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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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"You need to eat."
"Mmmnot hungry."
"I don't care, you still have to."
Silence. Sherlock just hunched a fraction of an inch lower over the kitchen table.
"Look, you want to get well, don't you?"
Still silence. But this time Sherlock peeked at him out of the corner of an eye.
"In order to get well your body needs energy. It needs feeding. So feed it. It's only soup and toast, for God's sake, it won't kill you." John set the bowl firmly down on the table. Sherlock wrinkled his nose at it.
"Eat," John reiterated. Sherlock sighed one last time, then reached for the bowl and pulled it towards him. John handed him a spoon and waited until Sherlock had taken a few mouthfuls before getting up.
"I'll go change your bed," he told his flatmate. "That bowl had better be empty by the time I'm done. And I will check to see if you've just poured it down the sink or something."
"Fine," Sherlock groaned.
John rolled his eyes and went into the living room. Unbelievable, he thought. That man was just unbelievable. How the hell had he managed to survive this long without help? It was a miracle he hadn't died of starvation before he turned thirty -
Perhaps he had had help, John suddenly thought.
He froze in the middle of stripping the sheets from Sherlock's makeshift bed.
No, he told himself, that was just stupid. Who could possibly put up with such an infuriating character for any length of time?
I can, he thought. Stands to reason there are others. Have been others. Other flatmates, other... What, exactly? Friends? Lovers? Sherlock?!?
No. John shook his head and returned to the job at hand. Sherlock's words from that first mad evening flashed back across his mind (and what did it say about him that he could still recall them so vividly?): 'Girlfriend?... not really my area...'
But he hadn't said the same about boyfriends. Just that he didn't have one and wasn't looking for anything. And because he so clearly hadn't been, then or later, John had assumed...
He swallowed hard and realized his hands were twisting and knotting the sheet so hard his knuckles were whitening. And that wasn't the only tension he was feeling right now, his trousers seemed to have suddenly shrunk in the groinal area. Oh God.
And Sherlock was in the kitchen and might wander in at any moment.
John hurriedly gathered up the dirty linen, carrying it in front of him just in case, and rushed up the stairs and into his room, slamming the door shut and throwing himself on the bed.
This has got to stop, he told his hardening cock angrily. You can't keep doing this, he's my flatmate. My friend. Not the latest addition to my wank bank. He's... he's a he. That ought to tell you all you need to know.
His cock clearly didn't agree; rather than lying back down it pretty much sat up and begged. In fact it was John's distinct impression that if it had had a tongue it would have been panting and drooling...
He swallowed. Now his hand had joined in the rebellion and was undoing his trousers, easing the pressure. His pulse had to be up, and his breathing was noticeably heavier. Even his brain was betraying him, his imagination creating a slideshow inspired by the thought of Sherlock having had a lover (or even a whole string of them), picturing that pale narrow body in the strong hands of another, wondering how he would sound - would he moan? cry out, even? or would his face contort as he struggled to hold himself back? Would he be sweating, eyes open, pupils wide, lips parted, gasping as he climbed towards the peak? Would he -
Oh, fuck it.
With a strangled moan John shoved his trousers down and gripped his cock hard, giving it what it craved. All the while imagining it was Sherlock doing the deed. And while he had no idea how the detective would react to an orgasm, John on this occasion wasn't quite able to stifle a cry.

Sherlock had of course heard his flatmate rush up the stairs and slam his bedroom door, but he was too busy feeling sorry for himself to pay it much attention; he felt better today but still weak, and his thoughts remained sluggish. Plus, he really didn't like to eat unless he had to, he hated the way digestion slowed him down. He could see the sense in John's argument, but that didn't mean he had to like it.
Well, his mind was already slow. Even if Lestrade were to call him now with the juiciest murder spree since Jack the Ripper Sherlock doubted he'd be able to muster much enthusiasm.
Might as well eat, then. Aside from everything else, it would please John. Without pausing to wonder why that should be a factor Sherlock set about the job at hand.
The soup was nearly all gone when a sudden noise from above startled him. Danger? He recalled hearing John go up there earlier. So that was all right... except it had sounded like a - cry?
"J-John?" He tried to shout, but it came out as a croak.
Frustrated he jumped to his feet, or at least tried to - it wasn't much of a jump, and he swayed slightly, feeling a chill shivering through him - he was better, but still had a ways to go before he'd reach well.
Never mind. He'd heard John cry out.
Slightly unsteady on his feet he made for the door.

John lay gasping for a couple of minutes after coming, trying to get his breath back. God, that had been...
God.
Maybe, he thought as he sat back up, wiping himself with the sheet from... Oh God, with Sherlock's sheet. Things just kept getting better, didn't they.
Actually it had been -
Stop it!
He forced his attention back to the job at hand. The sheet would be washed, so it didn't matter, he told himself. And as soon as Sherlock was better John would call Mike Stamford and ask if Barts happened to have any late shifts they needed someone to fill. Get back to work, not be around his flatmate all the time. Get distracted. Maybe even have another go at finding a girlfriend. Get over this... this anomaly, in other words, by any means necessary.
He finished cleaning himself up as well as possible with just a sheet available, and bundled up the laundry once more, taking care to wrap the telltale smears inside the linen. He'd better get back on track, and hope Sherlock hadn't noticed anything.

He was still wondering if he would be able to climb the stairs without any untoward incident when John came down them and the question became moot. John stopped as he spotted the detective, then moved on but more slowly, a frown on his face. "You all right?" he asked.
Sherlock frowned. "I heard... Thought you were hurt," he mumbled uncertainly.
"Oh," John replied. "No, I... It was nothing. I just... stubbed my toe, that's all. Yes. Stubbed my toe. I, I'll get your bed ready in a minute." He moved quickly past Sherlock to continue downstairs.
"I ate the soup," Sherlock said.
"Hmmm?" John seemed distracted.
"The... the soup. I finished it." He wanted John to smile, to be pleased. He waited expectantly.
"Oh. Right." John didn't smile, just kept looking rushed. "Good, that's good." He hurried down the remaning steps. Sherlock stared after him, feeling cheated.

There was only so much laundry he could do, only so many times he could straighten out the already-straightened out contents of the kitchen cupboards, only so many stupid and absolutely urgent tasks he could think up. Eventually he had to brave the company of the detective, and hope he was still under the weather enough to not detect anything.
He wasn't sure. Sherlock didn't say anything, seemed only half-aware of John's presence, but the doctor had a feeling those pale eyes missed very little. As long as he can't actually see inside my skull, he thought.
He was relieved when the silence was broken abruptly by Sherlock's phone ringing loudly. The detective looked around in a slightly puzzled way, almost as if he wasn't sure what he was hearing, before picking it up and staring at the display.
"Lestrade," he commented, raising it. "Yes?" He listened for some ten seconds before replying, "Can't. John won't let me." John was already halfway out of his chair by the time Sherlock followed it up with, "I'm grounded."
"Oh, for..." John snatched the phone away. "Greg? It's John. Look, don't mind him, he's just being an idiot. He's got the flu, the big baby."
"I see," Lestrade replied. "Well, I feel sorry for you, John. Rather you than me."
"Thanks. I think." He caught Sherlock's impatient glare and raised a placating hand. "Listen, is this about a case?" When the inspector confirmed this John continued, "If it's something he can handle here at home, do come round. He could use the entertainment, and I could use the break." Sherlock's glare intensified to laser-cutter level.
"Right, I believe I'll do that. One hour?"
"Fine." John hung up and handed the phone back to his fuming flatmate. "Go freshen up, you've got company coming round. Something he wants you to take a look at."
Sherlock scowled. "He's not bringing Donovan, is he? Or Anderson?"
"I don't know." John swiftly snatched the phone again before Sherlock could call the inspector back and harangue him about the company he kept. "So in case he is, you'd better wash up and put on a fresh t-shirt. I'll move the telly so you can use the table."

Lestrade didn't bring anything or anyone other than a case file and a plastic tub of grapes. Sherlock grabbed the file like it was a lifebelt and stared at the grapes like they'd fallen out of the sky. "Is that evidence?" he asked.
"He means thanks," John said hastily, taking the grapes. He cast a meaningful glance at Sherlock, who caught on and mumbled a puzzled "thank you" before sitting down at the table and opening the file.
The distraction, John thought, couldn't have come at a better time; Sherlock was well enough to demand proper distractions and not just daytime telly. The detective visibly livened up as he went through documents and photographs, discussed details with the inspector, and took a couple of cheap shots at some of Anderson's theories. John made them coffee and otherwise left them to it, settling down in his chair and quietly enjoying the sound of the men's bickering.

By the time Lestrade finally left Sherlock was visibly tired, but there was that spark back, the one that had been missing for the past few days. The one John loved to see -
Whoa. Bad choice of word. Would you like to reconsider, Dr Watson?
"So, any good?" he asked out loud.
Sherlock looked as if he'd forgotten John was even there. "Hmm? Oh yes, it was the greengrocer's nephew. Obvious, really."
"So what took you so long?" John asked mildly.
"Getting it into Lestrade's head, of course." He could tell Sherlock wasn't entirely dissatisfied. "Well, I told him he'd find the dead woman's jewellery in the nephew's bedroom, probably hidden inside the mattress. For some reason he had a hard time believing me."
"Wonder why," John muttered, careful not to let Sherlock hear. "Well, at least you seem to be feeling a lot better," he told the detective.
"Hmmm."

Sherlock did in fact feel better today, even though he was still weary from illness. He slumped down on the sofa and pulled his knees up under his chin, sat there hugging his legs. His gaze fell on the grapes Lestrade had brought, and he frowned. "John?"
"Yes, Sherlock?"
"Why did Lestrade bring grapes?"
He looked up uncertainly, aware that it was probably the sort of thing most people would find obvious. Sometimes John laughed at him when he asked about things like that. Today he didn't, though. Instead he looked thoughtful.
"It's, well... a cliché, really. When you visit a sick friend you bring them grapes."
"But why? Why grapes?"
John shrugged. "Dunno... They're small and soft, easy to eat, maybe that's something to do with it. Look, Sherlock, I don't actually know, it's just one of those things. Do a bit of research if you want to know."
"Hmmokay." Sherlock contemplated the grapes with a thoughtful frown, then made a decision and leaned forward. Four small globes (berries, each containing several individual seeds) came away from their stalks easily enough. He raised them to his face and studied them, picked one up between thumb and forefinger and rolled it curiously, testing its springiness, before slowly slipping it inside his mouth and holding it between his teeth. He closed his eyes and bit down; sweetness burst onto his tongue as the peel cracked, squeezing the juicy pulp out into his oral cavity. A slight chuckle of sudden delight escaped him, the sound startling him.
He opened his eyes to see John gaping at him. Suddenly self-conscious (why?) he looked at the three remaining grapes in his palm. "I... the taste is quite... appealing. I think further study is called for." He ate another, then looked at his flatmate. "I would appreciate a second opinion," he went on, nodding at the grapes. He was more than slightly unnerved by the expression on John's face, it wasn't one of the ones he could readily identify.
John blinked, and seemed to shake himself. "I... Thanks for the offer, but not right now, I think."
Sherlock felt himself grow tense. Was John about to pull away from him again? Why was his flatmate so distant? Surely he wasn't still affected by the incident three nights ago? But John was the one with the normal range of emotions and the necessary experience to deal with them, he ought to have regained his equilibrium by now...
Perhaps something showed in his face, for John went on to say: "I'd rather have some later. After supper, say. If that's all right."
"Of course." He nearly sagged with relief. Especially as John made no move to indicate that he was about to vacate his chair.

John would actually have liked some of those grapes. They must be tasty, since Sherlock wasn't only eating them but showing clear signs of enjoying them too. But after the X-rated performance he'd just seen Sherlock deliver he was determined to stay glued to his seat until either his flatmate or his erection left the room.
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The Science of Seduction