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Hacked	By : SoftPurpleSherlockian Category: S through Z > Sherlock (BBC) > Sherlock (BBC) Views: 4354 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 2
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or any of the characters and am making no money off of this story.

Chapter List
- 17
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The rest of the day passed with ease. By the time John made his way back downstairs to the sitting room, Sherlock, no longer in his dressing gown, had finished the last of the washing up and was now slouching on the sofa. John could only assume is flatmate was texting by the way his fingers were rapidly moving over his phone. Sherlock quickly rose and muttered something about going out. It happened so fast, the detective was already out of the door before it registered with John that he had even spoken.
As the doctor made himself comfortable in his chair while waiting for Sherlock to return, he pondered the last few days and how quickly everything had changed. Somehow though, the days didn’t seem all that different if you ignored the electric charge filling the air whenever he and Sherlock were in the same room. John braced his head against the cushion and lost himself in thought.
Sherlock had seemed so confident in those e-mails, but John wondered if the detective really knew what he wanted. Given Sherlock’s inexperience, the doctor was afraid that his friend had an over romanticised notion of what he was asking for. This was the man who sulked for days if he didn’t get his way, who pouted when John didn’t flood him with compliments, who threw temper tantrums at anything the least bit unpleasant, and John was starting to worry about Sherlock’s emotions. His body John could fix, but his heart, his feelings, his soul was something that John didn’t want to hurt. Sherlock was such a fragile man, John had to go about this delicately to minimise the risk of emotional damage to the person he cared so much about.
Over the years, John had come to realise that when a person entrusted you with their safe keeping, it included every aspect of their being. It was something that he hadn’t fully appreciated when he was younger, and it pained him to think of the harm he had caused to some of his past lovers through his lack of experience. He had been firm and unintentionally rough with the people he cared about, not being aware of all the grey areas in between an arrangement he thought was black and white. However, it was the mistakes of an inexperienced twenty-something year old man that had helped shape him into the person he was today.
The army had helped him get his anger under control, and John had become more aware of the effect he had on the people who put their trust in him. After he was discharged, he found a partner that took him under her wing and helped John to see all the grey areas he had been missing before. It took some time, but he finally had a better understanding about the urges he had and how to exercise them in a positive way, what it meant to be responsible for another person’s well-being. It wasn’t long after that he met Sherlock, and his life became increasingly more complicated. The relationships he developed were failing, for once not because of anything negative he did. The women he became involved with demanded his attention, his affections, and that was something that he couldn’t give them while still being attentive to Sherlock’s needs and his pleas for John’s assistance. Since the detective had entered his life, the doctor’s lovers had provided him with stepping stones as to what it meant to care for somebody else’s heart as well as their body. Despite the fact that none of the relationships lasted very long, John was still grateful for an outlet and the learning experience that came with each one.
Which lead him to his current dilemma; how much did Sherlock really want? How much could he take before he broke? It was something that John wanted to find out, yet something that he wanted to run and hide from. Closing his eyes, John thought about his brilliant, child-like friend. It was obvious from the messages that Sherlock craved a distraction, anything to keep his mind from spinning out of control, and John couldn’t help but be fearful that this wasn’t the kind of distraction he really wanted. Or if it was, that it would be something that was nothing more than that, a distraction. Or worse still, an experiment. There were so many aspects to consider, and John could feel the beginning of a headache start to creep into his temples.
Heading to the kitchen for some ibuprofen to keep the throbbing at bay, John knew that there was really only one way he was going to know for sure. Only one way he was going to understand just what Sherlock wanted from him, and when it finally happened, it would define them. It would change their lives, and John wasn’t sure if it would be for the better or the worse. Did the prospect of happiness outweigh the risk of losing a friendship? Was the hope of a partnership with Sherlock enough to shake away all doubt that in doing this John could cause his friend permanent damage?
John didn’t want to change Sherlock. He had grown accustomed to body parts in the fridge, to experiments taking up every conceivable inch of the table. John expected Sherlock not to eat for days when there was a case on, or to sulk and pout when there wasn’t. These were things that made John care about the detective. Despite Sherlock’s e-mails, John had no intention of punishing him for the mannerisms that made him who he was. The doctor swallowed the tablets he had taken down from the cabinet and made his way back over to his chair.
There was going to have to be another way to go about this. Sure, Sherlock obviously craved guidance; John had no problem giving him that. Yes, the detective clearly did not shy away from the idea of pain; John could ensure he received that too. However, the manner in which John handled Sherlock was going to be quite different to what his flatmate had in mind when he typed out those messages. John wasn’t going to hit him for any thing he did, he wasn’t going to punish him for being who he was, he wasn’t going to change a single thing about the man he cared about. Instead, John was going to have to find a way to deliver a blissful, distracting pain and have Sherlock associate it with a positive emotion. He had his work cut out for him and was still trying to make sense of everything when he heard footsteps coming up the stairs. Rising up and walking to the door, John unlocked it and let Sherlock, who was carrying several large bags, into the flat.
“What’s all this?” John asked as Sherlock unceremoniously dropped the bags on the floor.
“Paints, brushes, canvases. Everything I’ll need before meeting with Hance tomorrow.”
“You’re meeting with him? When were you going to let me know?”
“I just did, John. Try to keep up.”
“Right. So what’s all this about then?” he asked while gesturing to the art supplies.
Sherlock looked at him with an ‘I have to explain this to you?’ expression on his face. “I told him I was very interested in having him display my work, John. I need to have some work to show him.” he stated in his ‘this is so obvious’ voice.
“You can paint?”
“I could at one point, deleted it. It’s just muscle memory, I’m sure it will come back to me once I start.”
John snorted “of course you can paint. Is there anything you can’t do?”
“Mmm. A great many things.”
“Sarcasm, Sherlock.”
Sherlock had made quick work of setting up the easel and was setting the canvas up when John stopped him. “Oh no you don’t, not without a dust sheet or something on the floor to catch the paint you’re going to spill,” John said. “Do you have any old sheets laying around?”
“Erm… I believe there are some old towels in the back of my wardrobe, stained purple from the PKP experiment with the fire extinguishers.” Sherlock paused and looked slightly uncomfortable before reaching to set the brush down, “I’ll go get them.”
“No, it’s fine. You just wait there and don’t let that paint drip on anything, yeah?”
John had only been in Sherlock’s room a handful of times, and it always surprised him just how tidy it was. Given the state his flatmate liked to leave the rest of the flat, the doctor found it humorous that Sherlock’s bedroom wasn’t the least bit chaotic.
Opening the door of the wardrobe, John peered inside. There, in the corner sat the pile of towels, right where Sherlock said they would be. He grabbed them and was about to turn around and head out of the bedroom when a box hidden under the fabric caught his attention. It was a decent size, wooden with a gold trim, and John found himself reaching for it. He wasn’t in the habit of going through other people’s things, that was Sherlock’s department, but something about the rectangular chest held his gaze. In the depths of John’s mind he already knew what he was going to find as he cautiously lifted the lid, but even being mildly prepared couldn’t stop the reaction his body had upon eying the contents. Inside lay a variety of different sex toys, and John felt his breath hitch as he drank in each one. They ranged from butt plugs to dildos to cock rings all in a variety of different sizes, shapes, colours, and textures. Aware that he had been staring, John tentatively closed the lid and shut the door before heading back out to the sitting room.
“F-Find them?” Sherlock asked, obvious worry coating his words.
John simply waved them in the air, masking every bit of emotion he could and walked over to the easel Sherlock had set up, plucking the paint brush from his flatmate’s long fingers as he handed over the towels. “Here, I’ll lift this thing up and you can put one of these under it.” John raised the easel off the ground, giving Sherlock ample room to slide the sheet under all three legs.
If anyone were to ask John why he did what he did next, he wouldn’t be able to give them an answer, but it was in that exact moment he looked down and saw the mess of ebony hair tumbling over Sherlock’s forehead as he sat on his knees in front of John. The doctor found his hand buried in those soft curls before he’d even registered what had happened. John wanted to pull his hand away, he really did, but his fingers had other ideas as they threaded through black waves.
Sherlock looked up and locked eyes with John, the unexpected contact made the doctor’s nostrils flare and fist tighten against the silk strands, tipping Sherlock’s head back and exposing his elongated neck. The detective didn’t blink, he just sat there, questioningly looking up at John who was just starting to come to and realise what was happening. Needing to grab a hold of the situation, John let his hand fall to the side and took a step back before clearing is throat and stating “you missed a spot,” gesturing his head to the back leg of the easel.
Sherlock’s eyes flickered over to the leg sitting on a section of bare floor he had missed in his excitement over his current position, and promptly leaned forward to fix it. “There,” his voice came out raspy as he stood up and extended his palm for John to return the paintbrush.
The doctor handed it over, still shaking as he let his fingers brush against Sherlock’s. Without another word, John turned and went across the room to sit in his chair, clearly getting comfortable to watch the detective work. John allowed his eyes to trail over Sherlock’s body as he started painting, lingering on every little detail, wishing there weren’t so many layers of clothes obstructing the rather delicious view.
“Sherlock,” John called.
“Mmm?”
“You’re going to get paint everywhere.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, John. That’s why you insisted on putting something down, isn’t it? To avoid just that?”
“I’m not talking about the floor, Sherlock.”
Sherlock paused and angled his head, a movement so slight that John almost missed it. Oh yes, John had definitely grabbed his flatmate’s attention with that last statement. “You should at least take your shirt off, wouldn’t want anything getting on it.”
Sherlock was perfectly still, and John could practically see the struggle he was having just under the surface. “I assure you, it will be fine, John.”
It appeared that Sherlock had made his mind up; too bad it wasn’t the answer that John had wanted. The doctor decided that the man had entirely too many options, and was about to make it perfectly clear that that’s not how things were going to play out. Sherlock didn’t get to make the decisions here, and from his e-mails, John knew that his friend wanted the order he was about to receive, no matter how much he would deny it in the light of day.
“Sherlock?”
“Mmm?”
“Take off your shirt.”
“John, it really is fine. I’m not going to make a mess.”
“Sherlock?”
“Mmm?”
“I’m not going to tell you again.”
Even though his back was facing the doctor, John smiled when every muscle in Sherlock’s body went still at the command, and his smile grew even wider as he watched Sherlock slip his fingers up to start unfastening the buttons.
- 17
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- 19
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