Something was going on with John. To Sherlock, this was an undeniable fact.
Example 1 : In the course of the past two weeks, John had started avoiding Sherlock. He spent more time in his own room than was usual. John was a man who would occasionally spend an hour or so brooding in his room. But this was usually only after his leg or hand let him down during a particularly toilsome case, or when Sherlock once again sabotaged a date with a simpering twit. Normally the morose mood would pass soon enough and John would reappear to happily tend to the detective's whims. More or less.
Example 2 : When John was holed up in the small room upstairs, he was in the kitchen, taking forever to prepare his tea. What used to take only a few minutes now lasted hours, as John preformed the longest tea ceremony known to mankind.
However, if Sherlock moved to attend to an experiment in the kitchen, John would discretely retreat to the living room. Or spontaneously proclaim that a visit to Mrs. Hudson was in order.
Example 3 : Roughly a week ago Sherlock returned to the flat to find that John had moved his chair a few inches away from the sofa that Sherlock dominated. While the detective pretended not to notice, John seemed relieved.
However, the good doctor didn't stop at that. With an ever increasing frequency John would awkwardly excuse himself and head for the pub, or take endless walks, not even returning when the sky darkened with storm swollen clouds. And especially not when rain poured like it wished to drown London.
The most recent addition to John's ever growing list of newly acquired habits were his visits to the local swimming pool. There, he would spend hours swimming laps, returning to the flat wearing the stench of chlorine and a silly grin. To Sherlock's dismay the frequent exposure to the chemical concoction and oxidizing metals of the pool were turning John’s hair green and the whites of his eyes slightly red. Not even the excessively long showers John was taking lately could reverse the effects copper had on his sandy blond hair.
John didn’t seem to mind though, he'd much rather revel in the sensation of being wet. Which was made very clear when, during a case, he suddenly darted out into a passing summer shower. He returned after a few minutes, soaked to the core and flushing furiously. Seemingly ashamed of his sudden impulse, John stubbornly avoided all inquiring glances.
It was during cases that the doctor’s strange behaviour became most apparent. Though John avoided Sherlock as much as possible at home, he seemed to be unable to give up on even the most plebeian of mysteries. Initially he would stand a meter or two further away from Sherlock than usual, chatting with the cops from the Yard instead of listening to the detective's deductions and showering him with praise. Sherlock would have been offended if it weren’t for the fact that John inevitably gravitated back to him. Any moment of excitement would bring them back together, crouching over a clue or a corpse.
John’s interest in the subject of their analysis would often quickly wane and his focus would turn to the deducing detective next to him. Sherlock relished the piercing attention his partner gave him. He cherished the sound of John’s deep inhaling, which made him feel as though the doctor was trying to breathe him in. Often he found himself stealing glances of John’s face, memorising the dilated pupils and the way a dark red tongue quickly wetted the chapped lips. The sight never failed to send a flush racing over his own skin, and Sherlock had to dive deeper into his coat to hide it.
It was the same face that John made whenever he walked in on Sherlock eating a sandwich. Sherlock had been making a point of eating more often ever since.
Despite the fact that John's queer behaviour prickled Sherlock's curiosity, it wasn't until there was a significant lull in the recent flood of relatively interesting cases that the detective turned his full attention to his blogger. However, after spending a quite a few horizontal hours exploring the mental room labelled 'Dr. John H. Watson', Sherlock still hadn't found any plausible explanation for the doctor's deviation from his normal habits.
So when John returned briefly from his visit to Mrs. Hudson to announce that he would be going for a walk, Sherlock made a non-committal sound and stealthily followed him out. Dark clouds had been rolling through the sky all day, and John was twitching with anticipation when he left their flat. A light flush stole over his features and he quickened his pace, visibly enjoying the wind whipping the air around him. The duffel bag had gone along with him without any explanation.
By the time the storm broke, John had made his way to a secluded part of the Battersea Park. His duffel bag hung from a low branch, swaying in the chilly wind. The owner of the bag stood ankle-deep in a shallow pond in a light T-shirt with his pants bunched up to his knees. A spray of mud was spattered along John’s muscled calves and his face was turned to the heavens to catch the falling rain. His moist lips were slightly parted and his green tinged eyelashes rested softly on his face. Sherlock had rarely ever seen the doctor truly relaxed. Despite his soft exterior the man was always alert, scanning his environment out of habit. Lately this had only gotten worse, and while neither limp nor tremor had returned the doctor always seemed tense, like the mainspring coiled in a gun primed to fire.
But now, surrounded by the turmoil of lightning and thunder, the doctor was a picture of utter peace and bliss. Sherlock couldn't tear his eyes away from the fascinating play of lightning over John’s skin and the river of water that ran down his body, accentuating the curve of every muscle through the thin cloth. The detective stayed where he was, hidden in the shade of a large oak tree, content to observe and memorise the sight before him.
After a while the pouring rain began to slow, and John’s breathing changed as though he was awakening from a trance. Knowing that John would soon make his way home, Sherlock backed away slowly from the riveting scene, his chilled muscles protesting at the movement. He was no closer to solving the enigma that was John Watson, but Sherlock didn't regret following him in the least. The riddles surrounding this man ranked at least a 9.
Sherlock made it home a mere 15 minutes before John. He had had enough time to hide his soaked clothing and install himself on the couch as though he was caught in the throes of boredom and not fretting over his flatmate. When John entered Sherlock looked up expectantly, but the dripping man quickly brushed passed him with a vague and slightly silly grin adorning his face. Vaguely muttering about 'bloody unpredictable weather' John hurried upstairs. Sherlock couldn't help but snort, the doctor was the worst liar he had ever had the misfortune to encounter. How the man managed to guard his secrets so well was beyond him.
Sherlock listened intently to John moving around in the bathroom they shared. He heard the sopping thud of the wet clothing in the duffel bag hitting the floor, and the soft groan of the shower rod bending under the weight of the heavy cloth. The distinct gurgle of a bath being run filled the flat and Sherlock imagined he could hear John shedding his damp spares. He pictured the John standing by the bath, testing the temperature of the water, his damp skin glistening in the soft yellow light of their dying bulb. A slight sloshing sound trickled down after the tap was wrenched closed with a resounding squeak. Sherlock’s throat dried as he thought about John’s firm body sliding into the water, and that blissed-out expression returning to his face. The way his muscles loosened and his lips parted slightly as warm soapy liquid engulfed him. Lips not cracked by the dry London air, but flushed and full and dampened by that quick dark tongue.
A deep groan reverberated through the flat and Sherlock shot up like a spear, taking the stairs two steps a time. The door banged loudly against the wall as he barged in, a few flecks of paint meandering down to the ground. Heart pounding and lungs heaving Sherlock took in the scene before him. John had flinched when the door was thrown open and was now looking at him with wide red eyes. The contrast between the blue irises and their reddened surroundings caused his eyes to blaze. He had his hands curled protectively over his lap and the green tinged hair was tussled and dripping over the bulging cheeks behind tight lips.
Surprise was quickly replaced by anger and John glared indignantly at the intruder. Sherlock flushed, partly due to the shame that the doctor's teachings had instilled in him, but mostly because of all the naked details his rapid-fire mind was taking in. Reluctantly he took a breath and attempted to formulate an apology.
“I-” Sherlock faltered and took another breath, held it, and exhaled with a rush of air. He quickly inhaled again, his Adam's apple bobbing nervously. John silently gazed at him, the lines of his brow slowly creasing with worry, the affront in his eyes shifting to anxiety.
“John.” Sherlock uttered, after which he immediately took another deep breath, sucking in the heavy air. Air that reeked of John, his warm, comforting, sharp and arousing scent.
Water sloshed as John turned his back to Sherlock, revealing the clean scar on his shoulder and a patterned line of small dark freckles along his spine. “Go away.” John muttered, his voice deformed and slurring. Sherlock felt his throat constrict and armed with logic he made his way over to the hunched man. “Nonsense, you have been out in the rain for a long time. I'll check your temperature.”
Before John could reply Sherlock placed a hand to the side of John’s neck. Heat flared against his hand and John’s heartbeat thrummed rapidly against Sherlock’s clammy palm. The doctor inhaled sharply at the contact, followed by a deeper breath as he roughly twisted away. “Please Sherlock, leave.” The doctor begged.
His name being lisped softly sent a thrill through the lanky man, and he stared fixedly at the smattering of freckles that John’s movement had revealed. A thin line starting at his chest, broadening towards his pubic area, so dark they seemed to be deep blue instead of brown. "You're suffering from an acute fever." Sherlock said absently as his long fingers trailed down slowly towards the first few freckles, stroking the soft skin lightly. John shivered and Sherlock could see John’s lips part slightly. He relished the breathy moan he heard.
Suddenly John’s hand shot away from his lap, and pushed Sherlock away with a surprising amount of force. “Leave!” John slurred angrily, before turning to glare at Sherlock who had stumbled back in surprise.
“There's red between your legs.” Sherlock reasoned, his mind latching on to the most recent thing he had seen. “You're wounded.” The man in question just glared, cheeks puffed angrily.
Sherlock was stung by the rejection, but instead of giving in he latched on to the flare annoyance that sparked in him and narrowed his eyes at John. “You are the one always nagging at me to be careful, harassing me so that I eat, so that you can treat my wounds. And now that you are hurt you don’t even trust me enough to tell me?” John shifted about in the bath, faintly distressed.
“Isn’t it enough that you to avoid me? Do I repulse you that much that you don’t even want me to touch you?” Sherlock hissed and John’s face fell, his lips quivering as though he was trying to stop himself from saying something, one hand clenching the edge of the tub in a death grip.
Sherlock saw the panic in John’s eyes and seized the moment. In one stride he was next to the bath and yanked the other hand covering John’s privates away. The sight stole his breath away. Short, dark red tentacles squirmed against each other like worms exposed to light. His gaze darted between John's face and the fascinating tangled nest. John looked away with a pained expression.
Reluctantly the doctor opened his mouth and more tentacles came spilling out. “I avoided you because I didn’t want you to know.” Sherlock watched with fascination at the way the oral tentacles rubbed together to aid in vocalization, now that they were not confined to his mouth, John's voice was as clear as ever. “You are not the repulsive one.” John sighed, his shoulders shaking with self-derisive laughter.
“Neither are you.” Sherlock said, lacing their fingers together reassuringly. “You’re fascinating.” He continued, glancing back at the tentacles between his friends legs. Heat coiled low in his stomach at the astounding sight, but he reigned himself in. Now was not the time to indulge petty fancies.
“Have you always been like this?” Sherlock asked, knowing full well that he hadn’t seen any tentacles when he walked in on John a few months ago. He smiled as he vividly remembered the ensuing row about privacy.
John squirmed at the question, and Sherlock was enraptured by the sight of the tentacles winding into themselves. “It's a hereditary thing, but I only manifest under certain circumstances.” John murmured. An arched brow prompted him to elaborate. “You’ve been eating marmite lately, and I tend to react to that scent.”
Sherlock frowned at the admission. “Anderson eats marmite.”
“Yes, well. I’m not very fond of Anderson am I.” John replied defensively.
“But you are fond of me?” Sherlock asked and a wide grin spread on his face.
“Yes, well... yes.” John was flushing again, his Adam’s apple bobbing nervously in his throat.
“And smelling marmite on me, makes you react?” Sherlock inquired while he leaned closer to John, fixating on what he deemed to be an important revelation. John didn’t reply, but his dilating pupils and the shudder that passed through him answered the question quite clearly. Sherlock deliberately brushed his lips against the tentacles protruding from John’s mouth, feeling their smooth fleshy texture.
“Your scent is also quite tantalizing, John.” He husked. A moan rolled over John’s oral tentacles and came to a trembling halt on Sherlock’s lips. Sherlock groaned the sensation and nipped at the tentacles under his lips.
Boldly he twined his tongue between them and was thrilled by the feeling of wet tentacles slipping and sliding over his tongue. They tasted surprisingly neutral and felt as smooth as they had looked, completely devoid of texture.
Impulsively Sherlock sucked one of them into his mouth and the rest followed enthusiastically. Sherlock was momentarily startled by the way his lips were suddenly stretched around a mass of invading appendences. He focussed on breathing through his nose and glanced at John through half-lidded eyes.
John’s eyes were scrunched shut, his expression torn between pleasure and pain, desire and dread. Sherlock vowed that he would change that look to one of delirium while he relished the curious tickling sensation of the slim pointed tentacles exploring all the nooks and crannies in his mouth and the small moans John made in the back of his throat.
Sherlock gently pried the doctor's hand from the edge of the tub, rubbing small circles along the inside of his wrist. With one last suck on a wriggling appendage he pulled back, and hastily clambered into the bathtub with John.
“Sherlock, what are you doing?” John said tightly as Sherlock settled himself on his naked lap.
“You have to ask?” Sherlock mocked as he pulled his T-shirt over his head.
“Yes.” John countered, straining not to react to the smooth pale chest exposed before him. His pelvic tentacles throbbed with the need to extend and trace every tiny scar etched into the pallid skin before him. “You have never shown any true sexual interest towards anyone, and now you're suddenly jumping me.”
“So would it appear” The black haired man smirked as he tossed his shirt aside.
“Sherlock! I’m serious! There are other ways to go about me being, being... Not human!” John tried to back away as Sherlock deliberately leaned forward with a predatory glint shining bright in his eyes.
“Obviously.” Sherlock intoned, “But I think this method is the most mutually beneficial.” And he grabbed John's hands to stretch the man's arms above his head so that he could align his neck along John’s face. John groaned as his senses were flooded by the smell of chemicals, sweat and marmite that mingled to create a scent unique to Sherlock.
John had been itching to touch the mad man for weeks now. He couldn’t even retract himself properly anymore, his appendages permanently swollen with need, twitching every time he came near the detective. Despite his best intentions, he just couldn’t ignore the way Sherlock had draped himself over him and ground into him.
Almost automatically his pelvic tentacles surged forward to coil around Sherlock’s bottom. He traced the sharp hipbones that stuck out above the lose pyjama pants and vindictively curled a large tentacle around the heavy erection confined by the soft wet cloth.
Sherlock’s breath hitched against John’s throat and he transferred the wrists to one hand, pinning them firmly against the tiled wall. His other hand trailed downward, nails rasping softly against John’s wet skin, detouring slightly to pinch a pebbled blue nipple. John bit his lip at the sudden pain, pulling his tentacles back just in time.
Sherlock’s hand finally reached its destination. He briefly squeezed his own erection, before diving his hand into the writhing mass that sprouted from John's crotch. He let his fingers gently slide through them while he mouthed John’s thundering pulse. Carefully he wrapped his hand around one of the thicker tentacles and stroked it from base to tip. John groaned and his oral tentacles spilled out to caress Sherlock’s neck. Numerous thinner tentacles wound around the pale wrist as their slick larger brother was being fondled.
Sherlock let his forehead fall on John’s collarbone and gazed at the sight beneath him. “They are all so different.” He murmured softly. “This one is thick and slick, and has a rounded tip, while those in your mouth are slimmer and pointed. Others are almost threadlike. They all seem to be able to extend limitless.” He finished, voice breathy with wonder.
John was about to say something scathing when Sherlock began to pull carefully on the tentacle he was holding. John felt himself stretch. His breath caught at the surreal sensation and his blood buzzed under his skin. Time crawled by as he watched Sherlock bring one of his main tentacles to his face until the tip of it rested against the plump lips of the enigmatic man.
Sherlock sniffed at it and then licked experimentally. John squirmed as the foreign textured tongue lapped at him. John let his head fall back against the painfully hard tiles. Sherlock was suckling on him, enthusiastically pulling the tentacle into his mouth. His sexual organ was now freely oozing pre-ejaculatory fluid and Sherlock sucked at it eagerly, rubbing his tongue over the hole while he stroked the rest of his length with his hands.
John’s hands twitched erratically against the wall and his pelvic tentacles writhed against Sherlock’s body. He let them curve around the lightly rounded arse, pushing the cloth between the long-limbed man’s cheeks. His thinner appendages tapped and fondled the soft bulge of Sherlock’s balls while thicker tentacles rutted frantically against Sherlock’s hard cock.
With a groan Sherlock let his hand fall down and began to tug futilely at his soaked pants. When one thick appendage fluttered hesitantly over his pucker he let the tentacle fall out of his mouth with a breathy gasp.
“Please.” Sherlock begged, bright pale eyes excitedly seeking out shocked red ones.
John blinked back at him. “Are you sure?” he asked hesitantly.
“Yes!” Sherlock cried out impatiently. “I've made it perfectly clear that I want you, do not make me say please again.” He continued, trying to recover some of his haughty self. When John still hesitated he gently nuzzled the doctor's nose.
Before he knew it John found himself extending another pair of tentacles. Sherlock watched with fascination as a lengthy and slim tentacle extended from each hip, a leaf shaped fleshy blade unfurling at the end. John carefully trailed the blade over the jet haired man’s sides, taking care not to hurt him with his serrated suckers.
Sherlock gasped when a toothed suction cup nicked his nipple. John leaned forward as far as he could with Sherlock still restraining him and soothed the pinch with one of his oral tentacles while he let his bladed tentacles slowly slide Sherlock’s pants down his hips.
John’s throat constricted at the sight of Sherlock’s erection. Thick and slightly curved, the veins bulged with blood. Despite all the water it was obviously dripping with precome. Sherlock tilted his hips impatiently and John shyly let a pelvic tentacle slide against the throbbing organ. Sherlock trusted back eagerly and John curled two tentacles firmly around him.
Sherlock groaned appreciatively and started rocking rhythmically into John’s lap. More tentacles wound themselves around Sherlock’s cock, the thinner ones diving beneath the foreskin and wriggling around the base of the head. Sherlock shuddered and pushed John’s wrists hard against the wall. Using the leverage he had gained he grinded down hard. John bucked up against him and desperately wound the tentacles from his side around Sherlock’s hips to create a rhythm.
Sherlock gazed down feverishly into John’s eyes and nipped at the protruding oral tentacles. John’s eyelids fluttered shut over his reddened eyes and he tugged on Sherlock’s balls in retaliation. Sherlock took it as an invitation to dive down and forcefully pull John’s tentacles back into his mouth resulting in a sloppy and squirming mockery of a kiss.
One slim tentacle crept hesitantly along Sherlock’s perineum and flickered briefly over Sherlock’s puckered entrance. Sherlock’s hips immediately surged forward, exposing his behind. “Yesss.” He hissed, and the tentacles in his mouth rippled with pleasure.
John cautiously circled Sherlock’s hole with a large tentacle while he distracted Sherlock by plucking at his nipples with his suckers. He tried to slide the tip of his tentacle in slowly but the enthusiastic detective would have none of it. He spread his legs as far as he could in the narrow tub and ground down. John swallowed a moan as the tip slipped inside.
Sherlock shuddered and stilled as he felt the thick appendage breach him. His anus spasmed wildly around the invading member as though it wasn't sure what to do with the slick girth. John looked at him worriedly. "It doesn't have to be now, there are other ways." He said, and he started to pull the tentacle back. Sherlock quickly grabbed behind him to stop the retreat. "I just need time to adjust." He heaved. "I will have you." Sherlock stated and pinned John with a determined glare.
John went completely pliant beneath him, and after encouraging thug from the detective he slowly started to feed his member into Sherlock's arse. Sherlock twitched and shivered as the thick tentacle pushed forward, only to pull back and leave a fiery warmth in its wake. The fluid oozing from the tentacle soothed the burn caused by the friction and soon enough John could freely move within him.
Sherlock's heart swelled as he caught sight of the relieved expression on John's face. Determined he pushed back against the tentacle and drank in the gasp that escaped John. He smiled wickedly and dared John to pick up the pace by tightening his anal muscles. Soon they built up a rapid tempo in which John surged deep into Sherlock.
Thinner tentacles danced over his skin and caressed his arse, occasionally curling around the large one penetrating him to tease the rim. John gave Sherlock a searching look and let one of the thinner pubic tentacles wind around his main tentacle as he pulled out. Sherlock squirmed when he felt the tentacle return with a friend. The added texture did wonders as the two tentacles rubbed deliciously inside him, finally providing his prostate with the friction it had been missing. Slowly they began to wind in alternating directions and Sherlock let out a surprised 'Oh!' as he realised that he was literally being screwed. He groaned and rocked his hips lewdly to the rhythm of the sloshing water.
Another thick and weeping tentacle loitered timidly at his entrance and Sherlock couldn’t help but tilt his arse in invitation. John groaned and Sherlock felt every tentacle in him and on him pulse simultaneously. His cock throbbed with sympathy and the second thick tentacle started pushing inside, his skin stretching painfully around it.
A thin tendril circled his glands and started pushing slowly into his urethra, creating a burning counterpoint to the heavy stretch he felt in his arse. Sherlock revelled at the feeling of being filled and stretched. His balls were pulled tightly against his body, and he was throbbing inside and out. Never had he been so in tune with his vessel. His penis burned and twitched and his anus fluttered around the tentacles writhing within. He wouldn’t last long like this.
John wasn’t fairing much better, his green tinged hair stuck out at odd ends and his body tingled with the need to release. His chest was heaving against Sherlock’s chest and he had to rely on his internal gills to get enough air, feeling as though he was on the verge of passing out. Before he could properly warn Sherlock he felt his tentacles in Sherlock’s arse retract slightly and a warmth spread at their base.
Sherlock felt withdrawal and thickening of the tentacles and delighted at the sensation. Suddenly one of them started bulging impossibly within him. He briefly feared that he would tear but the swelling stopped just before it became excruciating. He could feel both large appendages ooze fluid within him and the thin tendril danced franticly over his prostrate, making sparks shoot across his eyes. He keened as the bulge moved upward in his rectum, and shivered as the tentacles stroking his cock sped up.
John couldn’t utter a word around his swollen oral tentacles. Salty tears welled up in his eyes as lust coiled with nervousness in his gut at the sight of Sherlock coming undone. The detective blinked at him and his nail dug into his wrists as he leaned forward to lick away the tears staining John's face.
With a final pulse the bulge was pushed deep into Sherlock’s body and he was distinctly aware of a large orb stretching him before it broke inside him. The warm liquid tingled in his bowels and he shivered with the desire for release. John retracted the tendril from his urethra and Sherlock felt his own come burn as it surged out in the most violent orgasm he had ever had. He could just see John’s face scrunched up in ecstasy before a veil of darkness swallowed him.
Sherlock woke to the rhythmic sound of John’s two stubby fingers stumbling over the keyboard of his laptop. The dark haired man found himself sprawled on the old sofa in their living room, a soft cushion crumpled in his clutch and a freshly laundered blanket draped over him. He felt loose limbed and pliant, though he could do without the ache in his jaw and rectum.
He felt unusually clean and refreshed, and when he squeezed his cheeks experimentally he concluded that John must have cleaned him inside and out. Heat flushed under his skin as he thought of John retracting from him and drawing a new bath to cleanse his unconscious lover. Knowing John he would probably have rubbed a soothing salve over the sorely stretched sphincter and removed the copious amount of thick fluid from his rectum. Had he been given an enema or had John used those wondrous tentacles for that? Sherlock's cock twitched at the thought and he regretted having passed out so soon.
Sherlock stretched just so he could enjoy the feeling of the soft cloth tickling his naked skin. And John’s head shot up at the movement. “You’re awake then?” He asked, trying to settle his face in a blank expression.
“Obviously.” Sherlock automatically replied. He rapidly catalogued John’s appearance. Judging from the way he quickly wetted his lips and his slightly curled fingers John was clearly nervous.
However, at the same time he looked more relaxed then he had in weeks. His shoulder wasn't hunched with stress and he was slouching slightly in his chair. His legs were splayed wide giving ample room to the large bulge between them. While his eyes weren't blazing red anymore they retained their pink tinge and the blond mop of hair hadn't completely lost its seaweedy complexion.
"Last night must have been good for you." Sherlock noted and John blushed bright red, crossing his legs out of modesty.
“Yes.” John said, face still flushed but forming a frown. “We should talk about that.”
“Indeed. Your cephalopodian nature is quite unexpected.” Sherlock said as he reached out to grab his phone from the coffee table, letting the blanket slide off his shoulder. He heard John shift uncomfortably while he glanced at the phone. The detective hummed happily to himself. Two fresh cases and John was obviously still interested.
“That's not what I-” John started, trying not to stare at the smooth flesh stretched over the bony shoulder. "That's actually pretty accurate." He finally conceded, amazed despite himself. "How did you know?"
“You’ve got numerous muscular hydrostats, some of them resembling cephalopodian tentacles. They are mainly restricted to your pelvic area and your oral cavity. You seem to excel at mimicry, and as long as you are not aroused, discovery does not seem to be a problem. Has Sarah seen them?” Sherlock asked eagerly.
“What no! She doesn’t taste like a bloody female in heat!” John snapped.
“Marmite?” Sherlock quickly deduced. John just rolled his eyes.
“So, during the finalization of our copulation did you deposit a spermatophore in me?” Sherlock queried, eyes bright with excitement.
“A what?” John ground out, his brain struggling to keep up with the unexpected leaps in the conversation.
“A sperm packet.” Sherlock replied, the word idiot dripping from his tone. John buried his face in his hands in embarrassment and Sherlock smirked with the triumph of being right.
“No matter.” Sherlock continued. “Lestrade sent a message containing one potentially interesting case. The other one is too obvious.” He flung the blanket away and strode towards the kitchen, relishing the feeling of blue eyes trained on him.
John frowned at Sherlock’s cheery and flippant behaviour. "That's it? No questions as to what I am?" He asked. Sherlock whirled around and John tried not to stare at the red patches scattered on his back and torso. He could still vividly remember the way he had coiled his tentacles around Sherlock’s body when he had passed out, tenderly stroking the soft skin while he stared at the blissful expression on the detectives slack face.
"Why would I bother with questions if I am perfectly capable of solving this mystery myself." The detective said as he shoved some clutter on the kitchen table aside, and reached for the bread and a relatively clean plate.
"Sherlock, you are not experimenting on me." John said angrily. Sherlock smirked and opened a jar and let the sharp scent of marmite spread through the flat. The dark haired man grinned as he heard John’s frustrated groan, and started calculating how long his friend would be able to deny him.