John Watson also performs experiments. Of course he does. Why should the fabled Sherlock Holmes get all the fun? Think of it as genius inspiring genius. Because you know what? John's getting good at this. He's really getting very good.

Mostly John experiments on Sherlock. Actually the only experiments John does are on Sherlock. While Sherlock's sleeping. Only while Sherlock's sleeping.

Which experiments John performs depend on dozens of complex, even esoteric, factors, from what investigative tools he may have on hand to the weather to—oh, okay, okay, okay. Honestly, the most important elements are three: sheer inspiration, John's mood, and how damned annoying Sherlock's been that day.

A small sampling of the doctor's past nocturnal studies have included—but are by no means limited to:

* Seeing how long he can converse with his sleeping lover. The lengthiest chat went for just under one minute and John nearly killed himself stifling laughter after enticing Sherlock to lisp 'sassy spider' twice.

* Counting how many braids he could make in Sherlock's hair. He managed thirty eight, but he thinks the answer is really forty two because there was that one thick curl he couldn't reach at the back of his lover's head.

* Attempting to change the rate of Sherlock's respiration by breathing softly across his mouth. Surprisingly this worked, though John's still trying to figure out what to do with the information.

Obviously most of the experiments are not exactly performed to rigorous scientific method standards, but they do manage to entertain the good doctor when the night is long and sleep elusive.

Like tonight. Vague ennui, the last remnants of an allergy attack, and absolutely nothing worth watching on the telly meant that tonight there would be an experiment. And tonight John was going to get serious. Tonight he was going to guide Sherlock's dreams.

...

Sometimes the world is a just and merciful place. Exhibit A: Sherlock Holmes does not dream in detail.

When the world's only consulting detective dreams, it's usually in broad, bold strokes. Colors are bright, words few, actions simple. If he flies in a dream, for example, there may be wind or the sound of birds, but there will be no trees, no roads, no clouds, no rain. Dreams, it turns out, are where Sherlock's frenetic grey matter goes to rest.

Tonight it would also be entertained. Oh god, yes.

...

It was some time last winter. Sherlock had inspired interesting dreams in a sleeping John by "providing pleasant stimuli." It had been so elegantly simple that it had actually worked, the good doctor had had a riot of exquisitely odd fancies, most containing a bare Sherlock doing exquisitely odd things, and all his lover had done was play his violin and sit naked beside John's sick bed.

With that as inspiration at two in the morning on a rainy Wednesday evening, John figured now was as good a time as any to test the concept. Only he'd sort of start further along in the experimental process. He thought he'd sort of make love to Sherlock. While Sherlock slept. To, you know, sort of see what happened.

'Sort of' looked a lot like soft kisses, at first. Light little feathery things that were more breath than a touch of lips to flesh. With the devoted concentration of a patient man, John took a long, long time ghosting those kisses along the back of Sherlock's hand, at the tender skin inside his wrist, at the scars at the crook of his arm, and he knew he was providing pleasant stimuli because his lover's breathing slowed down, way down, while his heart rate gradually went up.

...

It started as many of his dreams do: With the merest impression of color. A slash of something bright, something white, something dark. In the dream Sherlock breathed slow and easy, had all the time in the world, was doing nothing and going nowhere.

The exact colors stayed vague but they gave off Good in nice fat waves, so Sherlock let Good wash over him and make him feel, well, good, for a long, long time.

...

John didn't necessarily know what was going to happen during this experiment, but he had a few firm theories.

Theory the first: He was probably going to get hard. That was very likely, though by no means certain. Despite his profound physical attraction to Sherlock, it wasn't as if they were brand new, you know. They'd been together long enough, had had enough fights, burped enough burps, scratched enough inelegant places, to be quite aware of each other as purely unsexual creatures. That being said, this—John ran the tip of his tongue slowly over the pulse in Sherlock's wrist—this right here was most decidedly John behaving as a sexual creature.

Theory the second: Sherlock was going to respond to John's attentions.

Theory the third: Sherlock could respond in any one of a hundred ways. He might wake at any moment. As a subset to that response he might wake grumpy. Startled. Horny. Indifferent. Or the detective might pull away at any time, turn, curl in on himself in an effort to sink back into undisturbed slumber. Or Sherlock might indeed, John hoped, start dreaming.

...

After awhile the vague impressions of color in Sherlock's dream started resolving themselves into the discernable hues of cherry red, bright white, and satin black. That's about all that happened for a while because unlike the three dimensional version, dream Sherlock was happy to let facts flow over, around, and past him unexamined.

...

About now John decided to take another page from Sherlock's fairly extensive real-life playbook.

Tugging gently at his lover's t-shirt John exposed the sensitive expanse of his sweetheart's pale stomach and the goal of this particular portion of the experiment: Sherlock's belly button. With a small smile John began running the tip of his finger around and around aaaannnd around the rim.

In short order theory one proved true. As his fingertip carefully circled the sweet soft flesh of that dark little enticement, occasionally sliding inside and sort of curling up as if that tiny hole contained its very own tiny prostate, John became aware of his tongue slicking over his lips and of his cock expressing interest in the proceedings by slowly stirring beneath cool sheets.

...

About now Sherlock's leisurely dream time started ramping up, with indistinct becoming quickly quite distinct, until in a few moments the consulting detective was able to make out to what the soothing, previously hazy, largely speculative, colors belonged.

They belonged to John H. Watson, thank you, who stood before him quite naked but for a tiny frilly white skirt, satin-black heels, and cherry red hair clips.

Well even in the dream Sherlock knew how very wrong this was (that outfit was clearly meant for him), so the dream detective closed his eyes and when he opened them again John was stretched out on a bed beside him, properly naked now, and Sherlock was slicking his tongue around John's little outtie while straightening one of the bright hair clips in his dark curls.

...

To John's studied relief (yes, the relief was very, um, scientific, and, uh studied) theory two also proved true: Sherlock was responding to his ministrations, if the fluttery little sigh-moans were any indication.

John believed quite firmly that they were, so John continued to kind of gently finger-fuck Sherlock's belly button for a good long while. So long, as a matter of fact, that he had time to let his hand leisurely wander down under the covers, where fingers curled around his growing erection and gently started, mmmmm, wanking is probably the right word.

...

With a fluttery little sigh-moan dream Sherlock let dream John push him onto his back. He very much liked when John was two things at once—in this case gentle and forceful. A moment ago he'd been shy and bold. Before that, while they kissed, it was eager yet languid.

He also liked it when John just looked at him, like he was doing now, kneeling at his feet on the bed, checking out Sherlock's long legs and enjoying what he saw at both ends. In this case elegant black stilettos at one and a really very silly white froth of a nothing skirt at the other.

What Sherlock liked even more than all of these things, quite a bit more if you want to know, is when John looked at him with that exact face of petulant lust. It shot sensation right from, well, right from Sherlock's belly button (oddly), and straight into his cock.

Even more—much much more—Sherlock liked watching John's hand drift down his own belly and wrap around his erection, and start to soft-hard, fast-slow…stroke.

...

Who was he kidding with this? Seriously?

Experiment shmeriment, it was not quite two thirty on a Wednesday evening and even before Sherlock had given up his latest research (something to do with a rare Egyptian pollen and Wensleydale cheese) John had known he was horny.

Unfortunately when he sidled up close to his lover in the kitchen he'd also had an immediate and intense allergic reaction to the pollen and had figured one pretty much superseded the other. So instead of tackling his lover to the floor (well, not the kitchen floor; have you seen that thing? No? Well don't look. Just…don't.) he'd gone off for a steamy shower (meant to unclog his sinuses) and had been so long about it that he'd emerged later to find the consulting detective splay-armed across their bed and snoring gently.

There are three things John will never, ever do if he can help it, and they are:

* Wake a sleeping Sherlock. While his lanky lover sleeps a lot more than legend will allow, he's an often fitful sleeper, prone to waking in the middle of the night with ideas, suppositions, theories, or insistent erections.

* Deny Sherlock any food whatsoever. Again, Sherlock does eat, of course he does, but he has such a profound lack of real interest in most food that even if John had crawled across the Gobi desert and was so completely starving he'd eat the dusty drapes, even if he was exactly that hungry, he'd still give Sherlock half of anything on his plate if he even so much as said, "Hey, what's that?"

* Say no to sex. Well, mostly he won't say no to sex. It's not that Sherlock's not interested because he usually is, it's just that as with those other two things, he can sort of forget about sex for awhile if there are other diversions—and diversions is a four-letter word very simply spelled: c-a-s-e.

Anyway, John had emerged from the shower and there was Sherlock passed clean out and snoring (John keeps forgetting to record the snore that Sherlock insists he doesn't do. One of these days the good doctor is going to prance around the room (he's pretty good at that actually) with the audio evidence).

Anyway there John was feeling much better and somewhat randy and there was Sherlock down for the count and so John had crawled into bed and closed his eyes planning on sleeping the sleep of the good and the just, but one hour later he opened them with a soft, "Well okay then," and now here we are.

Which is the long way of saying that, with some small reluctance, the doctor felt it was time to bid Sherlock's very delectable innie goodbye and move on to the next stage of the experiment.

Hand still fisted firmly around his own hard cock, John began to very, very softly brush the tips of his fingers against Sherlock's t-shirt, right over his lover's nipples.

...

Nipples, nipples, nipples, oh god were they good.

Dream Sherlock was certain he'd never enjoyed anything more than he was right this minute enjoying sucking, licking, and biting John's nipples. Oh, except for that part where he would stop sucking long enough to watch John watch him, and then to watch John wank with such breathy slow concentration that Sherlock was both impressed and hard as a rock in pure sympathy.

Probably no one's nipples were as sensitive as Sherlock's, that's true, but that didn't stop dream John from moaning each time the detective went back to his devotions, nibbling and suckling, lapping and biting, and just generally worshipping those pink little nubs with the devotion, the incredible oral devotion they so clearly deserved.

As a matter of fact, Sherlock quickly figured out that the more…mmmm…babyish he was with his sucking (you've seen the fast, little greedy way infants nurse; take that, stretch it out into six fine feet, give it a deep voice, and large, long-fingered hands gripping at a waist and you've apparently got a simple recipe for turning on ex-Army doctors in one easy step), the harder John got and the faster his fist flew over his dripping cock.

A trend Sherlock wanted to see continued, even as he wanted John to do that—yes, right there, oh god that was good. Humping John's leg now as he suckled, Sherlock settled in and wondered abstractly which one of them would come first.

...

John was pretty sure he was going to come. Except he made sure that he didn't. Not yet. Not just yet.

First he wanted to actually pretend this was an actual, you know, experiment so he wanted to—what? Gather data, he guessed, take notes (so to speak), observe.

So he did. (Hand still quite firmly where it belonged: Between his legs, around his rock-hard cock.)

Working from top to bottom what he saw was: Sherlock's eyes dancing in REM dreaming beneath his lids; a hint of sweat at his lover's upper lip and along his forehead; the quick rise-and-fall of Sherlock's chest, and finally, rising up from a nest of dark curls a really very suckable, very leaky, very erect erection.

Okay then. Mission accomplished. Home run. Hole in one. Touchdown, and whatever other euphemisms you care to employ. This experiment, this experiment? John was rating it a success, a definite success.

Except…

Could he do it? Could he?

Well he could try. He could certainly try.

So he did.

With a bit of a dry throat John started wanking a little faster and a lot harder and at the same time slid his hand under Sherlock's baggy t-shirt, moving with slow and patient care until his fingers lit on the hard, hard nubs of Sherlock's nipples.

He started softly rubbing and pinching them and just as softly groaning.

...

Dream John was moaning and that was music to Sherlock's ears. You like this, he thought, catching first one of John's nipples between his teeth, then the other. I like this, too.

And he did. Not just the feel of the tight little buds in his mouth, but the way John's chest rose and fell, the way John's body rocked against him as he masturbated, the way it felt to rub himself up against John's hard thigh, the way—

There, there, there!

...

With a ragged, breathless groan John tensed his legs and started to come, the nails of one hand scraping almost gently against Sherlock's chest.

...

With a ragged, breathless groan dream Sherlock felt John start to come between them. Biting down on the nipple he had in his mouth he clamped his own thighs around John's and, bucking hard, joined him.

...

The last tendrils of his orgasm washing through him, John looked down just as Sherlock's hips started pumping slowly, his cock spurting come across John's belly in a warm, milky arch. Watching it happen seemed to take so long that John felt like he was dreaming, and all he could do—aside from maybe get a little hard again, if that were technically possible—was gently sigh, "Oh. Ooooh. Oooooooooh."

And Sherlock?

It wasn't John's imagination. Sherlock's body happily rode that orgasm out for a very good, very long time, coming with such deep, delicious satisfaction that quite possibly his heart stopped for awhile and all his bones melted clean away.

As the last of the sensation faded—and John watched that happen because John watched with rapt fascination as Sherlock's cock continued to shoot out ever-weakening streams against his stomach—dream Sherlock, dream John, and their dream bed faded from view, tucking themselves back into whatever little corner they lived in the detective's generally over-active subconscious.

And while John struggled with dichotomous desires—clean up or leave his own belly smeared with Sherlock's come (which is what he really wanted to do because…he had no idea why, but it's what he really wanted)—his lover decided for him.

With a last fluttery little sigh-moan Sherlock tucked his chin to his chest, curled his body tight up against John's warmth, and started, apparently, dream-shopping for a new pair of stilettos and hair clips.

This time, mmmm, maybe in midnight blue?


This is for the wonderful, wonderful writer Lucybun, who needed her some cheering up. I hope the whole story gave you a smile, but especially the, um, protein-rich ending.