Disclaimer: I don't own a thing.

Edit: I probably will not be continuing this story. Thank you so much for your support and I am hugely sorry. I have just lost the passion for it. I don't think it's my best work. But again, I am sorry. I don't like not finishing things that I begin.

Things That Burn

Chapter One:

"See you later."

Sherlock peered at John over his violin. He had been scratching away tunelessly for the past hour without drawing John from his room. Though he would never admit to himself that that had been his intention.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock asked, lowering the instrument and watching coolly while John preened himself.

He already knew exactly where John was going but he also knew exactly how much it annoyed him when he acted as though he had no knowledge of John's five month relationship.

John looked up at him. For once he didn't look he like was about to check himself into a nursery home. He was wearing a jacket and a white shirt that looked as though it had actually been ironed and a pair of black trousers. His hair was still damp from the shower; his cheeks were flushed from the steam.

"You know where I'm going," he said coldly, his irritation evident. "I told you three times last night."

Sherlock was very aware of how his continuing inattention to John's life outside of the four walls of Baker Street infuriated him, which only encouraged Sherlock to affect it even more obviously.

Sherlock made a dismissive sound between his teeth. "I must have been watching Neighbours."

He flung his violin onto the coffee table. It skittered across the pile of month old TV guides that endlessly accumulated there, and landed with a loud twang! on the floorboards.

John winced at the sound. "Why are you acting like this?" he said impatiently, staring at him. "If you're bored, why don't you go out? Why don't you do something constructive?" He sighed. "Why don't you get a boyfriend?"

"I already have one stray following me around, I don't need another," Sherlock said in a bored voice, slumping lower on the sofa.

John narrowed his eyes at him. "Fine. Suit yourself," he said shortly. "I'm going out with Sarah. I'll be back tonight." He turned and stalked towards the door. "Or maybe tomorrow."

The door closed behind him. Sherlock glared at it, swallowing the urge to scream something after him.

Let him go, Sherlock thought venomously. The woman was a complete bore anyway. Sherlock didn't know what John saw in her. She was just a normal woman with a normal job and nothing remarkable about her in the slightest. What the hell could John find attractive about that?

Sherlock exhaled furiously, his frustration getting the better of him. He grabbed the closest object he could find (a coffee mug) and flung it violently at the door, not caring if John heard it. It hit the wood without even breaking but tumbled to the floor with a satisfying tinkle of breaking china.


Boredom wasn't dangerous. People didn't die of boredom. Or so Sherlock had been told. Personally, Sherlock thought boredom one of the most dangerous states of being. It bred irrationality and desperation and depression. He knew that only too well. It also made it harder to sleep and more likely that his brief moments of slumber would be invaded by dreams.

Sherlock never slept well, but during his fleeting moments of respite when on a case he could be assured that he would sleep soundly for an hour or two without pointless dreams contaminating his mind. When he was not on a case the situation was very different. Suddenly he was oppressed with thoughts outside of unravelling a murder. And they troubled him.

No matter the brilliance and organization of his mind, not even Sherlock Holmes could prevent himself from dreaming. Dreams were a rogue canon that paid no heed to whose mind they were perverting.

However, Sherlock was convinced that his dreams were not due to a weakness of mind but rather a weakness of body. In fact it wasn't a series of dreams, it was one dream. A recurring dream. And it was driving him mad.

Amongst the faint, foggy smoulder that all dreams seemed to have in common, that sensation of being wrapped up in cotton wool, and incapable of independent thought or action, he would be lying on his bed. Something odd in itself because Sherlock rarely slept in his bed, he usually just dropped onto whatever soft surface was closest.

When he dreamed he would know that he was dreaming. He was too intelligent not to know. Unlike other people, he wasn't willing to just lie there and let himself be played with by his subconscious.

He would try to wake himself up. In a panicked repetition he would try and pinch himself, tell himself that he was dreaming and wake up but this always failed to work. Helplessly he would lie, knowing and dreading what was about to happen next.

The door creaked and he would almost sigh in exasperation when John appeared. Carefully reconstructed in Sherlock's mind, John was wearing another of his dreadful woollen pullovers. He looked like he always did: like he had just rolled out of bed and dragged whatever he found closest over his head. His messy, blonde head.

It was hardly something Sherlock would choose to dream of. Or so he attempted to tell himself as John moved towards him. Sometimes he spoke. Sherlock never remembered what he said, though it always frustrated him that his own mind was betraying him and making up those dreamt words. John was just a projection of himself, saying things that Sherlock had made up.

Next John would be on the bed, would be on top of him. Sherlock then, always, became aware that somehow his clothing had been disposed of and he couldn't move. John's warm figure would press against him, his thighs would pin him to the bed and Sherlock knew it was useless to resist.

Everything from this point was hazy. All he could remember was John's body against his, John's hands all over his struggling, treacherously aroused body. He told himself that if he dared get an erection he would personally cut it off, but his body never seemed to believe him.

John's hips would be against his, rocking slowly and agonizingly into him and bringing John's imagined cock against his again and again with merciless precision. He would hear himself moan and hate himself for it.

Powerlessly he'd struggle against John, trying desperately to wake himself up and painfully aware of the warm fingertips on the inside of his thigh and then higher and then-


He awoke with his prick stinging. He was panting, he was damp. He was still on the sofa where John had left him four hours earlier. There was something disgusting between his legs which confirmed that he had had yet another depraved dream about John Watson.


Sherlock shifted uncomfortably on the edge of the bathtub. He uncrossed his legs and peered down between his thighs.

"Bloody hell," he snapped, hastily crossing them again.

It wasn't working. Apparently sitting and simply willing an erection to go away was not an effective course of action.

"Well, I'm not touching you so you'll just have to work it out yourself," Sherlock said irritably, before realising how completely insane it was to be talking to his own genitals. It was new level of dysfunctional, even for him.

He stared at the opposite wall, seething. He was furious with himself. He was furious with John. If John had stayed home Sherlock wouldn't have fallen asleep and Sherlock wouldn't have dreamt about him and Sherlock wouldn't be sitting in the bathroom, trying to ignore the fact that he was very very horny.

He hadn't touched himself in at least ten years. In some way or another, he had managed to stem off the occasional moments of intense sexual frustration and need. He'd been in a mode of sexual abstinence for most of his life and he had no intention of breaking that tonight. Though it was proving an increasingly troublesome prospect.

He licked his lips uncomfortably, wincing slightly as he uncrossed his legs again. He tentatively looked down. He was still protruding visibly through his pyjamas, if he had needed visual proof to support the relentless, aching throbbing. He exhaled in frustration. He had no idea what to do.

He stood up, rubbing his aching head tiredly. It was probably sometime in the morning now. John was still not home so it was likely he would not be returning home tonight.

Sherlock felt a jolt in his stomach and stopped short in the middle of the bathroom. A slow rush of heated nausea rushed down through him.

John was probably in bed with her now.

Sherlock's insides burned. He swallowed, trying to force away the desire to smash the bathroom mirror with his fist.

He took a shuddery breath and leant his head against the shower door, breathing slowly to rid himself of the feelings that his own thoughts had inflamed. He stood there for a long time, closing his eyes against the harsh bathroom light and savouring the sensation of the cold glass against his forehead.

Finally, he forced himself to straighten up, feeling calmer. He looked down.

Well, he had found a mental image which solved the problem it seemed.