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The Adventure of Sherlock and the Monster in John's Pants

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Sherlock may or may not have deleted the fact that some men weren’t just born with their penis circumcised. Sherlock just assumed that every male penis looked the same, and why bother keeping such a trivial fact in his mind palace -- men can either have their penis circumcised or not. Sherlock was convinced any specific details, besides human have genitalia,  would be something he would need to know, something he would want to know.


He was so convinced of the fact, Sherlock had pretty much given up on dating after his third "boyfriend" had tried to put a gag on his mouth. Sherlock can’t really say it was for sex purposes. He really has been particularly blunt with his words for most of his life. Time spent with his “partners” were no exceptions to this character flaw of his --although it wasn’t like he actually cared how his words could affect others.


Nevertheless, Sherlock reasoned with himself, that even though he was done dating, it didn't have to mean he had to give up on(trying to have)  sex entirely. He could still get an orgasm or two from some random bloke during one of his very rare trips to a club, if he were so inclined, and not have to bother with any sentimental attachments or any of that sentimental romance crap.


Truth be told, Sherlock actually really liked sex….Well, he liked the concept that his transport has a sort of reset button should matters in his head become too crowded. That physical pleasure can be achieved as a result of hormones and skin contact. And however much he may deny it, Sherlock secretly indulged the thought of connecting to someone so intimately he wouldn’t need drugs to see the stars.


No matter how many times Sherlock would wear his ridiculously tight bespoke pants and irresistible silk shirts practically bursting at the seams to flaunt his lean body in hope of attracting possible suitors at the best gay nightclubs in London. And still, Sherlock continuously struggled to find anyone he wouldn’t regret taking to bed. Either they were too dull, too needy, dressed abominably, or had obvious signs of having an STI.


The sexual attraction was there, sure. Sherlock wouldn't have even minded getting a hand job or a few minutes of clumsy dry humping from some of his potential-but-not-quite partners. But despite all the times he’s claimed the title of cold-hearted, high functioning sociopath, in reality, he was surprisingly more of a romantic than what he repeatedly tried convincing himself of. Like Moriarty said, Sherlock did have a heart, one that should anyone actually get to see would do no better than crush his heart along with any fledgling emotions Sherlock allowed himself to share with another person.


So it came down to something as simple as Sherlock acknowledging his love of sex (at least the concept of sex) and accepting the fact he was already waiting for that defining moment when the idea of having full out penetrative sex scared the shit out of him, then waiting for the right person that meets his criteria as a romantic counterpart as well as a future sex partner so he could just share ALL of those ‘sexual first experiences’ with one person and avoid the tedium of finding multiple partners just to please his transport when it got horny.


In summary, Sherlock was indeed a virgin, and it seemed to him, he would remain a virgin for the foreseeable future and then some. He couldn’t help the fact he was extremely particular with who he choose to shove their cock inside of him because to him, it wasn’t only sex, but a moment of vulnerability where hormones took over and he was Not-Sherlock. And if he was already going to show someone the side of him he purposefully kept locked away, he rather it be someone he knew wouldn’t take advantage of him.




Once upon a time,  Sherlock didn’t particularly mind how excruciatingly tragic yet annoyingly poetic his status of being a virgin sounded. But as the years passed by and he saw his 35th birthday come and go with his virginity still intact, Sherlock couldn’t help but berate himself for being so stupid, and naive. It was twenty years after he’d experience his first wet dream and that was still the only way he was able to get any action.


Why had he thought waiting so long to have sex would work out in his favour? Not that he actually cared because the body was just transport and Sherlock wouldn’t actively compromise his mind in aide of relieving another tedious necessity of his transport. Or at least, that’s what he told himself every time he found himself stuck in a situation that dealt with sex.


With sex came sentiment, with sentiment came weakness, and with weakness came vulnerability. The thought of being vulnerable was something Sherlock refused to think about. Chills ran down his spine, his lungs would refuse to work whilst his mind went blank -- and not in a good way.


No matter what. No matter who….Well, that was until John Watson showed up at Barts one day and planted himself so firmly (so perfectly) into Sherlock’s life that he became the exception to everything Sherlock had sworn to himself time and again he would never change about himself. But then again, pre-John Sherlock never imagined post-John Sherlock would find someone as brilliant and not completely idiotic as John Watson to choose him , Sherlock Holmes, of all people to be flat mates with, much less best friends.


His libido went from pretty much non-existent, to embarrassingly, and inconveniently having to submit to daily wank sessions --or else he risked the chance of his cock falling off from pent up sexual frustration. The fact that said daily wank session may or may not coincide around the time John went up to his room for his daily wank sessions. That was pure coincidence certainly, nothing but a coincidence. The universe did occasionally decide to be lazy.


Heavens how Sherlock ached for the moments John thought Sherlock was lost in his Mind Palace drinking in the muffled huffs and groans that traveled down the stairs right into the ears of a desperate, writhing Sherlock, holding off his orgasm until he heard the sinful growl John made when he came. If only Sherlock could be in the same room when John’s cum spilled from the slit of his cock traveling down his fist in mouthwatering rivulets.


For Sherlock, it felt as if he were stuck in a perpetual loop of never ending masterbation. And yet, he found that deep down, deep deep deep down, it was the best, most exhilarating high even surpassing his experience with cocaine. For example, Sherlock would frantically tug on his cock with John only meters away from his bedroom. And if he was feeling frisky, he would palm his cock through his trousers with John in the room. And for those days Sherlock throws all caution to the wind, he puts on his flimsiest pyjama trousers not wearing his robe or pants, and splays himself on the couch, legs wide open and occasionally with his cock half-hard. On those days, Sherlock felt naughty, but in the best way.

Displaying himself in John's presence in such a wanton way, a clear invitation for him to touch, and kiss, and fuck should he ever notice the way Sherlock exudes want, and lust, and sex in every way he possibly can. And on those days he’s shamelessly splayed out in the couch so John would find him with his cock swollen enough to start leaking pre-cum wetting the front of his threadbare, light blue pyjamas. His shirt two sizes to small exposing smooth, creamy pale skin over sharp hipbones, and a light dusting of black hair below his navel that disappears below his waistband pulled low on his hips slightly raised by the thickening cock placed just right to push up the thin fabric covering his groin. And if Sherlock was lucky, the pyjama trousers were pulled down just enough for the glans to peek out from below the waistband. Not enough that it was obvious, but enough that John would notice if he were to look in his direction for approximately thirty seconds.


Everytime he would catch John not so surreptitiously glancing at his body, Sherlock would retreat to his room and fuck his fist so fast and rough he mastered the art of cuming up to five times in the span of 24 hours.

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After three weeks or so since Sherlock’s libido took over the reins to what he once called his self-control. He found himself feeling harassed by the increasing amount of unexpected erections that would divert his blood everywhere but his brain at the most inopportune moments.

Crimes scene being a perfect example. Whenever John would call him brilliant, or say his deductions were amazing, simply amazing , Sherlock’s penis would go from uninterested , to test me and I’ll rip a hole through your trousers in seconds. In other words, inconvenient, painful, and quite frankly, ruining his life and any chance he might possibly have at making John his ‘ partner.’ The combined friction of the zipper and front of his damned bespoke trousers rubbing against his sensitive penis was slowly becoming one of his greatest weaknesses.


The surprise erections that afflicted him when John brought home take away from his favourite chinese restaurant because he knew Sherlock had probably not eaten in the last thirty six hours. Only to have Sherlock ignore the food John bought for him instead preferring to pick off of John’s plate with his long, pale fingers. John, the lovely, caring, beautifully simple yet complex John would deliberately push pieces of his sesame chicken after removing almost all of the sesame seeds (one of the the only ways Sherlock would even consider eating chicken).


The surprise erections that afflicted Sherlock when John innocently pushed Sherlock’s favorite dumplings (the ones he refused to admit were his favourite) with the most filling or ripping off the crust of his pizza for him to nibble on whilst John insisted on watching crap telly.


The surprise erections that plagued Sherlock every time John would bring him tea or coffee, especially when he put in just the right amount of sugar or milk. Sherlock felt as if he were drowning in an all consuming warmth that enveloped him in a love-sick daze.


Although he was annoyed and disappointed with his transport for giving in to such primal emotions, Sherlock refused to regret his cock’s decision for choosing John as the sole keeper of the key to his libido. Everything to do with sex, John was the trigger as well as the cure.


However, he could blame his cock for choosing the most unpleasant and ill-timed moments to test just how well he’s prepared to deal with an incessant, spiteful erection that loved nothing more than to remind Sherlock how he allowed his transport to feel, and respond to, sexual urges.


The worst part of the unwelcomed erections had to be the wet patches of pre-cum that drenched his pants. And if he was especially “lucky,” said pre-cum would seep through the fabric of his designer bespoke trousers which meant 11 times out of 10, had he been without his coat on, it would look as if the mighty Sherlock Holmes hat wet his pants.


The most disturbing part was that Sherlock could actual feel the slow and sticky beads of pre-cum well up at the tip of his cock and dribbling down the glans effectively wetting the front of his Dolce and Gabbana boxer-briefs. The almost constant flow of pre-cum had become such a nuisance Sherlock had started wondering if Mycroft had slipped something in his tea to cause such an abnormal amount of pre-seminal discharge. The again, Sherlock never accepted, much less drank, anything Mycroft would offer him.

Which may or may not be the reason Sherlock had started doing his own laundry every three days considering his cock was in a constant state of arousal, soaking the front of his pants at a startling rate.


John, a man that at first glance looked like the most ordinary person to walk the earth, however, underneath the jumpers, domestic tendencies, and seemingly harmless disposition lived the John that had gone to war. Who had stood in the front lines, hand on the trigger putting bullets in the body of his enemy before stepping back to patch up his fellow soldiers. John who had killed a man for Sherlock after only knowing the consulting detective for perhaps thirty-six, maybe forty-eight hours prior.


Sherlock hated John so much it had actually manifested into a life changing, all consuming love that made Sherlock’s heart to go into a near tachycardic state every time John even looked in his general direction. Sherlock loathed the way John, in a matter of weeks, had caused Sherlock to go from self-proclaimed high functioning sociopath to a man that did everything in his power to impress his not-so-ordinary flatmate, to revel in the warm glow of John’s praise.


Sherlock especially loathed the way John constantly made him blush and over the stupidest things, to make matters worse. Such as when John would give Sherlock a tender smile when he remembered to clean the table (mostly) of his petri dishes and test tubes without John’s unrelenting nagging. Or when John would at smile at Sherlock with his stupidly kind eyes --the same that plagued ninety-nine percent of Sherlock’s dreams-- whenever Sherlock would move his legs whenever John hoovered, or when Sherlock quietly moved up on the couch when John would come home after a rough day at work, letting John position himself more comfortably and not have to sit almost on the edge of the couch cushions, or in his arm chair which occasionally caused twinges of sharp discomfort to radiate from the small of his back down towards his ‘bad leg.’




He felt as if his life had become horribly inconvenient, detestable, and tedious at best. And still, Sherlock knew in the bottom of his heart, he didn’t actually mind having his brain flooded with thoughts of John, his tea, his jumpers, the touch of his fingertips as he touched Sherlock’s ribs to check for any serious bruising, and when John rubbed his fingers ran his fingers through his hair to check for a concussion. Sherlock felt the pangs of yearning flutter very dangerously close to his groin. Everything else melted into the background, his brain only transmitting white noise to the rest of his body. Only the sensation of John’s soft muttering against Sherlock’s neck; John’s strong yet delicate fingers combing through his hair, inevitably getting caught on the occasional knot making John pull lightly to untangle his hair. In those moments Sherlock ached to burrow his face in John’s lap (more specifically in his crotch if he was feeling particularly brave that day) to smother himself in the scent of John’s musk, to beg (mind Sherlock has never begged for anything in his life, nor planned to anytime soon, MIND YOU...unless it was to ask John to touch him, touch him anywhere, everywhere John felt comfortable touching) for John to pet him, play with his hair. For John to caress his face, his fingers brushing over Sherlock’s cheekbones, his eyebrows, his lips, his jaw, his neck. For John to worship him as Sherlock wished he could worship John.


Sherlock wanted to feel John’s mouth to devour every inch of his body, to taste every inch of his skin. To feel John’s teeth nibble the constellations of freckles along his jaw, his neck, his collarbones before sinking his teeth with unparalleled hunger into the snowy white canvas of Sherlock’s skin baring the purpling marks to let everyone know it was he, Captain John Hamish Watson, M.D. who was able to tame the infamous Sherlock Holmes. Who was able to reduce the great detective infamous for being a heartless machine into a mewling mess begging for John to touch him even if it was only a hand on his shoulder.

Sherlock hated himself every time his mind would insist on continuing such a dangerous train of thought. He could almost feel the calloused fingers teasing their way down the flat expanse of his chest, unfastening each button at a torturously slow pace. Stopping halfway to circle the sensitive areola of his nipple with a touch so light Sherlock would scream with desperation. A blunt fingernail scraping over the nub of his nipple with just enough pressure to plunge his mind into a state of radio silence. Arching his back desperately to get closer to John’s touch, to show John just how much he wanted to feel his sinful, incendiary touch to move downdowndown his torso and dip past the waistband of his underwear. Ravishing him with such raw, unadulterated passion until Sherlock feels every cell in his body burst from the incandescent euphoria, pulling him in every direction that all lead back to John....

To Be Continued


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Sherlock pretty much felt as though John had come into his life to keep him in his own personal purgatory where he was forced to work his way out of the destruction of every fact he thought he knew about sentiment when he’s trying not to drown in a sea of comfortable jumpers and adoration for an army Captain.


There was also the fact of how Sherlock was living the life of a virgin (literally) in a flat with the very man that had him climbing up the walls with sexual frustration. (Mostly figuratively, however, loathe he is to admit it, Sherlock can say his newly insatiable libido has literally made him climb the walls with sexual frustration). Christ almighty, John was sexual frustration incarnate. Sherlock swore that if he looked up the word tease , he would find John’s picture staring back at him. Licking his curry stained lips whilst asking Sherlock if he fancied a cuppa. Or when he would lose himself typing up the newest case for his blog, staring at the screen with the intensity of seven suns; poking his tongue out every time he tried to think of a word to properly over-romanticize his blog entry (although Sherlock actually loved reading John’s blog and he technically read all entries at least twice a week). Every time John’s tongue poked out, Sherlock's cock twitched pathetically in his pants, precum building up at the slit until a tongue flash too many, then the steady, viscous stream of precum was forcing Sherlock to retreat to the privacy of his room to take care of his...problem. Again.

All the times John would fuss over Sherlock after cases, making sure he got some food into his transport, or smoothing his hands over Sherlock pale (trembling) body checking for any possible injuries.


It was a wonder how John always failed to notice the immediate blush staining Sherlock’s cheek, embarrassingly making its way steadily down his lean chest, mottling the almost transparent skin. Jonn could be oblivious sometimes (frustratingly so), but he certainty wasn't stupid, and only a stupid person would have missed Sherlock’s persistent flushing and his even more obvious cock trying to eagerly escape his pants and give John a very warm (and sticky) welcome.


At this point, Sherlock’s cock had developed such a pitiful Pavlovian reaction to anything John related, that sometimes just the mention of John's name in conversation had Sherlock stiffening in his pants or squirming in his chair  in record time. What was even more pitiful and shamefully inappropriate was the startling number of times Sherlock felt his cock stir in his pants whilst deducing blood spatter trajectory, or measuring the state of decomposition in the murder victims, basically anything required of him whilst at a crime scene.


Not even at crime scenes was Sherlock safe from his own penis! In moments like those, it has come to the point here Sherlock has had to create an Emergency Boner Protocol. His coat buttons fastened up as high as they go, his hands shoved deep into his pockets trying to hide the fact his prick had a mind of its own with no regard to the dead victim's murder he was trying to solve. No amount of mutilation, dismemberment, questionable body fluids, noxious fumes, or blood splattered ceilings could keep his penis from twitching, swelling, and aching if John was going to call him brilliant or amazing every time something remotely clever left Sherlock’s mouth.


The thought of having Anderson and Donovan anywhere near him when his unpredictable penis began to act up had Sherlock wearing the tightest pair of boxer-briefs he could find on the internet. Even the occasional dabble with a cock cage was no match for Sir Cock when there was a John Watson occasionally looking over his shoulder to catch Sherlock’s eye and flash him a small yet meaningful grin.


So how the hell did John think it possible for Sherlock to maintain even the smallest iota of control when he went around basically tearing Sherlock’s sanity into shreds. To make matters worse, Sherlock also had to deal with John’s constant reaffirmation of being ‘not gay’ rubbed in his face every time anyone asked what John and Sherlock had last night . It was not difficult for Sherlock to deduce how ‘not good’ it would be for John, the positively heterosexual man, if Sherlock’s infatuation (obsession) became public knowledge (not that he had any plans on doing so, but Sir Cock had a way of operating by its own set of rules).


Which is why Sherlock had taken to discreetly rubbing his cock through his coat pocket, pressing his palms to the root of his stiffening cock to marginally alleviate the insistent pangs of want and heavy, congested testicles from all the erections Sherlock had ignored that day. It was risky to be doing so, especially in public, even more so at a crime scene with at least 10 other members of NSY...But anything is okay as long as no one else found out, that’s when Sherlock would be in deep, humiliating trouble. But if he felt lucky, and pretty damn sure no one was looking at him, Sherlock would daringly grind his hips ever so slightly into his hands before anyone could notice, or his orgasm was closer than expected.


By the time their cab came to a stop outside of 221B, Sherlock was already fleeing the still moving car, barrelling toward the flat immediately locking himself in the safety of his room….and the half empty bottle of lube hidden under his mattress.


An onslaught of filthy thoughts ate away at Sherlock’s senses, images flashing at the speed of light of John -- naked, wearing his jumpers, that damn smirk of his when he made Sherlock think he was getting away with something, the soft smile he gave Sherlock when he was proud of him for remembering to eat during a case, when he punched someone from the Yard for calling him a perverted freak. But Sherlock especially enjoyed numbering the delicious ways John could make him beg for mercy with that tongue of his.


The thought of what it would be like to have John's pelvis flush against his, humping, grinding, thrusting his generously sized cock. His lips mouthing along the thin fabric of John’s boxer-briefs, sucking the head of his swollen erection. John’s tongue slowly licking up Sherlock’s pale, slender shaft; sinfully dipping his tongue into the slit; lapping hungrily at the pre-come leaking from Sherlock’s throbbing penis; teasing his exceedingly sensitive testicles with kitten licks, flicking his tongue over his frenulum.


John’s teeth nibbling the sensitive skin of his inner thighs, gently scraping down his spine. His nails scratching, marking Sherlock’s back with bright red lines, crescent indents on his shoulder, on his hips, playing with Sherlock’s peaked nipples, scraping the sensitive nub with his trimmed nails. John’s fingers gripping Sherlock’s hips, his upper thighs, his biceps. Purple bruises marring the creamy, pale skin John knew he would never get tired of marking; showing the world who Sherlock belonged to. Sherlock belonged to him and only to him. John staking his claim on Sherlock whenever he felt Sherlock needed to be reminded who owned his heart, who earned his love. Sherlock gasping and writhing under John as he whispered sweet nothings in his ears until both of them had reached a level of insatiable desperation to touch, kiss, sink their cocks into each other.


The feel of John’s fingers on Sherlock's over-sensitized skin, his hips futilely bucking into the air hoping to reach any part of John he could rub his aching cock against. Sherlock becoming nothing more than a whimpering mess, begging John to have mercy on him and let him come. Sherlock handing over his control to John, easily accepting the fact John had reduced him into an even more pathetic, babbling fool with no ability of comprehensive speech besides the name of the man capable of riding Sherlock of the last vestiges of dignity he’d managed to keep until he’d met John.


There is something to be said about Sherlock and his sex fantasies, it was undeniably a force to be reckoned with. It wasn’t enough the majority of his thoughts completely unrelated to John to inevitably shift into John related fantasies, fantasies of entirely obscenely, and unlikely, sexual fantasies. It was almost impossible to study his mould cultures when John was on his mind, more so when John was in the other room -- mere meters away from Sherlock and his ignored erection.


Sherlock couldn’t care less if his experiment results were groundbreaking, like inadvertently discovering the cure to cancer if John wasn’t going to straddle Sherlock’s lap to ravish his lips every time he was being especially brilliant. Pressing his compact weight against Sherlock’s body. Warming every cell, every atom inside of Sherlock’s body. His own personal sun bringing light into the once miserable and lonely life Sherlock had accepted as his life. Caring was not an advantage, but that didn’t mean Sherlock held onto a flicker of hope that one day he would be lucky enough to find someone that fit effortly fit into his life, accepting his temperamental moods, his quirks, the brutal honesty and lack of tact. Someone that would see how futile it was to get Sherlock to change, instead they would show Sherlock how to show off his brilliant mind without being punched in the much.


He (futilely) held onto the flicker of hope that he would one day find the all consuming force that would save Sherlock from himself.


With all the evidence of Sherlock’s undeniable attraction (and the suffocating feeling of something very very akin to love) stacking up, Sherlock had come to the not-so startling realization that he would wait for John to be ready. It was the least he could do for the man he lov- admired, adored, cherished, treasure, worshipped, honored, respected.

That was if John ever happened to decide Sherlock could be the exception, and only exception, to his incessant claims of being ' not gay .’  Should John Watson ever decide he wanted to take a step forward from their relationship as flatmates to possible lovers, Sherlock wouldn’t be above groveling at his feet to beg John for the chance to earn his heart. Even if it meant Sherlock would have to deal with John not joining him in their bed, under their bed sheets, in their room until John knew with all his heart Sherlock’s intentions were nothing but loving and sincere.  

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Not only was Sherlock dealing with the fact he’s, to put it indelicately, a horny virgin. He also has to deal with the fact that engaging in sex with anyone not-John was not only impossible, but extremely pointless and inconceivable to his (very) limited knowledge on sex -- and by sex he means the scenes he’s pictured himself in with John. How could he when he only had eyes for John? Both in a literal and figurative way.


Whenever John was in the same room as him, Sherlock could barely register the existence of anyone else in said room, not even Anderson, and that was saying something. When John wasn’t in the same room, Sherlock found it next to impossible to do anything without tying it back to John, or John’s reaction; the possible words of praise John would very generously shower Sherlock with.


It had gotten to the point where Sherlock had stumbled upon the extremely worrying realization that he would be perfectly okay to cut back on his abrasive behaviour and tactless comments to others if it meant John would give Sherlock what he wanted most in life. Which (not-so) surprisingly enough had nothing to do with getting John to ignore the toes in pickling fluids next to the milk. But it had everything to do with the all consuming craving he’s been trying to conceal since the day John smiled bashfully at Sherlock not even twenty minutes after killing a man to save his life. How could Sherlock be anything but head-over-heels in love over such a gorgeous anomaly of a man.


Sure, sometimes Sherlock worried that perhaps John would come to realize he should have more say into what Sherlock did, or didn’t do; moderate what came out of Sherlock’s mouth or what made its way into their shared flat; no more body parts or mould cultures. All because John now knew how much he meant to Sherlock and how Sherlock would do anything to have John love him for as long as he can, even if it meant having his mind stagnate in a pool of tedious boredom.


However, it was hard for Sherlock to forget the very reason he and John get on so well. Why John was still with him after all this time; the countless insults; the unpaid cab fees; the 3am wake up calls either by impromptu violin concerts or gunshots through the drywall of the living room; the fingers in the bathtub or the stomach bile mixed with window cleaner sitting on the kitchen counter.


This is the man that thrived under the promise of danger,  the thrill of the chase. The man who gets practically high on the adrenaline burning in his veins. A kindred spirit to his eccentric flatmate, the very flatmate who has been weighing the pros and cons to tell John ( his John) of his insignificant infatuation which just happened to borderline on complete and devout love (and perhaps even bordering possible obsession).

So there he was, still at an impasse with his once repressed libido that now refused to go down without a fight. And this was before he had even laid eyes upon the unforgettable, gorgeous monstrosity of a cock John Watson kept hidden in his trousers for the first time. Sherlock practically felt his life splitting itself into Before John Watson’s Penis, and After John Watson’s Penis. To say those three seconds of eye-to-penis contact had changed Sherlock’s life would be a severe understatement. It was basically everything he could think, dream, obsess about for the past umpteempth weeks.


Fuck John’s deliciously massive every sense of the word.



It all happened when Sherlock had barged into their shared bathroom with the purely innocent intent (well almost fully innocent intent) to ask John where he’d hidden the bottles of hydrochloric acid he kept under the sink. All in all, another very normal Sherlock thing he’s known to do.


That had been his intention right up to the very second Sherlock noticed John had failed to fully draw the shower curtains around the bathtub leaving a very sizable gap that (luckily) happened to be facing the bathroom door.  Fate was handing him the opportunity of a lifetime on a silver platter which Sherlock would be a goddamn fool to turn down. And because Sherlock is a man of science, how could he not take advantage of such a rare opportunity to see John’s naked body.


John was standing in the middle of the bath tub, eyes closed, the water streaming down the golden skin of his back as it poured over his tilted head. (Was it even possible to feel insurmountable jealousy over water?). John was somewhat facing the door, so technically he was facing Sherlock but his body was angled in such a way Sherlock could also see just enough of John’s arse to satisfy Sherlock’s sexual fantasies.

John was holding himself up against the tiled wall with one hand with the other ever so gently rubbing slow circles over his lower stomach using only the tips of his fingers. His penis already half erect and continuing to stiffen right before Sherlock's eyes, -- well if only he could get his eyes to co-operate with his brain so it could process the sight of a wet John Watson masterbating.

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Also, below are some links to keep in mind when reading this chapter in case you want so visuals on what John's "Monster" looks like. And I believe it goes without saying that the pictures are NSFW, but again, reminder, the pictures are extremely NSFW. I'll have them next to the part they come in handy in the chapter, but just in case you want to get a sneak preview before you read, click below.


Img 1 Img 2 Img 3 Img 4 Img 5 Img 6 Img 7 Img 8 Vid 1



John was holding himself up against the tiled wall with one hand with the other ever so gently rubbing slow circles over his lower stomach using only the tips of his fingers. His penis already half erect and continuing to stiffen right before Sherlock's eyes, -- well if only he could get his eyes to co-operate with his brain so it could process the sight of a wet John Watson masterbating.

John gasped, hips bucking instinctively and erratically into his grip, a heavenly sinful whimper escaped his mouth every time he tightened his grip. His right hand futilely clenching against the bathroom walls his cock jutting out proudly from his groin in the most seductive of manners. In that moment, Sherlock hadn’t been able to determine whether or not he had managed to stay alive after witnessing such perfection, almost eleven inches of fully-erect cock. Or if he had managed to become the first person whose gravestone would read ‘Death by John Watson’s Penis.’


Sherlock knew, he always had know that John would somehow manage to find a way to surprise him time and again. It’s such a shame the way people ignore the most spectacular human being Sherlock had ever met in his lifetime. They looked John over and dismissed him as a harmless creature. His John. The same John that carries an unregistered gun to shoot people with, preferably criminals but needs must when the devil drives.


Sherlock had never met a person as complex and interesting and gorgeous, inside and out, like John. And that was saying something considering he was a consulting detective who only took the more gruesome and complex crimes NSY had to offer.


John was an enigma wrapped in a tasteless jumper from the clearance rack, which funnily enough, only added to his intrigue. Rarely a day went by in which John failed to make Sherlock’s eyebrows raise, whether by investing in noise-cancelling headphones for the nights Sherlock decided merited three hour long violin concertos or knowing when Sherlock wanted milky tea instead of sugary, teeth-rotting tea. Sherlock was surprisingly easy to please at least where John was concerned.


So when Sherlock saw himself within four feet from John as he moaned something that sounded very much like a breathless rendition of his name, Sherlock did everything in his (very) limited power to resist the temptation to join John in the shower, proprietary and wet clothes be damned. It was the combination of the subtle, yet very present smell of arousal that grabbed Sherlock by the collar of his shirt and refused to let him move. However, what truly speared Sherlock through his core was the fact that he was in the presence of the penis he had lusted after for what felt like decades.


Sherlock startled when he heard John mutter something, well muttered was a generous term, it was more like a whispering gasp, a whispering gasp Sherlock swore sounded like his name. “ Sh-Sher...Sh-Sh’ck”


Then the penny dropped and the sudden realization Sherlock had been less than an arm's length away from temptation incarnate in the form of a now fully erect - and Sherlock swore his mind calculated - nearly thirteen and a half inch long cock. The very same deliciously engorged shaft that Sherlock also noticed was nearly eight inches in girth, said realization made Sherlock’s knees go weak enough to buckle underneath him at the slightest breath of air come within a radius of -- and now he was just being ridiculous, and he we would certainly have scoffed with derision had they done the same but Sherlock couldn’t help himself, John’s cock had a hold on him that even a hit of heroin couldn’t rival -- the length of John’s penis around, him.



Sherlock was more than absolutely certain he was hallucinating but then at the same time, he knew, he just knew John’s slight limp wasn’t all psychosomatic. There had to be an outlying factor that attributed to the almost imperceivable shift in his gait that never went away even after he cured his limp. [ Img 1 - Img 2 - Img 3 - Img 4 - Img 5 - Img 6 - Img 7 - Img 8  - Vid 1 ]


Sherlock noted with salacious interest, that foreskin had noticeably retracted from when he had first barged into the room forty seconds ago. Revealing the slick head of John’s (monstrous) cock that despite the running water, Sherlock could see it was starting to leak pre-come. Would John’s pre-come have a musky aftertaste? Would it it be slightly salty? Both?


Sherlock had never been more appreciative of the twenty-four years he spent inhibiting his transport from feeling sexual urges of any kind. Admittedly, once John entered the picture, his resolve went from no libido whatsoever to a horny mess gagging to suck his flatmates massive dick. It was almost like his body was making up for all the erections he willed away in his teen years by now bombarding him with essentially an intermediate 24/7 hardon.


Although Sherlock was no better than a randy teenager at the peak of puberty, he was only a randy teenager at the peak of puberty for John, mind you. Therefore, when Sherlock found himself from acting out on his long suppressed John-related (very sexual) urges after seeing the very cock ( which he definitely hadn’t made any sketches of in the non-descript sketchpad he bought specifically for lewd drafts of what John Watson’s cock would look like, feel like as he took him in his hands and jerked him off as if his life depended on it. What the weight of John’s cock on his tongue would look like, detailed drawings of the glans rubbing against his soft palate, what his neck would look like if John properly fucked Sherlock’s mouth, shoving his cock in deeper and deeper until he could see Sherlock’s neck rippling around John’s enormous, relentless cock)

But is he hadn’t gone through years of voluntary chastity, he was ninety-nine percent certain his fingers would have ended up wandering past the barrier of water and into forbidden territory where he then would be obviously (no so obviously )forced to wipe the beads of pre-come from the slit of John’s penis.


The seconds kept ticking by, but instead of Sherlock getting his shit together and come up with anything resembling a convincing excuse he could tell John as to how Sherlock’s sudden discovery of having a voyeur kink and his unannounced presence were strictly for scientific purposes….But the sudden feeling of lightheadedness and the tenting of his bespoke trousers would make it hard for John to disregard his blatant lie.


Sherlock however, was more conflicted on whether he wanted to immediately store this moment in his Mind Palace in the “All About John” wing, or if he should savour every second of this wonderful, blessed encounter now despite the chance of possibly forgetting even the most minutiae of details (like the number of veins running down John’s stiff shaft). But the decision was made for him when John groaned out Sherlock's name much clearer than the last time.“ Sher...Sh-Erl. Sherl’ck, hng, ah. Sher-Sh-Sheeerrll’ck. ” His voice an octave deeper than normal, debauched, sonorous, finally managing to obliterate any and all self control Sherlock had been desperately holding onto.


John, then canted his head to muffle desperate sobs of intensifying pleasure, biting his bicep harder and harder as he frantically fucked his fist with a vigour unparalleled to anything Sherlock had seen before (well -when he says before he really means what he’s seen in John’s tasteless collection of porn. Again, Sherlock is a Virgin with a capital V). He could hear John and his whispered supplications for “ Sher...Sh-Erl ” to fuck him, to go faster, harder. Sherlock felt naughty (all the more reason John should punish him, through Sherlock over his lap and spank him until delicious tears ran down his face as he begged, twice, for daddy’s - ahem, John’s forgiveness) just hearing such things coming out from his flatmate’s mouth.

John had become so lost in his fantasy, Sherlock worried he would end up biting off the chunk of  flesh he had sunk his teeth into early to muffle the sounds of pure sex Sherlock desperately wished he could hear. Actually, Sherlock despised the fact John had chosen to hide the sounds of his arousal since the water hitting the sides of the tub had been an acceptable buffer to the sound of his own whimpers and groans when he had stood right where John was standing now Sherlock had done desperately tugging his cock to an unsatisfying orgasm no more and two hours ago. And what a thought that was. That Sherlock and John have been sharing (separately) pinning wanks in the shower all this time, that he hadn’t been the only fantasizing being ravaged by their flatmate, plaintively crying out their name hoping the tiled bathroom walls keeps their secret. An excited yet vexed shiver runs down Sherlock’s back.

Chapter Text

And what a thought that was. That Sherlock and John have been sharing (separately) pinning wanks in the shower all this time, that he hadn’t been the only fantasizing being ravaged by their flatmate, plaintively crying out their name hoping the tiled bathroom walls keeps their secret. An excited yet vexed shiver runs down Sherlock’s back.


But that wasn’t the point, the point was the fact Sherlock had already heard John crying out his name six, make that seven times in the two minutes since Sherlock had been standing at the threshold separating The Deliciously Monstrous Penis with the rest of the world that could never, would never live up to the perfection of The Penis. Which was why, in Sherlock’s unbelievably delirious state of mind, he reasoned that the longer he kept the door open, the larger the chance someone would get to see The Penis that was now only his to love and worship. So of course it made perfect sense to go ahead and close the bathroom door with his foot (he certainly wasn’t going to look away from The Penis, he was delirious, not crazy), shutting himself inside the bathroom, not out of it. Sherlock congratulated himself for coming up with such a cunning and ingenious plan that took an enormous amount of willpower to pull off.


However, no more than two minutes, forty three seconds later Sherlock realized with startling, heart-wrenching clarity how trying to keep John all to himself would only exacerbate his unrequited love for John considering he too would not be able to enjoy John, all of John. The acute disappointment he would feel every time he would walk past the bathroom door, even more so actually going into the bathroom (he had to stop himself before his mind wandered to what would happen every time he showered or even thought about taking a shower) aware of the fact it he would never get the chance to be on other side of the bathroom curtain affectionately (and hungrily) lathering the body of the magnificent man he loved with the intensity of seven burning suns.


It would never be him pressing hundreds of kisses over every inch of John’s skin he could reach as well as those he couldn’t reach. Some a mere brush of his lips against wet, tanned skin. Others open mouthed kisses with just the tip of his tongue tasting John’s generic brand soap scented skin. It would never be him that could reveal in the thought his love would no longer be unrequited because John loved him just as fiercely as Sherlock does.


Sherlock internally whimpered for what seemed like the millionth time, grieving over the loss of a life that had never existed. The phantom pangs of pain coursing through his body as his mind palace cruelly reminded him of the seemingly endless number of role play ideas, his list of acceptable places to have public sex; of all the positions optimal for a deep, rough fuck that would have a virgin with a raging libido like him begging to be split in half.


Never had Sherlock hated his traitorous brain as much as he did then. Not even when he had convinced himself drugs would be the perfect solution (the perfect seven percent solution) to get rid of all the pointless necessities his transport had eventually given up on demanding. Then taking advantage of the high to focus solely on absorbing as much information possible without the inconvenient sensory overload. The cocaine had been able to successfully handle the chaotic tangle of emotions and thoughts in exchange for intellectual clarity and, strangely enough, a new sense of awareness of his surroundings that helped Sherlock refine his deduction skills.




Sherlock had noticed the fact he had been brazenly gawking at John like a deer stuck in headlights longer than could be written off as platonic penis size comparison with his believed to be asexual flatmate (his sexuality believed by those determined they know who he likes and doesn’t like based on how offended they would be after one of his intentionally barbed deductions) -- especially when said flatmate had a hard on that was trying to break free from his pants, and thought more about John in a day than any of the experiments he’d done (and failed) in the last few weeks.


There was no escaping the blazing, white-hot embarrassment slowly paralysing Sherlock cell by cell just at the thought of being caught by John. His tongue sat heavy in his mouth, his throat dry, any attempt of words died on his tongue. The significant lack of oxygen intake (damn his lungs!) confirmed how truly ‘fucked’ (no pun intended) he was. Getting so worked up and flustered over a naked body when he has seen hundreds of them in his lifetime, although, if Sherlock actually thought about it, perhaps the fact all those bodies had been cadavers and not a living, breathing frustratingly sexy specimen gasping out sounds of unadulterated pleasure had to do with Sherlock’s current state of frenzy


John's defined chest had (very, very attractively) flushed a darker shade of pink, practically bordering on crimson; which Sherlock knew hadn’t been a result of prolonged exposure to the hot water, nor the steam that had become thick enough to conceal John’s Michelangelo-esque body behind clouds of fog. The darkening shade of pink was a result of John’s escalating imaginary sexual encounters that involved Sherlock in some capacity (for Sherlock, just being in the same fantasy was enough sexual fodder to last him a life time should things with John never work out).


Sherlock shifted his focus from the momentary staring -- ahem, examination of John’s upper body, back to the rhythmic movement of the hand John had previously used to teasingly rub over his lower abdomen and other areas. Sherlock’s skin turned red hot, his trousers only getting tighter where his groin was concerned. It was only inevitable that Sherlock’s already deviant eyes would not only linger on the vee of his hips, but would continue going down, down, down until he finally got a proper (very proper, and detailed) look at John’s cock, no doubt ingraining it’s turgid beauty in several room of his mind palace. The squeak that left his mouth was almost inhumanly high pitched, as well as inhumanly efficient in making a supposedly emotionless consulting detective feel like he would prefer the ground to swallow him up alive right then and there if it meant he wouldn’t have to confront John about his presence in the bathroom without announcing himself, guiltily enjoying this unknown voyeuristic side of himself, and having the audacity not only by extending his stay, but making noises to alert John just how much he’s seen of his daily shower wank.


Which Sherlock knew was a thing, how John barely went a day without enjoy a nice, sometimes rushed wank, most likely as an aid to keep his calm when Sherlock was in a black mood. But never had Sherlock imagined what John would look like during one of his daily shower wanks, one of his proper daily shower wanks, despite having heard him many, many times through his door, and like he said earlier, occasionally jerking himself off along to the sound of John’s quiet groans through the textured glass door that separated his room and the bathroom.

Of course Sherlock had noticed John’s slightly crooked gait before, it would be hard to considering Sherlock, in his own way, looked after John’s well-being than his own. Nevertheless, he had just assumed it was a remnant of his psychosomatic limp that came and went depending on his mood --or his mood when dealing with a particularly difficult Sherlock.


But never, in his wildest wet dreams (which have now evolved to include wet daydreams) that the reason for John’s distinct gait it would be because of the fourteen inch cock (Sherlock, of course, had automatically recorded the know, just to be sure, all for purely scientific reason...yes) hidden away inside in his pants. Sherlock also noted that John hadn’t even been fully erect yet. On his way, yes, but to Sherlock, it looked as if John’s penis would never stop growing.

Sherlock’s eyes had now been staring at John’s groin sans blinking for 15 seconds, which really felt like eight eternities but even then that wouldn’t be enough. Sherlock wanted to look, touch, smell, taste every single millimeter of John’s, now ten inch, penis.


Sherlock’s (unhelpful) mind palace had already taken the liberty to conjure seven new sex fantasies, each one more explicit than the last, in record time. Each one started out almost the same, wanting to surprise John, Sherlock worked hard to stretch himself wide enough --two, three, four fingers -- he made sure to stretch wide enough to avoid causing damage to his anus, but stopped when he reached the point where John could comfortably thrust his lubricated cock inside of Sherlock, yet still provide Sherlock with the delicious burning sensation of being stretched too wide, too quickly. Which would brilliantly satisfy Sherlock’s fascination of having John pound into his arsehole with such fervour it would be a miracle he still had the ability to breathe (somewhat). And it would satisfy John’s possible desire to find someone that not only let John fuck them with his intimidating prick, but find someone that asked, craved to be fucked raw and desperate, slow and meaningful, angry, happy, sad, devastated, playful, lovingly. Or at least, Sherlock wished that was something John wanted since it was exactly what Sherlock would willingly give John, if only he would ask.


And irresistable John staring down at him with lust blown eyes, hair sticking to his forehead with sweat, his mouth swollen and red from having sucked Sherlock’s cock no more than five minutes after Sherlock had sucked his. Putting Sherlock on the edge of climax before moving back and starting all over again, universes exploding on the backs of his eyelids.


Being honest with himself, Sherlock not only wanted John that way for the pleasure, but as information Sherlock could use to confirm the thing he felt for John was no longer a one-sided imaginary affair with his flatmate, but with John, his John, who shared his heart with Sherlock just as Sherlock shared his with John.


However, Sherlock’s imagination only went so far, and having John open his eyes to see Sherlock just standing there inside the closed bathroom by the door, face flushed, shallow breaths, and two eyes glaring at John’s most intimate place that could very well be the size of the moon. Caused more than just a surprised - but strangely turned on - yet horrified shiver reverberate through his body. It may or may not have caused the incessant arousal to reach a climax...Both figuratively and literally. Sherlock felt himself ejaculate almost violently, he felt the cum spurt out from the tip of his cock, dripping down his shaft making a very noticeable wet stain form at the crotch of his now-ruined trousers. Who would’ve guessed Sherlock Holmes was the type to come in his pants -- untouched -- when caught in a voyeuristic situation, him being the voyeur.


Taking a few seconds to collect his thoughts, John tried his hardest not to scream at Sherlock, but he couldn’t control the anger betrayal that seeped into his voice as he told Sherlock just how unamused he was with him. Sherlock startled when he heard John starting to speak in his calm yet dangerous voice he reserved for criminals whom tried to be brave and threaten John with a fight.


“FUCKING HELL! SHERLOCK!!! What in the bloody fuck are you doing in the fucking bathroom watching me get my fucking rocks off! Is this another fucking bloody experiment of yours, because I swear I will fucking flush every single bloody microscope slide, used or not, you wanker!” John also cursed up a storm whenever he was truly mad, however, this time he was also trying to cover his slowly wilting erection, although in vain as his penis continued to spill out from his cupped hands, resorting to angle his body away from his nosy flatmate’s wandering eyes.


“Oh, John! Th orry! I’m -- uh, I, er, wa th looking for th omething…for, uhm, my experiment. Well I th ay experiment, I mean those bath bombs I promi th ed M th Hud th on I would make for her when her hip th arts acting up” John glowered at Sherlock with palpable rage, Sherlock was mortified, practically choking on his own saliva. “ know, that - uhm, thing need th the bath oils you keep behind the bathroom mirror,” his lisp from his youth, the one he has repressed for decades made a reappearance, “which happens to be next to the... th ower...that th ower - uhm, the one you’re th anding in ” Sherlock finished pathetically in an almost inaudible whisper.

And now Sherlock understood why people seemed to always obey John when he used that voice on them. It was not a pleasant tone to have directed your way, especially when you knew the person behind the voice was not only your flatmate, but the person you wished would invite you in for the remainder of said hot shower instead of coming close to throwing anything heavy at his disposal to get him out of the bathroom.