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John had found it by accident.
They’d been in the middle of a case, the day spent in cabs while they went from one empty warehouse to another. Sherlock had barely spoken and even then, it was only to the cab driver.
“So… what is it we’re actually looking for?” John had asked cautiously.
He’d received a patronising glance and a wave of Sherlock’s hand, like John was something buzzing around his head, trying to distract him.
Sherlock had given the driver their address and John hadn’t bothered to hide his relief. He preferred to spend bitterly cold, rainy days inside with a mug of tea and a lot of sitting.
“Are we done, then?”
“You are,” Sherlock had said curtly. “This will go faster if I’m on my own.”
“Fine.” While he’d been genuinely glad, it had also stung a bit. He’d tried to stay out of the way but evidently hadn’t been very successful. “That’s fine.”
The taxi had been long gone by the time John had slowly made his way up to his bedroom. Shrugging out of his rain-soaked clothes, he’d had an idea. More of an acknowledgment of intense curiosity, really, but in any case, he’d found himself pushing open the door to Sherlock’s room several minutes later.
He’d wanted to do this since the moment they’d met. Sherlock always had such an unfair advantage when it came to knowing things about him, and it was time to even the score, however slightly.
As expected, it was messy in that peculiar way that only Sherlock could understand. Papers and books were piled on every flat surface and a long, low table was covered with tiny glass vials. John had given it a wide berth.
The curtains had been left open but it was late afternoon and gloomy and the room was dark.
The bare mattress was topped with a nest-like tangle of sheets, blankets, and too many pillows. John imagined Sherlock climbing into it, all long limbs and hawk eyes. But maybe this was the one place he could relax, where he already knew everything.
Then John had seen the nightstand beside the bed and even he knew that that’s where most people kept their secrets. Normal people, anyway. Maybe Sherlock was different.
He’d turned on the lamp and carefully opened the top drawer, cringing when things rolled around inside because Sherlock would notice the slightest shift, the most minute alteration, because that’s what he did. He saw all the small things.
The syringe hadn’t really surprised John. Not after the drugs bust and that absolutely venomous look Sherlock had given him when he’d suggested that theirs was a substance-free flat. At least it was still in the sterile packaging.
Slightly more unexpected was the half-empty bottle of lube.
John had laughed knowingly. All of Sherlock’s “it’s just transport” and “married to my work” objections had obviously not extended to this, when he was throbbing and by himself.
Reaching into the dark recesses of the drawer, John had felt something a bit shocking. It wasn’t that he hadn’t suspected that Sherlock might have a dildo after finding lube. He just hadn’t thought it would be so expensive.
John was by no means an expert on sex toys, but he did know that something so lifelike was a bit out of his flatmate’s price range, if the stack of unpaid bills on the desk downstairs and the empty fridge were any indication.
The first thing John had noticed about it was the size- not outrageously large, but certainly not for beginners. Sherlock was no novice and the lubricant had suddenly seemed quite indispensable. John had pulled his hand away, thinking of Sherlock bent over the edge of the bed or on his hands and knees on the floor. And fuck if he hadn’t gotten hard imagining it.
In his pocket, his phone had beeped and he’d stood frozen, convinced that Sherlock had texted him while John had been touching his dildo.
But it had been from Harry. A reminder to check his email because she’d just found the “funniest cat video on the internet.”
John had sighed, but the curious feeling of guilt and discovery had lingered even after he’d known he was safe.
He’d repositioned everything exactly as he’d found it and shut Sherlock’s door quietly behind him, but the next morning at breakfast, Sherlock had watched him too closely before announcing that John didn’t need to come with him.
John hated that Sherlock could tell. It made the whole thing seem a bit criminal and the fact that Sherlock didn’t bring it up was somehow worse.
After Sherlock left, John did the dishes and watched the video Harry had sent. Reluctantly, he agreed that she was probably right about it being the funniest, although there wasn’t really much competition.
He even bought food, unloaded it, and made lunch before he gave in.
That dildo in Sherlock’s drawer was all he could think about for any length of time. He wanted to take it out and give it a closer look. It was an embarrassing preoccupation, but the flat was silent and empty and Sherlock wouldn’t be back before midnight. He would undoubtedly know that John had been in his room again, but if he didn’t care enough to mention it, John didn’t feel especially apologetic.
This time, John headed straight for the drawer and removed the dildo, holding it between his thumb and forefinger.
Maybe it was the medical part of him, but he couldn’t bring himself to grip it properly. It was almost disturbingly realistic, with veins bulging slightly under the silky skin-like material. The previous night, he’d done a bit of research and found similar dildos online, made of CyberSkin, although this one had a retractable foreskin and was much less flexible. While Sherlock was incapable of rinsing off his dishes after breakfast, he apparently kept his dildo in excellent condition. John couldn’t imagine him washing it after each use, drying it, and dusting it with talc to keep it smooth but, ostensibly, that was exactly what he did, since it showed no sign of the rubbery stickiness that indicated poorly maintained synthetic sex toys.
Not that John was an authority on the topic, but Google had imparted a bit of knowledge, which may or may not have been accurate.
John palpated a vein with his finger, transfixed by the minute attention to detail. It almost felt like blood was flowing through it, lingering where he’d touched. He’d known that Sherlock spared no expense when it came to unnecessary personal luxuries, but this represented the uppermost echelons of absurdity.
John cupped the balls gently, somewhere between a man of medicine and an art collector examining a new piece. It was laughable, he knew, but it was so human that anything else would seem rude. It was also oddly satisfying to learn that his commendable bedside manner was extended to very convincing dildos.
He sat down on the edge of Sherlock’s bed and slid two fingers up the shaft to the tip.
Sherlock was nearly doubled over, one hand braced against the wall to his left.
Lestrade eyed him worriedly.
“Are you sure you’re alright, Sherlock? This can wait until-”
“No,” Sherlock gasped, squeezing his eyes shut and pointing at the opposite end of the room. “No, the victim entered through that door.”
“That door? But the witness said she heard something in the ventilation system.”
Sherlock suddenly seemed to recover, straightening his scarf and walking briskly over to the door in question. Lestrade shook his head before following him.
“Right here.” Sherlock pointed to several long, red strands that looked like thread.
“I don’t know how we missed that.” He turned to somebody nearby. “Photograph and bag this.”
“Well you were looking in the wrong…” Sherlock trailed off, a far-away look on his face as his breathing quickened.
Lestrade leaned in so none of the overzealous people scrambling uselessly around the abandoned office with torches and evidence bags could hear.
“Sherlock, if you’re on something-”
“Yes!” Sherlock burst out, panting. “Oh god, yes.”
Lestrade stared at him, open-mouthed.
“Unbelievable. You need to get the hell-”
“No, I’m not high,” Sherlock said.
“You just said yes.”
Sherlock ignored him, talking to himself instead, low and fast like he was being timed.
“The witness was wearing a brown leather belt, four years old. But she’s right-handed, so she couldn’t have opened…” Sherlock stopped abruptly and dropped to his knees, pocket magnifying glass pulled out as he crawled along the uncarpeted floor, seemingly examining a crack in the concrete. He had to bite his lip to stop himself from moaning.
John squirted more lube onto the tip of the dildo and rubbed it in, letting his finger slide under the foreskin before easing it back again.
The head had gotten increasingly dark and, at one point, John thought he saw precum before he reminded himself that as realistic as it was, certain things were just impossible.
Although two days ago, he would’ve counted a dildo like this among them, so he couldn’t be entirely sure.
The water-based lube was utilitarian but the smell of it brought back a decade-old memory of too many beers and too many Latin words to memorise. One too many joking suggestions of a quick fuck to ease the tension that came from constantly talking about bodies, and suddenly John’s not-quite-friend’s mouth had been on his. They had fumbled with their trousers, not bothering to take off their shirts, mouths too hot to stop. John had sucked him and when he’d pulled out a condom, they couldn’t roll it on fast enough. John had never said anything as filthy as he had that night, getting fucked and asked questions about the limbic system until he came, swearing so loudly that when he was done, someone had knocked on the door to make sure he was okay.
Without realising he’d decided to, he was pressing the dildo to his mouth, licking up the lube and groaning when it tasted almost exactly like he remembered.
Except that this was Sherlock’s and god only knew where it had been. The thought of Sherlock fucking himself with it made John take it all the way into his mouth, made him grip his own cock through his trousers while he sucked.
Sherlock’s gloved hands were fisted so tightly that Lestrade thought the leather might actually snap.
“I think we can take it from here,” Lestrade told him.
“The evidence seems to refute that.” Sherlock didn’t sound anything like himself and Lestrade patted his shoulder in what he hoped was a comforting way. The man was obviously coming down with something very serious. Either that or Sally was being more perceptive than she knew when she said that he got off on this.
“Go home, Sherlock.”
John wanted to take his time.
The dildo pulsed when he mouthed it, his lips wet with lube. It was strangely liberating, being alone with this thing in Sherlock’s room, free to experiment with it and think about his flatmate.
And that was the thought that was making John unbutton his shirt and kick off his trousers and underwear. The room was so full of Sherlock, it made him ache. John could almost see the way he would pace as he was reading something that he knew was wrong, would flick through those vials on the table, would notice the labels and then ignore them because he was so sure. John thought of tourniquets and needles and sleepless days and god, it was so fucked up but he wanted to see it.
He slid the dildo against his cock, groaned when he held it in his hand and thrust so the shafts were gliding and hot.
With his free hand, he reached behind him and grabbed a fistful of the blankets on Sherlock’s bed. He knew that this is where his flatmate made himself come, where he shot up and slept off boredom. John buried his nose in the fabric and it smelled exactly like him and the expensive cologne he wore. It was like Sherlock was in the room with him.
John fought off an orgasm by trying to remember that stupid cat video.
Sherlock slumped in the back seat of the cab, hoping that the collar of his coat shielded his flushed face from the driver.
“Sure you don’t want me to take you to a doctor or something?” The painfully affable driver laughed at his own joke and Sherlock gave him a quick, narrow-eyed assessment while swearing under his breath.
“A doctor did this to me,” he said finally. “And stop cheating on your wife.”
John knew what he was doing. Relax, lube, finger, relax again, breathe, extra lube and another finger. But he was also leaning over the bed, alone and shaking with need. It was taking too long.
He coated the dildo with more lubricant and climbed onto Sherlock’s bed, positioning himself over the dildo. By now, he was sure that there was precum. He’d licked it, smeared it on his own cock.
He was surrounded by Sherlock’s sheets and blankets and books and the air around him felt like it was electrified because he wasn’t supposed to be in the room. Lube was dripping onto the mattress.
He lowered himself onto the dildo and it was too fast and too much but he couldn’t stop.
Sherlock made it halfway up the first flight of stairs before he was on his knees, panting a litany of names for John, his coat still half on.
He tightened the scarf around his neck before crawling up the next few steps.
John didn’t hold back. He did everything he wanted to, rough and impulsive and shameless because nobody would ever see him like this. They’d never see him torn up and held together by unfiltered greed. He pulled the dildo out, dragged it up his thigh and across his hips to his cock. He pressed the tip of it against his own, thrust hard before adding more lube and dropping down on it again and imagining Sherlock’s hands on him.
Sherlock threw off his coat and scarf and jacket before he collapsed onto the sofa, thrusting emptily and moaning in open, sweaty need.
Buttons popped off of his shirt as he pulled at it, dragged his nails across his chest and stomach because he just had to do something to himself while John was fucking him like that.
John felt it building for so long, he wondered if it was going to happen. It started deep, where he was slamming the dildo against his prostate and ended up settling in his hips for what seemed like an eternity. The dildo itself was starting to pulse inside him, the balls tightening and his last thought was an incoherent blend of amazement and anger that technology so complex was being wasted on sex toys while people still used fax machines.
But then he was coming and everything was absolutely still before his body convulsed. He was too far gone to feel the pumping or to hear the muffled shouts coming from downstairs.
Sherlock gave himself almost an entire minute to recover. He slowed his breathing, pushed back the hair that was sticking to his forehead, flexed his toes in his shoes to stop the cramping, and stared at the ceiling.
By the time he heard John on the stairs, he had re-tucked his shirt so it wasn’t hanging open and turned to face the sofa back in what he knew John would think was petulance.
John threw open the door carelessly and froze.
“Sherlock?”
Sherlock sent him a quick glance over his shoulder before returning to his original position with a jaded sigh.
“The case was exceptionally ordinary. I don’t understand how people can be so content to continue killing each other in the same five ways.”
John scoffed at his offhanded comment.
“I think it must be more exciting when you’re on the receiving end.”
Sherlock smiled against the sofa cushion.
“That’s probably more your area.”
John squared his shoulders and glared coldly at the back of Sherlock’s head.
“Right.” He would never be able explain how he felt about the man on the sofa if it kept changing so quickly. “Well, I’m just going to take a shower.”
“Stay out of my room,” Sherlock said suddenly.
“I wasn’t in your room. You haven’t even been up there since you came back.”
“Which you know because you were in my room.”
“No,” John said steadily. “I was in my bedroom with the door open. I would’ve seen you walk past.”
“You would have seen me when I walked into my room because that’s where you were.”
John pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Alright, fine. I was. How did you know?” John looked down at himself, checked the bottom of his socks for anything remotely incriminating but found nothing.
“I just do,” Sherlock said sharply. He also knew what John had in his pocket. He could feel every step John took as he walked into the kitchen and poured a glass of water.
He felt it when John went back upstairs and took a shower, carefully washing off what he thought was Sherlock’s dildo. And Sherlock felt it when John put it back in the drawer several centimeters too far to the right to be convincing.
An hour later, John returned to put his empty glass into the sink and start making supper. While he waited for the pasta water to boil, he sat down in the armchair which had gradually become his.
“I’m sorry I went into your room,” John said quietly to Sherlock’s back, like he wasn’t sure if he was asleep or not. “I won’t go in again without permission.”
Sherlock let his exhalation catch because he’d felt that, too.