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The golden lamplight spills in through the open window like primordial moonlight. The moment catches John unawares. Sherlock Holmes, unshaven and filthy, is the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. Sherlock’s sprawled face down on the sofa with a lopsided cushion under his head. Asleep, exhausted, but home at last after over a week away.
John closes the door as quietly as possible. He pushes that moment of heartfelt adoration to the back of his mind. There’s something else lurking there, clawing for recognition, but John ignores it. He crosses the room and stands next to the sofa. Close up beauty fades to pallor and the black smudged hollows under Sherlock’s eyes. Christ, he’s a mess and the smell is unmistakable. Sharp and acrid like an army latrine. Sherlock was probably too shattered to even realise that he had to piss.
Don’t go there.
Now there’s a double meaning if ever John heard one and he bites back a nervous giggle. Don’t think about all that, just deal with the situation, with Sherlock who actually looks bloody awful. John studies the ashen skin and the ridiculously sharp angle of those damn cheekbones for a few seconds longer. Then he sighs wearily.
“You can’t keep doing this to yourself.” John puts his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and shakes him. Sherlock grunts and curls in on himself. “Come on, wake up now.”
“Go away, let me sleep…”
“Not here, come on now.”
John tugs at his shoulder and Sherlock cries out in pain. He wakes and recoils in the same instant, ready to strike out at his tormentor. Then he blinks at John and scrubs his hand over his face. “Where the hell have you been?”
“Isn’t that my question?” And it’s a stupid one because he knows all about the Belington case. “What have you done to your shoulder?”
“It had an argument with a crowbar. Don’t worry, it’s been fixed, properly, in the A&E department at Newcastle General.” Sherlock flops back down onto the sofa. “Now go away.”
John could just throw a blanket over him and leave him there until the morning. By which time the room will smell even worse and Sherlock will have a crick in his neck to go with his other ailments. “No, you need a shower and then bed.” He doesn’t dare shake Sherlock again, so he rests his hand in the small of his back. “Come on, I want to take a look at that shoulder and you’re getting a bit whiffy.”
“Don’t care…” Sherlock snuggles into his cushion like a rebellious sex-year-old.
John frowns. There’s no evidence of drink or drugs. Sherlock’s just too knackered to move and that worries him. This level of fatigue is the result of more than one late night. The idiot probably hasn’t slept for days and people can die of exhaustion. A chill sweeps over John and then common sense reasserts itself. Sherlock isn’t going to die. John won’t let him.
John strokes his back. He can feel the heat of Sherlock’s skin through his thin shirt. “You need to get up.” Sherlock tries to pull away and John shakes his head in exasperation. “Sherlock, you can’t lie there all night. You’ve wet the sofa.”
“I couldn’t hold it…too tired, too desperate…”
“Well, you can’t lie in it all night.” John’s proud of the fact that his voice doesn’t shake, but why should it? All that is behind him now. He has talked it through with his therapist, session after session, along with all those images of burnt and bleeding flesh. It didn’t turn him on, not anymore.
Sherlock groans and levers himself into a sitting position. He stares down at the glistening wetness on his trousers. “Oh fuck, I’m soaked.”
“I’ve seen worse,” says John. That’s it, keep it light, keep it casual. There’s no need to embarrass the poor sod. “And I promise not to mention it on the blog.”
Their laughter mellows into affectionate, conspiratorial smiles. John puts his arm around Sherlock’s waist and heaves him up off the sofa. He’s stumbling with weariness, but they make it down the hallway and into the bathroom. John doesn’t ask if Sherlock can manage on his own. He’s dead on his feet and John doesn’t dare perch him on the edge of the bath for fear he’ll tip back and crack his head on the tiles.
“Let’s get you into the shower.” John starts with the fiddly little buttons on Sherlock’s shirt. He eases it off, mindful of the professionally dressed wound on Sherlock’s right shoulder. “Did they give you anything for this?”
“Antibiotics and painkillers, somewhere, I think I lost them.”
“Okay, I’ll sort something out.” John resists the urge to take a look at the injury. He drops the shirt and reaches for Sherlock’s belt.
Sherlock sways, but he’s awake enough to grin at John. “People will talk…I’m sorry, it’s not very pleasant.”
“It’s fine.” John swallows heavily. “You know that I’d cut my right arm off for you.” Anybody’s right arm, just name them. No, he can’t go back there. This isn’t a warzone.
The black material pools around Sherlock’s ankles and his underwear is drenched. John’s stomach clenches and he’s thankful that he screwed that woman an hour ago, otherwise this could get very awkward. He pulls Sherlock’s boxers down his long legs and wet fabric clings to John’s fingers. Then Sherlock grips his forearm, using John for balance while he kicks his clothes away.
“Can you handle the shower?” asks John.
“Yes, I think so.” Sherlock doesn’t sound very sure.
“Maybe not,” says John. He leans Sherlock up against the hand basin and strips quickly. Perhaps he shouldn’t be doing this, but it doesn’t mean anything. He’s only being practical. Deep breath and turn on the shower. He positions Sherlock so that the white dressing is only splattered by the dregs of the spray. John squirts some shower gel into his hands and starts to wash him down.
“That’s nice,” Sherlock murmurs. His eyes close again.
John shakes the water out of his eyes. Masculine skin under his hands, dark hairs curling over forearms and thighs, nothing like that woman he met in the pub. It’s nicer than it ought to be given that he’s cured and that he isn’t into men. Well, not often and not in big way, just once in the army, okay twice, three times, but it hadn’t been enough to keep him interested. Whereas Sherlock can hold his attention with a single word.
“John…”
There’s no other warning. Sherlock just starts pissing and John gets an instant erection.
So much for being cured; only he was – almost – with anyone else. He had seen young girls in skirts that showed their arses, tottering around drunk and pissing in the gutter. And, yes, there had been a twinge deep inside him, but no more than he felt when he caught Lestrade pissing in an alley. No more than a shadow memory of the old ache for blood and urine. This is something else. This is fire and brimstone.
“Bloody hell, Sherlock.” Fear of discovery puts raw anger into John’s voice. “Couldn’t you have waited until we got out of the shower?”
“Sorry, it happens like this sometimes when I’ve been holding…and the water…” Sherlock waves his hand vaguely under the shower stream.
“All right, all right.” John wonders if can accidently turn the shower onto cold and he prays that Sherlock will keep his eyes closed. “Let’s get you washed off again.”
“Okay,” Sherlock’s dark lashes flicker. “I didn’t know it turned you on.”
“There are a lot things that you don’t know about me.” And being stupidly optimistic isn’t one of them. Had he really thought that Sherlock wouldn’t notice a naked man with an erection? Half-sleep wasn’t going to save him, the only thing that might was a blindfold and that image wasn’t helping either.
Sherlock giggles. “I thought you would be disgusted.”
“No, it’s…not a problem.”
Sherlock pouts. “I’m too tired.” He gives his limp cock a shake. “It won’t play.”
What the devil is John supposed to say to that? He mutters something non-committal and gets them out of the shower as fast he can.
They go down the corridor to Sherlock’s bedroom where John draws the curtains, closing the room off from the late night bustle of Baker Street. Sherlock slumps on the edge of the bed, yawning and rubbing his eyes like a drowsy child. They’re both still naked and John decides that pyjamas just aren’t worth the effort.
“Okay, bedtime.” He pulls the covers back and Sherlock slides in between the sheets. Sherlock settles on his side and a long contented sigh escapes him. John tucks the blankets in around him. “Right, I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Aren’t you going to kiss me good-night?”
John almost succumbs to the temptation. What harm would it do? Just one simple, affectionate kiss, a press of his lips to forehead, cheek or mouth. He’d leave Sherlock to sleep alone then although he could squeeze into that bed spoon-fashion against his slender back. No, there are too many implications, too many pitfalls. He ruffles Sherlock’s shower damp hair. “Just go to sleep, will you?”
“You know you want to,” Sherlock whispers into his pillow. He’s almost asleep already and John makes his escape while he can.
*
“Did you masturbate?”
“What?” John’s brain is still trying to catch up with his ears. Sherlock couldn’t have thrown that question casually into the middle of a conversation about computer fraud.
Sherlock stops in the centre of their living room with his laptop balanced on his forearm. “Did you masturbate?” he repeats slowly and clearly as if John is too dim-witted to understand the question.
“Sherlock, you don’t go around asking people if they’ve had a wank and what the hell has it got to do with you anyway?” John’s indignation is laced with fear. He just can’t afford to have this conversation with Sherlock. His so-called-cure is already in tatters and he needs to hold onto the last visages of normality.
“I’m not asking people, I’m asking you.” Sherlock puts his laptop down among all the clutter on the desk. “And wouldn’t you say that I have a right to know if you’re getting off by fantasising about me pissing myself?”
“I’m not…I didn’t…” The denials peter out and John feels the heat flame into his face. “I don’t want to talk about it, okay?”
“I’ll take that as a yes then,” says Sherlock smugly. He sits on the arm of the chair and crosses his legs. He regards John as if he were a fascinating piece of evidence. Then he smiles warmly and it catches John unawares yet again. Such tender sympathy seems almost alien to Sherlock and yet it’s there on his face. “Just relax, I’m only asking because I want to piss and it seems a shame to waste it if you’re interested.”
There are a thousand things that John could say. “How badly?” he croaks out.
“How badly do I need to piss?”
John nods. He doesn’t trust his voice. He doesn’t trust himself. Everything is sliding and falling around him. It’s not just the piss, I’m not…safe. That’s what he ought to say to Sherlock, but he doesn’t.
“Well, I definitely want to go, but I’m not desperate yet, so we’ve still got time to play.”
Only Sherlock doesn’t know how dark and razor-edged some of John’s imaginary games are, but he can’t pass up an offer like this one, no matter what demons snap and snarl at his heels. “I ought to take your medical history first.” John’s chair scrapes back and he takes Sherlock’s outstretched hand. “We need to be sure that you’re medically fit…”
With Sherlock perched on the chair arm John has the advantage of height for once. He cups Sherlock’s face in his hands and kisses him passionately. Sherlock’s mouth bruises his. They nip and bite at one another, swallowing each other’s breath as their tongues entwine.
John buries his face in Sherlock’s black hair. “Oh, fuck.”
They giggle breathlessly. Sherlock drags John down onto the armchair, so that he’s just squeezed into the seat with his legs draped over Sherlock’s thighs.
“It’s a good job that you’re skinny,” says John. Sherlock’s hip digs into his and he shifts position a bit. “Now I need to know...” He kisses Sherlock again. “I need to know if you’ve wet yourself recently.”
Sherlock lowers his gaze, in a prefect pose of modest embarrassment. “It was about four days ago. I came back from Newcastle and I had an accident on the sofa.”
John strokes Sherlock’s hair. He was never this gentle with any of his girlfriends. “Perhaps you could give me a few more details.”
Sherlock chuckles. He settles back in the chair with his arms around John’s waist. “I wanted to piss before I left the hotel, but I thought that I’d go at the station. Only the taxi took longer than I expected and I didn’t want to miss the London train. So I decided to use the loo on board, but the carriage was packed and there seemed to be a permanent queue for the toilet. Even though I was getting desperate I was far too tired to stand in a queue for ages. I thought that I’d hold on until the crowd thinned out. Then I must have dozed off because the next thing I knew we were pulling into Euston and I was absolutely bursting.”
“Why didn’t you go to the gents at Euston?” John waits to see how Sherlock will wriggle out of that one.
“I was exhausted and I didn’t want to be the last one in the taxi queue. It’s not too far from Euston to here and I thought that I could just about make it home. Once I was indoors I was going to fly straight to the loo, but I could barely drag myself up the stairs. I flopped down on the sofa to rest for a couple of minutes. My bladder kept cramping up and I knew that I was going to piss myself, but I just didn’t have the energy to move. I was half asleep and past caring. It simply felt like a blessed relief when I finally started to go.”
They both know that only the part about him being exhausted is true, the rest of Sherlock’s story is nothing but lies and excuses. He held it deliberately all the way from Newcastle to Baker Street. John bites his lower lip. He’s like a bloody ramrod. The lure of a willing accomplice fragments into a dozen scenarios in his mind. All his Christmases have come at once and it’s almost too much to take in. “Did you intend to piss on the sofa or was that a genuine accident?”
“Genuine,” Sherlock replies. “I wouldn’t normally want to lie in it and if I ever do wet my clothes I always change them straight away.”
That makes sense, Sherlock is naturally fastidious. “What was the master plan then?”
To John’s surprise Sherlock blushes. “I was going to piss into a container in my bedroom and then get myself off afterwards.”
“Try doing it when you’re not completely knackered.” John grimaces. He’s so fucking hard. “Christ…”
Sherlock puts his hand on John’s groin. “It gets me like this as well, nothing else has quite the same effect.” He squeezes John’s erection through his trousers. “I can’t though, not until afterwards otherwise my muscles will relax too much and I won’t be able to hold it.” Sherlock presses his palm against John. “You can however, so do you want me to get you off?”
“God, there’s nothing I want more, but not yet.” John grabs Sherlock’s wrist. He fights the temptation to yank his zipper open and shove Sherlock’s hand inside. “I’m not eighteen any more and it’s better to wait…build the anticipation together. Just give me a minute, okay?”
Sherlock lets go of him and John sighs in frustrated relief. He rests his head on Sherlock’s undamaged shoulder and counts slowly to twenty. “Medical report…what are your present symptoms?”
Sherlock frowns as if he’s considering his answer. “Most of the discomfort is in my abdomen. There’s a sensation of pressure, of fullness, in the pit of my stomach and particularly at the base of my cock.” He glances at John from under lowered lashes. “Sometimes it makes me…excited.”
“I see.” John clears his throat and entwines his fingers with Sherlock’s. “Well, it sounds to me as if you need to pis – urinate. When did you last relieve yourself?”
“I went when I got up this morning, but I haven’t been since.”
John’s cock spasms in his jeans. “Christ, are you trying to fucking kill me? Okay, okay, that’s the diagnosis, you need to urinate.”
Sherlock’s expression is a perfect parody of innocent bewilderment. “What should I do about it, doctor?”
“Ideally…ideally you need something to take your mind off your symptoms. Do you feel up to taking some moderate exercise?”
“I don’t know…what sort of exercise?”
“Oh, nothing too vigorous,” says John. “I’d recommend a short walk. If you’re feeling tired we can always stop at the nearest coffee shop.”
*
Sherlock eyes the glass of water suspiciously. “Haven’t I had enough to drink?”
“One more won’t do you any harm, it’ll help dilute all that caffeine.” John had treated him a large coffee while they were out. Now he chuckles at Sherlock’s expression. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to let you die of water intoxication.” Not Sherlock, someone else perhaps.
“I know, but I have to piss so badly, doctor. I’m afraid that I’ll disgrace myself if I have anything else to drink.” Sherlock looks positively woeful. “I need to go so much…”
That reedy little voice is all part of the act, but John knows that the desperation is real enough. Sherlock can hardly sit still. He keeps fidgeting, crossing and uncrossing his legs. The only reason he isn’t clutching himself is because John has told him not to. John is the master here and the dizzying heights of unfettered power frighten him.
“Sherlock, we should agree on a get-out clause, a safe word, before this goes any further.”
“There’s no need for that.”
“Well, I think there is. How else will I know when you’ve reached your limit?”
Sherlock snickers. “There’ll be a puddle on the floor, you idiot.”
No limits then, no rules, but he would never hurt Sherlock. That would be like cutting his own throat. He couldn’t live, couldn’t function without him. John picks up the glass with a steady hand. “Here, drink your water.”
“I’d rather not, doctor.” Sherlock gnaws at his lower lip. “I might have an accident.”
“That’s the very reason it’s important for you to keep hydrated.” John holds the glass under Sherlock’s nose and neither of them argues with that bit of converse logic.
Sherlock grabs it and gulps down about half of the water. “I can’t…I’ll wet myself…” He turns big, despairing eyes on John.
“No, you won’t. It’ll be fine.” John strokes Sherlock’s cheek. His skin’s hot and he’s trembling slightly. They both know that he will and well before that water has time to go through his system. This is just a little extra psychological twist. John’s good at those. “If you drink all of it I’ll let you hold yourself if you need to.”
There’s a defiant glint in Sherlock’s eyes as he downs the rest of the water, but the second he’s done he grabs his crotch and squeezes hard. He bends forward with a moan. “Oh, fuck.”
John restrains an answering whimper. He’s supposed to be in control here, but his cock’s an iron ridge against the front of his jeans. Sherlock’s still leaning forward and massaging himself through his trousers.
“Do you…” John tries again. “Do you have a penile erection?”
Sherlock flops back in the armchair. “Yes, no, sometimes, it keeps getting hard, but it won’t stay hard. Oh god, I need to go.” He starts to get out of the chair and John pushes him back down. “Please, I want to move. I can’t just sit still.”
“I’m sorry, but you’ll have to stay where you are.” John kisses his open lips. “Doctor’s orders.”
“Please, doctor, let me go to the loo, I’m going to wet myself if you don’t let me go soon.” Sherlock pupils are completely blown and for a moment John wonders which of them is enjoying this the most.
“I’m afraid that’s not possible. You need to remain here, under observation, and given the severity of your symptoms it might be best if I carry out a full physical examination.” John gives Sherlock to his most polished, professional smile. “Stand up and I’ll help you undress.”
It isn’t easy to get a wriggly Sherlock out of his clothes, but the desperate, naked body in his arms is ample reward for John’s efforts. He steals a kiss. “Okay, lie down on the sofa and I’ll give you the once over.”
Sherlock’s grin is positively wicked. He hobbles over to the sofa and stretches out obediently. “This won’t take too long, will it?”
“I’ll be as quick as I can be, but it’s important that you keep as still as possible while I examine you.” John kneels next to the sofa. “Just squeeze your penis if you feel that you might have an accident.”
Sherlock’s already holding his cock tightly, but his eyes close as he does what John says. His hips shift restlessly. “Please, hurry…”
That’s the last thing John intends to do. There is skin under his hands, hot and alive, with a network of turquoise veins full of rich red blood. Biceps and that almost hairless chest with the flushed, peaked nipples. Sherlock groans when John licks and bites them. “Don’t! Stop, Please stop…” He pushes John’s head away. “I’ll do it if you don’t stop.”
John smirks at him. “Do what?”
“Piss myself” Sherlock grimaces. His pelvis rocks from side to side. “Oh fuck, I need to piss. Please, doctor, I need to go.”
“Not yet.” John clasps Sherlock’s hips. “I haven’t finished examining you.” Sherlock’s desperate whimper goes straight to his cock and John shudders. He breaths out and places his hand lightly on Sherlock’s abdomen. “Now I can detect a swelling here, which confirms my earlier diagnosis, you do need to urinate, but there’s no cause for alarm.”
“Fuck off,” mutters Sherlock. “Why can’t I just go, doctor?”
“I’ll be able to answer that when I’ve examined your penis.” John reaches down and touches Sherlock’s clutching fingers. “Just relax your grip for a moment, please. It’s all right, I’ll hold it for you, you won’t have an accident.”
“Don’t bet on it…” Sherlock relinquishes his cock to John. It’s half-hard and it stiffens to full erection the moment John starts stroking it. “Oh Christ, that’s good.” Sherlock spreads his legs and arches his spine. “So good…Oh god, I need to piss.” Sherlock rolls away from John and clenches his thighs together. Then he immediately rolls over again. “I have to piss. Please, John, I need to go…oh fuck, please…” Sherlock turns to face the back of the sofa again. He draws his legs up and wedges both hands firmly into his groin.
Johns stares down at Sherlock. He loves the little desperate noises Sherlock is making and his gaze is arrested by that square white dressing on his shoulder. “Turn around.” He grips Sherlock’s injured shoulder just above the wound. “I said turn over.”
Sherlock groans and rolls over onto his back. His abdomen’s visibly swollen, but there’s a devilish gleam in his eyes when they meet John’s. He jiggles his hips frantically. “I need to piss. I need to piss. I need to piss!” A shining drop of fluid appears at the tip of his cock and second droplet forms as it drips down his shaft. “Oh god, fuck, I need to go!”
John grabs Sherlock’s chin between thumb and forefinger. “Hold it, you bastard.” He presses hard enough to leave indents that will darken to bruises. “Don’t. Fucking. Go.”
He doesn’t relax the pressure until Sherlock nods and then he releases him abruptly. “Don’t you bloody dare or I’ll take the skin off your back with a horsewhip.”
It isn’t fear that flares in Sherlock’s eyes, but desperation overrides it. “I can’t wait. God, please, I’m bursting…” He pulls urgently on the base of his cock. “I have to go!”
“NO.” John pulls his clothes off at Olympic speed and moans with relief when his aching cock springs free. “Now, sit up.”
“Can’t…” Sherlock’s head tosses from side to side on the sofa arm. “Please don’t make me, I’ll go if I move.”
“You’ll go when I say you can and not before.” John puts his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders. “Now just sit up slowly and shuffle to the edge of the sofa. I’ll help you, but you have to hold it, understand?”
“I don’t know if I can.” Sherlock shifts position. “Don’t let me piss. Oh god, please don’t let me piss.” He whimpers. “I need to go! Please, John, please let me go.”
“Not yet.”
Sherlock lifts his head. His breath catches in his throat. “Soon?”
“Not yet,” John repeats stubbornly. It’s going to have to be soon, neither of them can hold out much longer. His cock feels as if it’s about to explode. He wonders how much of Sherlock’s frantic pleading is calculated to have just that affect on him. The man is a brilliant actor, but he can’t fake that bulging bladder or that slow drip of piss through his clutching fingers.
Sherlock thrusts wildly into his own hands. “Oh god, I need to go now!”
“Hold it,” John snarls. He wants to slap Sherlock, but he doesn’t dare in case it unleashes a flood and all his own demons. “I haven’t finished examining you.” John kneels on the sofa beside Sherlock. “I need to check on your shoulder.”
“Later,” Sherlock moans.
John doesn’t bother to reply. He just strips away the dressing and there it is, an almost straight furrow of raw, red skin surrounded by white flesh. If he looks closely he can see the neat transparent hospital stitches. “They did a good job.”
“Please…” Sherlock rocks backwards and forwards in his distress. “Please, please just let me piss.”
No limits. No boundaries. Yet John knows that a flood in imminent and he would rather give permission than allow nature to take its course. “Soon,” he promises and he sweeps the sweaty tangle of Sherlock’s hair back off his face. “I just need you to hold it for a little bit longer.” He kisses Sherlock’s neck. “Will you do that for me?”
“I’ll try…oh god, please…”
“Shush, it’s all right.” John straddles Sherlock’s back so that his erection is wedged up against his spine. He wraps one arm around Sherlock’s waist and places his other hand over Sherlock’s at his groin. “There I’ve got you. We’ll squeeze it together, strong and steady.”
“It’s no use, I can’t hold it…” Sherlock whimpers, but he’s still fighting against inevitable defeat. “Stupid, bastard thing…”
“Shush, shush.” John kisses that raw scar and swipes his tongue over it. His cock throbs between their close pressed bodies and he presses his lips to the wound. Blood and urine. “You’re going to piss yourself any second now, aren’t you, beautiful?” he murmurs into the broken flesh. Sherlock sobs in desperation and John raises his head. His lips touch Sherlock’s ear. “Go.”
That one word command is all it takes. It comes out full-force while Sherlock’s moan of relief is still reverberating in the air; a high pressure torrent of piss that pounds hotly over their joined hands. John’s hips jerk wildly and his cock, compressed between their bodies, spurts thick white fluid. It’s the best orgasm he’s ever had and it seems to go on forever, but Sherlock’s still sobbing and pissing when it ends.
“Fuck, god, it feels incredible.” Sherlock writhes in John’s arms. “Oh god, John, I can’t believe that I’m really, finally going.”
John chuckles breathlessly. “You’re doing that all right.” There’s a rapidly spreading puddle on the floor and the sofa’s getting soaked. He rubs slow circles just above Sherlock’s pubic hair. “That’s it, make sure you do all of it, every last drop now.”
There’s one last fountain burst of piss and then John’s rubbing Sherlock’s cock through the final trickles. It’s barely stopped before Sherlock convulses repeatedly in violent and prolonged orgasm.
*
They collapse into Sherlock’s bed, naked and exhausted. In the middle of the night John catches Sherlock’s arm as he’s just about to climb out from under the covers. “Where are you off to?”
“I need to piss again.”
“Wet the bed,” John mutters and Sherlock lets go with a blissful sigh of relief.
It’s the first thing John smells when he wakes up in the morning and the first thing he sees is that livid wound on Sherlock’s shoulder. John snuggles up against his back and kisses the injury. “Good-morning.”
Sherlock rolls over to face him. They both have erections and Sherlock’s hand closes around John’s. “Now, doctor, I’m afraid that I’m going to have to ask you to answer some questions.”
“What kind of questions?” asks John between lazy kisses.
“I believe that you have a fetish about urination.” Sherlock kisses and bites John’s thumb.
The little spike of pain goes right to John’s cock, but he’s wary now. “Wasn’t the demonstration I gave you last night good enough?”
Sherlock rears up and pins John’s hands to the bed on either side of his head. “Tell me the rest, tell me all the things you’d never do to me, all the things you want me to do with you.” A suddenly boyish grin appears on Sherlock’s face and he flops down with his head on John’s shoulder. He reclaims John’s cock. “Tell me about the victims, John.”
“There…there aren’t any victims, it’s all just in my head.”
Sherlock laughs and strokes John’s erection. “So tell me your fantasies.”
John stumbles over his words, but Sherlock can in infinitely patient when he wants to be and that maddeningly slow masturbation helps to coax the truth from him. He tells Sherlock how he selects imaginary victims from among the crowds. Sometimes he’s attracted to them and sometimes they irritate him, but either way they end up chained to a wall. John tells them that they’ve got nothing to be afraid of, that he won’t hurt them. Not unless they urinate. And in the end, after all the struggling and begging they always do, literally dying for a piss.
“You should give them a timescale, six hours or eight.” Sherlock murmurs. He kisses his way across John’s chest. “Something that they might just be able to achieve, they’ll fight all the harder if they think that there’s hope.” He smiles at John. “We don’t have to let them go even if they do manage to last out.”
The ‘we’ sinks into John’s sex and death fogged brain. He grins at Sherlock and tells him the rest; experiments in water intoxication, ways of preventing urination so that the bladder ruptures and how he’s wondered what it would be like to slice a bulging bladder open with a scalpel.
Sherlock gets him off at that point and he returns the favour. They drift back to sleep and don’t get out of bed until noon.
A warm and lazy afternoon is spent cuddling and talking on the sofa. It doesn’t matter how impossible and cruel the scenarios they spin back and forth are. They’re just sexual fantasies after all.
They’re not actually going to kill anyone.
Are they?