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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

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"Sherlock..."
John reentered the living room with a sigh. He'd really been looking forward to a bit of toast with marmalade. Looked as if he'd have to add it to the list of things to hide from his flatmate. "I'm going out," he announced.
"You've been out," Sherlock pointed out.
"Yes, well, that was before I knew someone had nicked my marmalade to try and grow mould in it -"
"- yeast -" Sherlock mumbled.
"- so you'll have to entertain yourself for a bit." Even as John said it he wished he hadn't. God only knew what the madman would get up to.
Refusing to think about it he grabbed his jacket and stomped down the stairs.

Returning some twenty minutes later, with a fresh jar and a cooler head, he went straight to the kitchen. Toast with marmalade, here I come, he thought. Toast was nice and normal. He tossed the cold slice from earlier into the bin and reached for the Sunblest. He even felt magnanimous enough to call out: "Sherlock? Toast?"
No reply. Maybe he'd fallen asleep. No, that was wrong, Sherlock didn't sleep during the day. But he had looked tired...
"Sherlock?" he called again, walking to the living room. "You want -" He stopped on the spot, staring, then willed himself forward. "Sherlock!"
His flatmate lay half slumped against the sofa, half stretched out on the floor, as if he'd gotten up and then just folded; at John's cry he grunted. "John?"
"Sherlock." He was on his knees next to the detective, reaching out tentatively; Sherlock generally didn't like being touched. "What happened?"
"Fell..." Sherlock mumbled. He tried pushing himself up, but failed. "Cold," he complained.
He looked paler than usual, and clammy with it. John swiftly laid his wrist against his flatmate's forehead, causing Sherlock to twitch at the touch. "Hold still," the doctor told him, pressing more firmly. "Yep," he said to himself. "Elevated." He moved to check Sherlock's pulse.
The detective groaned. "Hurts," he complained.
"Where?" John asked, momentarily alarmed.
"All over..."
John sighed with relief. "That's normal with a fever," he told the detective. "It's probably just a touch of flu. Come on, let's get you to bed, I'll check you over later." He slid an arm under Sherlock's chest and began lifting him. Sherlock moaned.
"Hurts..."
"If you help a little it'll be over faster," John said firmly. He managed to get Sherlock up off the floor and onto the sofa. Sherlock was shaking slightly by the time he sank onto the cushions.
"'M cold," he muttered.
"I know," John told him gently. "That's why we've got to get you to bed. You'll be more comfortable. Come on." He managed to pull Sherlock to his feet and walked him along to his bedroom.
"There you go," he commented as he sat Sherlock down on the edge of the bed. "Now get yourself comfortable. No, keep that on," he added hastily, seeing Sherlock begin to fumble with his t-shirt. "Just the dressing gown." He slid it off Sherlock's shoulders and then helped the man lie down, pulling the robe out from under him and the sheets over him. Sherlock shivered slightly as he did so, curling up on one side; John stroked his arm gently through the sheet, realized what he was doing, and hastily pulled his hand back.
"I, I'll get you something to drink," he said. "You'll need to stay hydrated."

Damn it!
His medical training had taken over when he saw his friend (yes, friend, let's keep that very firmly in mind) lying on the floor. Which was fine, perfectly okay. Better than okay. But that last bit... Not very professional, Doctor. Not professional at all. He swiftly filled a glass with water, making sure it wasn't too cold or Sherlock might just sick it up again, and took it back to the room.
Sherlock lay as John had left him, his expression one of utter misery. "Feel awful," he muttered as John helped him sit up and lean against the headboard, propping him up with pillows.
"I know," John told him. "Drink." He held the glass to Sherlock's lips and tilted it gently; Sherlock managed to grip the glass and control its movement. John felt a brief jolt of electricity as their fingers touched, he had to concentrate to keep the glass steady.
Jesus, but he needed to get a hold of himself.
"Enough," he said when Sherlock had downed about a third of the glass. He took it and set it on the bedside table. "Don't take too much at a time. Small regular sips, okay?"
Sherlock groaned. "Wh's wrong with me?" he complained. "S'like 'm dying."
John couldn't help a soft chuckle. "Don't be an idiot, Sherlock, I told you it's probably just a touch of flu," he said firmly. "You'll be fine in a few days. All set to bounce off the walls again." He glanced around. "Don't you have any more blankets? You ought to keep warmer."
"C'pb'rd..." Sherlock sounded half asleep.
"All right." He found them and took one, spread it out on top of Sherlock's sheet. "There. Now, get some rest, all right? I'll be next door if you need me, just call."
"Hmmm." Sherlock's eyes slid shut. John pulled the covers up around the detective's shoulders, gently tucking him in. It had to be done, he told himself. Trying to placate his conscience.

John shut the door softly and went back to the kitchen. The jar of marmalade sat on the counter, drawing his eye, but he'd gone right off the idea. Instead he just made another cup of tea and carried it into the living room
He needed to sort this out. Sort himself out. He wasn't gay, for God's sake. There was absolutely no reason why he should get all worked up about his flatmate. His friend. Last night couldn't repeat itself.
Even though it had been... good, to say the least.
Whoa.
No, he couldn't be thinking thoughts like that.
He sipped his tea and thought about Sherlock. Not the man he'd seen naked last night, but the friend now lying ill in the room next door. John should have seen it coming, Sherlock never did eat properly, didn't take care of himself. It had only been a question of time before he came down with something. He'd been sluggish last night, John should have seen it then, should have taken action. Hell, Sherlock should have said something himself. He thought of Sherlock's complaining; had the man never been ill before? Or was he just a master of denial?
Perhaps. If so John could do with a lesson or two.

He turned on the telly, thinking he'd watch the news. About fifteen minutes in he realized he had no idea what the reporter was talking about and switched the damn thing off again. He glanced at his laptop, but that didn't appeal either. What he really wanted was to go out for a walk, clear his head. But with a sick Sherlock next door that wasn't an option.
"Yoo-hoo."
The sound of Mrs Hudson sent him bolting from his chair. He rushed out onto he landing as she came up the stairs. "Mrs H, wait," he said quickly.
"Oh, don't mind me, I just came to see if Sherlock -"
"Yes, that's just it," he interrupted her. She looked uncomprehending. "Sorry, you... Come this way." He swiftly led her into the living room.
"The thing is," he told her quietly, "Sherlock's ill."
"Ill!?"
"It's not serious," he hasted to assure her. " Just a bit of flu, really. But he needs peace and quiet, so I've packed him off to bed. He's sleeping now." I hope, he added silently.
"Oh dear," Mrs Hudson exclaimed. "I do hope he'll get better soon. Will you be all right looking after him, dear?"
"Perfectly all right," he assured her. "I'm a doctor, remember?"
"Course you are," she agreed, visibly relieved. "Well, I'd better not disturb you, then. But you will let me know if you need any help, or any shopping done or such, yes? I'll be more than happy to lend a hand, you know."
"You're a saint, Mrs Hudson," John told her sincerely.

He checked on his flatmate; Sherlock lay quite still, clearly asleep. John swiftly left the room again and decided to try and get some housework done instead of just sitting and moping. Hoovering was right out, of course, but he could at least tidy up the living room and as much of Sherlock's current kitchen table experiment as he dared touch. It felt constructive to be doing something practical, and it kept his conscious mind off last night, giving his subconscious a chance to work on a more permanent solution.
After checking on Sherlock again (still sleeping - well, the rest would do him good) John continued upstairs, giving his own room a going-over. It didn't take long, his training combined with a natural desire for order meant he generally kept it tidy. There was laundry to do, though; as he gathered it up his eyes fell on his bathrobe, hanging on the back of the door. He'd need to get a new one, probably. Or at least replace the drawstring.
Sherlock was awake when he came back down, standing in the kitchen looking only marginally less weary than before. "You should be in bed," John told him in a stern tone.
"Bored," Sherlock grunted. John glared at him.
"You want to keel over again? Because I'm not picking you up a second time."
Sherlock tried to glare back, but faltered. John could feel himself relent.
"Look, why don't you go lie down again while I sort this out," he suggested, hefting the laundry basket. "Then I'll make up the sofa, and you can lie there, okay? Watch some telly, or something."
"'Kay..." Sherlock made an about-turn and went back to bed. John waited until he was sure the detective was safely horizontal before continuing downstairs.

He half-sat, half-lay on the sofa, wrapped up in his bedclothes, there was a glass of water and a mug of tea on the table next to his phone, his laptop lay on the floor next to him ready to be picked up should he need it, and John had even moved the telly over onto the dining table so he could see it without having to twist his head off. Any other patient would consider it heaven.
Sherlock was... Sherlock. Ergo Sherlock was bored.
It bothered him that his mind wasn't as agile as normal, it was difficult to concentrate. He'd complained to John about it, but his flatmate had been completely unsympathetic and had just told him to shut up and give his brain a rest for a change.
John wasn't even here now to irritate, he was down in Mrs Hudson's kitchen finishing up their laundry. John had, in fact, seemed a little... uncomfortable around Sherlock. Almost as if he'd rather keep a good distance.
Sherlock frowned as he tried to think about that, but he couldn't make any real sense of it. He just knew that it bothered him. He wanted John here now, where he could see and hear him.
Hmm.
That was odd.
Normally he didn't really care to have people around him. If all his human relations could have been managed by remote control, Sherlock truly thought he would be happy with that. John was a different matter, less annoying than most, but Sherlock was still quite capable of being content with no one else around. So why was he now impatient for John to be done with the laundry (and why hadn't he just palmed it off on Mrs Hudson? She wouldn't have minded, surely?) and come keep him company?
Maybe it was just because he was bored. John was usually able to distract him, sometimes just by being in the room, and he had been... well, a little odd today. Distant. Or was that because of the marmalade? No, it had started earlier, over...
That moment last night. Yes. He'd worked that out already, hadn't he? When he'd lost his sheet and John had been suddenly... yes, why had he been? His bathrobe had fallen open... Sherlock tried to think why... it didn't normally, did it? and he had been... oh.
Oh indeed.
He blinked.
He felt flushed all of a sudden.
Perhaps it was the fever... no it wasn't, was it? It was... something else.
Confusing, that's what it was. Sherlock had never experienced it before. Oh, he'd been aroused, but never, he knew, because of any particular stimulus. In his adolescence it had happened most frequently, probably due to the hormonal imbalance caused by puberty, but he'd never willed it to happen, and he'd most certainly not indulged in any autoerotic activities. The whole idea of sex, of that kind of physical pleasure, had seemed rather distasteful then and ever since; a thing of the body not the mind. And he'd never found any person intriguing enough to make him want to reconsider his standpoint.
So why did it seem to be happening now? True, John was different in many ways. For starters, he was the only person who'd been able to stomach being around Sherlock on a more or less round-the-clock basis for more than a few weeks; in fact, even if you discounted Sherlock's absence after the Fall they were now well into their third year of flat-sharing and John still showed no serious signs of chucking it in. And while he was perfectly capable of hurling criticism Sherlock's way he was also quite happy to provide the soundtrack to Sherlock's smugness. In a completely frank and spontaneous way. Which had been a refreshing change from their first case onwards and still felt most satisfying. Sherlock loved it when his doctor told him how brilliant he was.
That thought made the flush intensify. Oh my.
This could get... awkward.
What to do? He didn't know.
What would a normal person do? What would John do? (no, thinking like that could get awkward all by itself) - but really, he had no other example to model himself on, John was by far the person he knew best. So... John would...
Handle matters as discreetly and unobtrusively as possible.
Sherlock swiftly climbed out of bed - well, sofa - swayed for a couple of seconds, then made his way to the bathroom.

John lugged the basket of wet clothes up the stairs and into the kitchen. "Sherlock?" he called, picking up a shirt and straightening it before draping it on the clotheshorse.
No reply. He was off towards the living room before he had time to think about it.
Sherlock wasn't on he sofa. Mildly worried John went to his bedroom. Not there either. But then he heard a groan from the bathroom.
"Sherlock?" he called again, knocking on the door.
"'M fine," he heard his flatmate reply thickly.
"Sherlock? You're not being sick?"
"Fine..." he heard back.
John bit his lip. Sherlock didn't sound fine, but John wasn't about to break down the bathroom door to make certain. Not yet anyway. "Five minutes," he told the detective. "You're not out by then, I'm coming in. Do you hear me?"
"Yes..."
"Right, then." Still feeling a little worried John returned to the kitchen and his laundry, trying to keep an ear out while he hung the clothes up to dry.

He very nearly panicked when John called out to him. Panic; something he didn't feel very often, and he wished he wasn't feeling it now. It took a supreme effort to get himself back under control.
His erection hadn't gone down during the exchange, however, almost the opposite. He touched it now, fingers prodding himself clumsily, not entirely certain how to proceed. Part of him wanted to draw it out, to savour this new and frankly exciting experience, but at the same time he was painfully aware that John was nearby. And while the very thought of his flatmate was what had brought about his current state to begin with, he also felt very strongly that John shouldn't know about it. Therefore discretion remained paramount.
He had already found that certain ways of touching brought an exceedingly pleasurable sensation, so he focused on them, running his thumb over the taut skin of the glans, lubricating himself with the near-transparent fluid seeping from within. There was also, he found, a spot on the underside of his penis that responded to gentle massaging in a most satisfying manner. Between the two, it should be a matter of minutes before he reached orgasm.
It wasn't even that long, in the end.
Probably, he would think later when analyzing the procedure, his lack of prior experience meant he wasn't desensitized to the sensations his self-manipulation evoked. That would certainly explain the fact that he had barely begun to minister to himself again before he felt the violent contractions in his groin. He barely had the presence of mind to grab a towel and stuff a goodish part of it into his mouth before the sensations began to spiral out of control and he climbed inexorably towards his first ever voluntary climax.
John, he thought as he came, clenching his teeth hard around the towel.
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The Science of Seduction