John is in the shower and knows that he is watched. It’s the third time in two weeks. He hasn’t closed the transparent shower curtain completely because he doesn’t want to block the view.
Sherlock is a shadow behind the interconnecting door to his bedroom. He peeks through the keyhole.
Innocent boy, he thinks and grabs his cock. His flatmate wants to get a glimpse of him? He will get a whole show.
John isn’t completely hard yet, but the thought of being observed by Sherlock is arousing. It doesn’t take more than a few strokes to feel his complete length in his hand.
He imagines Sherlock’s expression right now. Eyes wide open, he guesses. Bewildered.
John leans against the cool tiles, water pours over his body. His dick is twitching and he already feels the tension building in his loins.
Oh, how much he wants to come all over Sherlock’s pretty face! Jam his length between Sherlock’s delicate lips, deep into his throat so he has to gag a few times. And all this time his flatmate would look at John from below, his lashes fluttering, tears in those big astonished eyes. Too perplexed to realise what’s going on. But John would show him how to suck a cock, his cock.
He moans. He is close now. This boy makes him come so fast.
The tension breaks and John releases a cry, followed by streams of his semen.
By the time he has calmed down he notices that the shadow behind the door is gone.
When John comes into the kitchen, Sherlock already sits at the table and stares into the ocular of his microscope.
“Good morning”, John says.
“Morning”, Sherlock mumbles, blushes. He looks adorable with a bit of pink on his otherwise pale cheeks.
John makes himself a cup of coffee. “Want some, too?”
“No”, Sherlock answers. He seems busy but John notices that the object slide Sherlock stares at is empty.
Don’t think I’m too dumb to be aware of such things.
“What’re you analysing?” John leans over Sherlock’s shoulder. He can smell his flatmate’s clean scent of shampoo and soap.
“Nothing exciting”, Sherlock says and turns off the light of the microscope. “I… er… need to go.” His chair scratches over the floor.
“You okay?”, John asks, but Sherlock has already rushed out of the kitchen.
John grabs his mug and slowly goes up the stairs into his room.
When he has come home from work two days ago he could tell that Sherlock had been in here again. His clothes were organised.
Why does this boy love to tidy his room so much but leaves a mess everywhere else?
John looked under his bed and could see that the magazine had been picked up. It wasn’t laying at the exact same spot he had placed it a few days before.
So he’d found it.
The corner of John’s mouth turned into a smirk. Sherlock’s confused face must’ve looked gorgeous.
John had noticed that there had been a change in their relationship as flatmates. Sherlock had started to behave strange, even weirder than usual. He stared into the air, and it was clear he wasn’t in his mind palace but rather day dreaming.
Also their intentional touching had increased. Sherlock found incredible creative ways to be touched by John.
So one morning John decided to spice things up a bit in this silly game. An experiment, probably. But he wanted it to be a game, and it was his turn to be in charge now.
So he set up a mock account for a dating website and bought a gay magazine.
He doesn’t want to be predictable to Sherlock anymore. And he wants to find something out, too.
John sits down on his mattress, drinks his hot coffee, lets his thoughts run.
Does Sherlock have a crush on him?
John feels a tingling in his crotch.
Gosh, that boy is so sweet.
And Sherlock definitely is nothing more than a boy in John’s eyes. He doesn’t think that Sherlock has a lot of sexual experience, if any.
Thinking of his flatmate’s innocence and shyness makes John get hard again.
One day, he thinks, he will come out of the shower like the day Sherlock got his new petri dishes. All naked and wet. And when Sherlock starts to stare again, he will just grab him by his hips, drag his ridiculous sheet away to have a look at the boner his flatmate is hiding under the fabric, and press him against his own.
John wants to give in to his fantasies but time is not his friend today. He sighs. He needs to get ready for work.
His erection is uncomfortable big.
It’s late afternoon and John doesn’t go home right away. Instead he is inside an H&M shop, looking at shirts. During work he had the idea of changing his wardrobe, upgrading it. He knows that Sherlock hates his cosy jumpers. So why not exchange them for something more fashionable? John has a body that doesn’t need to be covered.
He takes some white and black shirts to the changing room. One size smaller than usual.
They fit tight, accentuate John’s abs and biceps. He makes some moves in front of the mirror. He needs to work out again to maintain his muscles. He can start tomorrow, right in their living room. Observed by Sherlock. A payback for when this idiot crawled over the floor like a baby to collect dust for his damn collection, and waggled his delicious ass.
John coughs slightly. It’s not the time to get aroused again.
He changes back into his own clothes, decides to buy the shirts he has tried on.
When John climbs the stairs to their flat, he senses that something is wrong.
As soon as he opens the door a bad smell hits him.
He can’t see right, the living room is filled with smoke. A whimper comes from the kitchen. John drops everything he is carrying, rushes to the big floor-length windows and tears them open. Then he hurries into the kitchen. The smoke burns in his eyes.
“John! Glad you’re here!”
John waves his arms, tries to clear his view a bit. Caused by a draught from the opened windows the smoke escapes.
Sherlock sits on the floor, his right hand clutches the left one.
John sinks down. “What has happened?”
“I wanted to cook.” Sherlock sounds sad.
“Damn it! What’s with your hand?”
“Show it to me.” John grabs Sherlock’s hand. His palm is red, a burn blister has formed.
John helps his flatmate get up. He wets a tea towel and wraps it around Sherlock’s hand.
On the stove sits a pot with some black indefinable something inside that still gives off clouds of smoke. John doesn’t care, he drags Sherlock along behind him into the bathroom.
Sherlock sinks on the toilet lid.
“I thought I could prepare dinner for us”, he whispers.
John takes the first-aid case from under the sink. No need for his doctor’s kit this time, at least.
He turns around, takes Sherlock’s hurt hand in his own. Careful.
“How?”, he just asks while he patches his flatmate up.
“I think I got a bit lost in my household filth collection. I had to analyse some really interesting fibres. And suddenly everything was filled with smoke. I wanted to put the pot in the sink but instead I burnt my hand. It was supposed to be pasta.”
“Pasta? Really? That black shit was noodles once?”
“Sorry. Ouch! That hurts."
“Just some balm. Hold still.”
“You can’t hurt yourself every other day. I am not your personal doctor.” Although John would love to be. He would strap Sherlock to a stretcher and examine his body, especially his lower abdomen, his penis, his bum, his pr…
Sherlock lets out a hiss, interrupts John’s thoughts.
“You should leave the kitchen alone. No cooking anymore, okay?”
“Okay.” Sherlock’s voice is low. “I think I’ll go to bed. Thank you.”
John doesn’t ask who is supposed to clean the kitchen. He sighs.
John decides to put the cooking pot in the trash. It’s beyond remedy.
Pasta! This dumb boy!
He should ban him from the kitchen completely. No experiments, no cooking, no nothing. Or he should punish him for every time he makes a mess. Take Sherlock’s riding crop, he used to use to hit corpses with, and smack it onto his round, posh ass. Leave red whip scars on that white skin.
John leans against the kitchen counter, opens his trousers and slides one hand into his pants. He needs to have a wank right now. This boy turns him into a masturbating mess.
John wants to fuck him so badly. Wants to desecrate his innocent Sherlock, thrust inside his hole, rip that arse open. He wants to hear Sherlock scream and moan, every little noise made of pain and lust.
Although John has already spurted this morning, his bullocks ache, filled with white hot liquid that wants to get released.
His hand moves over his cock, faster, faster.
He lets go, spills his semen over his fingers, his pants turn wet.
Sherlock!, everything inside him screams.
Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock!
His cock pulses so hard it hurts. It still releases sperm.
It takes minutes for John to go back to normal. God, that orgasm has hit him hard.
When he walks into the bathroom to clean himself, his knees are still shaking a bit.
Behind the interconnecting door Sherlock is already asleep. Careful to avoid any noises John slips into his flatmate’s bedroom.
Sherlock lays on his side, facing John, curled around Bumble. He looks a lot younger with his eyes closed. John bends over him and presses a light kiss on his curls. Sherlock sighs in his dreams. John’s heart turns warm. “Good night”, he whispers.