Playing Dirty

Chapter 2

John had rather bad timing. Or perhaps a sense of humor.

The experiment began while Sherlock was at a crime scene. He was surrounded by NSY's finest, who had already been over the site. That meant that they had interfered with the integrity of the evidence, so Sherlock was doing twice the work he would normally have to do. It wasn't hard—just severely annoying. Therefore, his fuse was short as he crouched over the body in the alley, absorbing every detail.

"I have told you," he growled to Lestrade. "Always call me in first."

"Sherlock. I do have a job to perform, you know. That's not always gonna be possible. Look, I get you in first as often as I can, but—"

Sherlock shushed him abruptly, sensing that Lestrade was merely about to repeat the same sentiment five different ways in a champion attempt to give him a migraine.

Sherlock had just homed in on something interesting on the woman's neck when his pocket vibrated. He ignored it at first, but it kept going. He rolled his eyes and pulled the cursed device known as his mobile from his pocket, observing with a modicum of surprise that it was John. John never rang; he texted. Nothing perked Sherlock up faster than a break from routine. He accepted the call.

"What?" Sherlock prompted, squinting at the body before him and fumbling into his pocket one-handed for his magnifier.

"Oh God," John's voice was pitched in a way Sherlock had never heard it before, low and breathy and desperate. "Sherlock, yes, fuck me...right...there...." A quick gasp, and a moan which was cut off by John hanging up.

Sherlock felt all the blood leave his face, his whole body flushing hot with shock and adrenaline. He froze over the body, eyes going wide. His cock twitched with interest in his trousers.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade asked tentatively.

Sherlock swallowed hard, but his throat was dry. He stood in one fluid motion, hands shaking as he slid his phone back in one pocket, magnifier into the other. He spared the barest glance at Lestrade, stone-faced. "One moment."

Lestrade gaped, his expression torn between confusion and complaint, but said nothing as Sherlock turned and strode down the alley and out of sight with a swish of his coat around the corner.

He ducked into a little coffee shop less than a block down and made his way straight to the loo. It was equipped with two stalls, so not private, but it was unoccupied and would have to do. He had no other option. It was this, or he was afraid he'd come in his pants like a teenager. He was throbbing. He couldn't recall when he'd last felt any sensation so demanding.

He shut himself in the first stall and fumbled with the lock, yanked his right glove off, and struggled with his fly and pants. He used his left hand to brace against the wall and took his cock, slippery with precome, in hand. His balls were already drawn up tight.

Sherlock closed his eyes and stroked himself frantically over the toilet, John's words replaying in his head. His voice, his breath...Sherlock, yes, fuck me....

It all happened in an instant. Four quick strokes and he was coming with the fifth, choking on his own breath as he fought to stay silent. His toes practically curled in his shoes as he pulsed forcefully again and again, thick white ropes of come splashing into the toilet. He hadn't pleasured himself in ages and his body made it clear that he'd needed the release. It was fucking glorious.

Finally, it ended. He opened his eyes to observe the mess he'd left in the bowl, trying to catch his breath.

Well.

That was something.

He cleaned off his hand and flushed, pulling himself back together just as he heard someone else enter the loo and approach the urinal.

Sherlock stayed where he was, gathering his wits. He wasn't sure if the passion in John's voice had held any truth or if he was only trying to prove his point, but the end result was the same. His anatomy apparently didn't care either way.

And...would John really want to bottom for him?

Sherlock shivered, a little spark of lust threading through him anew. He'd fantasized about bottoming for John, never able to imagine for a second that John could bear to be anything but dominant in bed, were they ever to make it that far (which seemed highly unlikely). Now he had to rethink his fantasies. The idea of topping John was...well, actually rather arousing, as he'd just profoundly demonstrated.

Sherlock exited the stall and scrubbed his hands at the sink, glancing at himself in the mirror. Other than flushed cheeks, which he could explain away with the brisk air, he looked almost unruffled.

Almost. Which meant he was pulled together enough for any member of the Yard, unobservant as they were.

Sherlock went back to the crime scene, but the rest of the time he was there he was working on two problems: the murder, and John. The problem with John's experiment was that he wasn't around to see the result of today's trial himself. Wasn't that the point? Why would he do this? He could have no idea if his words had had the intended effect. Frustrated, Sherlock worked until he couldn't any longer. With a growl of irritation he gathered his samples and told Lestrade that he needed the night for analysis.

~~~

When Sherlock returned to the flat he found John in his chair with his laptop, working on a blog entry about some old case. Sherlock studiously ignored him and went to set up his samples on the table.

"Have a good evening?" John called mildly, not looking up from his screen. "Interesting case?"

Sherlock leaned against the frame of the sliding door meant to partition the kitchen from the rest of the flat, and regarded John with narrowed eyes.

John finally looked up at him, eyebrows raised as he awaited the answer to his question. He picked up the green mug that held his tea and drank, still watching Sherlock over the rim.

Ah. So this was the game they were playing. Sherlock turned back around without a word and returned to the table, where he began laying out the equipment he would need. It was going to be a long, sleepless night. Usually his favorite kind. Damn John.

~~~