Chapter Text
"Boo!"
"Really, John, you are - *hic* - right in front of me. There is no - *hic* - way that would work, even if - *hic* - these muscle spasms could be stopped like that. *Hic.*"
"Yeah, well, just giving it a go," John said peevishly.
Sherlock responded by pouting at his phone, the effect ruined by yet another hiccup. John smiled slightly, enjoying the way the consulting drama queen's flair was ruined. He wouldn't admit it at gunpoint, but John was rather jealous of the way the man could draw the attention of the entire room and work it.
"Find any other cures?" John eventually tried, taking his cup of tea all of five feet to the kitchen table so he could sit. So far they had tried drinking water upside-down (which only caused Sherlock to spill all over the floor), eating honey (Sherlock was still spooning it out of the jar, but John had decided it was no longer for medicinal purposes), and, most recently, scaring them out of his flatmate. Yet still, the man hiccuped.
"It says here mild exercise - *hic* - can stop them." Sherlock threw his phone down onto the table and started unbuttoning his shirt.
"Sherlock, we don't have time for that! Lestrade wanted you at the crime scene twenty minutes ago!"
Sherlock paused his ministrations with his shirt and glared daggers at John. And hiccuped.
"Come on, just go to the crime scene. No one will say anything." John knew it was a lie, but he really didn't see the big deal. The hiccups would go away once Sherlock stopped focusing on them. They'd probably be gone as soon as Sherlock saw the bodies.
Sherlock didn't even take the time to throw John a nasty stare. Instead, he threw his shirt at John, and proceeded to march into the middle of the sitting room. Once John wrestled the shirt off of his face, he turned around in his seat and stared at the bare-torso-ed Sherlock doing crunches on the floor. Of course the man didn't wear a vest under shirts that tight. John did not stare at the flat planes of Sherlock's abs. He did not wet his lips as he imagined pinching Sherlock's small, pebbled nipples. And John's mouth definitely did not start to water as he imagined tasting the small rivulets of sweat forming along Sherlock's sides. In no way did these things happen.
Instead, John said, "Sherlock, we really don't have the time."
Sherlock glared at John, and hiccuped. Then glared at his own body as if it had called his mother a whore, slapped his father, and given Mycroft a slice of cake. The message was clear - We're not going anywhere until my transport listens to me.
John rolled his eyes and picked up Sherlock's phone, as the exercise idea was, so far, not working. The search was still up, and John carefully moved the search results down. Some of them were silly - chase a chicken, hold your breath, eat something smelly. Some of them were medically inadvisable - lick your elbow, lick a toad, swallow a fish live. But the one that made John laugh was the penultimate result on the first search page, which read:
"Some medical professionals have found stimulating the genitals - specifically the anus and, when available, the prostate - to be a quick cure for even the most stubborn cases of hiccups."
John had no idea how that was supposed to work. There was no way it could work. But when Sherlock asked, still hiccuping, what had made him laugh, John told him. Sherlock was off to the bathroom like a shot, still half-dressed and sweaty. John stumbled up after him, almost tripping over the kitchen chair in his haste, and made it to the bathroom door just as Sherlock locked it.
John did not, in any way, shape, or form, take a moment to picture a sweaty, naked Sherlock in the bathtub with his fingers up his rear. And John definitely was not feeling the stirrings of arousal as he knocked on the door and said, "Sherlock, I really don't think that's going to help. Try holding your breath instead."
Absolute silence filled the flat for a good fifteen seconds before a slight hiccup was heard coming from the bathroom.
"Didn't work! Grab me - *hic* - some of that lube you have in - *hic* - your second drawer. I've run out of the medical-grade - *hic* - lubrication in here."
John wasn't sure how Sherlock knew about his new brand-new bottle of lube, or how he had run out of a litre of medical-grade lubrication in a week. John barely managed a strangled, "How?"
"Experi - *hic* - ments, John! Now hurry! This crime scene is - *hic* - at least a seven!" Sherlock sounded moderately strained, and John heard the rustle of clothes coming from within the bathroom.
Experiments, right. John knew he really needed to stop letting that work as an excuse for everything. He let out a long-suffering sigh. "Fine," John said, and went to grab his new, never-before-used lube.
He knocked once again when he reached the door. "Sherlo-"
"John, good, you're - *hic* - back. I'm afraid - *hic* - I've deleted where it is."
"Where what is?" John took a hilarious moment to imagine Sherlock not remembering where his genitals are. He did not, no way no how, then proceed to imagine himself reminding Sherlock exactly where they were.
"My prostate, John!"
John was, at this moment in time, very glad he did not have his tea with him and that it was instead cooling rapidly on the table, because if he had been taking a sip of it at that precise second, he would have surely spit it out in shock. Instead, John gaped in a manner that he, upon later reflection, would call quite fish-like. He allowed himself a second of shock before allowing a shroud of professionalism fall over him. He was a doctor, damn it, and he would act like it. No matter how awkward this conversation got.
"Sherlock, your prostate is inside your anus on the anterior wall." He waited a second, shut his eyes, pretended this wasn't happening and that he was definitely not at half-mast from imagining showing Sherlock exactly where his prostate was, and then continued. "It's located inside your perineum."
John heard a flurry of movement inside the bathroom and the door cracked open, revealing Sherlock's face and part of his shoulder. Good, he'd decided to be modest today.
"What does it feel like?" He inquired, his voice low. And then he hiccuped.
John was taken aback. He hadn't expected this sort of personal question, and honestly wasn't quite prepared for it. "It uh - it feels - uh it feels like little shocks of pleasure, all down your spine -"
"Very illumin - *hic* - ating, John, but I meant the - *hic* - prostate itself."
"Oh." John turned beet red. "It's a small bump, about the size of a walnut."
"Thank - *hic* - you." Sherlock grabbed the bottle of lube and slammed the door shut.
John turned away from the door and slid down the wall. Oh, God, what could Sherlock deduce from that slip-up? He shuddered slightly in fear, before steeling himself. He had fought in Afghanistan, for fuck's sake! He could stand up to admitting he had a slight crush on his flatmate. The world wasn't going to end.
And then he heard a distinctive, "OW!" from the bathroom.
"Sherlock, you okay in there?" John tentatively asked.
Instead of an answer, John heard another flurry of limbs, and then Sherlock opened the door all the way open. Well, damn, John was wrong about Sherlock being modest today. Sherlock lobbed the bottle of lube at John, which barely missed, but hit John square in the chest with the box of gloves.
"MAKE - *hic* - IT - *hic* - STOP!" he roared. Sherlock made quite an image, back lit by the bright bathroom light as he was, chest heaving.
"Sherlock, that's a bit - "
"You're a doctor! *Hic*! Do something!" Sherlock had a feral gleam in his eye. John was alarmed.
"Sherlock -"
"NOW!"
John looked at Sherlock. Sherlock looked at John. Sherlock's look seemed to say, "Man up! You're a doctor, you fought in Afghanistan, you can put a finger in your best mate's rear!" John's look pleaded, "Please don't make me do that, we really should be helping Lestrade with his crime scene, not giving me wet dreams for the rest of the month." Sherlock's look responded, "We are not leaving this house until this horrendous piece of transportation listens to me!"
John sighed and stood up. He was going to do this. He was going to stick his finger up his flatmate's bum because the daft man wouldn't go to work with the hiccups. Let it never be said that John was not a generous man.
Sherlock and John stood at attention momentarily before Sherlock hiccuped, turned around, leaned against the toilet, and presented his rear. He staunchly refused to look at John, who staunchly refused to look at him. Or rather, John could not move his gaze away from Sherlock's pert arse, with its slightly reddened hole which gleamed slightly in the light. Probably from the lubrication. John, though he would not admit it to this day, was drooling slightly from the corner of his mouth. Sherlock hiccuped, and John got back to the task at hand. He applied a rubber glove to his left hand, then applied a generous amount of lube to his palm. He rubbed his fingers around in it, making sure they were properly slick, before approaching Sherlock from behind. John debated talking through his steps as he would with a new patient, but found he couldn't speak. Instead, he placed his right hand on Sherlock's lower back, grounding him, letting him know it was about to start. Sherlock spread his legs wider, then hiccuped yet again.
This was it. This was the moment of truth, the moment John, no matter what he might say, had been waiting for. Slowly, he brought his gloved finger to Sherlock's anus. Sherlock sighed, then hiccuped, at the contact, almost short-circuiting John's poor brain. Fortunately, John was made of sturdy stuff, and began rubbing the ring of muscle with a single finger. Sherlock shivered, and John unconsciously began rubbing his friend's lower back in gentle circles. Carefully, he teased the ring of muscle, relaxing it open. Soon he was able to stick a single finger in, and was surprised to find Sherlock thrusting backwards slightly onto the digit. John swallowed hard, and began searching for Sherlock's prostate. Due to the fact he was a professional and highly trained, he found the gland quickly. Also due to the fact he was a professional and highly trained, he restrained himself from ripping off his trousers and humping his flatmate when the aforementioned flatmate let out an absolutely sinful moan.
"Oh - *hic* - God, John."
That stopped John in his tracks. What the hell was he supposed to do with that? Quickly his brain went on auto-pilot, and he began treating the whole incident as a regular prostate-check-up. He gently felt around the gland with one finger, before slipping in a second digit and gently palpating it. His doctoral-lobe, the only part of his brain currently fully functioning, noted that it was rather small, but of average texture and of regular shape. And then Sherlock ground up against his fingers.
"I - *hic* - think I need more. It's - *hic* - not working."
John vaguely thought, "I've heard that line in a porno," before falling to his knees and lapping at the slightly-stretched hole in front of him. The first thing John registered was the taste, which was slightly musky, but mostly sweet due to the flavor of the lube. Then he registered the texture, slippery and smooth and human. Finally, John registered the deep, rumbling moan emanating from Sherlock. The pale man had thrown his head back and was almost howling with pleasure at John's pink tongue lapping at his arse.
"Oh, John, yes, please, oh god, more!"
And there was the consent John should have waited for. To make up for it, John threw himself at his task with abandon - he sloppily kissed the puckered muscle, licked the skin all around it, even bit at the curve of Sherlock's arse - all to the taller man's apparent pleasure. Eventually he stuck his tongue out - and into Sherlock's anus. Slowly he pumped his tongue in and out, drawing sounds John didn't even know where physically possible from the other man. His pace picked up and he added a single gloved digit into Sherlock, gently stroking his prostate, ravishing the little pink hole.
"Jesus, John, please, fuck me, please!"
It was at that moment that John realized he had, in fact, been humping Sherlock's calf - the pale limb was in between his legs, and rubbing against his insistent erection. It was also at that moment that John stopped his ministrations and mentally sat back to assess the situation. He was tongue-fucking his flatmate. In the bathroom. When they should be on a case. Because Sherlock had the hiccups.
Sherlock turned his head around to stare at John almost in horror, his eyes wide and his pupils dilated, face flushed, but mouth agape in a way that said not pleasure but shock. Quickly he stood up and began stammering, and it took John a second to realize he was apologizing.
"I'm so sorry John, I don't know what came over me, but clearly that was a line, I am so sorry I do hope we can still be friends, even with my - erm - attraction and clearly your response was all due to your sexual frustration -"
John pulled him down by the shoulder and kissed him. Deeply, passionately.
"You're an idiot," John said. "You've missed it completely." Then he dove back into Sherlock's barely-responding mouth, licking at his plush upper lip and biting ever-so-softly on the lower one. John could almost hear Sherlock's mind reboot, and when it did, Sherlock positively attacked John's mouth. The taller, pale man fell to the ground as well, straddling John's lap and prodding the doctor's stomach with his long, somewhat curved erection. John grabbed at Sherlock's arse, all plush and soft, while Sherlock cupped John's weathered cheeks.
They kissed not as people usually do in fan works. They did not battle for dominance, and their tongues did not fight. Instead, their lips sought each other out, and desired to caress each other gently. Their tongues flashed out, quickly, to teasingly lick the other's lips, and the balance of give-and-take echoed the rest of their relationship. Their kisses brought life and joy to the other, and soon they kissed as if kissing each other was all they had ever known.
Slowly, gasping for breath, they pulled apart, staring into each other's eyes in what John suspected was the sappiest moment of Sherlock's life.
"Your hiccups have stopped," John said.
"Mmm, yes," Sherlock rumbled, moving to nibble at John's neck.
"You," John ordered, pulling away slightly, "need to text Lestrade."
"What?! Why?" Sherlock exclaimed, aghast.
"Because," John answered, moving to stand, "There's a murderer on the loose."
Sherlock's eyes lit up and he bounced upright, nearly forgetting to put trousers on before he was out the door.