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The Science of Seduction	By : aineko Category: S through Z > Sherlock (BBC) > Sherlock (BBC) Views: 4041 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I own no part of BBC Sherlock and make no profit from this work

Chapter List
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My first attempt at a multi-chapter story, and I'm not at all sure how I'll fare, so bear with me

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He would try, later, to work out exactly where things went off the rails, when he veered off from the straight and narrow and was led astray into the undergrowth of imagination (and whose imagination was it, exactly? The lines became increasingly blurred), but he would never quite manage to pin down a single pivotal incident, a moment when the world shifted and toppled his precariously balanced applecart. No event, like no man, is an island, after all...
Mixing his metaphors wouldn't help, of course.

If there was a single moment, though, it would have to be...
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He was exhausted. An eight-hour shift had somehow become eleven, and that was on top of spending most of the previous night haring around London clearing up one of Sherlock's cases. He was definitely feeling the strain; he wasn't as young as he'd once been, after all. By the time he finally got home to the flat he felt about ready to collapse.
Except if he did that he'd really bugger up his sleep cycle.
Shower, he decided. It would probably invigorate him. And he could do with one anyway.
Sherlock didn't seem to be around, he noticed vaguely as he went to his room. At least the detective didn't respond when John tried calling his name. Oh well. Maybe he was out on some other case he hadn't told John about for some reason. At any rate it meant he had the flat to himself.

Getting out of the shower he wrapped the towelling robe around himself and drew it shut, fumbling with the drawstring. It had become tangled in itself somehow, he saw. Irritated, he gave it a hard tug - and the damned thing snapped.
He couldn't believe it.
Even as he stood staring at the frayed end dangling from his hand he couldn't believe it.
The trusted bathrobe which had seen and survived numerous hardships including two tours in Afghanistan, which had been a comforting companion during his convalescence after he'd been wounded and invalided home, which had sustained him even now, in this crazy post-Army life he'd found waiting for him, his for the taking thanks to his mad and maddening flatmate - finally it had given up the ghost.
A tad overly dramatic, perhaps, but John felt the loss deeply. Besides, look at Sherlock. Now there was a man with a deep and meaningful relationship with his dressing gown. So John would damn well mourn his bathrobe.
Sighing, he shoved the snapped-off end into a pocket before opening the door and stepping into the hallway, clutching the robe closed with one hand as he went.
"Done?"
He nearly jumped at the sound of Sherlock's voice. Looking up he saw his flatmate standing in the open doorway to his bedroom, wrapped in just a sheet, looking mildly drowsy.
That last surprised him. He'd never managed to suss out exactly when or how much Sherlock usually slept, but he was fairly certain early evening wasn't normal for him. Well, perhaps he too was exhausted after last night. "You all right?" John asked, mildly concerned.
"Fine," Sherlock mumbled in an unconvincing tone. Without further comment he made to push past John and into the bathroom, pulling his bedroom door shut behind him.
And catching his sheet in the closing door.
John's mind immediately flashed back to that one time at Buckingham Palace when the exact same thing had happened. Except it hadn't been an innocent door that had ambushed him that time but rather a malicious older brother.
And on that occasion he'd managed to catch the sheet before he ended up flashing his family allowance.
John wasn't aware he was staring until he suddenly realized Sherlock was staring right back. And that he'd lost his grip on his bathrobe.
And that Sherlock wasn't the only one on display.

John managed to forget about the stupid little incident in the hallway. He made himself some beans on toast and sat at one end of the sofa watching telly while Sherlock sat at the opposite end with his feet pulled up and his chin almost resting on his knees. His flatmate was unusually quiet tonight; normally he'd be arguing loudly with Spooks or whichever show John happened to be watching.
It troubled John slightly, actually. It wasn't normal for Sherlock to be so... well, normal. He gave him a curious glance; Sherlock caught it and frowned briefly before going back to looking... well, just looking, staring a thousand-mile stare. For a brief moment John wondered if the detective was thinking about earlier, but it didn't really seem likely.
He shrugged mentally and turned back to the TV screen, deciding to just enjoy the silence for a change.

It wasn't until late that night that the image of a sheetless Sherlock returned to the forefront of his mind. In the worst possible way.
John had gone to brush his teeth after saying goodnight. Sherlock had barely grunted in return, still sitting on the sofa. John wasn't sure if he'd moved all evening. He frowned at the mirror, wondering vaguely (again) if something was wrong with his flatmate.
Well, he'd leave it until tomorrow and see.
He finished up in the bathroom and retreated to his bed, suppressing a yawn.Good thing he had tomorrow off, he'd be able to sleep in if he liked. Normally he'd read for a few minutes, but he didn't really feel the urge tonight. Just turn off the light and go to sleep.
Well, the first part went smoothly enough.
The second turned out to be trickier.
The tricky bit was in his pants.
It surprised him a little. He wasn't sure if it was age or something else, but sex somehow seemed less interesting these days. Not that he'd gone off the idea entirely, certainly not! But after getting shot and everything he'd had a difficult enough time getting some semblance of order and normality back into his life, getting his leg over hadn't exactly been top priority. And even later, when he tried to get himself back into the dating game, he had been looking for companionship as much as sex.
And frankly he hadn't found much of either.
He was idly stroking himself through his pants as he reflected on the general unfairness of that. It would seem that, once again, he was left with no option but to take matters into his own hands - well, hand. He couldn't even honestly recall the last time he'd done that much, but whenever it had been, this felt long overdue. His fingers slipped under the waistband and encountered the semi-hard flesh.
Hmm. He wiggled a little to get the pants down over his hips so he could get a better grip. Felt nice. He felt himself grow fully hard as he slid his palm over the head, felt the moisture there. Further down the shaft, rubbing harder. His fingers grazed his balls, and he grunted softly.
His mind began conjuring up images of its own accord, letting him imagine someone else's hand between his legs, someone else's fingers stroking his balls, his shaft, the swollen head slowly leaking precum. He saw smooth hairless skin, tasted salt as his tongue slid across it, up a pale column of neck, teeth nipping lightly at an earlobe, his fingers getting tangled in brown-black curls -
Whoa!
What!
No!
His heart pounded with the shock of realizing just who his subconscious had conjured up for him to fantazise about.
Oh God, this was bad. It was beyond bad, it was the sort of thing he should never even be thinking, much less imagining. And yet... and yet he could feel his thoughts straying back to that moment when the sheet had been pulled from Sherlock's body, the sight of him naked, that slender pale body, those long strong fingers John had so often seen playing over the violin's strings or gently examining a dead body or some other piece of evidence... that he now saw with his mind's eye slowly explore his, John's, body, running over his torso and stopping to probe the scar on his left shoulder before straying downwards, grazing his stomach his hip his cock -
No! Bad! Bad bad bad.
Except part of him didn't think it was bad at all. Part of him had in fact not only remained hard but tightened further, his erection literally painful now.
This was ridiculous. He wasn't even gay, for God's sake! And yet, for some reason, the thought of his flatmate - his male flatmate - had him hard and, he had to admit it, eager. Eager to touch, to taste, to smell -
He came so hard he had to jam the heel of his free hand into his mouth to stop himself from crying out loud as he felt the hot fluid spill over his hand.
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The Science of Seduction