Still The Addict

Lust and Reluctance

Author's Note: I think this story needs some fluff after all the...drama. So here's some filler fluff!!!

I wake, feeling the sheets glide against my itching cuts as I groan and shift in my bed experiencing my groggy morning personality that John claims to hate but really loves. I feel frustrated and so itchy in my loins. I reach over, searching and groping around inside my desk drawer for my CD. Then I remember; John's idiotic rehab. Blech. I look down and frown, gingerly lifting up the sheets and being presented with a horror. No not my cuts; I have morning wood. I get morning wood a lot and have never done anything about it. Never felt the need to. But that dream I had last night...

^

(Third Person Dream POV)

Sherlock stood in the sitting room, staring out the window. Snow was falling, he supposed that it was Christmas. There were decorations all around the flat, and while he complained about them when John put them up, he smiled a little at the warmth and comfort they brought. The decorations in fact were how Sherlock knew this was a dream; they never hung decorations. Not even John was that sentimental. He walked to the door, opening it and finding himself in his decaying mind palace, the staircase spiralling into a dark hole in the glass roof, the glass painted like a chapel window. Instead of the Virgin Mary on the centrepiece there was John.

Sherlock started climbing he staircase, all doors locked as he trod them except for one. A new door, chestnut and grand with an old-fashioned knocker. As he knocked, he heard a familiar voice, a sweet one inviting him in. He entered, finding a large room with deep red furnishings and a bed with black satin sheets. In the centre was John, naked except for a Santa hat. Sherlock, baffled, walked into the room, hearing his shoes click on the floorboards. "Hello John,"

"Don't talk Sherlock. Just come over here," John smiled, extended a hand. Sherlock stepped forward, his breath hitched in his theist as he accepted the offer, standing over John with eyes full of lust and reluctance. John gingerly pulled Sherlock's shirt, making the taller man been to his height, letting his tongue slip into Sherlock's mouth. John's hand trailed down Sherlock's front, planing him through his suit trousers before masturbating him through them. "J-John...." Sherlock croaked. "Please fuck me..."

^

(End of Dream POV. Back to Sherlock. )

"What?!"

I am pulled out of my trance yet again by John Watson, who is leaning over my bed, watching me slip in and out of my Mind Palace. I blink, looking up at him with innocent doe-eyes as I wonder what exactly I just said. "Do you mind?" I spit. "I'm in my Mind Palace,"

"Who with?!" John spluttered, having heard exactly what I just said. "Having another dream about Miss Adler are we?"

"Of course not John," I bark, and for once it's the truth. "I'm over her," not entirely true, but mostly true. I've just moved on to infatuating about someone even better than her. "Don't be ridiculous, John,"

He gives me a wide grin and a knowing look, pretending to have an idea of what's going on in my mind but in fact having no clue. John likes to pretend, or maybe he actually believes what he pretends is real. For example, the notion that Mycroft is smarter than me. That is an illusion if ever I saw one. But no matter, I have more pressing matters to deal with than talking about Mycroft. John offers that it's time for shaving, which I welcome as a distraction from looking at his beautiful puckered lips and imagining them at my-

"Lets go Sherlock I gotta get to work," John ushers, walking me to the bathroom. I feel like a prisoner being escorted around by a guard. It's just demeaning. What isn't demeaning however, is when John starts peeling my shirt off. I flinch, back away from him lest I spasm with pleasure in his grip. He just laughs, thinking me shy. "You gotta get your shirt off so I can shave you Sherlock,"

I blink and remember. So I pull it above my head, closing my eyes so I don't see the shame that is my own torso, red slashes over pale skin. John doesn't say anything but I can feel his judgemental stare burning into my skin. I don't want to look at it so I look down. John manoeuvres my shoulders to turn me to the mirror. Normally I wouldn't let him but I'm not feeling my best today. He tugs on my hair a little, lifting my head up to look into the mirror. I watch us in it, his strong hand in my locks as he holds my head up. This is the closest we've ever gotten and I can smell his hair product. He's bought a new brand of face cream too. So gay. So I watch us in the mirror as he raises the razor blade to my throat. He watches my eyes following it as it gets to my neck.

I want to lean forward, just slide my neck across the blade and end it all. John won't notice until it's too late. Not even he can stitch a slit throat. But I don't. I just stand there captivated by the gleam in his reflection, strong fingers involuntarily massaging my scalp. He runs the blade along my neck gingerly, afraid I'm going to break. Afraid of cutting me. I get injured all the time, why would he care if my neck gets al title cut? But I will admit the gentle ways he is caressing me, the feeling  of skin on skin contact that I have been deprived of, is so utterly soothing that I end up with half-lidded eyes, swaying just to keep myself standing up. I want o fall asleep. This is so warm and comforting, all I want to do is fall asleep.

But as I sway, I inevitably end up with my back pressed against John's chest, leaning on him for support. I can feel the rise and fall of his chest, the softness of his stomach soothing me. But, there's something else. Something alien and entirely surprising I turn to John, keeping my head right back, almost leaning on his shoulder so he doesn't cut me by accident with he razor. Because for the first time in weeks I don't want myself to bleed. I stare at John intently, my harsh green eyes piercing his soft blue ones. I don't blink, letting John shift his feet in discomfort, like a sheepish schoolboy.

"John," I say very matter-of-factly. "Do you have a boner?"