"Don't even think it."

Sherlock paused, hand already on the doorknob to his bedroom.

John dropped back onto the sofa and indicated the armchair. "Sit. Talk."

Sherlock sat. "What about?"

What . . . John shook his head. "Seriously? I mean, I know my brain and my dick are going to take a bit longer to come back in sync, but surely even you have figured out we've got something to talk about here. Us. That. Tonight."

"Ah." Sherlock stretched his long legs out in front of him, crossing his ankles and propping one high heel on the coffee table. "You want to know about the blackmailer. The wife, obviously - she's the one who had access to everyone's mobile phones for the first half of the performance. She had the opportunity to both record the victim and to contact everyone he would have cared about not finding out. A pity, really - she and Shimani were doing just fine. They didn't need the money."

"Fuck the blackmailer, Sherlock!" John yelled. "You just blew me. In front of twenty other people. I'm not thinking about the blackmailer right now."

Sherlock tilted his head to one side, a mannerism that looked incredibly feminine in his current getup. "You enjoyed it, right?"

"Damn right I did, as you very well know," John grumbled.

He shrugged. "So what's the problem?"

"Can you . . . what . . . Sherlock!" John let out a breath and tried to force his thoughts into some semblance of order. "Yes, I agreed to follow your lead. And I appreciate that you didn't throw me into that completely blind, like you usually do. But honestly?" He studied Sherlock's face, trying to read some hint there, but Sherlock was just staring at him blankly with that one damn eyebrow raised. "You don't think this is something unusual between us? Something we ought to talk about?"

"But you got off . . ."

And Sherlock didn't. The sudden realization went a long way toward explaining Sherlock's haste to get back to his bedroom. If he was all worked up now . . .

John popped to his feet. "Stand up."


"Now." John drew on his best army doctor order-giving voice, praying it would work on his flatmate. It did. John took one step forward, then another, then a third that brought him almost flush with Sherlock's body. Sherlock towered over him in those high heels, but that didn't diminish the sudden sense of power John was feeling.

"What are you-"

John reached for Sherlock's waist with both hands and pulled. Sherlock swayed forward, not quite losing his balance, but very definitely pressing against John's chest for a long second before he recovered.

"You're eager to go have a wank," John said quietly, focused on Sherlock's hips. Sherlock swallowed and cleared his throat from somewhere over John's head, but didn't deny it. John left one hand on the small of Sherlock's back and brought the other around to trace up his thigh underneath the skirt. He couldn't see what Sherlock was wearing under there, something to bind himself down tightly so his anatomy wouldn't give him away, but John's fingers quickly felt the telltale bulge of an erection between Sherlock's legs. It was thoroughly squashed against his body and probably horribly uncomfortable, but it was unmistakably an erection.

"John -"

"No words allowed," John interrupted. He could tell from the way Sherlock's body shifted that he had shocked him. Good. John caressed Sherlock again, more firmly this time, and was rewarded with a soft moan. There was something so damn erotic about this - everything in John's field of vision screamed female, the skirt and the high heels and the tight midriff-baring top and the slight padding over the hips and the chest, but the skin under his hands was so deliciously male and the moan was so damned Sherlock . . .

Suddenly he couldn't move fast enough. John insinuated both hands under the skirt, riding it up so he could see what he was doing. Unwrapping - duct tape drawn over a tight pair of Y-fronts with architectural precision, apparently - and John was finally able to pull them down and let them drop to Sherlock's ankles where he could step out of them with those incredible high heels and then the edge of the skirt fell back down and it was just skin on skin and feeling.

Sherlock was gripping his shoulder, now, trying desperately to keep his balance as John cupped the weight of his balls in both hands and massaged them. It was odd, holding another man's testicles outside a medical setting, but this was Sherlock and he was so damn sexy in that skirt and he was making the most incredible noises as John explored with his palms and his fingertips and John was filled with an absolute need to see his flatmate come apart, to make him lose control. He ran one hand up Sherlock's length and damn Sherlock was seriously hard right now, completely on the edge, and John wouldn't have been surprised to discover that he himself was in about the same state.

It only took a minute or two, but it felt much longer. John discovered that the underside of Sherlock's head was ridiculously sensitive, even more so than his own, and once he discovered that it was only a matter of a dozen strokes and some creative wrist movements and Sherlock was groaning aloud and John's hand was covered in something warm and wet. Sherlock let out a long breath, like a deflating balloon, and crumpled back into the armchair. John wandered over to the kitchen to wash his hands.

The air was full of awkward tension when he finally finished (medical habit, couldn't stand to have anything on his hands, even when he was in the army and had to jerk himself off in all sorts of less-than-ideal situations with less-than-adequate sanitary facilities) and came back to sit on the couch. John's "we need to talk" impulse had disappeared completely, replaced by something pretty much the exact opposite. He was a straight bloke. Straight blokes didn't give other straight blokes hand jobs after being sucked off in public, even for artistic orgies.

"So." Sherlock forced a tired smile.


"Are you mad?"


Sherlock studied him for a long moment. "Still straight?"

"Yeah. I think."

"Want to do that again sometime?"

John swallowed. "With the model outfit, or just us?"

"Does the disguise help?"

Did it? He stole a glance at Sherlock. "Is it something you like wearing?"

Sherlock let his head fall back against the back of the armchair. "It's certainly . . . different. Interesting. I suppose I don't mind it."

"Then yeah, I think it's something I want to do again. Sometime."