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Amateur Hour at Baker Street

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John never did this sort of thing.

Well, he DID do this sort of thing, just not this particular KIND of this sort of thing.

But he was alone, and horny, and...did it REALLY matter what kind of porn he watched?

It's not like he could just pack up Rosie and pop over to the adult film store, rent “Internal Cumbustion” and carry on his merry way - well, at least not without getting some VERY judgemental looks, and he really didn't need any more attention brought to him. He didn't even want to imagine what the press would say if they got wind.

He also didn't really have the luxury of asking himself WHY there was a DVD labelled “Gay Porn? Research” at Baker Street (not like it belonged to Sherlock, at least for any kind of recreational use - just transport and all that) - and he also didn't really want to look too closely at how intriguing it was to him that there WAS gay porn at Baker Street either.

Before he could change his mind, he inserted the DVD and leaned back on his bed.

The screen flickered to life with a sort of static that reminded John eerily of Mary's posthumous videos. He flinched, grabbing for the remote, about to lose his nerve, when the video's subject came into focus.

The man on the screen was partially dressed, in suit slacks and wingtip shoes, with a deep blue suit shirt he was in the process of slowly unbuttoning.

Pale skin almost seemed to glow between the sides of the shirt, and John found himself, utterly against his will, envisioning Sherlock instead, wearing his deep purple dress shirt, long fingers playing over the buttons flush against his chest.

However, John could tell, even with the man's face hidden, that this was decidedly not Sherlock - he seemed a bit shorter, broader around the shoulders, and not nearly as impossibly thin.

Really, this was a good thing - he hadn't secretly been hoping it was his flat mate - that would be an invasion of privacy - and watching a questionable porno video found on a shelf at Baker Street was a completely normal thing to do, of course.

“You were serious, you're actually recording me?” The voice was muffled, the man's head still out of view, and John could just barely make out the words.

The man slipped open the bottom button of his dark blue shirt, then moved to work open the buttons at his sleeves, uncovering more of his pale chest.

John glanced at his door, ensuring once more that is was firmly closed, and began to unbutton his own shirt. Rosie had just gone down for a nap downstairs, and Sherlock was at the morgue with Molly - plenty of time to really enjoy himself.

The angle changed a bit, and the camera man’s hand came into view as he reached out and gently caressed the sparse curls that covered his lover’s chest and ran down to his navel.

John ran his hand over his own chest. It had been so long since he’d been touched like that, and even longer since he'd felt another body under his hands - though the body he was currently imagining was smooth, almost hairless, and painfully thin.

“Come on, put on a show for me?” the cameraman said roughly as he pushed the other man’s shirt off his shoulders and stepped back.

“If that’s what you’d like.” The man slipped his shirt the rest of the way off, seeming to pause for a moment, about to fold it, before instead letting it fall to the floor. He toed off his shoes, running his hands down his sides to stop at his hips, palming his erection, which was becoming quite obvious in his well tailored trousers.

John was getting pretty hard himself, though it was much less obvious in his off the rack trousers.

The man on the screen slipped his hands into the waistband of his trousers, inching them deliberately down his hips and thighs, letting them pool at his feet before stepping out of them. He gave his growing hard on a firm stroke through his aqua Calvin Kleins.

John unzipped his trousers, gripping himself through his much less posh pants. He’d never seen a need for an intricately indexed drawer full of Hugo Boss and Giorgio Armani pants (unlike his flat mate), but was beginning to see their appeal.

The man on screen stood awkwardly for a moment, not sure what to do next. A large hand came into view from behind the camera, and ran down the chest of the other man, following the trail of hair and skirting across the prominent bulge.

“You're liking this, I can tell. You look...amazing. What are you going to do for me next?”
The camera man's voice was even rougher with need than before, and the deep timbre went straight to John's cock straining against his own pants. What he'd give to hear a deep, rough voice saying things like that (one voice in particular, of which the thought of made John that much harder). He may not be gay, but he never said he didn't appreciate a good looking man if the opportunity arose. And god, what he would do to a certain man if there was even a sliver of a chance that anything would ever happen.

“I thought that was your part in all this - taking control, telling me what you want.” The on screen man's voice was more than a little breathless, causing the camera man to groan.
“Oh, I love it when you tell me to take control - so different from usual. Come on, show me what you've got.” The cameraman’s voice had taken on urgency, almost frustrated – or maybe John was just projecting.

“Patience,” the man on screen said, a hint of a smile in his voice. He pushed his fingertips under his waistband, and John found himself following suit, reaching and slowly pulling down, inch by inch, as he watched the man on screen do the same. John’s breathing was faster now, and he found himself closing his eyes in relief as the final inch of restraining cloth was pushed down and thrown aside, freeing his aching erection at last. If he hadn’t been burning with need, he would have been embarrassed at how close he already was to climax.

Vaguely, he heard the porno still playing in the background, but his eyes remained closed as he gave himself a firm pull, lost in his head, imaging a tall, curly haired man, long elegant fingers wrapped around him. He wanted to savour the fantasy playing out in his mind, but, he knew it wouldn’t be long – he only had so much self-control.

John fumbled in his night stand, grabbing his tube of lube and squirting a generous amount in his hand, slathering it on and increasing his rhythm, the sounds of the porno fueling his desire. He was so close, so close, so –

“Oh god, Mycroft, you’re –“

John’s eyes flew open, his desire suddenly extinguished as if he’d been doused in ice water. Had he just heard –

Suddenly, the door opened. “John, Rosie seems to have –“ Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks, eyes huge and getting bigger as he took in the scene before him – John, mostly naked, cock in hand, porno playing on the small television.

Neither man moved for what felt like an eternity, huge eyes locked across the room, the only sounds the amorous moaning coming from the video, until finally, Sherlock awkwardly cleared his throat and said, “So…I see you found my brother’s porno.”

That was all it took – John snapped into motion, grabbing for the closest object he could find and hurling it at Sherlock’s head and yelling, “Don’t you bloody know how to KNOCK!?”
To his further mortification, it seemed the closest object had been his pants, which, John saw, before the door slammed shut, were now draped over Sherlock’s head where they’d landed.
He grabbed for the remote, unfortunately not only turning the volume up in the process, but also causing himself to pitch face first off the bed onto the floor.

He could hear the men on the tape snogging, loud smacking kisses and grunts, as he scuttled across the floor on his hands and knees towards the DVD player, finally managing to shut the damn thing off – but not before he saw a familiar face attached to a very bare ass. Apparently, not only had he been wanking to Sherlock’s brother, but also to the DI of Scotland Yard (and John’s drinking buddy), Greg Lestrade.

John lay on the floor, pants-less, shirt hanging open, breathing hard, and thought to himself that he may never get an erection ever again.

****

Shortly after the most embarrassing moment of John’s life, he heard the front door open and slam shut – Sherlock had fled the flat. He hauled himself up off the ground, putting on a fresh pair of pants (he would probably burn the ones that had landed on Sherlock, if he ever found them) and a jumper and jeans, making his way downstairs to check on his daughter, only to find that she wasn’t there. Sherlock, even in his rush, had remembered that Mrs. Hudson was taking her for the night – her overnight bag and favorite toy were also missing, and he couldn’t imagine Sherlock had decided to take her to a murder scene (even after what he had witnessed earlier).

He told himself he was going to just grab a cup of tea and something to eat, then hide for the rest of the night. However, just as he was about to bolt back upstairs, he found himself face to face with Sherlock, who had just arrived back home – ACTUALLY face to face, as in he almost ran face first into the consulting detective, who grabbed his arms in reaction to impact, holding him steady, unfortunately giving John absolutely nothing else to do but meet the other man’s eyes.

“Shit. Sorry. I – shit,” John sputtered, kicking himself inside at his complete and utter lack of any kind of higher thought process at that point in time.
Surprisingly, Sherlock seemed just as much at a loss for words as John. The man simply stared at him with wide deer-caught-in-headlights eyes and just stood there, holding on to his arms.

“Listen, Sherlock, about earlier –“
“John, I just have to say – “

Both men stopped, having started talking at the same time. They tried once more, doing the same thing again, then Sherlock let go of John and stepped back, inclining his head to indicate John could speak first – which was disturbing in itself, as John couldn’t ever recall a time that Sherlock had let him speak first.

“Okay, ah – about earlier. Upstairs, with the…porno, and –“ John shifted, putting his hands in his pockets, then removing them again, hands opening and closing against his will.

“It’s perfectly natural for a healthy male to indulge in masturbation, John, it’s not like it’s a secret. In fact, I know you’re one to indulge quite frequently, especially in the mornings during your shower – “

“Stop. Stop!” John waved his hands, grimacing and starting to turn red. “That’s not – not what I’m trying to – I don’t need to hear your…observations about my masturbatory habits. Jesus.” He took a deep breath, about to speak again, but Sherlock continued on, almost nervously.

“I’m simply trying to let you know it’s all fine. You don’t need to be embarrassed about it – though I’d prefer it weren’t to my brother, but I suppose I should have known, what with how the two of you go on with each other…and he’s…fit? I guess? Though if you’d seen him before he started obsessively exercising, well –“

“No, Sherlock, I – Jesus Christ, no. I don’t have a hard on for your brother –“

“Well, actually, you did. Earlier, I mean. Quite an impressive one actually – or was it for Graham? He is…ruggedly handsome, especially for his age, though I wouldn’t have pegged you for being into manly types. Though you were in the army, so maybe not so far fetched –“

“Oh my god, stop! Stop. Just – stop. Trying to figure out who I want to…peg. The porno, it was an accident, I just saw “porn” and it’s been awhile, and dear Lord it just went…wrong. Very, very wrong. What with your brother, and GREG, and you WALKING IN –“

“Rosie woke up and was asking for you. If I’d known you were having a wank to my brother’s amateur porn, clearly I wouldn’t have interrupted you –“

“I didn’t know it was your brother!! I was minding my own business, having myself a fantastic fantasy about someone completely else and suddenly, mid stroke, your brother’s name comes up, and then – and then!! Then you’re suddenly there, in the room, not just in my head anymore, and –“ John stopped suddenly, realizing what he had just said.

Sherlock was doing the deer-in-the-headlights stare again, and John cursed himself – of course, Sherlock, the great bloody genius, had realized what he had just accidentally revealed. He opened his mouth a couple times, before he finally managed, “John, I –“

“Shit. Just – pretend I didn’t say that. Don’t…say anything,” John muttered and whirled around to hightail it back upstairs, only to feel Sherlock’s hand on his arm, stopping him in his tracks. He flinched, slowly turning back around, fearing what he would see, and met Sherlock’s eyes.

They stood for a moment, a mirror of how they’d been upstairs when Sherlock had walked in (minus the part where he was naked and Sherlock looked like he had been hit by a bus), but then Sherlock was moving forward, pulling John in close, leaning down to meet John’s lips ever so softly, hesitant, as if asking permission.

Now John was the one who looked like the proverbial deer - eyes wide, frozen in place. It didn’t last long, however – he found himself grabbing on to the other man, crushing the lean body to his smaller frame, deepening the kiss into something much, much less delicate – and suddenly it was over, Sherlock pulling back and meeting John’s eyes once more. John was breathing hard again, and he saw the other man’s eyes flick down and then back up to meet his once more. Sherlock smiled slyly, and said, deep voice rough, “If you need help with that – you know where to find me.” He winked, sauntering away towards his room, but paused and turned around right before he went through the door to say, “Unless you’d rather go back upstairs to finish your video instead?”

“Oh, you bastard,” John said with a smile, and Sherlock laughed as he disappeared into his bedroom, leaving the door open in invitation.

It took John approximately two seconds before he hustled after the other man, slipping into the room and closing the door (firmly) behind him – and locking it for good measure. Perhaps he’d been wrong about never having an erection ever again – and by god, he intended to use it.