![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
emmagrant01Series: Missing and Alternate Scenes for A Cure for Boredom
Author: Emma Grant
Fandom/Pairing: Sherlock BBC, John/Sherlock, John/others
Index of all missing and alternate scenes
Alternate scene 3.1
Rating: NC-17
Length: 3400 words
Summary: Set during chapter 3. The Monday after, from Sherlock's POV.
Alternate link: On AO3
"Sorry to have disappointed you."
"Oh no, it's quite all right. My expectations weren't terribly high."
John sighed. "Yes, after the last few days I suppose they weren't." He stood and walked to the kitchen with his empty mug, leaving Sherlock to parse that last comment. Did he think Sherlock had somehow been disappointed by John's performance at the sex club?
"What have the last few days got to do with it?"
"Nothing." John emerged from the kitchen. "I'm going out for the afternoon. When should I be back?"
Apparently the conversation about John's sexual history was over. Sherlock stared up at the ceiling. "Whenever you like."
John crossed to the coat rack and took his weathered jacket in hand. Sherlock desperately wanted to burn it and force him to buy another one. But then, every discussion they'd ever had about John's utter lack of taste in clothing had ended with something being hurled at Sherlock's head (usually something soft, but the hurling was the point here), followed by a solid day of John scowling at him. It wasn't worth the effort anymore.
John pushed one arm through a too-long sleeve. "I meant, what time are we leaving?"
"For what?"
"The club." John's eyeroll was evident from the tone of his voice.
"We aren't going tonight." He couldn't resist a quick glance over at John, who was standing still and frowning, the jacket hanging off of one arm. He looked genuinely disappointed.
"But… why not?"
"It's Monday."
"And… there's no sex on Mondays?"
Sherlock nearly smiled at that. "The club is only open Thursday through Sunday."
"Ah. All right then."
Sherlock turned to watch him thrust his other arm through a sleeve and zip his jacket. John's shoulders had relaxed in the last few seconds and his expression had returned to neutral. He was clearly relieved that they would be visiting the club again. It seemed that he wanted to continue as much as Sherlock did. Sherlock felt a surge of pleasure at the thought.
"Have a good walk then." Sherlock's gaze lingered on John a moment more before he turned back to the ceiling.
"When did I say I was going for a walk?" There was a hint of humor in John's voice.
Rhetorical, perhaps even teasing. No reply required. John could probably by now delineate all the things Sherlock would have observed that pointed to his intention to get some exercise. Sherlock smiled at the ceiling.
John's footsteps receded on the stairs and the door below opened, the sound of street traffic increasing slightly before the door closed once more. Sherlock stood and stepped on and over the sofa table on his way to the window to watch John walk away. John's hands were shoved in his pockets and his stride was long, taking him away from the flat as quickly as possible. Or was that away from Sherlock?
Sherlock watched until he disappeared from view. John seemed unperturbed by the events of last night. He'd slept in, taken a long shower, lingered over the paper and coffee, and generally acted as he did any other morning when he hadn't the evening prior been involved in a threesome and then tossed off by a man he'd only just met. Sherlock, on the other hand, had spent the night running through a dozen scenarios of how horribly this enterprise could end.
One question came to the forefront each time a spot of hope bubbled to the surface: was John's experience with Ryan a fluke, a singular experimental occurrence, or was John in fact open to sex with men? He'd intended to ask this morning, but John had shut down the conversation and left before he'd had a chance. Everything had happened so easily the night before; once John had worked out what was going to happen, he'd lost his anxiety and enjoyed it. He hadn't hesitated; he hadn't objected. Whatever Sherlock asked of him, he simply did, no questions asked. It was… he closed his eyes.
Dangerous. It was dangerous, and it would only end badly. He'd push John too far just once, and it would be over. It was inevitable, like lighting a match and watching it burn to a nub in your fingers.
On the other hand, John had been disappointed they weren't returning to the club tonight, hadn't he? He'd nearly panicked when Sherlock said they weren't going, almost as if he'd thought they would never go again. He was enjoying this, more than Sherlock had anticipated. Sherlock could say the same for himself -- except that with each visit he felt himself sink a bit deeper, the way out of this just a bit further away. It wouldn't be long before there would be no turning back, no way to repair their friendship. It was a terrifying thought.
He cleared his mind and turned to pick up his violin. He needed not to think about this for a while.
*****
Bisexuality, it turned out, was an elusive concept to research. He spent a good part of the afternoon reading everything he could find, from academic papers in the Journal of Human Sexuality to porn sites with "testimonials" from people (mostly women, though a good half of these had clearly been written by men) who claimed to have been 100 percent heterosexual prior to a singular sexual encounter that changed their lives. Those were primarily salacious, obviously written to arouse the reader. Many were accompanied by amateur pornographic photos.
Then there were the sites claiming bisexuality didn't exist, some pointing to experiments measuring the arousal of people with various self-reported sexual orientations, with the finding that human beings were either homosexual or heterosexual, despite any self-identification. There were personal accounts decrying those studies and pointing out the flaws in the research design, particularly in the way data were collected and analyzed. There were angry blog posts claiming bisexuals were actually gay, in denial, and harming homosexuals with their "lies." Other articles written by religious conservatives cited Bible verses and condemned all relationships outside of traditional heterosexual marriage.
By the time Sherlock heard John's footsteps on the stairs, none of it had coalesced into a sensible picture of what bisexuality might look like and whether or not it might apply to John. He frowned at the computer screen.
John opened the door and stripped off his coat before crossing to the sofa and sitting on the opposite end. He said nothing for three minutes, which was uncharacteristically thoughtful of him. He usually had no qualms about interrupting Sherlock's concentration to ask him an asinine question.
"How's the data analysis going?" he asked at last.
Rhetorical; a pathetic attempt at starting conversation. Sherlock kept his focus on the computer screen and sidestepped John's awkward effort for a better one. "Did you bring it?"
"Bring what?"
"I asked you to look for a copy of QX while you were out."
"You do realize that when I'm not here, I can't actually hear you?"
Sherlock clenched his jaw. He'd watched John leave this time, for God's sake. "I texted you."
John pulled his phone from his pocket and thumbed at the screen. "Sorry, I never heard it ding. What's QX, anyway?"
"Just something for research. It can wait until morning." It was all online anyway; he'd simply thought the print adverts would provide some interesting information. Perhaps the same adverts would appear in the online version as well? He opened a new browser window and began typing.
John sighed and settled back into the sofa. A minute or so passed in silence, and then John sighed again, rather melodramatically. "I had a fairly miserable night out, in case you were wondering."
"I wasn't." Sherlock turned to look at him. What was this about? John's evening activities were obvious enough: multiple pints of beer, perhaps at more than one pub, likely alone. John had expressed a desire to be alone and hadn't invited Sherlock along. Not that Sherlock would have gone, but he'd assumed John would ring Stamford or Lestrade or someone to go with him if he'd wanted company. His facial expression was a bit dour, but that could be the result of any number of things that had-- oh. Of course. "Oh, is this where I'm supposed to ask you to tell me about it?"
"Yes, that's the expected response to a friend saying they've had a miserable evening." John gave him one of those hurt puppy looks that he seemed to think had an effect on Sherlock. Had the man learned nothing in the last year?
Sherlock turned back to his laptop. "Fine. What happened?"
"Well, if you must know, I spent the better part of three hours in two different pubs chatting up half a dozen women, and every single one of them rejected me."
Sherlock stopped typing and turned to look at him again. An unexpected spike of jealousy curled through his belly. "You went out with the intention of meeting someone?"
"Yes, and I failed spectacularly."
Of course he did. John was pants at chatting up women; they both knew it. He tried too hard and unerringly chose the wrong women. Sherlock had on more occasions than he cared to count watched John chat up a woman who had zero interest in him while another woman John barely noticed watched him longingly. He'd never pointed that out, of course. John was markedly less useful when dating someone he had no future with; if he actually dated someone compatible, Sherlock might lose him altogether. "Why?"
"That's exactly the question, yes. I had four straight nights of spectacular sex arranged by you, but on my own I can't get a woman to let me buy her a drink."
"Three nights, not four. And I meant, why did you want to meet someone?"
"Because I'm horny, Sherlock. I got off four nights in a row and now I've apparently been conditioned to need it on a daily basis."
"We only went to the club three nights." He was on the verge of reminding John of each encounter when it occurred to him that John might be including the night they'd wanked on the sofa. "Are you counting the night we…" He broke off, unable to bring himself to complete the sentence. Oh God, what if he was?
John's eyes widened slightly; even in the dim light of the room his blush was obvious. He had been and hadn't realized it. "Three nights, of course. Last night seemed like two nights, I suppose. My point is, none of it has helped me a bit. I'm still just as hopeless with women as before, only now I know exactly what I'm missing."
Sherlock rolled his eyes and turned back to the spreadsheet. "It's only three more days until the club is open again. You couldn't wait that long?"
John groaned and closed his eyes. "I only wanted to find someone who'd suck my dick. After the sex club, I didn't think it'd be that difficult."
Sherlock almost smiled at that. The idea of John going out to find a partner without him was a bit disconcerting, more so than he would have expected. But the fact that John had failed so miserably and seemed reluctant to try again was rather intriguing. If he came to depend on Sherlock to procure sexual partners for him, this entire experiment might go on longer than Sherlock had dared to hope.
He hadn't expected John's sexual appetite to be quite so voracious, but if the idea of waiting three days was too much to bear, Sherlock could work with that. He could always collect more data, after all. It might be interesting to see if the same strategies would work outside the sex club, now that he considered it. It would be an interesting challenge, if nothing else. He could probably scan the clientele of a given bar and pick out women who'd be willing to suck John off by the way they dressed.
In fact, he was certain he could. "Want me to do it for you?"
John went completely still. "What?"
"If you're that desperate, I will. Three more days of you moping around the flat will completely destroy my concentration." There was a benefit for him as well, but John didn't need to know that. They might have more success at a gay bar, though. He wondered if John would be willing to consider men tonight. Or was it too soon for that? He googled central London gay clubs.
John was eerily silent for a long moment. When he finally spoke, his voice sounded strained. "I don't… I… Are you sure?"
"It's not as if it would be a hardship. I'm at an impasse with my analysis anyway and could use a bit more data." He turned to look at John and was caught off-guard by the expression of complete shock on his face.
"This is insane, Sherlock."
Well, insane was a bit extreme. Unusual, perhaps. Was it too soon? Was the difference between a sex club and a bar that terribly great?
"It's no different than what we’ve done the last few nights. Certainly the women in a bar are less of a sure thing, but the gay boyfriend routine seems to work well enough. Give me two minutes to finish this up and I'll change clothes. Where should we go?"
John stared at him a moment more and then something changed on his face. He exhaled and looked up at the ceiling. "You know, I'm knackered. I think I'll take a shower and go to bed. Thanks, though."
Sherlock shrugged and tried to hide his disappointment. "I'll be up for a while if you change your mind."
John turned away from Sherlock as he stood, and walked to the bathroom a bit awkwardly. It wasn't until he closed the door behind him that Sherlock realized he might have had an erection. If the thought of going out to a bar to find a sexual partner had been that arousing, why had he changed his mind so quickly?
He replayed the conversation in his mind, but nothing stood out as unusual. What would have worked John up like that? He closed his eyes and watched it all again, the words unfolding slowly in his mind, all the details sharper this time. John had been shocked when he'd suggested they--
Oh. He nearly dropped the laptop in his haste to set it aside. He covered his face with his hands as his cheeks heated. John had misunderstood, had thought Sherlock was propositioning him. His mind filled with an image of himself sinking to the floor between John's knees, unzipping his jeans, and--
Was that what John wanted? He'd been surprised when he thought Sherlock was offering, but he hadn't said no. He hadn't fled until he realized Sherlock hadn't actually propositioned him. He had seriously considered it, and had essentially said, yes, I'd like that. He'd got hard thinking about it, in fact. Thinking about Sherlock. Shit.
The shower started and Sherlock's gaze shifted to the bathroom door. He could imagine John standing naked under the spray, one hand wrapped around his erection, stroking himself while thinking about Sherlock on his knees, sucking John's cock.
Sherlock stood and crossed to the door, and paused with his hand hovering above the knob. He should explain, should tell John it was a misunderstanding, that he hadn't meant that. But of course, it was obvious now that he hadn't; that was why John had fled. What good would possibly come of talking about it now?
It was better if John thought Sherlock didn't know. If he thought Sherlock was oblivious to the attraction between them, it would be easier to continue the experiment. The idea of sex with John was intriguing -- more than intriguing, he sensed it could easily consume him -- but he also wanted to see John with other people, to continue this game of choosing partners and orchestrating scenes. It was fascinating, arousing, and the closest he'd come to enjoying sex in more than a decade. It wasn't normal, but then, nothing about his life was.
If John knew Sherlock was aware of the tension between them, if he knew Sherlock was interested, that would become the focus for John. None of the rest would matter, and they'd probably have sex, and it would be fine for a week or two. Then John would assume they were in a relationship, but Sherlock would become bored and want more, would want to push John to do things and John would say no and Sherlock would resent him and eventually John would leave and it would be over before either of them knew what happened.
It was better this way. This way he could keep John longer, could keep him happy, and could have some of the things he wanted as well. Some, but not all. Never all.
He dropped his hand and took a step backward, exhaled. There was a soft sound from inside the bathroom, the unmistakable groan John made when he was tossing off and getting close.
And just like that, Sherlock was hard. He turned and leaned against the bathroom door, closing his eyes and listening. He didn't hesitate to unfasten his own trousers and slide a hand inside, to stroke his prick fast, letting that image of John fill his mind. John leaning back into the sofa, his thighs splayed wide, his pupils dark and dilated, his cock standing up straight from his body. How would he like it? Would he want it quick with long sucking strokes, or would he prefer a slower burn, perhaps with teasing licks and kisses before Sherlock ever even took his prick in his mouth? Would it be over quickly or would he last a long time, until Sherlock's jaw ached from the effort? Would he tangle his fingers in Sherlock's hair and fuck his mouth, or would he let Sherlock control it, let him tease John and go at his own pace?
There was unmistakable groan from the bathroom and Sherlock clamped a hand over his mouth to keep himself from moaning aloud. John might be thinking about the very same things as was Sherlock -- and whatever he'd been thinking about had just made him come. He'd seen John have quite a few orgasms now, but the idea that he might have just had one while thinking of Sherlock was stunning.
He was close now, so close, just a bit more pressure there and that was it, just like that like that right there ohhh-- He whimpered into his palm and squeezed his eyes closed as his orgasm washed over him. It was intense and quick, and he stared down at his hand afterwards, at the semen splattered there.
He pushed off the door and retreated to the sanctuary of his bedroom before John emerged again. He couldn't look him in the eye right now, not after that. Not knowing what he knew.
Bloody hell -- John wanted him. He had no idea what to think of that. He'd been aware that people wanted him here and there, but it had been a long time since he'd actually considered having sex with anyone in more than a purely theoretical way. And yes, he was inclined to actually consider this, even though he knew it was a terrible idea.
Sex complicated everything, even when it was casual and quick. Sex required maintaining relationships with people, something he'd never been good at. But more importantly, his few sexual encounters had exposed his heart in ways that terrified him, ways that he looked back on even now with a sense of having escaped a dreadful fate. He fancied himself above the fray of sentiment and emotion, but something about sex undid all of the barriers he'd so carefully constructed around that reptilian part of his brain. He'd learned that even casual sexual encounters had this effect on him, and so he'd chosen celibacy, had chosen to focus on his work.
If John had the ability to pull back Sherlock's skin and expose his raw nerves with a single look, what could he do with his prick, or his mouth, or his hands? And though John cared about him, though John was enjoying this experiment, Sherlock knew that sex between them would be anything but casual. It couldn't be, not after everything that had happened between them already.
And nothing good would come of that. Nothing good at all.
*****
Note: Sorry for the delay! I'm out of town and had a little trouble with my internet this morning. As always, comments are greatly appreciated!
Go to the next scene
Author: Emma Grant
Fandom/Pairing: Sherlock BBC, John/Sherlock, John/others
Index of all missing and alternate scenes
Alternate scene 3.1
Rating: NC-17
Length: 3400 words
Summary: Set during chapter 3. The Monday after, from Sherlock's POV.
Alternate link: On AO3
"Sorry to have disappointed you."
"Oh no, it's quite all right. My expectations weren't terribly high."
John sighed. "Yes, after the last few days I suppose they weren't." He stood and walked to the kitchen with his empty mug, leaving Sherlock to parse that last comment. Did he think Sherlock had somehow been disappointed by John's performance at the sex club?
"What have the last few days got to do with it?"
"Nothing." John emerged from the kitchen. "I'm going out for the afternoon. When should I be back?"
Apparently the conversation about John's sexual history was over. Sherlock stared up at the ceiling. "Whenever you like."
John crossed to the coat rack and took his weathered jacket in hand. Sherlock desperately wanted to burn it and force him to buy another one. But then, every discussion they'd ever had about John's utter lack of taste in clothing had ended with something being hurled at Sherlock's head (usually something soft, but the hurling was the point here), followed by a solid day of John scowling at him. It wasn't worth the effort anymore.
John pushed one arm through a too-long sleeve. "I meant, what time are we leaving?"
"For what?"
"The club." John's eyeroll was evident from the tone of his voice.
"We aren't going tonight." He couldn't resist a quick glance over at John, who was standing still and frowning, the jacket hanging off of one arm. He looked genuinely disappointed.
"But… why not?"
"It's Monday."
"And… there's no sex on Mondays?"
Sherlock nearly smiled at that. "The club is only open Thursday through Sunday."
"Ah. All right then."
Sherlock turned to watch him thrust his other arm through a sleeve and zip his jacket. John's shoulders had relaxed in the last few seconds and his expression had returned to neutral. He was clearly relieved that they would be visiting the club again. It seemed that he wanted to continue as much as Sherlock did. Sherlock felt a surge of pleasure at the thought.
"Have a good walk then." Sherlock's gaze lingered on John a moment more before he turned back to the ceiling.
"When did I say I was going for a walk?" There was a hint of humor in John's voice.
Rhetorical, perhaps even teasing. No reply required. John could probably by now delineate all the things Sherlock would have observed that pointed to his intention to get some exercise. Sherlock smiled at the ceiling.
John's footsteps receded on the stairs and the door below opened, the sound of street traffic increasing slightly before the door closed once more. Sherlock stood and stepped on and over the sofa table on his way to the window to watch John walk away. John's hands were shoved in his pockets and his stride was long, taking him away from the flat as quickly as possible. Or was that away from Sherlock?
Sherlock watched until he disappeared from view. John seemed unperturbed by the events of last night. He'd slept in, taken a long shower, lingered over the paper and coffee, and generally acted as he did any other morning when he hadn't the evening prior been involved in a threesome and then tossed off by a man he'd only just met. Sherlock, on the other hand, had spent the night running through a dozen scenarios of how horribly this enterprise could end.
One question came to the forefront each time a spot of hope bubbled to the surface: was John's experience with Ryan a fluke, a singular experimental occurrence, or was John in fact open to sex with men? He'd intended to ask this morning, but John had shut down the conversation and left before he'd had a chance. Everything had happened so easily the night before; once John had worked out what was going to happen, he'd lost his anxiety and enjoyed it. He hadn't hesitated; he hadn't objected. Whatever Sherlock asked of him, he simply did, no questions asked. It was… he closed his eyes.
Dangerous. It was dangerous, and it would only end badly. He'd push John too far just once, and it would be over. It was inevitable, like lighting a match and watching it burn to a nub in your fingers.
On the other hand, John had been disappointed they weren't returning to the club tonight, hadn't he? He'd nearly panicked when Sherlock said they weren't going, almost as if he'd thought they would never go again. He was enjoying this, more than Sherlock had anticipated. Sherlock could say the same for himself -- except that with each visit he felt himself sink a bit deeper, the way out of this just a bit further away. It wouldn't be long before there would be no turning back, no way to repair their friendship. It was a terrifying thought.
He cleared his mind and turned to pick up his violin. He needed not to think about this for a while.
*****
Bisexuality, it turned out, was an elusive concept to research. He spent a good part of the afternoon reading everything he could find, from academic papers in the Journal of Human Sexuality to porn sites with "testimonials" from people (mostly women, though a good half of these had clearly been written by men) who claimed to have been 100 percent heterosexual prior to a singular sexual encounter that changed their lives. Those were primarily salacious, obviously written to arouse the reader. Many were accompanied by amateur pornographic photos.
Then there were the sites claiming bisexuality didn't exist, some pointing to experiments measuring the arousal of people with various self-reported sexual orientations, with the finding that human beings were either homosexual or heterosexual, despite any self-identification. There were personal accounts decrying those studies and pointing out the flaws in the research design, particularly in the way data were collected and analyzed. There were angry blog posts claiming bisexuals were actually gay, in denial, and harming homosexuals with their "lies." Other articles written by religious conservatives cited Bible verses and condemned all relationships outside of traditional heterosexual marriage.
By the time Sherlock heard John's footsteps on the stairs, none of it had coalesced into a sensible picture of what bisexuality might look like and whether or not it might apply to John. He frowned at the computer screen.
John opened the door and stripped off his coat before crossing to the sofa and sitting on the opposite end. He said nothing for three minutes, which was uncharacteristically thoughtful of him. He usually had no qualms about interrupting Sherlock's concentration to ask him an asinine question.
"How's the data analysis going?" he asked at last.
Rhetorical; a pathetic attempt at starting conversation. Sherlock kept his focus on the computer screen and sidestepped John's awkward effort for a better one. "Did you bring it?"
"Bring what?"
"I asked you to look for a copy of QX while you were out."
"You do realize that when I'm not here, I can't actually hear you?"
Sherlock clenched his jaw. He'd watched John leave this time, for God's sake. "I texted you."
John pulled his phone from his pocket and thumbed at the screen. "Sorry, I never heard it ding. What's QX, anyway?"
"Just something for research. It can wait until morning." It was all online anyway; he'd simply thought the print adverts would provide some interesting information. Perhaps the same adverts would appear in the online version as well? He opened a new browser window and began typing.
John sighed and settled back into the sofa. A minute or so passed in silence, and then John sighed again, rather melodramatically. "I had a fairly miserable night out, in case you were wondering."
"I wasn't." Sherlock turned to look at him. What was this about? John's evening activities were obvious enough: multiple pints of beer, perhaps at more than one pub, likely alone. John had expressed a desire to be alone and hadn't invited Sherlock along. Not that Sherlock would have gone, but he'd assumed John would ring Stamford or Lestrade or someone to go with him if he'd wanted company. His facial expression was a bit dour, but that could be the result of any number of things that had-- oh. Of course. "Oh, is this where I'm supposed to ask you to tell me about it?"
"Yes, that's the expected response to a friend saying they've had a miserable evening." John gave him one of those hurt puppy looks that he seemed to think had an effect on Sherlock. Had the man learned nothing in the last year?
Sherlock turned back to his laptop. "Fine. What happened?"
"Well, if you must know, I spent the better part of three hours in two different pubs chatting up half a dozen women, and every single one of them rejected me."
Sherlock stopped typing and turned to look at him again. An unexpected spike of jealousy curled through his belly. "You went out with the intention of meeting someone?"
"Yes, and I failed spectacularly."
Of course he did. John was pants at chatting up women; they both knew it. He tried too hard and unerringly chose the wrong women. Sherlock had on more occasions than he cared to count watched John chat up a woman who had zero interest in him while another woman John barely noticed watched him longingly. He'd never pointed that out, of course. John was markedly less useful when dating someone he had no future with; if he actually dated someone compatible, Sherlock might lose him altogether. "Why?"
"That's exactly the question, yes. I had four straight nights of spectacular sex arranged by you, but on my own I can't get a woman to let me buy her a drink."
"Three nights, not four. And I meant, why did you want to meet someone?"
"Because I'm horny, Sherlock. I got off four nights in a row and now I've apparently been conditioned to need it on a daily basis."
"We only went to the club three nights." He was on the verge of reminding John of each encounter when it occurred to him that John might be including the night they'd wanked on the sofa. "Are you counting the night we…" He broke off, unable to bring himself to complete the sentence. Oh God, what if he was?
John's eyes widened slightly; even in the dim light of the room his blush was obvious. He had been and hadn't realized it. "Three nights, of course. Last night seemed like two nights, I suppose. My point is, none of it has helped me a bit. I'm still just as hopeless with women as before, only now I know exactly what I'm missing."
Sherlock rolled his eyes and turned back to the spreadsheet. "It's only three more days until the club is open again. You couldn't wait that long?"
John groaned and closed his eyes. "I only wanted to find someone who'd suck my dick. After the sex club, I didn't think it'd be that difficult."
Sherlock almost smiled at that. The idea of John going out to find a partner without him was a bit disconcerting, more so than he would have expected. But the fact that John had failed so miserably and seemed reluctant to try again was rather intriguing. If he came to depend on Sherlock to procure sexual partners for him, this entire experiment might go on longer than Sherlock had dared to hope.
He hadn't expected John's sexual appetite to be quite so voracious, but if the idea of waiting three days was too much to bear, Sherlock could work with that. He could always collect more data, after all. It might be interesting to see if the same strategies would work outside the sex club, now that he considered it. It would be an interesting challenge, if nothing else. He could probably scan the clientele of a given bar and pick out women who'd be willing to suck John off by the way they dressed.
In fact, he was certain he could. "Want me to do it for you?"
John went completely still. "What?"
"If you're that desperate, I will. Three more days of you moping around the flat will completely destroy my concentration." There was a benefit for him as well, but John didn't need to know that. They might have more success at a gay bar, though. He wondered if John would be willing to consider men tonight. Or was it too soon for that? He googled central London gay clubs.
John was eerily silent for a long moment. When he finally spoke, his voice sounded strained. "I don't… I… Are you sure?"
"It's not as if it would be a hardship. I'm at an impasse with my analysis anyway and could use a bit more data." He turned to look at John and was caught off-guard by the expression of complete shock on his face.
"This is insane, Sherlock."
Well, insane was a bit extreme. Unusual, perhaps. Was it too soon? Was the difference between a sex club and a bar that terribly great?
"It's no different than what we’ve done the last few nights. Certainly the women in a bar are less of a sure thing, but the gay boyfriend routine seems to work well enough. Give me two minutes to finish this up and I'll change clothes. Where should we go?"
John stared at him a moment more and then something changed on his face. He exhaled and looked up at the ceiling. "You know, I'm knackered. I think I'll take a shower and go to bed. Thanks, though."
Sherlock shrugged and tried to hide his disappointment. "I'll be up for a while if you change your mind."
John turned away from Sherlock as he stood, and walked to the bathroom a bit awkwardly. It wasn't until he closed the door behind him that Sherlock realized he might have had an erection. If the thought of going out to a bar to find a sexual partner had been that arousing, why had he changed his mind so quickly?
He replayed the conversation in his mind, but nothing stood out as unusual. What would have worked John up like that? He closed his eyes and watched it all again, the words unfolding slowly in his mind, all the details sharper this time. John had been shocked when he'd suggested they--
Oh. He nearly dropped the laptop in his haste to set it aside. He covered his face with his hands as his cheeks heated. John had misunderstood, had thought Sherlock was propositioning him. His mind filled with an image of himself sinking to the floor between John's knees, unzipping his jeans, and--
Was that what John wanted? He'd been surprised when he thought Sherlock was offering, but he hadn't said no. He hadn't fled until he realized Sherlock hadn't actually propositioned him. He had seriously considered it, and had essentially said, yes, I'd like that. He'd got hard thinking about it, in fact. Thinking about Sherlock. Shit.
The shower started and Sherlock's gaze shifted to the bathroom door. He could imagine John standing naked under the spray, one hand wrapped around his erection, stroking himself while thinking about Sherlock on his knees, sucking John's cock.
Sherlock stood and crossed to the door, and paused with his hand hovering above the knob. He should explain, should tell John it was a misunderstanding, that he hadn't meant that. But of course, it was obvious now that he hadn't; that was why John had fled. What good would possibly come of talking about it now?
It was better if John thought Sherlock didn't know. If he thought Sherlock was oblivious to the attraction between them, it would be easier to continue the experiment. The idea of sex with John was intriguing -- more than intriguing, he sensed it could easily consume him -- but he also wanted to see John with other people, to continue this game of choosing partners and orchestrating scenes. It was fascinating, arousing, and the closest he'd come to enjoying sex in more than a decade. It wasn't normal, but then, nothing about his life was.
If John knew Sherlock was aware of the tension between them, if he knew Sherlock was interested, that would become the focus for John. None of the rest would matter, and they'd probably have sex, and it would be fine for a week or two. Then John would assume they were in a relationship, but Sherlock would become bored and want more, would want to push John to do things and John would say no and Sherlock would resent him and eventually John would leave and it would be over before either of them knew what happened.
It was better this way. This way he could keep John longer, could keep him happy, and could have some of the things he wanted as well. Some, but not all. Never all.
He dropped his hand and took a step backward, exhaled. There was a soft sound from inside the bathroom, the unmistakable groan John made when he was tossing off and getting close.
And just like that, Sherlock was hard. He turned and leaned against the bathroom door, closing his eyes and listening. He didn't hesitate to unfasten his own trousers and slide a hand inside, to stroke his prick fast, letting that image of John fill his mind. John leaning back into the sofa, his thighs splayed wide, his pupils dark and dilated, his cock standing up straight from his body. How would he like it? Would he want it quick with long sucking strokes, or would he prefer a slower burn, perhaps with teasing licks and kisses before Sherlock ever even took his prick in his mouth? Would it be over quickly or would he last a long time, until Sherlock's jaw ached from the effort? Would he tangle his fingers in Sherlock's hair and fuck his mouth, or would he let Sherlock control it, let him tease John and go at his own pace?
There was unmistakable groan from the bathroom and Sherlock clamped a hand over his mouth to keep himself from moaning aloud. John might be thinking about the very same things as was Sherlock -- and whatever he'd been thinking about had just made him come. He'd seen John have quite a few orgasms now, but the idea that he might have just had one while thinking of Sherlock was stunning.
He was close now, so close, just a bit more pressure there and that was it, just like that like that right there ohhh-- He whimpered into his palm and squeezed his eyes closed as his orgasm washed over him. It was intense and quick, and he stared down at his hand afterwards, at the semen splattered there.
He pushed off the door and retreated to the sanctuary of his bedroom before John emerged again. He couldn't look him in the eye right now, not after that. Not knowing what he knew.
Bloody hell -- John wanted him. He had no idea what to think of that. He'd been aware that people wanted him here and there, but it had been a long time since he'd actually considered having sex with anyone in more than a purely theoretical way. And yes, he was inclined to actually consider this, even though he knew it was a terrible idea.
Sex complicated everything, even when it was casual and quick. Sex required maintaining relationships with people, something he'd never been good at. But more importantly, his few sexual encounters had exposed his heart in ways that terrified him, ways that he looked back on even now with a sense of having escaped a dreadful fate. He fancied himself above the fray of sentiment and emotion, but something about sex undid all of the barriers he'd so carefully constructed around that reptilian part of his brain. He'd learned that even casual sexual encounters had this effect on him, and so he'd chosen celibacy, had chosen to focus on his work.
If John had the ability to pull back Sherlock's skin and expose his raw nerves with a single look, what could he do with his prick, or his mouth, or his hands? And though John cared about him, though John was enjoying this experiment, Sherlock knew that sex between them would be anything but casual. It couldn't be, not after everything that had happened between them already.
And nothing good would come of that. Nothing good at all.
*****
Note: Sorry for the delay! I'm out of town and had a little trouble with my internet this morning. As always, comments are greatly appreciated!
Go to the next scene
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2012-05-30 08:07 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-05-30 09:40 pm (UTC)