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Bedsheets and boundaries

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My feet are cold. The lavish opulence of these surroundings bore me to tears but there must be something interesting to come if I have been summoned in this manner. I sigh and shift position on the hard settee. The cushions are silk and rasp quietly against the cotton of my bedsheet.

I shiver and clench my toes into the carpet. I hate having cold feet but I hate wearing socks when I'm bored. My mind rebels against synthetic materials and my skin, overly sensitive at the best of times, becomes itchy and inflamed at the slightest touch. Outward symptoms of my internal restlessness.

Besides, I have no idea where my socks currently are. It will be worth the cold feet and the trudging across damp concrete when John arrives and discovers me in just a bedsheet. This thought buoys me and I turn my mind back to the infuriating puzzle of my flatmate.

I hadn't planned to come to Buckingham Palace in just my bedclothes when I woke up this morning. It just sort of... happened. But as soon as I deduced my destination from the obvious signs plastered all over my escort, I couldn't pass up the chance to run a quick experiment. John's reaction to my attire should be enlightening.

It says much about him and our friendship that so far, John himself has been such a mystery to me. He was clearly attracted to me from the first; his odd overtures at dinner (the cabbie case, all the more intriguing for the appearance of his service weapon) jarred me and I responded before I was fully aware of the implications. Now though, I catch myself wondering. What if I had replied positively, back at Angelo's window table? What would have occurred then? Would we have just indulged our desires that once, or would it have continued? Would we have drifted closer, or further apart? Would we still be living together, or would it just be a pleasant memory for him, a desperate fantasy for me?

I am painfully aware of my lack of experience in this area and I have no real data from which to draw any conclusions. I do know, however, that I cannot picture myself indulging my tiresome libido with anyone other than John. I have felt sexual attraction before of course, one regrettable experiment in university which ended as abruptly as it began. Since then, any time my biology demands attention I have endeavoured to deal with it swiftly and efficiently. It is, after all, in my interest to remain in excellent health, whatever the requirements of my body.

Still, I find I want. I want to know how John... is. How his eyes look when filled with the heat of desire, the sounds he makes as he reaches his peak, how his skin feels beneath my fingertips. The weight and warmth of his penis, how it tastes on my tongue, if he would push his fingers into my hair and stroke my scalp as he comes, if he would hold me to him after, loose and sated, murmuring softly into my skin...

Oh. For God's sake. Well, that's not entirely unexpected. This is occurring with increasing frequency when I think about John. Hence today's experiment. I am desperate to discover what, if anything, he might be willing to do with me. I have never felt this before and I do not know how to categorise it. The internet has been of no help whatsoever, Cosmo and the like offering tips on pleasing your man which sound as though they were written by an illiterate idiot with no fingers elbow-bashing the keyboard, certainly someone with no experience of either owning or enjoying a penis. And the forums soon became saturated with lonely mothers advising me to "go get my man!" and cooing in all capitals that I was dragging them to hell with my pining. Utterly ridiculous. I had to explain to John that I had accidentally dropped a beaker of acid on the laptop, which was obviously the cause of its destruction. The tiny bits of plastic had scattered all over the sitting room when it shattered against the wall.

I close my eyes and concentrate to will the erection away. Fortunately the spectre of my brother's imminent arrival is a hugely effective dampener on my desire. I wriggle in my sheet again and wait for John to arrive. I don't have to wait long.

He strides into view in the doorway and pulls a face, spreading his arms at his sides to demand an explanation for our summons. I shrug and roll my eyes. He approaches and sits down at the opposite end of the settee. I surreptitiously monitor his movements, try to glance at his throat to check his resting pulse rate. If I could untangle my arms from within my sheet and find an excuse to press my fingers to his wrist I'd have a more definitive answer. Sadly even I cannot conjure such a reason. And the thought of touching his bare skin awakens a dull glow in my stomach. I hurriedly squash it. Any physical response on my part would invalidate the results. Unacceptable.

He glances over at me and in my peripheral vision I notice him slowly looking down the line of my body, as if he might pierce through the sheet with his gaze and expose my nudity to anyone watching us. He frowns, turning his head away.

"Are you wearing any pants?" he asks.

"Mm, no," I reply.

A beat, then we turn to catch each other's eyes. His giggles resound in the high ceilinged room, my rumbling chuckles rapidly joining them. He coughs once, rubs his hand through his hair and shifts his weight on the settee. I quiet and observe him closely. He folds his hands in his lap and his face twitches. He seems uncomfortable. I am unsure what to make of this.

We exchange a few words and a crude joke at Mycroft's expense. He deserves it, interfering fat git. I sharply remind Mycroft that I do not take cases where I am not afforded free access to the client; too much time is wasted in figuring out facts which would present themselves immediately should I simply meet them in person. Mycroft, as is his norm, accuses me of being childish and stamps on my sheet as I attempt to leave.

This is not going to plan. Not only can I not see John, can't deduce his reaction to my turned back and (almost) bare bottom, but I can't take another step without showing everything. Despite what John, and to some extent Mycroft, might think, I am not eager to be seen fully naked in front of either my brother or my flatmate. I know objectively that my physical appearance is vaguely desirable, but all my available evidence indicates that what follows the sight of my unclothed form is muffled laughter, blushing and a certain level of humiliation. Funny how some school experiences refuse deletion.

"Boys, not here." John's voice is rough, whether with arousal or embarrassment I can't tell. So frustrating! Eventually, I capitulate, much to my disgust, and dress myself in an antechamber before rejoining the group for tea.

The case is interesting enough; a royal, a dominatrix, quite a few hints of arousal from John. Curse bloody Mycroft. With his bloody barb about my inexperience, which I'm sure won't go unnoticed, and his bloody high-res photographs from her bloody website! Now I can't accurately attribute John's arousal to me and my bedsheet. It could well be due to her posed, insipid, over-the-top header images. Or the thought of a young female royal enjoying with another woman such carnal pleasures frowned upon in polite society. Either way, it is impossible to either catalogue John's reactions properly nor control my own.

John is aroused, I can confirm that much by his constant shifting in his seat, rubbing his hands on his thighs, his distracted glances at me and my open shirt collar. What I find I'm somewhat unprepared for is my response to his state of arousal. I find myself half-hard in my trousers as we discuss the details of the case and I have to drape my coat over my lap to hide my groin before we stand to exit.

Casting a throwaway farewell over my shoulder, I sweep out of the building and into a taxi, John following close behind. I am annoyed and disappointed not to have more definitive conclusions from my little experiment, but relieved that there is now a case on which I am able to focus. My erection should soon fade during the journey to Ms Adler's house.

******

I have made a gross miscalculation. The taxi journey starts normally enough; my ashtray theft makes John laugh and we settle into a companionable silence. My erection persists. I risk a glance at John. I am surprised to see a slight bulge in his trousers as well. I quickly school my face to something neutral and steeple my fingers below my chin, leaning forward to rest my elbows on my knees. This has the dual advantages of being a pose John has often seen me adopt and allows me to conceal my hardness with the wings of my coat.

John clears his throat beside me and crosses and uncrosses his legs. His proximity is dizzying, making me feel lightheaded and sending tingles along the surface of my skin. I am absolutely not squirming in my seat when I announce to the driver that he can drop us a few streets from the house.

John is puzzled and looks uncomfortable when he steps out of the cab behind me. I look around, seeking a suitably quiet place to put my plan into action. There. That close. Behind the skip. That will suffice.

I reach back and grasp John's arm through his jacket, dragging him into the close and out of sight. "Sherlock, what... What are you doing?"

He wrenches his arm free and tips his head up to look at me. I'm standing too close; at this distance the deep, fathomless blue of his eyes is all I can see. Suddenly I'm rock-hard in my pants and I hastily stuff my hands in my coat pockets to prevent them abandoning all reason and reaching out to brush his cheek. I realise I am panting slightly, and I try to breathe through my nose and calm my now-racing pulse. I should move away, put some space between our bodies but I'm rooted to the spot. Just watching him. Oh god.

He frowns a little, tilting his head, a question in his eyes. Whatever he sees flicker across my face before I can prevent it is obviously answer enough. The feel of his mouth against mine is intoxicating and I'm lightheaded and swaying into his kiss, unsteady on my feet.

A moan issues from the depths of my throat and I surge forward to press our bodies together, aligning our hips. John groans as our erections line up and rub against each other. I'm frotting him back into the wall as we kiss, desperately trying to keep up with the sensations John's tongue is wringing from my body. My arms have somehow come to encircle his shoulders, his hands are roaming all over me under my coat.

I feel fingers fumbling at my belt and before I can react further than a breathy "yes John, yes", my trousers are unfastened and John's hand is wrapped around my length. I can't help the ridiculous sounds I'm making as he strokes me. I had no idea. I had no frame of reference, no way to know it would feel like this. I am soaring outside my body, barely hearing my own noises and drowning in John's grunts of encouragement. His voice is sinfully low and rough, he's practically growling into my ear, a steady stream of foul language and entreaties apparently solely designed to bring me to my knees.

"Oh fuck, Sherlock, that's fucking gorgeous. Your face, your voice, oh, do that again," he mutters to me. "You're so fucking sensitive, aren't you? Oh, I wanna see you come, I wanna feel you in my fist as you lose it, come for me, come for me now, you're lovely like this, desperate for me. That's it beautiful, come for me."

I think it's the authoritative tone in John's voice as he tells me to come that pushes me over the edge. I wouldn't be averse to exploring that further when (if) an opportunity arises. For now though, I'm overwhelmed with the force of my climax and I pulse, shuddering, all over John's hand. A little goes on his shirt too.

My breath stutters and I open my eyes, not remembering when I closed them. The hand that brought me to orgasm is now in John's open trousers, moving fast as he jerks himself. No. No. I am not satisfied with that. I gather my considerable resources and drop swiftly to my knees, right there in the dirty close.

John's reaction is immediate. A sharp inhale and he stops moving. He goes rigid when I tentatively reach into his pants and draw out his penis. It's an incredibly attractive penis, larger than average (which I had already deduced from his gait). I clamp down on my irrational panic that I have no idea what I'm doing and give his magnificent organ a slow, wet lick.

"Oh fuck! Sherlock!" John cries out, stuffing a hand into his mouth to stifle the sound. Delighted, I do it again. Then I swipe my tongue across the head, tasting him and I realise I'm moaning again. My penis twitches and I'm certain that, had I not already come not even three minutes ago, I would be hard again.

I continue licking, sucking and kissing John's lovely cock, getting bolder and bolder the more enthusiastic his muffled noises become. His hand slides into my hair and I groan loudly, putting my own hands on his hips as I take him as far into my throat as I can. I long ago deleted my gag reflex and I'm wonderfully glad of it now as the feeling of the tip of John's cock at the back of my throat is exquisite. He strokes my hair a couple of times and I swallow around him. Suddenly my mouth is flooded with hot, salty fluid and I groan as I greedily swallow as much of it as I can. A small amount drips out onto my lips and when John pulls back his cock falls from my mouth with a wet slurp.

I kneel there panting, gathering myself to look up at him. The affection in his eyes when I meet them pierces my heart. I know I will want him again, and again, until there is nothing left of us but ash and bone.

His hand moves from my hair to my face, thumb tracing over my cheekbone. With his other hand he swipes through the dribble of come on my lips and goes to wipe his hand on his jeans. I chase his thumb with my mouth and capture it, licking the liquid off and closing my eyes in pleasure. I want to taste him again. I want to taste him all over.

He groans and mumbles my name and I reluctantly let his thumb go. Awareness of our surroundings makes me stand hastily, tucking myself away and watching John do the same. I can tell he wants to talk about what just happened between us but there's no time. We have a case.

"Later, I promise," I mumble, my voice rasping and rather lower and huskier than I intended. John's eyes darken with heat again, and he licks his lips and nods. Later then.

I get him to punch me in the face for my disguise and we hurry to Ms Adler's to put my plan into motion.

******

She enters the room completely naked. Cheap trick employed by an expensive woman. I have quite considerable respect for her chosen profession, despite what my oddly prudish friend (or my brother) might say.

"Ms Adler, I presume?" I say, removing the pointless dog collar and unbuttoning the top buttons that were threatening to choke me. I can't get an accurate read on her, but then that could be because I'm still riding the high of my orgasm at John's hand.

The man himself walks in just then, holding a small bowl and a napkin. He looks at Ms Adler as she straddles me, the white plastic of my collar between her teeth. I sigh internally at her lack of subtlety.

John tilts his head and smiles. I know that smile. It means he's on alert, waiting for the signal to dive headfirst into danger. My pulse quickens and I internally berate my body for its speedy reaction to John's commanding presence filling the room.

"I've missed something, haven't I?" he says.

There's an edge to his words and I stand to offer Ms Adler my coat. John sits down and sets the bowl and napkin on the coffee table. He leans back, his arm over the back of the small sofa and I see her watch him as he turns to look at me. His gaze starts at my feet, sweeps up and over my body, a mischievous spark in his eyes as he stares at my face. I do my best to tamp down my blush under the heat in those navy eyes, but I can't help a little flush appearing on my cheeks and at my throat.

Seemingly satisfied, John swivels back to Ms Adler, a challenge in the set of his jaw. She rolls her eyes, takes off her shoes and settles back beside him, never once looking back at me.

From there it's a simple case of acquiring her camera phone to turn over to Mycroft. Or more accurately, to Mycroft’s expensively suited minion who arrives at Baker Street at the most inopportune time. I have no doubt he will report in detail back to my brother that he was forced to wait while John and I made a thorough mess of the bedsheet I had been wearing earlier in the day. Apparently all I needed to do was nod when John gestured between us, asking “so, we’re this, now? Yes?"

All in all, a vaguely disappointing outcome. To the case.