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John was very used to surprises in 221b. With all the eyes, toes, and limbs that randomly and recurrently appeared in the fridge, and the unpredictable comings and goings of Sherlock for his case research, he quickly grew accustomed to unexpected occurrences in his day-to-day. Being startled every morning by mould in his coffee tin had long-ago become exhausting and irritating, so he'd learned to work his life around it.
He hadn't expected the startling sexual chemistry that bubbled up between himself and Sherlock. Thinking back, though, he couldn't figure out how he'd missed it. It hadn't been sudden, absolutely not; John was often irritated by Sherlock's strange and annoying habits, and Sherlock was frustrated at John's lack of “level” intelligence. They worked well together, and their friendship got on well enough, but that had been it for a while. Sherlock had taken a new look at him, though, when John decided to take his notes one evening and pore over them. His intent of learning how to better understand Sherlock had sparked an affection, and a patience for his thoughts. Sherlock became more reliant on John's medical way of thinking, and John obliged Sherlock with a steady supply of nicked instruments and test tubes. Apricot brandy-spiked tea one morning triggered the sexual part of their interactions, ending in a few table-induced bruises and a stain on the sofa, and he couldn't sit on that spot with a cuppa without blushing.
John learned not to expect anything normal in his life anymore, and his anticipation did not fail him as he crept past Sherlock's bedroom that night. He'd been in there for hours, claiming a need to be in his Mind Palace. John hadn't wanted to disturb him, so he tread carefully.
“Nnnngh...”
John's eyebrows rose and he stopped beside the door, turning his head.
“Uhhh...”
John listened again, not quite believing what his ears were telling him. He heard a wet and rapid slapping sound, and he closed his eyes. Typical Sherlock, sneaking off for a wank just cos sex would take too long and he was in the middle of a case so please stop grabbing, John. Still, his breath quickened a little and his cock popped up, semi-erect. He stood for a bit, debating on interrupting his solo session, when he heard him groan through the door.
“O-oh...god yes!” he moaned, “Ah-! Aaaah...” he panted, and John heard the sound of Sherlock's own private orgasm. He blushed and palmed his own erection, intent on taking care of it the moment he could yank his trousers off. He scampered off to his room.
With his arse and cock free from the constraints of clothing, it didn't take much to get him off. He stroked himself quickly, almost desperately, as Sherlock's noises filled his ears. His orgasm, though fast, hit him hard and dizzied him. He had just enough in him to wash up and tumble into bed in a glowing heap.
The next day passed without a change; Sherlock deduced and dashed around London, and John followed on his tail. Sherlock called the entire Scotland Yard stupid, and John sighed loudly in a “you-know-how-he-is” kind of way. Sherlock returned home and entered his Mind Palace and John watched crap telly. Only John watched crap telly for half the time he usually did. Curiosity had him wondering if Sherlock was really in his Mind Palace or if he was secretly wanking again. So instead, John tip-toed towards Sherlock's bedroom, slowing as he neared the door and...
Nothing. Silence. Not a sound to be heard. He felt strangely disappointed. He must have missed this night's session.
Resigned to the fact that there was nothing better to do, he crawled into bed and tried to sleep. Tantalizing wet dreams invaded his night, and he woke up several times with his hand on his cock and sweat beaded on his forehead. He always went back to sleep after some time of calming his erections. When he woke again at 7 and could not take any more, only then did he allow himself a wank in the shower.
Sherlock was particularly edgy that day. Anderson seemed to scrape every one of his nerves at once, and he did not hesitate in barraging him with caustic insults and scathing remarks, all the while reminding him of how much of an idiot he thought he was.
“One more day on this case,” he snapped, yanking his scarf from his throat as he stormed into the flat. “One more day and I won't have to listen to the drivel that spews from that man's mouth for some time. I will be in my Mind Palace, do not disturb me.” He flung his coat at the rack, ignoring the crumpled fabric on the floor as it missed its mark.
John tried not to think too hard about Sherlock and his Mind Palace.
After reading the paper several times over, his lids began to droop and he was sure to fall dead asleep in the chair if he didn't head to his room. He grudgingly shoved himself upright and trudged along, when he heard a sound from Sherlock's room again.
“God, yes.”
He swallowed and stepped closer to the door, with his ear nearly against it.
“Oh yes, yes, yes,” he heard him groan, followed by the schlick-schlick of his lubed hand on his cock.
“Nnngh, yes, you're such a bloody good cock-sucker, aren't you?” Whatever Sherlock was fantasizing about, John was enjoying. He unbuttoned his trousers and slid them down. He shoved the band of his pants down and pulled out his own erect cock, stroking in time to Sherlock's. His thumb traced along the head, sparking the sensitive nerve-endings. He had to put his other hand over his mouth to keep from making his own noises. He couldn't risk Sherlock hearing him.
“Rrrgh, that's right, you take it all in. Take it down your throat!” John sucked hard on his fingers, trying to keep silent. He doesn't know, he thought, squeezing a bit harder on his cock, he has no bloody idea that I am out here listening to him wanking and god that's just bloody delicious. The whole wrongness of it made his cock twitch in his hand, and before he knew it he was wanking himself into a breathless orgasm. He barely stopped himself from leaning against the door in dizzy exhaustion.
“Oh- oh yes, yes, YES fucking Anderson! I'll spray my cum all over your fa-a-aaaace unnnnngh...” he growled, keening with every twitch, as his body shook with orgasm.
John stared at the door with confusion and alarm. Did he just...?
Anderson?
John gaped, unable to move or speak even as the door opened and Sherlock stepped out, hand covered in stickiness. Terror crossed his face and he quickly sputtered out, “I-it's not what you think, John, I swear it!”
He stood in disbelief. His mouth tried to form words, but his throat could make no sounds. He just shook his head back and forth, mouth wide open and eyes staring.
Sherlock looked down, to the side, everywhere except John's face. He coughed and stood for a moment before gruffly muttering, “Come with me, I'll...explain.”
Sherlock cleaned himself up quickly and sat on the lid of the toilet, arms braced on the sides with hunched shoulders. While John dried his hands, Sherlock said, “It's not what you think.”
“Oh I'm sure. Because...I don't even know what to think.” He stared again, in shock. “A...A...” He couldn't bring himself to say the name.
“Anderson. Yes.”
“Bloody hell. You were fantasizing about...about him.”
“Not in the way you'd think.”
“I don't know whether I should be furious or not.”
“You may find this...a bit amusing actually.”
“Oh really?” he asked, crossing his arms and narrowing his eyes at him.
“Yes, I, uhm...” He coughed, blushed, and turned his head. “I...I sort of have a dominance fantasy- no, wait, hear me out!” he said quickly, lifting his hands up in a pleading gesture. “Whenever...whenever he really irritates me and I'm...by myself...I always picture myself making him suck my cock and...cumming on his face. As a...display of dominance.” His face turned redder and redder with every pause. “Just...to remind him that he's a bloody idiot, because he doesn't seem to be getting that message.” He chuckled slightly, then coughed it away. He watched John carefully from the corner of his eye.
John blinked a few times. He breathed. He blinked again. “Erm. That's it?”
Sherlock's breath came out in a relieved huff. “Yes. Yes, that's it.”
“So you're not attracted to him in any way?”
“That idiot? God, John, not in a million years.”
John made a noise of garbled resignation. “Well...okay then.”
“Are we...good?”
“Yes. Wait...not quite.” John eyed him suspiciously. “This display of dominace...it gets you off, does it?”
“Yes,” he mumbled, blushing again. He chewed his lower lip, staring up at the ceiling.
“So...you couldn't have just...had me do it for you? Instead of thinking about...?”
“You? God no, John! There's a reason I never brought this up to you!” He chuckled nervously, “Honestly, John, you are thick sometimes. You're too dominant yourself for me to be able to dominate you.”
“Oh. Er...well.” A puzzled look sprang up in his eyes.
“Don't even think that, I'm not going to run off and mouth-fuck Anderson any time soon. Or anyone, for that matter.” He stood up and grabbed John by his shoulders, shaking him slightly. “I am not leaving you just because I like to mentally put Anderson in his place.
“You're sure? You don't need need someone to-”
“Of course not, or I wouldn't be sleeping with you.”
“Well...you haven't been, for some time now, not with all these cases...”
“Oh, John, come into my bed tonight, you can spend the night holding me prisoner to soothe your worries,” he said, with a slight roll of his eyes. John huffed in annoyance but followed him to bed nonetheless.