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Sherlock had been pacing for the last one hour and twenty minutes. John knew this because for that exact amount of time he had been stuck on the same sentence of his blog entry, distracted by Sherlock’s agitated movements every time he passed in front of him. No cases interesting enough to take Sherlock’s fancy had fallen their way for weeks and Sherlock’s boredom was fraying at his nerves, making him more difficult than usual to live with.


John knew Sherlock hadn’t slept properly for two days. He was constantly checking his phone in case he’d missed a message from Lestrade, or refreshing his website in case of a client. John also knew he should be more concerned about his lover, but in all honestly he was just thankful for the peace and quiet for a change, and the fact that Sherlock had no excuse not to eat meant that John had managed to get decent sized meals into him.


‘Sherlock, please sit down,’ John had to eventually ask when his lover’s pace increased enough that he was just a constant blur in John’s peripheral vision. ‘Pacing back and forth isn’t going to get you a case any faster. You’re just going to wear a hole in the rug.’


‘That is clearly my intention,’ Sherlock snapped back. ‘My estimates are that it will take me approximately…’


‘I don’t care,’ John interrupted. ‘Can you not, please? It’s shabby enough without you pacing a hole through it. Go and find something else to experiment on.’


Sherlock pouted, but stopped his pacing. Flopping down on the couch, he managed to behave himself for a whole two minutes before getting up again. John had been working on a sentence in his head for that time, but he lost it before he could write it down. He suddenly had a detective slung over his shoulders.


‘John, I’m bored,’ said detective moaned, sulking into John’s neck. John did his best to ignore him, but it turned out to be most impossible when Sherlock started reading over his shoulder. ‘The giant rat of Sumatra… John, really? Was that the best you could do? Why are you writing that case up anyway? The general public are hardly ready to hear it.’


 John sighed deeply, taking his hands away from the keyboard. He was never going to get this story finished, not with a bored, “I have nothing better to do so I’m going to insult you” Sherlock hanging off of him. He stood up, untangling himself from Sherlock’s gangly arms, and headed off into their bedroom.


‘Come on, then,’ John beckoned when Sherlock didn’t immediately follow. ‘If you’re bored, I’ll give you something to do.’ He led the way, climbing onto the bed while he waited for Sherlock to catch up. When Sherlock appeared in the doorway, John crawled over to Sherlock’s side, throwing him a bit of a smirk before reaching for the top drawer.


Sherlock sat on the bed beside him, reaching out to run a hand down John’s side, thinking he knew exactly where this was going. He was wrong. Instead of reaching for anything even remotely sex related, John pulled out the entire drawer and dumped the contents onto the bed, earning him quite the scowl from Sherlock.


 ‘There. I’ve messed up your sock index. Now you have something to do,’ John said, planting a kiss on Sherlock’s cheek before heading back out into the sitting room.


The flat settled into a nice silence after that, and John was able to finish writing up the case. Though upon reading it back, he realized Sherlock had been right. John didn’t really think anyone was ready to read this. He had omitted to explain why they had been in the airing cabinet in the first place and therefore in the optimum position to overhear vital information (really, the general public didn’t need to know that they’d been shagging in there), but the rest of the case didn’t make much sense without explaining the reason for them being in there. The story already sounded like John had made it up, and with a big plot-hole like that in it, no one was ever going to believe it. Sighing, John rested his chin on his hand and held down the backspace button until he was once again left with a blank page.


Sherlock’s voice drifted in from the hallway. ‘I told you it was pointless trying to type that story up,’ he said. ‘Honestly I think you should just give up on the blog entirely. You make everything sound so fanciful; I’m amazed anybody still reads it.’


John looked up at Sherlock. It had only meant to be a brief glare, but the sight that met him had him staring for longer.


‘Um…’ it was the only word John could come up with as he took some time trying to work out exactly what it was he was seeing.


Sherlock was standing in the entranceway leading into the sitting room, butt naked save for a few pairs of mismatched socks over his feet and hands, and a rather long one acting as a pouch for his gentleman’s area.


‘Right… is this your new sock index then?’ John asked once his voice did him the honour of returning.


Sherlock smirked at him. ‘Just seeing how you react to unusual circumstances,’ he said before turning and heading back towards the bedroom. John blinked and sighed, finally giving up and closing the lid on his laptop. ‘When I said “go and find something else to experiment on”, I didn’t mean me,’ he complained, following Sherlock’s path to the bedroom.


‘You should have been more specific.’


John sighed once again and walked into the bedroom, searching for Sherlock. He didn’t so much as locate him, as get a face full of socks the second he walked through the door.


Sherlock’s deep chuckle rang out, and John once again tried to work out what the hell was going on.


‘Well obviously we’ve found your threshold for boredom,’ John said, brushing off the socks that had landed on his shoulders. ‘Four weeks and you start to go crazy.’


‘I told you, I’m merely documenting how you react to unusual circumstances.’


‘And I told you, I’m not a subject for your experiments. Now where are you?’ John still hadn’t managed yet to locate him, though truth be told he wasn’t really looking. He was too busy wondering why Sherlock needed this many pairs of socks, and just how they all managed to fit in that one drawer. They easily spread and took up the entirety of their bed.


‘I don’t recall you saying anything of the sort, John, just that you didn’t mean for me to experiment on you. You didn’t say that I couldn’t,’ Sherlock said, managing to make John jump as he sneaked up behind him. He chuckled again and sauntered over to the bed, giving John quite the perfect view of his arse, before he turned and sat, giving John a sock-obstructed view of his cock.


John cleared his throat. He wasn’t sure where to look, or what sort of reaction Sherlock was hoping to get from him. John wasn’t even sure how he was reacting, but obviously standing there awkwardly wasn’t going to suffice for very long. Sherlock was naked, and even with the oddly placed socks, John was still a slave to that body. So fuck it. It was either switch between staring at Sherlock and the room littered with socks, trying to make sense of it all, or join Sherlock in being unpredictable and do the last thing Sherlock was expecting.


John chose the latter.




John pounced on Sherlock and landed his lover squarely on his back, sideways across the bed. He sat proudly across his victim’s thighs, hands holding Sherlock’s shoulders down against the mattress as it became Sherlock’s turn to look confused, and John’s to smirk down at him.


‘Was that the reaction you were looking for?’ John asked, swooping down to shut him up with a kiss when Sherlock opened his mouth to reply. Sherlock’s arms came around him and John had to suppress the urge to giggle when a thick, woollen sock clad hand ran up into his hair. Sherlock muttered something grumpily before attempting to remove the socks, but John stopped him.


‘No, you started this insane experiment, you can remain wearing the socks.’


‘Even on my…?’


‘Well, no, because I’m not ever washing your socks again if you do that inside them,’ John said. ‘But the rest of the socks, yes.’


Sherlock complained but he kept the socks on, as if trying to convince John his experiment was a genuine one and not one crafted out of complete boredom. Good luck with that, Sherlock, John thought, smiling a little as he once again leant down to press his lips to the fast beating pulse playing along Sherlock’s neck.


Having Sherlock’s nails scratch down his body was a particular kink of John’s, as much as it was Sherlock’s to scratch, but John almost liked seeing Sherlock struggle with not being able to fulfil his need just as much. It served the silly git right for putting socks on his hands. His nails could barely be felt through the wool and it seemed to be driving Sherlock crazy not being able to mark his lover.


John, however, had no such trouble, and every inch of that pale throat was subjected to his teeth and lips. His hands travelled down Sherlock’s body, fingernails leaving behind their trails and mocking Sherlock’s failed attempts at doing the same.


The second annoyance appeared quite quickly in the fact that John was still fully clothed, and that buttons were a complicated matter when one has socks on their hands. John had no intention of helping and he smirked as he watched Sherlock struggle with the simple task.


‘Did you still want me to believe this is a valid experiment?’ John asked.


‘Shut up.’ Sherlock scowled.


He finally gave up fumbling and sat up to attack John’s buttons instead with his mouth. John gasped. That Sherlock could do, and the fucker looked incredibly sexy with pretty much anything in his mouth.


Sherlock made his way down to the third button on John’s shirt before they became too low for his mouth to reach while John was still seated firmly in his lap. With a growl, Sherlock flipped them, solving his issue with the buttons, but subsequently raising quite a different one for John.


‘John, focus,’ Sherlock hissed as John became distracted and started to squirm.


‘I can’t help it, your sock are digging into my back,’ John complained, arching his back to pull god only knows how many pairs of socks out from under him.


‘Don’t be ridiculous, socks don’t dig.’


‘You think I’m being ridiculous. Have you seen yourself? Sherlock, you… oh god.’ John shut his mouth as Sherlock’s reached the top of his jeans. He had apparently given up on John’s shirt and gone straight for the option that would get him into John’s pants the quickest.


Perhaps this was a good experiment after all. Restricting Sherlock’s ability to use his hands was forcing him to use more of that gorgeous mouth of his. It was hardly a failed experiment if that was the result.


John watched him pull the button of his fly from its material hold, and ended up biting his lip as that tongue snaked out to pick up the zip. Sherlock nuzzled the cotton covered arousal that sprung free between the plackets, and attempted to pull John’s pants down with his teeth. At least that was what John had been under the impression he was doing. Sherlock, instead, let go of the elastic and pinged it back against John’s sensitive skin.


‘That was for my sock index,’ Sherlock said.


John scowled down at him and pushed Sherlock away. He arched his back and pulled both his jeans and his pants down his thighs, no longer trusting Sherlock and his mouth. For good measure he also removed his shirt, and threw all his clothes down to join Sherlock’s socks on the floor.


John moved forward to kiss him again, laying Sherlock back down across the mattress. As things started to heat up a little, John remembered he had yet to remove the sock from Sherlock nether regions. He reached down and gave it a bit of a tug until Sherlock’s cock sprung free. He threw the sock haphazardly over his shoulder and arched his brow as Sherlock shuddered.


‘What?’ John asked.


‘Nothing, just… it’s cold now.’


John sighed but his smirk broke through. ‘Is this better?’ he asked, snaking his hand down to curl around his lover’s erection.


Sherlock moaned a little and shifted his hips. ‘Yes…’


‘But?’ John could see there was a but coming.


‘But I can think of another way to keep it warmer.’


John cocked an eyebrow. ‘Is that your smooth way of asking for a blowjob?’


‘Yes,’ Sherlock said, before adding, ‘you thought that was smooth?’


‘Not in the least,’ John told him, ‘and no.’


Sherlock pouted. ‘Why not? If it was for the terrible way I asked, that was no worse that your supposed “dirty talk”.’


John ignored him. ‘No,’ he said, ‘because I really don’t think I would be able to keep it together with your sock covered hands trying to pull my hair.’


Sherlock huffed, crossing his arms over his chest and deliberately looking away from John in a sulk.


‘Don’t pout, love,’ John said with a smile, kissing his way across Sherlock’s jaw. ‘I promise I’ll still make you scream.’


John continued to nuzzle him until Sherlock loosened up a little and allowed John to kiss him on the lips once again. John dipped his hips slightly and Sherlock wasted no time in rutting up against him. It wasn’t desperate, it was just enough to relive the tension and add the thrill of pleasure to their kiss. However John knew it wouldn’t suffice for very long, and as if on cue, Sherlock’s hand went south to try and add more friction.


It didn’t feel as strange as John thought it would. The sock was coarse, but not unpleasantly so. It was such a contrast against Sherlock’s smooth cock. John wouldn’t have called it amazingly pleasurable, but it was enjoyable enough for him not to laugh at Sherlock’s sock related troubles. That was until Sherlock growled in frustration as his inability to grip properly, then John started giggling again.


‘John, please let me take the socks off!’ Sherlock whined.


John shook his head, biting his lower lip in an attempt to halt the laughter.


‘Well then you could at least help!’ Sherlock was getting annoyed and John decided to take mercy.


‘All right, all right. I’ll fuck you,’ he said, sucking one last hickey on Sherlock’s neck before sitting up to reach into his bedside drawer. Sherlock was obviously going to be no use with the lubricant, so John took it upon himself to prepare them both.


John had barely popped the cap before Sherlock was spreading his legs quite unashamedly. The modest British composure had never sat very well with him anyway. John was too used to it to pass comment, and instead occupied his mouth with one of Sherlock nipples. It was only a rough preparation; a quick thrust with his fingers to see that Sherlock was relaxed enough to take him, and then John was pulling him into position.


Sherlock arched his back as John pushed in, immediately setting him in as far as he could go. They both paused to groan, but the stillness didn’t last long. John felt Sherlock’s legs around his waist tighten, and his feet hook under his bum to urge him to start thrusting.


It was an odd feeling, having wool pressed against his naked arse, though if John was telling the truth, it was better than feeling Sherlock’s often freezing cold feet caressing against his bare skin.


He started to thrust. The position didn’t allow for an overly fast fuck but it was perfect to make it a little rough around the edges. He kissed Sherlock’s forehead, before moving down to his lips, finding him rather responsive until the need for air had them breaking apart.


John looked down and saw the way Sherlock was trying desperately to scrunch up the sheets beneath him, and failing miserably as the socks prevailed in depriving him of his grip. It was strange the way the heat from Sherlock’s flushed skin ended suddenly in wool at the end of his feet, and the fact that they were actually fucking on top of an entire drawer-full of socks had John placing this situation in his top three strangest sex situation with Sherlock. Right up there with the time Sherlock had been armed with a packet of flavoured lubricant, and that time Mycroft had walked in and Sherlock had continued railing him against the wall anyway.


‘John,’ Sherlock groaned, pulling John’s attention back. John was clearly getting distracted and the smirk on his face made it obvious he was still inwardly laughing about the fact that Sherlock had socks on his hands.


‘Sorry,’ John said, moving down to kiss him again. Though he wasn’t really sorry, since the whole sock thing had been Sherlock’s idea, but he did at least plan to get them both off spectacularly.


Sherlock’s arms came around John’s shoulders as he hit a particularly good angle, and once more those hands tried desperately to mark John’s skin.


Once again John was tempted to call the experiment a success when Sherlock, still unable to get his fingernails into John’s back, decided to use his mouth instead. John’s throat would be covered in love bites, well above the collar line. John was sure he had made Sherlock promise not to do that. The nurses at work were going to give John shit for them.


John growled, his hand sliding down to Sherlock’s hips to pull him into his thrusts. This made Sherlock cry out and buck, his moans now getting louder and louder. It got to the point where John felt the need to perhaps silence them before Mrs Hudson came knocking to remind them about the neighbours.  It wouldn’t be the first time if she did.


Not wanting to ruin the rhythm and angle by moving down to kiss him, John picked up a small handful of socks instead and held them over Sherlock’s mouth. John was quite literary cramming a sock in it, but he couldn’t giggle at his own joke. Sherlock was too close to ruin the mood with his silly laughter.


Even with the socks over his mouth, Sherlock’s moans were still quite audible, and the desire in his voice only mounted until John reached down and began to stroke him. It was a little rough and out of time, but it was enough to fuel the desperation. Sherlock’s legs tightened around John’s waist, and he threw his head back as the pleasure overcame him. John no longer cared about the neighbours, and took his hand away from Sherlock’s mouth, delighting in his lover’s lust filled cry.


John did not last long with Sherlock convulsing in pleasure beneath him. He was squeezing his cock and wasting every breath on his name, and John came with a moan, not stilling until every last drop was wrung from him. That always made Sherlock whimper, and this time was no different.


Sherlock clung on tighter for a brief second before letting his arms fall back to the mattress. He whimpered again as John pulled out, and instinctively reached down to finger himself. John had to grab his wrist to stop him and Sherlock huffed as he belatedly remembered the socks covering his fingers. John smirked and sat back, giving Sherlock’s puckered hole a teasing swipe with his finger before reaching for the bedside table and the wipes they kept in there. Sherlock, however, had another idea.


‘No, don’t-’ John started but it was too late. Sherlock used his sock covered hand to clean up the mess on his stomach. John sighed, grabbing Sherlock by the wrist again before his lover could wipe the mess on him. He removed the soiled sock only to reveal at least another three socks underneath it.


‘You lunatic.’ John shook his head and smiled. He let his head rest on Sherlock’s chest and took a moment to listen to his heartbeat.


‘John.’ Jesus, that rumble was deep when listening to it right from the source. ‘John, my feet are hot.’


John gave in. The experiment, or whatever the hell this had been, was over and there was no longer any point in torturing Sherlock. He started pulling the socks off, amazed at how many pairs Sherlock was actually wearing. ‘Do you know you made a rainbow with the socks on your feet?’ he asked. Sherlock just hummed. ‘Why do you need such brightly coloured socks anyway?’


Finished with that task, John moved back up to give Sherlock a kiss before helping him with the socks on his hands. ‘How did you even get these on?’


‘With a little bit of difficulty if I’m honest, but as proved, it was well worth the effort.’ Sherlock smirked.


John sighed, realizing belatedly that he had been played. ‘I can’t believe you did all of this just to get shagged.’


‘And yet I did,’ Sherlock said. ‘However, you making me keep the socks on wasn’t entirely expected.’


‘Asking normally never really occurs to you, does it?’


‘I tried that. You dumped my sock drawer all over the bed.’


‘Being annoying, Sherlock, does not constitute for asking me to shag you.’ John pulled the last sock off and threw it down on the floor to join the others. Someone would have to pick them all up later, and that someone wasn’t going to be Sherlock.


‘Finally,’ Sherlock said, stretching out his fingers as that last sock was removed. He wrapped his arms around John and ran his nails down the entire length of his back, finally making those marks he had been craving to make. John gasped, arching to the touch while his flesh tingled with the bite from Sherlock’s nails.


 ‘Sorry, I had to,’ Sherlock said, though it was clear he wasn’t sorry at all.


‘Bastard,’ John groaned, but he was smiling.


He lay his head back down on Sherlock’s chest, pondering just how bad it would be just to have a quick nap. Sherlock would tease him for being an old man, but right now John didn’t much care. He was satisfied and warm and in the arms of his lover, surely Sherlock wouldn’t mind if he just had a half hour kip.


‘John… John?’


John groaned.


‘John wake up, my socks need washing.’


John reluctantly pulled his sleepy head off of Sherlock’s chest. ‘What?’


‘You need to get up and wash all of my socks.’


‘All of them? What? Why?’


‘We just had sex on top of them, John, do keep up.’


‘Can’t you just buy new socks? It will be a lot less effort.’


Sherlock looked at him as if he had said something utterly unthinkable.


‘Why can’t you wash them? They are all yours.’ John asked.


‘Well I would, John, truly I would love to,’ Sherlock said, mocking sincerity, ‘but you were the one who dumped them all over the bed, and… what’s that rule you have? If you make the mess, you clean it up?’


Sherlock smirked triumphantly. John scowled vehemently.


‘You will need to do them now so they’re dry by tomorrow,’ Sherlock added, giving John a bit of a prod when he didn’t immediately move.


With a huff of resignation, John stood himself up and began the tedious task of picking up all of Sherlock’s socks.


‘If you lose any of my socks in the washing machine, you’ll have me to answer to,’ Sherlock said, keen eyes watching every sock that fell from John’s arms.


‘And if I lose all of them?’ John asked with a cheeky grin.


‘Then we’ll see how well you perform when I take out your red pant collection and use them to tie you to the bed.’


That was a threat. John knew that was a threat, and the fact that Sherlock may or may not have seen any of his socks again, may or may not have been entirely on purpose.