Chapter Text
Sherlock dutifully obeys Mrs. Hudson's censure, giving her fair warning when he practices. As far as John is concerned, Sherlock takes extra precautions to avoid him, training his hole only on nights when John will be gone for all or most of it. Nights when John is out drinking with friends, away at conferences, or out on a date.
It happens all too often for Sherlock’s tastes.
John chats up a nurse as Sherlock practically stomps his foot in impatience. The doctor has finally agreed to help Sherlock on the current case, a level 9 no less. But getting him to leave the hospital is proving more difficult than Sherlock would like. The deep lines around John's dark blue eyes crinkle gorgeously. Right now he's giving that broad, charming, patented Watson smile at some dull blonde nurse named Sarah or Amy or something equally bland.
A spike of jealousy hits Sherlock's heart. He wishes John would smile at him like that. He gets those crinkle smiles but they're normally accompanied by a sardonic remark or smirk or only on times when Sherlock says something clever. Never used simply to try and woo Sherlock like John woos his girlfriends.
Thankfully, John will date the nurse for just a few weeks, and at least it gives Sherlock more opportunities.
Ironically, those nights only strengthen Sherlock's resolve.
Not that Sherlock needs much encouragement anymore; not ever since his heretofore virgin prostate was first touched. He trembles sometimes when he's just fiddling with an experiment simply at the aching remembrance of it. He tries to touch himself there as often as he can. Screams himself hoarse only to find his brain and thoughts again finding his voice hoarse with screaming for several minutes, with a small pool of thin come on his belly after coming.
His recent online purchases quickly amass into a nice trove of over two dozen toys, an assortment running the gamut from vibrators, small dildos, prostate massagers, and finally more life-like larger dildos.
He mostly sticks with the smaller toys. He's not yet sure he likes the too-sore feeling when he takes anything over five inches in length, three and a half in circumference. It leads to a feeling of being overly-full and overly-sore. He is clever enough to recognize it as a distressing sign. Eventually his body will need to learn to take more, but for now he's more than happily content simply acclimating his body to the raw jolts of exquisite pleasure-pain that rack him as soon as something rubs over that delicate little gland.
It goes on like this for a few months. John dates and Sherlock stays at home, distracting himself with a puzzle or when that doesn’t work, uses one of the toys on his anus and prostate. John eventually moves on from the nurse, of course. He hooks up with a few waitresses, a veterinarian, and currently he's dating some teacher. Right now he’s with this teacher for a romantic weekend getaway. Tomorrow, John is set to return, and going by the man's patterns of womanizing, this relationship won't last much longer after this point.
This is the single glimmer of happiness Sherlock thinks about as he finds himself once more laying naked on his bed, exposed skin shivering strongly, all nerves and excitement zipping in his veins as he begins to indulge in this, the most personal, private naughty activity.
As he lets his hands softly play across the pale flesh of his body, he can’t help but imagine a different pair of hands touching him. Hands that are tanned, broader, rougher with calluses. John’s hands -- would they start by sifting through Sherlock’s curls, stroking down Sherlock’s long neck.
Would his caresses be tender? Possessive? Would they be accompanied by John’s deep gravelly voice whispering filthy things in Sherlock’s ears?
Would John kiss his skin left heated by the wake of his hot roving hands?
Sherlock's own hands move down his smooth chest. He suddenly whimpers when they touch one of his nipples. The pink nubs had stiffened when they were first exposed to the chilly air, but it has been his thoughts of John that has made them painfully erect.
Oh god.
Would John touch his nipples, would he ever guess how sensitive they are? Surely not. Surely John would be too obsessed with chasing his own pleasure to figure out Sherlock’s body like that. John would be reluctant about his own sexuality to even bare to touch Sherlock’s body let alone be intuitive enough or passionate enough to intuit how much it turns Sherlock one.
But now, in the safety of his room, it can’t hurt to dream, can it? Is this not-good, fantasizing about a John different from the normal John, a John completely invested in ravishing Sherlock? This John can't stop touching his nipples, teasing them, twisting the over-sensitive flesh just as Sherlock suits his fantasy with his own fingers as best he can. He trembles with desire, soft keens leak from his mouth, as he plucks the reddening nubs, pretending it’s John’s mouth and teeth now nibbling on them. And god, they hurt. They hurt so bad. In Sherlock’s mind palace, fantasy John is watching Sherlock’s face as he twists the nipples again, hard lust etched deeply in the lines of his handsomely worn face, a look almost predatory in intent.
AH! Sherlock cries out sharply. Lightning strikes his system, and he plucks his fingers back in an instant as if they’re the source electrocuting his oh-so-sensitive nipples.
But it’s too late. White hot fire sizzles in his blood. A burning ache coiling in his belly and suddenly slender hips jacknife upwards, his back arching off the bed, high-high- high in the air. He comes so hard he can’t see. He can barely hear his ear-splitting screams.
It takes forever to come back down and when he has a semblance of himself back, he’s laying on his side, panting like he ran a race, curled in a ball in the fetal position he uses for sleeping or when he takes too much drugs. He's shivering violently from aftershocks, thin white come drying across his stomach. Every inch of his body is tender and raw… Sherlock has just enough energy to pull a blanket over himself before he succumbs to sleep and dreams John.