held on for dear life.

"Oh, fuck, your mouth," he managed, already feeling his balls tighten. "Your fucking mouth, I can't…" And he couldn't form words after that, couldn't do more than hold on. He thrust his hips up and Sherlock let him, fucking let him press his cock in almost to the base and Sherlock swallowed around him as he came, and oh God.

Sherlock sat back a few moments later, his face flushed and his lips wet and his hair an insanity, and John had never seen anything more perfect.

"I… you…Fuck." John pressed his hands over his face and laughed.

When he looked again, Sherlock's expression was wavering between elation and something that looked very close to fear.

"That's not the first blow job you've ever given."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and smiled. "No, it isn't."

"If I'd known you could give head like that, I would've given up trying to find a girlfriend ages ago." John grinned, but Sherlock's face fell. John held out a hand. "I'm serious. I…" He was, wasn't he? Jesus, he'd walked in here half an hour ago ready to murder Sherlock, and now he was practically asking him to be his boyfriend.

Sherlock stared at John's hand. "It can just be this, you know. That's fine. I asked for your help and you helped me, and I don't expect—"

"Shut the fuck up, will you?" John grabbed his hand and pulled him forward, down against John's chest. "Kiss me."

Sherlock stared down at him, his eyes full of something John couldn't quite make out. "John, I…" He stopped himself, swallowed, and then kissed John softly. "All right," he whispered against John's mouth. "All right."

They stayed like that for several long minutes, mouths moving together in a soft, slow slide, and John found himself almost giddy. He grinned against Sherlock's lips and Sherlock pulled back to look at him.

"You want this? Really?" His expression was guarded, but John didn't miss the flicker of hope in his eyes.

"Yes." John smiled, unable to keep the affection from his voice.

"Right then. Yes." Sherlock smiled back, and he practically glowed.

John felt a twist in the pit of his stomach, one he wasn't yet ready to think very hard about. "How the fuck was taking Viagra going to help with a case, anyway?"

"I've been thinking about the murder-suicide Lestrade called us in on a few weeks ago."

"The one that stumped you?" John couldn't help smirking.

"I'm never stumped." Sherlock affected an indignant expression, but there was humor beneath it. "I was exploring another possible motive for the brother-in-law."

"Who's already been arrested and is currently awaiting trial?" John shook his head. "You're mad, do you know that?"

Sherlock gave him an odd look. "Yes. At any rate, I wanted to be sure that the Viagra in his system would have worked as the coroner suggested, and I had no one to experiment on but myself."

John laughed. "Oh, thank God I had a shift at the surgery today. You'd have slipped it in my morning tea."

"Don't be ridiculous." Sherlock almost looked guilty. "I learned my lesson. I even promised."

"Well, I can't say I'm sorry you took it." John slid his arms around Sherlock's shoulders. "I'm not sorry at all."

"Neither am I. Now."

John grinned. His mobile buzzed in his pocket, somewhere near his knees. He reached down for it and frowned. "I've got fifteen minutes before I have to go back to the surgery. How do you want to spend them?"

"I've got a few ideas." Sherlock smiled and pressed him back into the sofa. He was quite good with his mouth, it turned out.

*****

~ fin ~