Paying Attention (Johnlock)

John was halfway down his cup of tea when he realized that Sherlock was analyzing acids in his robe again.

“Sherlock, put on some trousers. You’re going to get acid burns on your thighs.”

No answer.

“Hello? This is your doctor speaking. You too can avoid workplace accidents. By wearing trousers.”

No answer.

“Am I invisible? Have I suddenly lost my voice? Oi! Sherlock Holmes!”

No answer. John reached for his mobile.

Put on trousers you git.

Sherlock’s eyebrow twitched slightly at the ping of his mobile, but there was otherwise no answer.

John tore a piece of crust off his toast, balled it up, and flicked it, with great accuracy, at Sherlock’s head. The bread hit him, bounced, and stuck in the detective’s curls. No answer, not even a shake of the head.

Huh. Having him on, then, John thought. Sherlock normally hated things stuck in his hair.

Sherlock continued to fiddle with the microscope, occasionally pipetting something from one of several evil-smelling beakers onto his slides. John sipped his tea.

The clang of the spoon hitting the floor didn’t get a response either.

John bent down to retrieve the spoon. It had bounced over by Sherlock’s foot, and John couldn’t help but follow the line of the detective’s bare leg, long and beautifully muscular, up to the soft white briefs that were visible where the blue silk robe had fallen open.

Hm. John quickly scanned the floor for discarded organs and suspicious chemical spills; finding none (unusual, but Sherlock had been busy with other things lately), he slid off his chair and approached Sherlock’s foot. Predictably, there was no answer from above.

Curling his hand around Sherlock’s ankle, John ran his thumb around over the bone. He didn’t expect a response, didn’t get one. He ran his hand up Sherlock’s leg, stopping at the sensitive join between the calf and the back of the knee.

Was that a bit of a twitch? John ran his hand further up the inside of Sherlock’s leg, enjoying the firm muscle an the beautiful texture of his skin. When he reached the sensitive midpoint of the thigh, he leaned over and replaced his thumb with his mouth. A soft open-mouthed kiss, warm and slightly damp.

There was a definite reaction from Sherlock this time, just a ghost of a shiver before his muscles tensed.

So that’s how it is? John thought. He bent back to Sherlock’s thigh, trailing the same vague kisses up until his mouth was just shy of the briefs. He breathed in deeply, the scent of Sherlock’s body tantalizing and exciting, and exhaled warm breath on the most sensitive parts of Sherlock’s thighs.

John drew back. There was another slight twitch from the detective. Ha.

Then, John did the same thing to the other leg, working up from ankle, to knee, to thigh, with his hand and with his mouth. Sherlock was hard, now, his cock a firm, thick ridge in his briefs. John’s own cock was hard, too, pushing his pyjama bottoms out.

If there were true justice in the world, John thought, he’d stop what he was doing right now and go and wank in the shower. Sherlock would either follow or suffer. Either result would mean a rare victory for John.

He paused again, moving back. The sight before him was just too tempting to resist- Sherlock’s legs were oh-so-casually sprawled apart, wider than they had been when John dropped the spoon, and the way the briefs hugged Sherlock’s hardness was indecently exciting.