Sherlock Holmes & The Knights Templar

Matter of Fact

Sherlock was mentally exhausted for John had therapy two times a week, as well as treatments from his primary care physician to address the side effects of so many months of malnutrition, and to top it off he needed extensive dental procedures as well. John had assured Sherlock that he was perfectly capable of going to the appointments on his own; however invariably after John returned home, he had forgotten what the Doctor had said and worse yet on the way to his therapy appointment one day, John became so overstimulated by the everyday noise of London that he hid in a darkened alley and called Sherlock to come and get him.

Sherlock loved John, yet he was antsy, anxious to be on a case, to play the game and worse yet he was bored, which led to smoking, which let to using. “Not too much,” Sherlock thought as he stuck the needle in his scarred arm and then sighed as he felt the drug coursing through his system, the injection hurt pretty bad this time, which meant that the vein was collapsing and Sherlock would have to find another injection site. He had just hidden the little red box with all of his paraphernalia in it when John padded into the room.

“Um Sherlock?” John asked in a timid voice.

Sherlock sighed, “What is it John?” he snapped.

“My therapist asked if perhaps you would join me at our next session. So, dddoo, you..thinkkk that would be possible?” John stammered.

Sherlock ignored John’s stammering and asked, “Why?”

John moved back and forth on each foot, “Well, she thinks it would be good if…if…if..”

Sherlock was thoroughly pissed at himself and John by this time, “For God’s sake John, send me an email or text if you can’t manage a complete sentence.”

John’s face turned a shade paler as he turned to leave. Sherlock jumped out of his chair and lightly took a hold of John’s arm and led him back into the room. “John, I’m sorry, of course I’ll go. Although, I don’t see why she wants me there, do you think she wants a threesome?” Sherlock’s voice trailed off as he imagined John’s therapist naked, her smooth brown skin glistening in the sunlight, walking slowly toward him. “Nope,” Sherlock thought, “It doesn’t do a thing for me; however if she watched while John and I went at it like rabbits that would be intriguing,” Sherlock thought as a pulse deep inside his groin began to throb.

John stood in front of Sherlock’s chair, looking down at Sherlock’s crotch as it grew. “Like Jiffy pop,” John said and then without a word knelt down and unbuckled Sherlock’s pants.

“No, John, not yet, I want you to be well first,” Sherlock protested, but John had already begun to work on him. “God, it felt marvelous to feel the touch of John’s hands, fingers and mouth.” As John’s hand movements became stronger, Sherlock could no longer resist. “I’m too high to fight this and plus I don’t care who gets me off right now, just as long as I get off,” Sherlock thought as he leaned his head back on the chair, letting his body become relaxed as John methodically went through the bases. John’s brow frowned in concentration as he applied a little more muscle to the job at hand and Sherlock noted in despair that John’s facial expressions were blank, no arousal, no joy, nothing.

A couple of days later, Sherlock sat with John in his therapist’s office, feeling as if he had been naughty and sent to the head master’s office.

“Now, John how is your appetite?” She asked softly.

When John didn’t answer Sherlock did, “He eats less than I do, if that’s possible.”

The therapist looked over at John, “John is this true?”

John smiled, then blushed and mumbled, “Yep, yep that’s pretty much correct.”

The therapist wrote something down and then asked, “What about your sex life?”

Sherlock shifted in his chair and rolled his eyes. “Maybe she does want to have a threesome,” Sherlock thought as he observed her shrewdly.

John looked down at his hands, “I can’t function that way anymore.”

It was stated as a matter of fact, as if he had looked out the window and said, “It’s snowing outside.”

The rain beat on the windows outside and Sherlock longed to be anywhere but here. One minute before the session was due to end, Sherlock jumped up and said, “That’s all the time we have for today.”

The therapist opened her mouth to say something and then shut it when she saw the look on Sherlock’s face.

The cab ride home was dismal and Sherlock barely waited for the cab to come to a stop before he jumped out and ran inside. Once inside his temper didn’t abate for standing there in his kitchen was Mycroft.

“What do you want?” Sherlock snapped.

Mycroft was about to reply when John stuck his head around the corner, “Sherlock, I’m tired I’m going to take a nap.”

Sherlock waved him off, “Fine, fine, have a good rest John.”

After John was gone Mycroft looked down at his brother in concern, “Sherlock, have you lost weight? You don’t look well.”

Sherlock glared up at Mycroft, “I’m fine now what do you want?”

Without a word Mycroft grabbed Sherlock’s arm and jerked up his shirt sleeve, gasping when he saw the familiar puckered patterns of destruction along his vein. “Sherlock, God.”

Sherlock wrenched his arm out of Mycroft’s grasp and said, “Oh, shut it, you’d do the same if all you did was watch John putter fearfully around the flat like a scared cat, while I clean up after him, give him medication, ride with him to appointments and comfort him while he retches like a frat boy in the toilet.”

Mycroft looked down at Sherlock sadly, “It’s hard to grow up, brother mine.”

Sherlock was about to reply when they both heard the front door softly shut. “Who was that?” Sherlock mused out loud.

He didn’t really want an answer but Mycroft answered anyway, “Probably, Mrs. Hudson.”

Sherlock turned a shade paler and then jumped up, “It wasn’t Mrs. Hudson, it was John.”