Better Than First Aid

Two: Better Than First Aid

Sherlock was now sitting on the couch. His legs were crossed and his hands were resting on his lap. His eyes roamed around their flat as he waited for John to come and aid his finger, but the doctor was taking longer than necessary...

Sherlock felt kind of... bored all of a sudden.

The detective, then, started tapping his foot and (because he forgot) his wounded finger, too... He hissed when he felt the painful sting. John was right. The cut was quite deep. 

Sherlock raised the poor finger up to his face and examined it. Blood was starting to come out of it again. He clicked his tongue. When will it stop?

Too lazy to get up and wash his hand, the detective held his finger near his lips and started sucking on it. He saw a lot of people do this kind of thing whenever they were wounded and he thought he should try it even though it was kind of stupid (well, for him, that is) and kind of odd. 

It was just a temporary remedy for his wounded finger until John arrives. 

Not disgusting... but the blood...

He can taste the blood inside his mouth. It wasn't pleasant but he had to keep on sucking just so John wouldn't see the red thing come out of his finger again. 

He'll panic if he sees this thing...

Then, the doctor suddenly burst out of their room, panting and sweaty. 

"Sherlock, have you seen the first aid kit? I can't seem to find it." John says. 

Sherlock looked up to the doctor, one brow raised in question and his finger still in his mouth. "Not in our room?"

John shakes his head, "No." 

"Not in your room upstairs?" Sherlock asked. 

"Nope. I usually put the important things in our room." John replied, looking so bloody gorgeous with his chest moving up and down, the heavy breathing and the sweat that trickled his forehead and neck. 

Sherlock felt aroused so suddenly.

Well, that escalated quickly.

Blame John Hamish Watson. 

Blame him for absent-mindedly seducing the worlds only consulting detective with his dishevelled hair and his panting and his everything.

And also, blame Sherlock's wild imagination. 

John sweaty and running out of breath.

Hands tied up... 

Panting... 

Begging...

"Sherlock, please. Make me c-cum..."

Sweat trickling down his chest... 

"Sherlock, more..." His eyes filled with both desire and lust.

"Oh, John, I will give you more..."

Oh, goodness.

Oh, shit. He's... hard.

Oh, yes. He bloody knows it is not the time for anything kinky or naughty since he was wounded but  John! BLAME JOHN! IT'S JOHN'S FAULT!

"Sherlock, did you hear me?" 

"Wha –" Sherlock clears his throat. How long has he been imagining naughty things? 

"I said, maybe you could help me find it...?" John shrugged his shoulders and his eyes started to roam around their flat, trying to spot the damn kit. 

Sherlock's sucked his finger again, "No kit, hmm... No kit."

He repeated to himself as he thought of a slightly naughty thing that made the corner of his lips curl into a smile.

No kit...