Baker Street Boys

36(ii)

*Continuing from previous chapter.

The atmosphere in the flat is tense for the next few days. Or, at least it is for the few hours that John pops in, long enough to toss (and toss off) restlessly in his bed, sleep mostly elusive, before dressing in the dark and leaving once more.

He can't look his flatmate in the eye.

They exchange fewer than ten words. It is all John can do to not address what happened the other day; to mumble out some explanation, some macho bullshit. The truth is, he has no explanation and no excuse. So now he's doing what he should have done that day as soon as he walked in and saw his flatmate's c— obvious preoccupation .

He's left the flat as often as possible, spending time picking up extra shifts at the clinic, going for long meandering walks around the city, and even voluntarily scheduled a visit to Harry this weekend. If he were to stumble upon a genie in a bottle, he thinks to himself as he steps around a puddle, his first wish would be to disappear from the universe.

_________

"You can stop this now, John. It's become quite tedious."

"Stop what? Hoovering? Have you seen this place?"

"John."

"Sherlock."

"You only clean when you're upset."

"That's not— Sherlock. What are you doing? Mm... actually, ya know what? Fuck it. I'm not interested. Enjoy your... workout. Or whatever. It's seven degrees out, you look ridiculous with your shirt off."

"Yes you are."

__________

"Occupied."

The door knocks into John's elbow, even as he shifts away.

"I said, occu— ocupado! Occupeé! Dolu! Oof. Sherlock— what the —? "

"No problem, John. Keep on."

"No, I —" John feels his neck and face flush with embarrassment and then something else as Sherlock presses against him, reaching over John to try and reach his shaving kit in the mirror cabinet. John bristles, annoyed. Why should he move over? He was here first. The loo is small, but not that small. Sherlock can wait, or he can budge over a bit and let John finish his own routine. It's never been an issue before, so what could possibly be the hurry now?

"What's the rush? Got a case on?" John aims for casual, misses by a mile as his voice rises into an unnatural pitch. He can feel Sherlock's warm body pressing against his bare back. Sherlock shifts, rinsing his razor and — oh my god .

John presses against the sink as tightly as possible, trying to put distance between the small of his back and Sherlock's very obviously erect cock, pressing insistently now against his skin. It's only polite.

What is decidedly less polite is when Sherlock pumps his hips a moment later, angling so his cock hits John in the top of the buttocks. It can't have been an accident, and nope, there it is again, harder this time.

Surprised, John glances up to meet Sherlock's eyes in the mirror. They're dark and hooded, his mouth open slightly as he pushes into John a third time.

John recognises that look and oh that's really a bit not good, isn't it? A memory flashes through his traitorous brain of Sherlock — wrecked and moaning as he came in his own hand, legs splayed over the sofa — and he has to bite his lip from whimpering. There is absolutely nothing casual about this, no excuses in the world could explain this away as accidental.