John grabbed his keys off the kitchen table, doing a double-take at the black vinyl dissection case that lie open amongst Sherlock's equipment; three of the tools were missing from their slots. Sherlock had made a point not to touch the dissection kit that Sarah had nicked for him several months ago, that is until she ended her relationship with John. She'd called it conflicting schedules, but Sherlock and John both knew it was Sherlock's constant tugging on the fishing line he had metaphorically attached to the back of John's collar. John either didn't realize or didn't care that that was the way Sherlock looked at it, and he most certainly didn't realize that he did it on purpose to split to couple apart. At any rate, both of them knew that it drove John up the wall that Sherlock had started using it after the break-up.
"Going out," John said, neglecting to mention that he had a date with a pretty girl he'd seen often at the laundromat. To mention that would be the same as telling Sherlock he was bored and willing to do his bidding for the rest of the evening. Sherlock didn't reply—as usual—and John pushed thoughts of Sarah out of his head as he went down the stairs and left the flat.
"I know you're going on a date, John," Sherlock said, long after the door had closed behind the doctor. He was wearing one of his nicer dressing gowns—the blood red one—and lying on his back on the sofa. He turned his head and looked at the skull across the room, turned away from the kitchen as per Mrs. Hudson's request. Its dry gaze was set on Sherlock's chair, or the window, depending on one's perspective. "I don't know what makes you think those cheap brown shoes will impress anyone, all they ever do is give you blisters by the end of the night." Sherlock sighed and lay silent for a few minutes. The sounds of traffic and the bustling city outside distracted him from his thoughts, and so he got up and retreated down the hall to his much quieter, dimmer bedroom.
The bookshelves had recently been dusted by Mrs. Hudson, so he knew she wouldn't be coming upstairs today, and also because she never goes shopping on Sundays. His phone sighed from his pocket, and he dug it out from the dark red folds of his dressing gown.
I don't suppose I'll be seeing you at any Halloween parties next week.
Sherlock read the message and put his phone on the bed beside him. It had been just over a month since he had met Irene Adler, known as "The Woman." It had only taken him 20 minutes to figure out how to change his text notification back to the default, but he chose not to. It made John squirm, and Mycroft vacated the premises immediately after the sound would go off, and so it came in handy. Another sigh.
I've been considering the traditional sexy cat costume. What do you think?
An image of Irene dressed in a tight, lacey outfit with only the minimal amount of clothing required to convey the idea flashed in his mind briefly. He shut his eyes, trying to coax the image back into his head. This time, she had a leash; it was a detachable riding crop. She held it between her teeth, her bright red lips barely touching it. Suddenly, she was striding towards him, barefoot, and in a flash she unhooked the riding crop and snapped it at him. His eyes snapped open when he was startled by another sigh.
If I painted myself as a cadaver and waited at Bart's, would you come see me?
Sherlock put the phone down again, and replayed his previous thought like an old VHS; rewind, play, pause, repeat. He had known she would hit him—obviously, as it was in his own mind where this thought lived—but he hadn't flinched or moved away. Why not? The cogs turned between his ears, and in the blackness behind his eyelids, he tried to figure it out. Did he admire her? No, that's not the right word… Respected? No… Desired? Hmm. That's a new one. He couldn't recall desiring someone before.
32, 24, 34. He repeated the measurements over and over in his head, remembering the day he'd met her, how she'd been wearing nothing but cosmetics, how she'd straddled him on the sofa. Her strong, graceful, voluptuous hips at eye level, strong muscles showing in her thighs as they steadied her position over him.
Sherlock was suddenly aware of his palms. His fingers were steeped over his stomach, and his palms were moist with sweat. He opened his eyes and looked at them, and at the shine of the sweat reflecting the dim light at the other side of the room by his bookshelves. Something behind his hands caught his attention, and he moved his hands away from each other to see what it was.
He blinked, startled, when he recognized the protrustion in his pants. Recognized is hardly an appropriate word, as he couldn't recall seeing it before. He'd seen it on other people before, dead and alive, for various different reasons (none recreational), but never himself. He tilted his head in curiousity as he considered his erection; his size, relative to the average, was longer but not thicker. As he was aware of it now, he felt his blood pumping within it, holding it erect, as it waited. What was it waiting for? Stimulation, obviously, but what kind? He knew how it was done, when one was alone and in need of stimulation, but he had never done it before. Now was the time to experiment for himself. His phone sighed again, but he ignored it.
He reached tentatively towards it, and hovering just above it with an outstretched hand, waited a few seconds before gently taking hold of it. He exhaled deeply through his nose, involuntarily, as he felt both a wave of tension and a release of it almost simultaneously. It felt quite nice, just holding it like that. He began stroking it, and that sent more of those tense-release waves throughout his body. He moaned quietly, and jumped at the sound. Had he just made that noise? He was usually in complete control of his body, and this lapse both startled and intrigued him.
He lay there for a minute or two, just stroking, enjoying the sensations that swept through his body. He had the whole map of the nervous system in his head, and recalled now just how many nerve endings were concentrated in the penis. Particularly at the head.
He could feel heat in his face now, and he could feel a spot of damp fabric pressing against the tip of his prick. It became bothersome, so he hoisted his hips off the bed to remove his pyjama bottoms and boxer-briefs. His underwear was at his ankles now, and his hand was already wrapped around his cock again, and he enjoyed how it felt with skin touching skin. He saw the source of dampness in his underwear was shining at the tip of his prick, and recognized it as precum, which functioned as a natural lubricant for intercourse to make entering and moving within the vagina easier. The image of Irene Adler's carefully manicured vagina suddenly flashed in Sherlock's mind, and he closed his eyes quickly to hold it there. He had begun stroking himself again, without really thinking about it, and the provocative image in his head was vibrant in his eidetic memory.
His hands seemed to have acquired a mind of their own now, and moved according to demands from an authority separate from Sherlock's brain. They squeezed every so often as they moved up and down, up and down, up and down. He moaned again, appreciating the deepness of his voice resulting from his heightened testosterone levels. He began moving his hand faster, remembering Irene saying, "Brainy is the new sexy." He squeezed at the top of his prick when his brain replayed her pistol-whipping one of the CIA agents. More precum had spilled out than he realized, and the slickness caused his thumb to slip up and across the very tip. He gasped, and muscles in his lower abdomen that rarely stirred twitched and clenched.
Suddenly, he was pumping and squeezing his prick faster and harder, panting and moaning as he went. Images swirled in his mind: Irene straddling him, walking about in his coat, calling him sexy, whipping him down to the floor. All of a sudden, as if there was a flash of bright light, his mind went blank and he gasped and moaned, abdomen clenching, toes curling, and prick twitching as it released its tension and spilled cum into his hand and onto his sweat-moistened shirt. He lie there gasping and panting for several minutes before his mind finally cleared and his heart rate leveled out to normal.
He opened his eyes and looked down at himself. His hand was still gently holding onto his shining, flaccid prick, and there were ribbons of semi-translucent milky fluid on his shirt. He cursed himself for not thinking ahead and removing the shirt as he took it off now, carefully, to avoid making the mess spread.
As he got out of bed to wrap himself in a towel to shower, he wondered what had suddenly come over him. It had started as an experiment, but he couldn't recall any data of value gained from it. He could hardly remember doing half of it, as if something had come over him and redirected his thought processes. What he did know, he realized as he stepped into the shower, was that it was a very enjoyable experience.