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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
- 8
- 9
- 10
Upon their return to Baker Street, Sherlock retired to his room for the evening without so much as a word to John. He slowly undressed himself, first shedding his jacket and placing it on the hanger he retrieved it from earlier that evening. He then stood in front of the full length mirror hanging on the wall and started unbuttoning his shirt, taking his time over each button as his fingers worked the small plastic circles out of the slits that held them firmly in place. Letting the garment pool around his feet, Sherlock studied his reflection. He had never really paid much attention to his appearance, it was the same face staring back at him that he had seen his entire life. He wasn't the least bit interested in the kind of attention that physical appearance drew. No, Sherlock Holmes didn't care about anyone's opinion about his looks. That is, until John Watson moved into the room upstairs.
Thinking about his flatmate, Sherlock could hear the doctor moving around in his room, directly above him. He's probably undressing right now Sherlock thought, and he felt his groin tighten at the very idea. He let out a shaky breath as he leaded forward and removed his perfectly polished shoes, moving them out of his way with his foot before unfastening his trousers and letting them fall to the floor. Sporting only a pair of light grey pants, Sherlock could clearly make out the erection he had worked himself up to at Angelo's just a short time ago. Pulling the waistband down ever so slightly, he used his free hand to grip his cock and pulled it from its confinement, keeping his balls firmly in place with the elastic. He fixed his eyes on the reflection, studying the organ that his fist was working up and down. Like the rest of him, Sherlock's penis was long and lean. It suited him, and it was one part of his body he was absolutely unabashed about.
Squeezing with a little more pressure, he slowly moved his hand along his entire length, letting his thumb graze over the head when he reached the tip. As much as he wanted to stretch the experience out and enjoy it, he desperately needed to come. He had been on edge since he left the restaurant toilets; every single step he took was pure torture as his coat brushed against his erection, sending tiny shivers down his spine the entire way back to the flat. Sherlock swirled the palm of his hand around the slit, spreading the precome that had leaked out onto the skin and using it as lubrication as he continued to pump his throbbing cock. The detective shifted his gaze back up the mirror to his face and almost didn't recognise his own reflection looking back at him. He had never watched himself masturbate before, and was cataloguing every expression. The normal colourless complexion of his skin had been tainted with smudges of red all along his chest and neck; he found the sight of the bright flush against his pale flesh was causing his balls to tighten. His lips parted ever so slightly and his breathing became erratic as he started gasping for every lungful of air. He was so close; beads of sweat formed on his brow, giving his face a light sheen. He brought his left arm up to rest on the mirror and buried his face in the crook as he fisted his cock. With a final squeeze of the tip, he came with a shudder. Stream after stream hit the glass in front of him and ran down, leaving streaks on the reflective surface before piling on the floor at Sherlock's feet.
He slumped, panting against the steamy glass for what felt like hours before managing to regain his composure. He grabbed his softening penis and wiped off the last drops of semen before tucking himself back in his underwear. Moving to the other side of his bedroom, he reached for the box of tissues on his bedside table and plucked out enough to wipe up all evidence of his latest pleasure. Throwing the now damp tissues into the bin, Sherlock made his way over to his bed and proceeded to stretch out across the expensive grey silk sheets.
He stared at the ceiling and mentally read the e-mail from 'John' one final time for the night. A grin spread across his face as he recalled the first e-mail he had ever sent and what prompted him to do so. Seven months ago Irene Adler walked into the duos life, and while Sherlock felt nothing for her aside from the respect her brilliance deserved, she had provided the detective with some insight to his own desires. He remembered being sprawled across her floor as the sting of the crop she wielded came down on him, the heat that shot through his veins was like liquid fire, and better than any of the highest quality cocaine he could find. The woman herself did nothing for Sherlock, rather it was the feeling of absolute freedom she had introduced him to that he found so marvellous.
"I would have you, right here, on this desk, until you begged for mercy twice"
Sherlock could still recall the look of shock that had crossed John's face, shock mixed with just a hint of anger, and perhaps even jealously that he quickly squashed before Sherlock could really give it the proper investigation it deserved.
The woman had definitely provided him with something to think about, and he would later go online and find a name for all of these new desires. As he read about floggings and safe words, power play and obedience, all he could think about was the man in the next room. He could easily see himself turning over complete control to the only person he trusted with his body and mind. For someone like Sherlock, someone with an ever wandering mind that refused to be quiet, the idea of not needing to think was pure bliss. His brain was forever racing, to shut it off while someone else called the shots for him, would be Heaven. It was later that very afternoon when Sherlock logged into John's e-mail account and tentatively sent himself that first message.
Sherlock had always found it easier to write down what he was thinking or feeling, trying to verbalize his feelings proved to be too tiresome and dull. His no-nonsense approach left people with a bad taste in their mouth because most of them took what he was trying to convey the wrong way due to his voice lacking a certain emotional attachment. With writing he could take his time, he could make use of the extensive vocabulary he possessed, and could say things that he would dare speak out loud. It was the form of communication he felt comfortable with, and over the last several months it had become part of his routine.
Everything had gone still upstairs and Sherlock fixed his gaze on the spot where John's bed was, listening for any sounds that would indicate his flatmate was still awake. Everything was peaceful, and he hoped it would stay that way for the rest of the evening. John's night terrors usually started after an hour or so of sleep. Sherlock looked at the clock next to his bed and noted the time, he would know in around sixty minutes whether he could work on his experiments, or if he would be filling the flat with the soft melodies from his violin.
He laid he head against the headboard and waited.
- 8
- 9
- 10
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