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The Perfect Specimen

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The Sighting

“Sherlock.” John whispered urgently and gestured to the bookcase. “Scratches on the floor. Secret door.”

“Excellent.” I smile. John once again proves that he is quite indispensible. “What are you waiting for?” We’d broken into the chemistry Professor’s house in hopes of finding a lead to where he’d hidden his drug laboratory. While drug cases rarely gain my attention he’d formulated a new highly addictive designer drug, the funds from which were certainly heading to my biggest fan. Making his life difficult is more than enough of an incentive for me so I offered my services.

John shrugged his approval and readied his gun. I swung the bookcase forward; it was heavy but easy enough to shift. Behind it lay a staircase and a strong scent of chemicals. His laboratory, we were ahead of schedule. Now to find the formula.

We creep silently and through the air sealed double doors. Not a decontamination vacuum but a precaution that someone like Professor Thetford would take when dabbling in his own home.

John searches the lab quickly “We’re alone.” He confirms, tucking his gun into the back of his jeans, hidden under his thick Aran jumper. “Where do you want me to start?”

I spot it immediately. A single black husk on an otherwise immaculate steel surface. A castor bean.

“You start by calling Lestrade and tell him to bring an anti-terror specialist unit dealing with biological attacks and decontamination.”

“Decontamination? Sherlock, what the hell is going on?”

“Ricin.” I declare. John’s face instantly blanches but he does nothing much other than huff out a wry laugh. “We’ve been exposed, potentially. Not much we can do now.”

“How’d you know?”

“Castor beans, ricinus communis.”

“Great. That’s just... great.”


Four hours later and a few samples of powder have been taken for analysis but neither John nor I are experiencing any symptoms. Lestrade is milling around in a sealed suit though I suppose he must be doing something useful.

“We’ve set up a tent in the garden to scrub you two down.”

“I’m perfectly capable of cleaning myself.” I glare. I’m washed by no one but myself.

“It’s regulation Sherlock and believe me, they have the authority to sedate you if you don’t do as you’re told, the Terrorism Act is a beautiful thing.” He smiles for John who’s smothering a giggle.

“I’m fond of diazepam but if they have anything stronger I’ll take that too.”

“Toughen up Sherlock; I’ve made Donovan promise she won’t take pictures.”

“And Anderson?” I genuinely ask.

“I’ll see that they’re kept amused.”

“I believe doggy style is their favourite.”

John can’t hold back a snort of laughter and even Lestrade smirks even though he looks away and tries to maintain an air of professionalism. “I’ll send someone for you.” He says before disappearing upstairs.

“I haven’t been washed by someone since I was four.” I know I sound petulant. I don’t care.

“It’s not like they’re going to bathe you Sherlock, it’s basically a guy holding a hosepipe.” Says John. Of course he’d have no qualms about nudity being in the army. No place to be modest.

“Yes, that makes everything better, being hosed down like a dog.”

“You’re being over dramatic.”

“Y’ready boys?” Said a female voice from within a suit that was far too small for her. “Follow me.”


We’re both forced into the tent with four other people in protective suits and two others with hoses. We’re barely zipped inside when the call of “First phase,” is given and we’re sprayed with lukewarm water, soaking our clothes through.

“You couldn’t wait for us to undress?” John protested, on his way to being as disgruntled as I am. He always catches up.

“Got to damp down any spores, sir. Don’t want them to become airborne. Turn around.”

“Still think I was dramatic, John?” He looks at me with a hangdog expression, quite the sight in his sodden jumper that looks heavier than he does with a full stomach. Not that I look much better in my drenched suit.

“Yes. Doesn’t mean I’m enjoying –ah-this.” He hunches his shoulders as the water strikes his head and neck. “Christ almighty.”

“Bastards.” I mutter when the same happens to me.

“Turn to face us, lads.” Comes the same voice that called out before. “Second phase.”

Then there are hands all over me. One set of hands pulls off my jacket while another cuts the buttons off my shirt. More worryingly are the set of hands on my belt buckle.

I bat his hands away. “Do you mind, I can do that myself.” I snarled as intimidating as a man can be, wet and as of a few seconds ago shirtless. I’ve nothing to be ashamed; I’d just prefer to limit the amount of people to see me undressed.

“It’s standard procedure, sir, prevents transfer. Now if you can hold still it’ll be quicker.”

I relent and look over to John who’s having a tougher time than myself considering the two pairs of hands working on him have managed to get his head stuck by trying to take off two layers at once leaving his arms pinned skywards and his face covered. It almost makes me forget that my trousers have been removed. I shield my privates with my hands as they remove my underwear. It’s the most dignity I can manage.

“Oi! Get off!” He cries from within his woollen prison when he feels his belt being unbuckled. He tries to bend his body to hide himself but it doesn’t work. His arms and head are still stuck but this mostly served to make his wide torso look toned and muscular as he tried to wriggle free.

“Sorry, sir.”

The jeans come down and so do his wet cotton boxer shorts. He can’t hide himself. That’s when I see John for the first time. Long, very long. Thick too, impossibly so. Well, obviously not impossible, I’m staring at the hard, well, flaccid evidence. Luckily no one is noticing my stares as they’re all looking too.

“I’m still stuck here!” John cries as the men manhandling him had lost focus.

I catalogue what I see out of the corner of my eye while I’m washed with what can only be described as scouring pads. It’s quite a sight to behold. Uncircumcised, his foreskin is stretched over a fat, bulbous head. The foreskin hangs enough over the tip that it looks like a pout, waiting to be kissed. It’s darker than his natural skin tone, more like the shade of his hands when I first met him at Bart’s. It’s framed with wet, dark blond thatch of hair that clings a little to the length of him. Such length, such girth. It looks heavy between his well muscled thighs. I’m fortunate that I’m ill at ease; I haven’t reacted with this particular type of interest for a long time. Certainly not this strongly.

My thoughts continue. What must it look like erect? Possibly much bigger but maybe no change. That wouldn’t disappoint either way; any extra would be an undoubted bonus for John’s lover. My train of thought is cut off when John is finally freed and quickly covers himself.

“All had a good look?” He muttered defiantly.

“Got nuffin’ to be ashamed of, Dr Watson.” The man who had deprived him of his bottoms commented. “Nuffin’ at all.”


Convinced that we weren’t infected and about to die a hideous death we were released and sent home. John had endured many hours of ribbing over his generous proportions which I tactfully refrained from joining. Apparently it hasn’t gone unnoticed since he started puberty and I realised his aversion to showing off when it elicited four requests for a date from women of various shapes and sizes and two men.

“You shouldn’t be embarrassed, most men would be envious.” I comfort as I let us into our flat.

“That’s all good and well, what I don’t need is everyone gossiping about me and seeing me as a walking, talking cock!”

“You are much more than that.”

“Thank you.”

“Are you going to take up any of those offers of dates?”

“No Sherlock, I’m not.” He spoke in that tone that meant I’d missed the point. It was a valid question.

“Why not?”

“Because they weren’t asking because they like me or because we share mutual interests they were asking because I... am lucky. Frankly, the last thing I need is a review of my performance to join everything else being said about me today. Can we not talk about this now?”

“Very well, tea?”

“Tea would be lovely.”


He left for bed after slice of toast and a cup of tea and I retired shortly after. The case was finished. The evidence in the laboratory had led the police to the Professor and the formula was discovered on his key ring data stick. The ricin was being dealt with by a different government department, Mycroft would know all about today. He would probably have heard about John too.

Lying in bed I couldn’t help but think back to what I’d seen. The way it hung from his body, the curve of the shaft that was begging to be drawn in charcoal. It was beautiful and magnificent yet primal and masculine. I wanted to know more, how heavy it felt in my hand, how my fingers look wrapped around its width, what it would feel like to pull back his foreskin and run my tongue around the plump ridge.

It’s been so long since I’ve thought about another person in this way and not just thought about them, but desired them. Desire clutters the mind, I can’t think when these thoughts addle my brain but there are no other thoughts to have as I slip my hand inside my pyjama bottoms and feel my hardening length. So much smaller than John’s but nothing shabby, a little above the national average and not unappealing as far as penises go. I’ve never paid that much attention but now, my attention is well and truly caught.

It’s probably not appropriate to lay in bed thinking about my flatmate and friend’s over-generous endowment but I let myself anyway. I stroke myself languorously and picture it again, the way it moved as John struggled with his jumper. How it slapped against his thigh when the jumper finally jerked off his head. I tilt my head back and groan a little, wishing that it was my cheek it had slapped against, my lips touching and my tongue tasting. I want to know every detail, how the texture of the shaft feels compared to the smooth head when it’s both soft and hard. I know so much about John yet this, this was new.

I’m moving my own hand furiously, harder than usual but still nowhere close to my release and feeling sensations building like never before. I shove two fingers in my own mouth to stifle my noise and to aid my imagination. Two fingers wouldn’t be enough to represent John. I shove in a third, imagining that I’ve taken him in my mouth still soft and I’m feeling him stiffen. I put in a fourth for good measure and it feels right, I moan all too wantonly around my fingers and do everything I know I enjoy to finally come.

The taste, the smell, the feel of him in my mouth, it’s a mystery but I imagine it anyway. What would I look like with my mouth around him? Would John watch? I almost forgot about the person attached to such a delightful organ, for it to be John was a surprise. I tongue my fingers and stifle a cry. I’m close, so close. Such a beautiful cock, so long, so thick a wonder to behold such a perfect specimen. Big, heavy, bulky, huge, oh, oh... oh! I shove my fingers deeper in my mouth to stop the near scream of my powerful release, my body taut and pulsing, my mind blissful.

As I catch my breath my thoughts are consumed again with only one thought.

I must see it again.


First Attempt
Aim: Maximum length, flaccid

It’s been three days since the ricin scare and three nights I’ve spent with my fingers in my mouth and a hand in my pyjamas until I finish with saliva covering one hand and my own come coating the other. I’ve tried to suppress the need to see him again but it haunts me. It has become impossible to look at John without picturing dropping to my knees, freeing him from his trousers and taking out my magnifier so I can inspect every inch of him.

John is heterosexual so the obvious question is moot. Although he was gracious when asked out by the two men he showed a decided lack of interest in their physical presence, enough to suggest that a proposition from me could jeopardise our living situation. I still needed to see him again regardless of this data. It would only be inappropriate if he found out and I’m very good at not being caught.

It wouldn’t be feasible to walk in on him in the shower, surely I could only get away with that once and there’s no guarantee I would see what I wanted. The layout of our bathroom meant I would most likely see his posterior or he’d have time to cover himself. I needed to be cleverer and I needed not just to see him, but to learn something new each time.

The impromptu shower we took was in water that was lukewarm; John would surely look larger in the heat. I need to know his maximum flaccid potential. Short of taking him on a made up case in The Maldives I’d have to create conditions at home. Heat would only be one aspect; I’d need to control another variable, his clothing. That could be easily accomplished. The final variable would be to maximise my view and data collection potential which would require half-a-days experimentation and some extra tea bags. It wasn’t an elegant plan but it should be effective. Childs play.

My preparations were complete two days later. I’d hardly slept all night, bringing myself to orgasm twice in anticipation of this morning. Only a serial killer could distract me now. I sat in the kitchen waiting for John to emerge for his usual cup of tea and toast before his shower.

“Morning Sherlock.” He said brightly. My mouth waters just seeing him, I think about whether he had a morning erection. I quickly imagine him half awake on his back, massively tenting the sheets, enough for me to hide under there to look.

“Did you sleep well in your new pyjamas?” His old, darker and thicker pair had fallen foul of an ‘experiment’ shortly after I formulated my plan. His light blue cotton bottoms and short white t-shirt suited him much better, especially his other assets which I had an interest also. It had taken me three hours to select the right pair. They were just tight enough across the hips to drag across his member, highlighting how far it stood out but not too obscene to reveal too many characteristics that he would feel self-conscious. They couldn’t be too tight or they wouldn’t be comfortable enough to sleep in. I sate my curiosity the best I can as he pops two slices of toast under the grill. I can’t be caught staring.

“Yes thank you, they’re much nicer than the ones you ruined; perhaps you should ruin a couple of pairs of trousers too.”

“I shall endeavour to do my best.” I smile and he rewards me with a soft grin in return. I’d replace them with ones that were far too tight but he’d never wear them. “Tea?”

“You made tea?”

“I’ve been up a while and I am capable of simple tasks.”

“Well, yes. Thank you.”

I pour some tea into his favourite cup and one for myself too, the most important cup in the room. I check the clock. Seven minutes.

“Is there something wrong with the heating? It’s boiling.”

“Mrs Hudson called; it’ll be sorted by lunchtime.” I say simply. I switched the heating up at four am and it had just reached the peak, it was almost tropical. She hadn’t called but I’m sure she will.

“I’ll open a window.”

“No.” A sudden flow of cold air would ruin everything and I still have six minutes to pass. “It would be a waste.”

“Didn’t have you down as caring for the environment.”

“We can have the heat much lower until it dissipates; you were concerned about our bills.” A much more likely motive.

“Fair enough. So plans for today?” John asks and takes a seat opposite me at the table. I wonder how he looks when sitting, does it rest along his thigh, does he part them so it sits between? I consider dropping something on the floor but I don’t think I’d have a good enough view. I do it anyway. Legs parted, I see nothing but I know more.

“Molly said she might have some eyes for me, a blind man, very rare disease, fascinating.”




“Hmm.” Five minutes. This is taking forever. I want to see him again now. “I’ll see if the paper’s here.” I distract myself with a short task and bound down the stairs. I’m energised but edgy.

“Morning Sherlock, nice pyjamas.” Says Mrs Hudson in her satin robe. “Awfully hot isn’t it? I’ll have my morning cuppa and check the boiler.”

“That would be lovely.” I smile gratefully; my task will be complete by then.

“How’s John today, recovered from your little scare?”

“Yes, he’s very well; you know how well he bounces back.”

“He’s needs to with your escapades.” She half laughs and shakes her head before disappearing inside with her copy of the Independent.

I run back upstairs. Three minutes. I’m humming with anticipation now. John is turning his toast over with a fork, giving me a nice view of his back, everything from his t-shirt stretching across his shoulders which are broad in comparison to his height, the sweep of the small of his back that I’m tempted to trace with my finger and his rather decent bottom. I might involve some more of his body in my thoughts tonight but all these additional aspects of John’s body are secondary to my primary obsession. I get a brief glimpse of it moving under his clothes before he sits down and my heart rate picks up. Two minutes.

“Are you ok?”

“Yes, just thinking.” Damn, he felt my eyes on him. I must be more careful.

“Anything special.”

“Bacteria.” I lie but it’s not a conversation he’ll wish to continue.

He opens up the paper and I toy with my cup of tea. I test the temperature against my lip. Almost there. My body is starting to react; I can feel that involuntary but not unpleasant twitch of interest. I calm myself with thoughts of Anderson which does the trick.

“Three bodies found in a caravan-” He starts.

“Gas leak. Accident. Boring.”

“Have you read the paper?”

“Saw the picture.”


Time. It’s time.

I get up, tea in hand and stand at the kitchen surface behind John to put another spoonful of sugar in the cup before giving it a stir. I turn, clatter the side of his head with my elbow and drop the cup into his lap over his shoulder, making sure to tip it as I let go.

“Jesus Christ!” John leaps up and grabs a tea towel out of a drawer. I’d hidden the visible one; I didn’t know we had two. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” He says as he runs out of the room. I follow, I haven’t seen anything! I should be savouring the sight of those thin bottoms clinging to him, turning translucent, revealing more secrets to me. The tea shouldn’t have been hot enough to scald, I’d done experiments.

I follow, I must see. “Are you ok?”

“Of course I’m not ok!” He shouts back, still in pain.

I’m defeated. He’s pulled his pyjamas forward and is holding a tea towel to himself. What did I do wrong? He doesn’t seem concerned with the tea on his chest; he’s not taken off his t-shirt. “Should I help?”

“No.” He says abruptly. “No thank you, I’m fine.” He’s regained some of his composure. “I think I’ll have a shower. A cool one.”

“I’m sorry I hurt you.” I am. I must have miscalculated.

“Yeah, accidents happen. Wasn’t hot enough to do any damage. I’ll see you in a bit.” He purses his lips and trudges upstairs. I wait until I hear the shower switch on.

I return to the kitchen at pace and dip my finger in John’s half drunk tea. Poured at the same time, the temperature should be similar. It’s fine, a little more than warm but it would cool quickly. Seven minutes was perfectly adequate time to let it cool. Why did the attempt fail? Did I miss a variable?


I should have tested it with my penis.


Second Attempt
Aim: Feel through clothing

My second opportunity presented itself quite fortuitously. I had been planning a way to have some sort of physical contact through clothing. John would no doubt be alarmed by attempt to touch him if one or both of us were nude. It couldn’t be with my hand either, it had to be something that could be construed as innocent but longer enough for me to feel him, not just a brush.

We find ourselves searching through the study of another home for evidence of a missing pianist with a string of mysteriously dead lovers. I rifle through the cherry wood desk for a box of fake passports that I know should be somewhere in this house. It’ll be the final piece of the puzzle.

“Sherlock, credit cards.” John has an open box folder he pulled from the bookcase at his feet. He looks so alive, so focused sifting through the evidence. “Amelie Babineaux, Leila Halvoni , Amy Pinkerton, Victoria Palma-Harper, Lisa Schmidt...”

There’s one name missing. “Olivia Rossi?”

“Um...” he sorts through the multitude of cards, “yes, here she is.” He holds the card up in triumph and we share a look of mutual congratulations. If we find the passports we can place him in each country at the time each woman disappeared. The police in five separate countries were too stupid to connect the obvious dots. All they needed to do was look at his fingernails, heavy metal exposure.

“They were mementos, he never used them. Common to each country.”

“Sophie Holt. Her Barclay card expired in December 1990.”

A new name. “That makes seven.”

“Looks like she was the first. He’s been doing this for at least two decades.”

“Until he met me.”

The letter box rattles down stairs. Both John and I stop, our eyes meet and we listen in case we’re no longer alone. I see an opportunity.

I slide the drawer shut as silently as I can and gesture with a sideways nod of the head that we should check. John replaces the box of credit cards and creeps towards the door with me following close behind. There’s no sound but I’m not letting this chance slip by. I’d found an old airing cupboard earlier, now only home to a Dyson and a brush and dustpan. I open the door and pull John inside. It’s cramped, much more than I thought it would be so I turn so I have my back pressed against his front.

“Did you hear something?” He whispers.

“Better safe than sorry,” I whisper back, “He’s killed at least seven women.” It was doubtful he’d returned home but a few minutes in here would be enough to make sure and satisfy other needs.

“By poisoning.”

“He had a gun maintenance kit in his desk, insurance policy.”

I feel John nod rather than see the movement and we fall silent. With my knees bent a little I ease backwards like I’m trying to make space for myself and press my arse against his crotch. Oh god I can feel him. Feel him. Dressed to the right today and so beautifully long. I’m not even feeling all of him, only the midsection. I bite my lip to keep from humming my approval though my biggest temptation is to slip my fingers into my mouth and rut against him. The case is a shadow of a thought in my mind.

I focus on where we’re touching. Could I make him hard with a little friction? It’s too dangerous, not to mention morally borderline, I’m sure. I’m not particularly worried but I would like to maintain our friendship. As much as I have been enraptured by a certain part of his body I am very fond of the man to whom it is attached. I’m getting hard regardless of my doubts, thankful that the cut of my new jacket will hide my arousal if it’s done up.

I close my eyes and listen to the sound of his breathing. Slow and steady, his chest rising and falling against my back. So much contact, especially where it matters, its bulk pressed tight against me. My breath is too rapid so I try to calm myself, I don’t want to give my arousal away. I shift a little, my legs aching from the awkward position and I feel him again, acute touch, a reminder that he’s there, that I’m touching his most intimate part. I move again, sideways, then up and down, slight, but enough to feel him move and little and roll almost imperceptibly against my right buttock and a little of the left.

I feel my mind slipping out of my control. Oh god, I wish I could slide him between my cheeks, slick with lube or come, running the full stretch of him up and down against my sensitive hole. I would bend over for him, let him squeeze me around his thickness and pleasure himself until I feel him release. I’m fully hard and possessed by want; my baser instincts running roughshod over reason. I need to touch myself but I can’t, it’s exquisite torture.

“Sherlock!” John hisses. He puts his hands sharply on my hips and holds me still I’ve been caught but god I’m close to something that John wouldn’t approve of happening in his presence. How did I get this bad, what has happened to me? “Stop fidgeting!” I’m biting my lip so hard I forget I’m suppose to respond. I’m not caught but somehow that only heightens how I feel. I squirm again. “For the love of...” He grips tighter but doesn’t push me away, he only stills me.

“Sorry, um, I don’t think he’s here anymore.” My voice is slightly hoarse. I want to stay all day, I want to rub against him until he’s red raw and I’m spent. His hands are still on me even though I’m being still.

“Fine, let’s keep looking.” He lets go and I already miss the feeling. We leave and get back to work.

I’m on a case and I’m distracted, this shouldn’t be happening. This has to stop and it will. I know I’m lying to myself, I’m already thinking about how to see him again.


When the case eventually wraps up I retired to bed still filled with adrenaline but then I didn’t retire for sleep. I’ve showered and towelled off but I’ve not bothered dressing for bed. For the first time since I saw him naked in the tent I break my routine. I sit on my bed on my heels, palming and teasing myself to full hardness. Thinking of the cupboard means it takes no time at all. It’s easy to remember how he felt and to picture us in there sans clothing.

“John.” I husk out under my breath, saying his name serving to sharpen my mental recall combined with my lustful imagination. I stroke myself until I’m as hard as I was in that tight space. I reach for my freshly bought lubricant. I put a small amount in my dominant hand that is tending to my aching erection and a larger amount on my left hand. I coat my index finger, thumb and the side of my wrist with a generous amount, letting it warm before I bend forward.

I rest my body on the side of my face and my shoulders, my arse in the air. I spread my knees, exposing myself crudely but I’m alone and the door is locked. With my right hand still stroking rhythmically and unhurried I bend my left arm behind me and slowly, ever-so slowly, slide the side of my hand between my spread buttocks.

“Ohhhhh.” It’s new; I’ve never felt anything quite like that before. I tingle from my back to the base of my member. I squeeze my length tight and try not to give in the need to tug fast and hard, the lubrication adding to my enjoyment. I slide my left hand again and again, increasing the pressure against my twitching, sensitive hole. “God, god, oh...” I can hear my own grunts and moans filling the room, if only I had something for my mouth, I must keep quiet.

I picture that my hand is John’s dick, hard, dripping with want for me, for my skin, for my most private area. I want him to want me. In this fantasy he does. He tells me how good it feels to rub himself on me, I tell him the same. I tell him how big he is, how much I love it, how I want it to be mine. I remember his hands on my hips, his fingers gripping to keep me from moving but this time they want me to move, they’re there to hold me steady as he thrusts hard against me.

I speed up, both hands moving in sync. I can’t keep my hips still, thrusting into my clenched fist and then back against my own sliding hand. If only John could see me, completely at his mercy, spread and in need of relief.

So fast now, my release building, coiling low in my stomach. I concentrate on my slick hand, I think of his rounded, mushroomed head and I tilt my wrist so one of the curves mimic how he might feel. That extra detail forces a growl from deep in my throat, I drag my hand hard, a rut against my wrist and hand. John. So big, so thick, long, heavy, I’m close, he’s close... “Oh, oh... oh!” I come hard, curling in on myself and biting into the bed to keep from calling John’s name. I press the knuckle of my thumb against my perineum and I jerk even more. Bliss.

I uncurl and tell myself I should lay down a towel next time when I see the soiled duvet cover. Practicalities aside I’m glowing, blissful, happy. Sexual pleasure has never been like this before, never so intense, I’ve never wanted anything like this before. I can’t deny myself; I’m not as strong as I thought. I’m lost and in trouble. I don’t know where this ends.

I need to see him again.


Third Attempt
Aim: Second Visual Contact

I bound into our flat with a two packages from Dege & Skinner in Savile Row. “John!” I shout. I’m far too excited. Coming up with ways to see John has been keeping my brain busy, the more creative the opportunity, the better. My synapses have been active in a completely different way, the reward not only being the satisfaction of success, but of the visual delight that awaits me once I can manufacture the circumstances.

“John!” I stand in the living room; he’s nowhere to be seen. He’s supposed to be working on his blog today writing up the serial lover case. The ricin story had a D-notice, which unsurprisingly, John had obeyed. “John!”

“Coming, coming, keep your knickers on.” John calls from upstairs.

I smile wryly at his choice of word and pace the living room. This is excellent, everything is in place. We must begin now.

“Case?” He asks expectantly. I’m not the only one who gets bored.

“Research.” I thrust one of the gold embossed luxury paper bags at him. “Put this on.” His hand brushes mine as he takes the bag, since the cupboard attempt I’ve been hyper aware of contact between us, even eye contact.

He peeks inside the bag. “It’s a kilt.”

“Well observed, John now hurry, we’ve no time to lose!”

“Wait a second.” He furrows his brow. “Why do you want me to wear a kilt?”

“Research, we might have a case.” This is not a lie but the kilt is probably... excessive. “Now hop along and wear it like a proper Scots man, you can pair it with that jumper you wore to Bart’s when we first met, it will look rather fetching.”

“Fetching?” He asks a little incredulously. He rubs his mouth out of nervous habit and takes another look in the bag. “Wait, um, is this it? No socks or,” he coughs, “a sporran?”

“Ghilles, those are the traditional shoes and a pair of socks are in here,” I hand over the second bag, “that’s all you need.”He wasn’t getting a sporran. A sporran would weigh down the front and hide him. I want to see him. “It’s the Watson tartan.” I add, hoping that the sentiment will break down his defences. He looks ready to concede to my demands.

“I noticed. Why can’t you wear it?”

I roll my eyes. “Height. You’re delaying the inevitable, please John, go put it on. There are instructions in the bag.” I rarely say please but when I do I rarely hear ‘no’.

“Fine, fine, I’ll put it on.”

I pace the living room in nervous expectation. I’m picturing him already, hanging loose and free under the worsted cloth. I wonder how it feels for him, I must try on the kilt tonight when I’m alone, touch where it touched him. I shudder with delight.

I see him standing as proudly as he can in the doorway; it’s obviously his first time wearing such an item. I’m pleased that he’s wearing the jumper I advised. He looks around the room absently with his hands behind his back while I complete my assessment. The shoes are done up correctly. The leather plimsolls covering the sole of his foot and the tongues of leather wrap around his feet, lending itself to maximum flexibility and movement. That image suits a man like John, a man of quiet action.

A long lace secures the tongues across the top of his foot before being wrapped around the ankle three times. For a brief second I picture wrapping the laces around him when he’s hard, criss-crossing them before tying the ends in a bow, hidden beneath his balls. Beautiful.

The cream coloured socks cover his shins adequately, nothing to complain about there. The kilt is exactly how I wanted. The tartan looks excellent, green base with blue, red and yellow overlay. I had it made to measure so it sits perfectly across the kneecap and the material lies perfectly, too perfectly.

“You’re wearing underwear.” Tight ones. The material should catch and give him away, he’s hiding from me.

“I am.” He nods assertively. “I’m not taking them off Sherlock. You’ll have to cope.”

“But you have to be authentic! It won’t work otherwise!” I huff, why does he have to make everything so difficult!

“You haven’t even explained why I have to wear this!” He yells back.

“Why can’t you just trust me?” I had a legitimate reason; he just couldn’t know it yet. The secondary reason he’d never know about.

He opens his mouth to say something but instead grimaces, thinks for a beat, looks me straight in the eye and shucks off his underwear right in front of me. I don’t see anything but the act alone is enough to make my blood pressure rise. It rises further when I see how he’s ruined the line of the kilt creating a stunning ripple down the front. I try to keep my face neutral during this battle of wills but there must be colour on my face after that little display. I want to touch. I take a quick look at the underwear. They were tight ones; lycra-cotton mix a size too small. He wore them on purpose.

“Fine. What now?”

“We go out.”


“Not far, just for my purposes. We can get some shopping if you’d like.”

He looked ruefully at his underwear on the floor and reluctantly picked them up, balling them in his hands. “Let’s get this over with then.”


John is drawing attention from passersby as we walk side by side. Some are just looking at the striking man in a kilt; others have noticed his particular asset moving freely as he walks. John’s notices the stares but carries on regardless if a little tense. It’s entrancing to watch him sway from one side to the other, the way the material moves with him. I’m relying on my peripheral vision but it’ll suffice. I’m going to get a clear view soon enough.

“So what’s the case?”

“A murder, a Good Samaritan might be the killer.” I’m barely interested in talking about the case, it should be fairly simple to solve. There won’t be much conversation; we’re almost where we need to be.

“And the kilt is involved how?”

“He was wearing one.”

“Right.” He says, still none the wiser. “And he was my height?”


We round the corner and the plan swings smoothly into action. A woman shouts behind us. “Hey! Gerroff!” A young man snatches her handbag and runs straight towards us, pushing John out of the way as he sprints with his prize.

“Sherlock!” John’s already set off in pursuit which I trusted he would. I have to wait a couple of seconds so I keep behind him but then I’m running too. I plotted the route; I know where we’re going. We head down a disused alleyway at speed. The ghilles leave a different impression in the dust that has been conveniently been placed there just half an hour before. The Good Samaritan killed three people. With that case solved I can focus all my attention on John and the chase I prepared. My excitement is finally finding its outlet.

We round the back of a building and the thief climbs and vaults a wire fence. John follows, his kilt lifting enough to reveal the hair dusting his inner thighs but no higher. I keep up but keep behind. I’ve never paid much attention to the way John runs, I’m always focused on who we’re chasing, it’s a compact and efficient stride. Pleasant to watch.

We round another corner together, our feet pounding, John relentless in his pursuit. The thief mounts the fire escape with ease. This is the moment I’ve been planning. John without hesitation mounts the ladder and with his legs slightly parted begins to climb. I’m right behind, looking up and seeing. It’s familiar but so foreign. I used a mirror on myself to judge what I could see from this angle but of course John was slightly different. I only had a short window; I tried to learn something new.

It was the first time I noticed his testicles. My immediate thought we to disregard them but I wanted to know everything. I couldn’t see much, they were of a proportional size so fairly large, I could fit one in my mouth, not two. His bottom muscles flexed as he climbed, showing his strength. I could just see the end of what he referred to as his cock, larger than my imagination remembered but then it might be slightly engorged from the adrenaline rush. Oh, what a result that might be!

We reached the top of this ladder and on to the second. I’d planned a route that would encompass three taking us high up the building. My heart was pounding; my mouth dry and my head spinning from trying to keep coordinated but focused on the short glimpses. This time I focused solely on his dancing, moving flesh. It definitely looked bigger than before, maybe from the friction as well as the adrenaline. His foreskin wasn’t pouting, it was stretched slightly but it was moving too much to see the tantalising glimpse of the tip that must be showing. Damn!

I’m tempted to tackle him. Pin him down, lift up the kilt and take everything I want until I can know no more. I want to sate every sense. Touch, taste, smell, sight, temperature, everything. We’re onto the third ladder too soon. Thighs, arse, cock, balls, lighter blonde hair because it’s not wet. Moving, dancing, jiggling and swaying. I could stop and masturbate myself to a stupor on the top of the building right now.

We’re chasing him across the rooftops, leaping the gaps without a second thought. John’s kilt lifting with each jump. Soon we’re descending again. I should have run ahead to go down first but my half erection is slowing me down. We’re almost done. We’re on the ground again, breathing heavy when the thief throws the handbag down and disappears from sight.

“Where’d he... go?” John asked between ragged breaths that are sating my need to hear him panting. He’s leaning over, hands on knees. I’m mimicking his position, drawing breath and hiding the stiffness in my trousers which should abate; it’s not gone too far.

“Don’t know. Dropped the bag though.”

John nods; he seems satisfied with the outcome. “That was... interesting. Very... breezy.”

I laugh heartily and he chuckles. “He killed her. Two other people as well.”

“Who, the Good Samaritan?”

“Yes. Footprints, could tell when you were running.”

“Good. Glad to help.” He stands upright and I can tell just how much he enjoyed the chase. There’s bigger ripple and a definite fullness. I can just picture the tip showing, the shape of the eye, a little open perhaps. What a success.

I get a text.

I know what you’re doing Sherlock. Very inventive but you’re playing with fire. MH

I text back.

Piss off. SH


I should wait, save this for when John isn’t home but I need to know he’s close for this to work, to better visualise. I offered to dry clean the kilt with my suits next time I take them and he gratefully accepted. It smells like him. Musky but fresh, earthy and warm like home. I touch the inside with my fingers; he looked wonderful for me today. I gave him a gift for him to enjoy, the chase. He loves the adrenaline, it brings him to life. Maybe I could give him another for Christmas or maybe a sword fight, I don’t think he’s faced one of those yet. He had his fun today, and I had mine.

I stand in front of my full length mirror nude but for the kilt. My extra six inches of height means that the hem finishes on my thigh giving it the appearance of a skirt more than a kilt. I test how it feels against me when I move, the cloth a little rough but not unpleasant against my skin and in this context a little titillating. Did John like the way it felt brushing against him? Soft at first then quickly as he ran? Did it excite him like the chase?

The hem of the kilt begins to ripple and lift as I become aroused. I watch myself but I don’t touch. My thighs become more exposed as the material lifts and bunches up, heavy on my gradually hardening penis. I stare only at the mirror, the kilt and what’s hidden beneath. I’m not watching myself because I’m about to watch John touching himself for me.

I focus. He begins slowly, there’s no rush because he wants this to be good for both of us. He gently drags his hands along the material covering his thighs, rubbing them, exposing more skin. He makes the material moving along his enlarged girth without having to touch directly, not knowing how the cloth will stimulate him next. He hums softly, enjoying the feeling. “Do you want to see me, Sherlock?” He asks. I do, he knows that’s all I want.

He runs those capable fingers up either thigh, lifting the kilt like a curtain on a stage where he’s the main event and I’m the only person in the audience. He lets out a soft sigh when some of the material slips forward and I know there will be a mark inside from his own arousal. I might lick it later to taste him, to taste the sound he made.

His hands are still moving and I’m so close to seeing him, full and erect when he bunches the tartan around himself in two fists, encasing and hiding from me. He wants to feel everything. He eases his hips forward and back to slide himself inside again and again until it becomes too rough, the material scratching his too sensitive head. “Feels good Sherlock, I’ve such a big cock, haven’t I.” Yes, oh yes. “I want to show you now.” Please, please, please.

Finally, thank god finally, he reveals himself to me, pushing the kilt so it’s clumped out of the way against his flat stomach. I moan in wonder. Standing tall with one hand wrapped around him but not moving, just holding. It’s John, I’m seeing John. Foreskin back like I hadn’t seen before, the secret it held inside uncovered, the velvety head ready for my observation and adoration.

He runs a finger along the top, from root to tip, over his slit and back down the underside. He shudders before repeating the action again. Such a long journey for his finger to take, maybe one day I’ll make that journey with my finger, my tongue, even the head of my own dripping hardness, painting him with my essence as I go. “Tell me Sherlock, what do you want me to do?” I tell him and he smiles, I like to make him happy.

With one hand holding his sack gently he moves the foreskin back over his head and rubs it back and forth repeatedly. I’d missed the moment when he began to peek through and now I can witness it over and over. Three fingers stroking over his fraenulum and his thumb rubbing over the thick ridge. The kilt that still covers his behind swings and brushes against the back of his thighs with the motion of his movements. “God Sherlock, this is driving me crazy, I want to go faster. I need more. My enormous cock needs more.”

Two hands and lube, I tell him, he’s so large he could easily thrust himself into two closed fists and he does. “Oh, so good, so tight, so slippery. Wish it was you, Sherlock. So snug.” Everything would feel tight for him. I’m moaning for him now, my mouth wet but my lips dry. I lick them and so does he, I love to see the tongue dart out of his mouth and run quickly over his lips. He’s moving in sync now, a wonderful rhythm as he stands, hips thrusting like he’s fucking and his hands moving, squeezing, twisting. The top one rolling and cupping the head, he’s almost ready. “I’m close Sherlock, you’re going to make me come and it’s going to be amazing.” I know I tell him.

He changes back to one hand, I tell him to take his pleasure, to tug on that colossal cock until he can take no more. He gathers some of the kilt and holds his balls in a tartan grip, pressing his fingers to the delightful spot behind them. It’s so much newness. “Oh, oh, Sherlock, please, so close, tell me when you want me to come.”

The sight is too gorgeous. His almost frenzied pulling and bucking, the sight of the kilt wrapped beneath and his hand disappearing between his legs. I can picture his tight hole and think about next time telling him to penetrate himself with his fingers to see if that makes him harder still. He’s under my control but he’s losing himself, his bottom lip almost bitten through trying not to make noise. “This is yours now Sherlock, only yours, please, let me come.”

Come for me, John. “Oh god, yes.” He husks, pushing harder behind his balls and with a few more thrusts and he’s spilling over the mirror, wet streaks sliding down the glass to be followed by more and more and more.

I stumble back on to the bed, the last remnants of my orgasm trickling down my fingers that still embrace my cock. I lay back and bask for a moment in my John-induced bliss, letting my heart rate wind down and my breathing return to normal. Eventually I clean up my messes with the tissues I’d prepared and climb into bed not quite ready to take off the kilt.


Fourth Attempt
Aim: Erection

John’s out. A 40th birthday party for someone at the surgery. I’m sat on the sofa lazily playing with myself. I haven’t bothered to undress; I just slipped down my trousers and pants leaving them pooled around my ankles the moment John left. He looked appealing tonight, smart trousers and a new black shirt, slightly better quality than the ones he usually buys. I put it out of my mind that he bought that shirt to impress the ever resistant Sarah and imagine he wore it so I’d look at him. All of him, not just the bulge in his trousers that looked just as inviting.

My lubricant is in my bedroom but I don’t want to ruin my flow by getting up and finding it. I didn’t used to bother but I prefer it now. I like to pretend I’m slick from John’s mouth or his come that I made him release all over me. I always picture him coming first; I want to watch his cock twitch and spurt, to know that I made him. My idle playing is quickly becoming more insistent. “John, John, god, you’re so good to me.” I fondle my own balls, something that has become a semi-regular feature after the kilt. It feels better than I expected, a little sensitive so I’m gentle, just lightly touching, lifting them a little, feeling their weight.

Seeing him again, even from that odd angle had only made me want more. He was engorged, not much, but enough to give me a new obsession. I had to see him fully erect. I’d not be lucky enough to see him naked and hard and spying on him masturbating would certainly terminate our living arrangements if he found out, it was too great a risk. I had to put him in a position where he couldn’t help but become aroused but the most likely option was a strip club or a club designed to cater to certain peccadilloes.

I’d have to settle to seeing him hard through clothing, hopefully loose ones or tight enough for me to see the outline. I could look at myself for reference regarding the detail of how he might look hard once I knew the length and width. Slightly darker, the foreskin pulled back completely to expose what must be the most stunning, rounded, fat head on any human with a wet slit at the very tip. I rock my hips, thrusting into my own hand. If John came home now I wouldn’t care, I’d want him to see what he’s reduced me to when there’s an experiment waiting for me in the fridge and I only care about him.

“Oh, John.” I’m getting there. I want to see him hard, harder than he’s ever been before. I want everything that goes with it, blown pupils, ragged breath, swollen lips and that look of sheer desire and need to touch and be touched. I move my hand from teasing my balls and bring them to my mouth, tasting that musk and pretending it’s John’s scent. Four fingers, I never tire of the illusion and doing it where we both sit only makes it better. His bed, I’ll use his bed next time.

I move faster, bucking and thrusting, not a care for how I must seem because I’m alone and I only care for coming. I imagine that John’s watching and it’s making him hard. He kneels on the sofa next to me and lets me watch the blood flow to his groin, oh the amount it must take. “John, oh god, John. So big." So hard, pressed against his stomach, so big he covers his belly button. So large, so hard, he’d stretch me, my mouth, my insides, my mind.

So gorgeous, so delicious, hard as a diamond and worth so much more. So hard, hard for me, big, hard. “Oh, oh... oh! John!”

My mind blissful once again and I find a moment of clarity for my cause. I have to discover exactly what turns him on whether he wants to be or not.


I clean myself up after a little moment to bask in the afterglow and open his laptop. John’s an organised person, tidy with little clutter unlike me. I smile to myself. A person who organises his socks will no doubt organise his pornography too.

Enter Password.

Damn. He’s changed it since I last snooped. Shouldn’t take more than ten minutes to guess the new one. He was susceptible to being swayed by topical events, a new favourite food, a case or a recently visited location. He’d long abandoned sentimental passwords or Afghan towns, far too easy.


Three hours and two nicotine patches later and John’s computer is still denying me entry. The wall has taken most of my aggression though the screen of the damned electronic abomination almost met its end several times.

“Damn you, John Watson! Show me your porn!” I pick up the computer to launch it across the room but instead I set it down and set off upstairs as a dash. He pushed me to this by choosing an infuriating password. I head to his room. It’s relatively old school to have pictures but if he was the type to masturbate to visual aids then his time in the army would have required a less technological solution.

“What’s your pleasure John?” I say aloud as I ransack his impossibly neat bedside table. I find nothing more than the usual and a book connected to a David Attenborough series on Mammals. “Surely... no. I would have picked up on that. Think. He’s straight, favours breasts more on shape and perkiness rather than size judging from his stolen glances and wanted to ‘get off’ with Sarah.” I search under the bed and find a box of photographs. From the pictures I could assume were old girlfriends he did prefer slim, healthy, fit looking women. They were all fairly unremarkable. “Is that your kink John? Dull women?”

He seems quite tactile in many of the photos, his arm slung around men as well as women. “Oh, yes.” I find a photo of him on holiday, some Spanish island by the looks of it, he’s wearing swimming shorts in a horrendously garish colour but he’s fresh out of the Mediterranean and the material is clinging. The water was obviously little cold but you’d only know that if you’d seen him before. His whole body is tanned, toned and his hair is sticking up at odd angles from where he’s ruffled it. The picture was taken before the Afghan war. He looks... untroubled. I steal the photograph, he won’t miss it.

“Swimming! I’ll take you swimming sometime! Except... that means I’d have to swim too. Damn. Maybe I’ll just push you in or trip you. Bit mean but you’ll dry. I’ll save that one for when I’m in desperate need, so it will be for a good reason.”

I set the box back under the bed and start on his drawers. “Sarah, slim, willowy but feminine. Spent her life meeting her parent’s expectations, lost her virginity at seventeen and found the whole experience disappointing and she’s stupid enough to keep you at arm’s length. She has a low sex drive yet you masturbate in the shower at least four to five times a week. At least when I’m in the house. You’re quiet but not by choice, I wish you were louder so I could hear you, I have to rely on a certain flush on your cheeks to tell if you’ve climaxed.” I finish searching through his drawers and begin on the wardrobe.

“But what do you think about John? Boring Sarah? Granted she got stuck in with the Tongs but she could hardly keep you amused when her parents are expecting marriage and grandchildren next.” Nothing in the wardrobe. “You seek the adrenaline rush, sex to you is passionate, energetic but intimate, you value it but you don’t have to be in love to do it.” The desk. “Have your lovers remarked on your size? Did they like it, did they want you to fill them or were they cautious, even fearful that you’d hurt them. I bet you have to be careful, of course you’re a considerate lover, it’s in your nature.”

I slam the desk drawer shut, probably moving the contents but I care not. I’ve found nothing, not a clue. “Fine. Trial and error it is.” I will not be defeated. I collect my laptop from my bedroom and begin a list of places that might excite John.


After two hours of constant research I have twelve places that meet my criteria of having pleasant to look at women, no kinks as yet, well kept premises and no associations with drug dealing or prostitution. John would prefer a classier establishment even if it cost more money but I’d be paying for the pleasure this time.

The front door clatters open, John is home.

“Sherlock?” Shouts an unfamiliar male voice. “Sherlock Holmes?”

I leave my work to find a greying man in his fifties propping a very inebriated John up against the wall. It’s apparent that John is a happy drunk from the smile on his face and the rather wistful look in his eye.

“Yes.” I eye up the man touching John. A doctor, obviously, little overweight, divorced... twice and looking for a third.

“I’m Richard, I work with John. He’s, um, got himself into a bit of a state.”

“I’m... no... I’m...” John shakes his head in protest before finishing. “Yes, I have. Quite.” He grins and giggles a little.

“Is it ok if I leave him here? The party’s still going on and I have a date.”

“Yes, and I see from the state of your shirt tails it was going quite well. I’ll take him from here.” I appease him with a smile and guide John into the living room and deposit him on the sofa. “You had fun then I take it?” I stand in front of him not quite sure what I should be doing next.

“She...” He put his fist over his mouth and belched something that smelt a little like vomit and whiskey. “She... Maria... said I was vanilla.”

“Well I can be raspberry, if you’d like.” He may well be a happy drunk but he wasn’t coherent in the slightest. Though he did seem sad about being called a vanilla pod or being flavoured like vanilla, I’m not quite sure. At least vanilla and raspberry complement each other.

“Raspberry!” He exclaimed and grabbed both my arms to steady himself from falling sideways. He head is eye level with my groin area. “Oh Sherlock, raspberry?” He looks up at me with these childlike, questioning eyes and says it again like it’s the most wondrous thing. “Raspberry.”

“I don’t think you’re capable of the stairs.”

“The other ones were... challenging.” He said with wide eyes before shaking the memory from his head.

“Quite. I’ll get your nice pyjamas and your duvet, you can sleep here.”

“I, um, might be sick. Not yet... but probably.” He belches into his fist again. “Definitely.”

I leave and collect everything I think he’ll require for the next eight to ten hours including some paracetamol and some Rennies to settle his stomach. By the time I’ve returned John is sitting in his boxer shorts on the sofa, his clothes in a pile on the coffee table. It looks as though there’s been a struggle.

“Vanilla.” He snorts. “I’m not vanilla.” He’s apparently talking to himself.

“You’re certainly not. You’re John.” I hand his pyjamas and get him a glass of water from the kitchen. I allow myself a small glance but he’s watching me like a hawk. A very happy, googly-eyed hawk. I enjoy seeing his top half exposed again, he has a bruise on his chest from an altercation earlier in the week but otherwise his body is mostly as I remember. It’s good to keep track of slight changes, even impermanent ones.

“I am, aren’t I? Yes, that’s very good. That’s fine indeed.” He squints to focus on my laptop which is open to a page showing two girls fondling each other on a pole. Tedious. “Sherlock...”


“You’re cheating on your work with girls. You like girls? Women? Like that?” He turned his head back to me but that action alone almost made him lose his balance. “Whoo, wobbly-bobbly.” He giggled.

“It’s research John not pleasure. Now, do you need help getting dressed for bed?” I hope he says yes. Please let him say yes.
“You wouldn’t look right in a strip club, you don’t need to pay.”

I sigh. He’s not cooperative at all. In John’s inebriated state, however, he might be more open to sharing information. “Do you frequent these places?”

“Don’t like ‘em.” He scoffed. I curse internally, I’ll need a new plan but that was a little too easy, I can do better than that. I’m more upset that tonight has been wasted. Apart from the self-pleasure, that’s never wasted when it’s about John. “I don’t want to pay to look or have them wiggle around and do what they do, all the bending over. I want someone who does that for me because they want to, because they like me. And!” He shouted like I was about to interrupt. “And I wanna touch too. I like giving as much as receiving, you know, making someone get all breathy and excited, making eye contact and knowing that you both want each other so badly.” He’s looking right at me, hazy but it’s enough to render me speechless. “I... I like that.”

“What... else do you like?”

“Mmm, tea. And chips from the chippy.” He says fondly. “Can you get me some now?”

I sigh again. “Waste of money considering you’ll be throwing up the whiskey you drank tonight in under an hour.”

“And the wine too, horrid stuff. You wouldn’t have liked tonight. Not that you’d go with me.”

“Let’s get you dressed.”

John nods and I crouch down, eye level with my obsession. I can smell just a hint of him, so distinctive. Damn him for wearing dark, loose underwear, I’ll steal those as punishment. He obliges and lifts one foot at a time, with a little assistance. I like to touch him when I can, this time, his firm calves. I slide his pyjamas up his legs as far as they will go and pull him up to standing by his arms. He braces his hands on my shoulders as I pull up his bottoms, discretely touching his thighs and hips as I go, so warm and firm like his calves, the fine hairs tickling the backs of my fingers.

“Thanks.” He says, adjusting the waist band which I was planning on doing myself. “You’re a good friend, Sherlock.”

A drunken declaration of friendship, I should have seen that coming. I say nothing and sit him back down. He put his arms up in the air for me, reminding me of the tent and his prone position, where this madness began. I slip his t-shirt over his head and lay out his pillow.

“Telly? Don’t want to sleep yet.” He yawns. It won’t be long before he nods off, maybe he won’t be sick until morning.

“Yes, that might be nice.”


John fell asleep on my shoulder after the first five minutes of the Italian Job remake so I laid him down and covered him with his duvet. I resisted the temptation to peek under the waist band but I did spend a good minute staring at him. Not just my favourite part but his face too, expressive even when he’s sleeping.

I wake at three am and check to see that he’s not unwell or fallen off the sofa. He’s spread eagled on his back, the duvet cast to the floor, one hand resting on his stomach above his... very erect manhood. Oh, it’s more special than I’d imagined. Obscenely tenting his pyjamas, in fact they’re holding him down, squashing him slightly and I hate them for that, I want to cut him free. He’s bigger than when he’s flaccid, extraordinarily so. I consider for a moment finding my tape measure but I can estimate almost as accurately.

I realise my jaw is hanging and my mouth is wet with saliva, I’d given myself quite an inappropriate Pavlovian response to the sight of John. He moves a little in his alcohol induced sleep so I scan his face for signs of distress in case he’s having a nightmare. He looks calm so I resume my observation.

This was too perfect, nothing could improve upon this. His hand moves a little lower and I hold my breath, he’s so close to touching himself that I think I might explode if he does. I could touch. No, I might wake him and he would be cross. I can’t touch, not like that, not without him saying yes. I touch myself instead, fully hard and already close, it wouldn’t take much stimulation to come. Yes, I could come right here, watching him.

I slip one hand inside and keep my other hand free to muffle any noise. I can’t risk getting caught. I keep out of his immediate eye-line in the doorway should he open his eyes giving me chance to slip away. John’s cock flexes upwards a little of its own accord. “Ngh.” Oh, that was almost enough and I’m hardly moving my hand, desperately trying to draw out this moment but I fear I will fail.

The cotton stretches over the back of his head and I realise I can see the sweeping curve either side of his fraenulum. Oh, it’s beautiful, I could just press a wet finger to that point and rub small circles; let my finger tip read the texture like a book. I do it to myself. “Mgh.” I tilt my head back and close my eyes for a second while I bite the back of my hand. It’s too much, seeing him like this.

I shuck my pyjamas down enough to free myself, just for a minute, I’ll have to pull them back before I come. I focus all my attention on my head, the part of John I can see most clearly, finding the perfect slick friction. I was there just hours earlier on the sofa where John slept touching making myself come and now he’s there, hard, god, so hard. I have to muffle another grunt; the fear of being caught isn’t enough to stop these traitorous noises and my tongue wanting to chant his name.

My imagination takes off again, I see myself straddling him, still frantically tugging at my erection in desperation to come all over him. Could I ever take him inside me? How much preparation, fingers, lubricant, toys and maybe even a tongue, how much would it take for me to sink down and feel him breach me. I think I might kiss him like that, make us a circle. John inside me, me inside John.

I pull my pyjamas clumsily back over me and awkwardly speed up. I lick the back of my hand that stopping my cries; I want it to be John, any part of him, his back, the inside of his thigh, his strong neck but most of all his gigantic cock. His sumptuous dick, his aching member, his monstrous organ, I’ll take it; I’ll take everything if only he wanted me.

If only I could- “Ohmmm!” I come suddenly, so hard I collapse and slide down the door frame, coming and coming and coming. I can’t see, I can’t... I can’t anything but come, shake and... fuck.

He moved his hand. He touched himself.



Two weeks. This insanity has been going on for two whole weeks. I stare at my reflection in the mirror and wonder how it got so bad. It’s been ever since that damn decontamination shower and everyone getting a good look at me trussed up like chicken with my veritable giblets hanging out. It was bad enough when I was playing rugby, worse in the army, now it’s my sort of work slash hobby. I’m not ‘John Watson, doctor’ or ‘John Watson, Sherlock’s friend and assistant’ or even ‘John Watson, handy in a fight’. No, I’m once again, ‘John Watson, huge cock’.
I guess that it could be worse; at least it’s literally and not figurative. But for all the people that noticed or heard the gossip, for all the comments about horses, donkeys and a tapir (that was new) and how they wished the doctor was in- them, I never expected Sherlock to be effected.

First it was the glances, I guess curiosity about the human anatomy, he might not have seen a... specimen... like myself before. I let it go. Sherlock’s not particularly good with boundaries. Ok, he’s terrible, but that’s the way he is and at that point he was only looking. A lot.

Then there was that damn cupboard.

As if it wasn’t bad enough being in an enclosed space with him, he then rests himself against me. I don’t know how he got himself in that position, the height difference should have meant I’d have a large amount of Sherlockian bottom against my stomach but no, I have that delectable arse pressed right up against my cock. Thank god that I have a vast array of gory images to replay in my mind because it took all my will power not to reach round and touch him there and then. Of course, Sherlock wouldn’t make anything simple, nooo, far too boring to just feel me up with your bum, you’ve got to move. Wriggle even!

Even the memory of that is turning me on and yes, I had a pretty amazing wank that night but it’s just Sherlock and he’s always got to know. There’s nothing private, there’s no flag in his brain that tells him he shouldn’t molest his flatmate no matter now unconsciously willing he might be. Sherlock wants data, he gets data.

And that’s exactly it, data collection. More information to file about his flatmate, nothing more and nothing less. I’m still not convinced that the kilt thing was genuine but Lestrade had confirmed that the case did exist. I tried to gauge his reaction to me taking my underwear off right in front of him but he remained composed, looking at me like a fungus sample. Still, I wouldn’t put it past Sherlock to kill two birds with one stone, change the experimental conditions. It’s all been rather ridiculous.

Now he’s attacking me.

I come home at exactly the time Sherlock should expect me. It’s been a nightmare of a day, with two children in the papers having died of meningitis I had an abundance of worried mothers to deal with and one actual case of meningitis which made the day extra tiring if worthwhile. After a long day you expect to come home, have a nice cup of tea, maybe a couple of biscuits if we’ve got any in, watch a bit of telly and unwind.

No. I come home to Sherlock pouncing on me in the living room in his (very thin) pyjamas, flipping me clear off my feet, crashing my now very painful elbow into the coffee table before straddling me. Apparently he thought I was an assassin and there had been an earlier attempt on his life that day. Of course there was! Nothing backs up a lie quite as well as the truth, but that didn’t stop him sitting on me while he explained, in detail, the events of the day and then told me mine. Of course, waving his hands around which made him move and rub me. I swear I could feel... parts of him... too.

I had to hold on to my anger or it would become mortifying. It took him five minutes before the fury on my face sank through that thick skull and he climbed off me and apologised. Sherlock Holmes, apologising to me for the second time in a week and a half for touching me up with his arse. Sherlock apologising full stop. It wasn’t right.

I was hoping that something else would come along and distract him but even cases aren’t stopping him. It’s been a long day so I lock the bathroom door behind me and have a shower. I try not to think about Sherlock on top of me but the shower is where I think about that striking madman the most. Despite being mad as hell and the pain throbbing in my elbow he still looked stunning. I love listening as he works through his thought process, picking up on things that the other seven billion people on this planet would miss, it’s amazing. I haven’t ever seen him do it from that angle before.

I can still feel him on me now and this time I don’t control myself or have to press my elbow into the floor to make it hurt enough to keep from getting hard. He moved side to side, up and down, even in a little circle once. Who does he think he’s dealing with, how can he think I won’t notice? He was practically dry humping me and god, if he’d just asked I would have let him. I try not to think about why he’s doing this, that there’s probably a notebook full of complied information. What was this experiment? Reaction to friction? Or perhaps my reaction to friction from Sherlock?

I take my hand to myself, fast and rough, I don’t want to take too long and Sherlock’s in the house so I have to be quiet. I tried putting the radio on once and it only led to Sherlock bursting through the lock to tell me something “urgent”. He’s infuriating, oblivious and the smartest man I’ve ever met. That face, I’ve never seen anything like it, long neck, everything so elegant and long. Fingers, such amazing fingers, maybe he’d want to touch me as part of his experiment.

“Mmm, yes, closer, yes.” I whisper into the wall wishing I could be louder. I brace myself against the tiles with my free hand, ignoring the twinge of pain, close my eyes and focus on what I’m feeling. My hand wrapped tight around me, the heavy warmth, the tightness in my balls, I want to come soon. Sherlock, shit why do I think of him? Unobtainable.

I could have stopped him moving again, my hands on his slim hips, forearms on his thighs. “Oh, god, oh god, come, please, need to...” I twist a little over the head with each rapid flick of my wrist, too well practiced. “Almost.” I need a little more. I rest my head against the tiles, holding myself up and slip my hand behind me knowing it’s guaranteed to make me come. I think of Sherlock as stupid as it is, I want to think of him. I circle my finger around my arsehole and as it flutters, I come. “God, oh god yes.” I keep my hand on me, making it last as long as I can. It’s nothing special but it’ll do.

I wash away the evidence streaking the tiles and carry on with my shower, hoping the flush on my body will soon disappear.


I try to sneak quietly from the shower to my bedroom but before I have chance to dress there’s a knock at the door.

“John.” Sherlock walks in without me having to say come in. He’s dressed but for shoes and socks. I roll my eyes and puff an irritated noise but to no obvious effect. I’ve only a medium sized white towel around my waist, nothing else. “Do you need an x-ray?”

“I’m fine, just a bruise.” A bloody painful one. I look to him and find he’s staring again. I guess after a hot shower I’m more pronounced and showing under my towel. I’ve got to say something; it’s already gone too far. “Sherlock. This has got to stop.”

“What has, John?” He’s looking me in the eye again like he was never looking in the first place.

“I’m not one of your experiments, I understand you’re curious but... you attacked me! It’s getting out of hand.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Are you quite sure you don’t have a concussion?” He studies me with his eyes, seeing whether his poor bluff landed. It didn’t.

“Sherlock, you know damn well what I’m talking about! You can’t just use me to satisfy your scientific curiosity. What is it that you want from me?”

“I should be leaving.” He turns to leave and I grab his arm through the expensive white fitted shirt. He’s not getting away that easily. “John, I should leave, I’ve obviously made you uncomfortable.”

“Yes, you have, what is it that you were trying to achieve, exactly?” I hold firm on his arm and back him against the wall. I know all too well that he can defend himself and escape if he chose but I’m ready for him.

“John, I don’t wish to explain. I’d like to leave now.” His blue-grey eyes are a little pleading but I can’t let him go, I need to know.

“Do you want to see me again, is that it? Write an article about me or something?”

“No. It’s not about that.” He’s looking off to the side somewhere but I make sure he can feel my eyes on him; it’s another thing he can’t escape from. “I’m well aware of certain facts, John.”

“I still don’t-” That’s when I see. He’s aroused. Something about seeing Sherlock like that takes my breath and my anger in one fell swoop. I think gotten this wrong. I hope I have. “I didn’t think you...”

“You have to change your theories upon discovering new data.” He responded briskly. “Now if you’d be so kind I’d like to leave, unless you wish to humiliate me some more?”

“I’m not humiliating you, Sherlock; at least that’s not my intention.” I’m getting hard myself which can’t go unnoticed for long. “Just from what you said before, I thought the last couple of weeks were some sort of academic exercise.”

“Yes, well, you were wrong. As usual.” Sherlock was scrabbling for some high ground which is difficult when you’ve got an unwanted erection.

“Sherlock, look at me.”

“I should text Lestrade, see if he’s got anything for me. I’ll get out of your hair.” He pulls away again but I’ve got him held tight.

“It’s Friday evening and, damnit, would you please look at me?” I can see him quickly mustering up his most withering glare. He finally looks at me only to have his eyes drop immediately down to my groin. Oh god, please don’t let this go horribly wrong, I don’t even know what he wants.

“Oh.” The words come out on a breath and straight between my legs. The towel is almost parting by itself and I’m not quite fully hard, the time spent in the shower is slowing things down. From his reaction I guessed right.

“Guess you have to change your theory too.” I manage to croak out. Should I ask what he wants now? Sex? A relationship? To observe, get off and then leave? Does he want me to bequeath my cock to him after my death so he can experiment on it? He’s still looking intently, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. He wants to touch, that much I know.

I take a risk, a huge risk, but god I’m hard now and I need some answers without having to say anything out loud. I keep my eyes on Sherlock’s face, he’s flushed and I can see him thinking behind those cool blue eyes. A thousand thoughts every millisecond.
It takes one small movement to untuck the towel and let it fall to the floor.

Sherlock almost gives way, leaning against the wall, eyes wide, mouth parted and almost smiling. His chest is rising and falling rapidly and mine is too. His reaction is enough to make me fully hard, desperately so. It bobs in front of him and he lets out a small grunt of satisfaction. I look down at his cock straining against his trousers and think about making a move but I’m frozen. This is insane, my brain can’t catch up.

“John.” He’s looking back at me. I’ve never seen him like this before, dark lustful eyes but worried, anxious even. He’s looking for permission. I’m still holding his arm so slowly I move down from his bicep, over his elbow and forearm until I’m holding the top of his hand in mine and guide it towards me. He shakes his head. “John, you have to say yes.”

“Yes, you can touch.” I release his hand and watch as he decides what he wants to do. I’m expecting him to take hold but Sherlock’s never that obvious. Instead he takes his index finger and buries it my pubes and slowly runs it from the bottom of my cock to the tip, then underneath and over my balls. I shuddered and lose my knees for a brief second. “God...Oh god.” Torturously unhurried and light, I’m already turned on enough to leave pre-come on his finger. He moves his hand away, why? Keep touching, please keep touching.

He inspects his own glossy finger before bringing it to his mouth and licking the tip clean in one graceful move.

“Oh, Christ Sherlock.” My brain short circuits, god if that’s not the most amazing thing I’ve seen in my life. He closes his eyes like it is the best thing he’d ever tasted.

He opens his eyes again and sees my astonished expression. “Not good?”

“Very... very good.” My voice is unrecognisable as my own.

“Can I touch you again? Please?” He has to clear his throat before adding a pleasantry. Seeing Sherlock this affected is maddening, he can do anything he could think up.

I don’t even hesitate before giving myself over to this undefined moment. “As much as you want.” What the hell am I thinking? Well, I want Sherlock to touch me, that’s pretty much the extent of it. Not exactly complicated.

“Would you mind lying on the bed?”

I can only nod dumbly and climb on the bed. He goes to follow me; I need to have us on level terms. “Will you undress too?”

“Is that what you want?”


I lie on the bed with my head on my pillow and watch as Sherlock tries to unbutton his shirt swiftly as he can. He’s fumbling because he’s watching me, not what he’s doing. A frazzled Sherlock is possibly the rarest sight in the world. His eyes are running over me from head to toe, I wish I knew what he was thinking.

His shirt joins my damp towel on the floor. I’ve had fleeting glances of his chest before but now I can openly admire. Not an ounce of fat, just lean muscle and surprising strength for such a slim torso. His trousers come down and I know I’ve just licked my lips without thinking when he reaches for the top of his boxer shorts. He quirks a wry grin having spotted me, before pulling them down and joining me on the bed. It’s enough time to see him, long and very aroused. It’s fittingly elegant.

“Can I touch now?”

I nod again as he quickly moves between my legs. I feel even more exposed with my legs spread but I can see Sherlock with his rigid, shining cock pointing upwards against his own belly and I’m too turned on to care.

He spends what feels like an eternity just looking. I can’t stop the occasional twitch and I’m still so hard even though he’s not touched me since that first time. He comes close enough that I can feel his warm breath ghosting across me. I twitch upwards, seeking some kind of contact. God, is he doing this on purpose?

His eyes are working furiously but he’s still not touching me. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

He looks up at me quizzically before softening again, the corners of his mouth turning up so slightly you might miss it. “That you have possibly the most glorious member I’ve ever laid my eyes on.” He said completely without embarrassment and with total conviction. I swallow hard. “Its proportions are exquisite, John.” He wraps a hand around my base and his other right above and it throws my breath out of my lungs.

“Oh god.” I close my eyes and give into to feeling enveloped and hearing his voice say things I never imagined.

“Every line, the curves, the overall shape of you. You’re just as stunning to observe soft as you are hard though I’m enjoying this very much. You’re so hard, John. Look.” I obey and see how he’s positioned his fist so head of my cock rests on the circle of his index finger and thumb. He can’t cover my entire shaft with both fists; I think he likes that more. His hands are so pale against the darker skin of my cock.

“Yes, um, very, in fact.”

He groans and I see his untouched cock covered in precome. I can’t touch from here. Sherlock wants to do it like this so I’ll let him. I’ll touch him later. “My fingers wrap perfectly around you like I knew they would, like I imagined when I’d stroke myself for you.”

“You... oh god.” Sherlock getting off thinking about me? About my cock? Shit, Jesus, fuck, Christ. I think about telling him I’ve thought about him too but he’s talking again and squeezing me.

“It was one of my first thoughts; I didn’t think I’d ever find out. Well, not without one of us moving out directly after.” He smiles coyly and I almost laugh at the joke but he’s doing something else. “So gorgeous.”

He releases me but not completely, now he’s just using his fingers to run up and down where his hands covered me. “I’ve been able to do little else but think about you. It’s been quite infuriating really but I wouldn’t change having seen you that day. It was a revelation. You remember which day, John?”

“The tent, the ricin.” I manage to say.

“Yes.” He traces each vein and the more hidden ones that you can only see the colour of with his fingers making sure never to break contact, holding me, stroking me. His touches aren’t just for my benefit, he’s mapping me, memorising me. Every bump and freckle. “I wanted to draw you, I still do. Charcoal would be perfect or maybe pencil so I could capture every detail.” Well... oh god. “I want to draw you soft and when you’re hard like you are now. So very hard.”

“Ok.” I barely register my own words, just the delightful erotic touches, I’ve never been touched like this before, I feel his eyes on me as much as his exploring hands.

“Ok? You’d let me?” He lifts a questioning eyebrow which makes me warm inside. He’s still Sherlock even in this completely new situation.

“I think I’d pretty much let you’d do anything right now.”

He smiles and it’s the most beautiful sight. He dips his head down and licks. Licks. Oh god, I let out a loud groan and arch up towards that mouth. It delights the open mouthed and equally moaning Sherlock. God, vibrations. “S-s-so good.” I say, in case he thinks about stopping. He can never stop.

His hands haven’t left, still trailing up and down my cock, caressing and palming. I need more contact. I lace my fingers into his dark curls, softer than they already look; it’s such an intimate touch. He hums happily so I just feel and enjoy.

“You feel like satin.” I hear him whisper and feel his words cool where he’s been but he’s licking again.

His tongue, twisting and laving the edge of my head. I try to keep my eyes open, I have to watch that fucking agile tongue but they close when he presses it flat against that sweet spot and does this circular feeling... god, I can’t think... “Sherlock, Christ, oh fuck.” His tongue flicks up and... “Sherlock, Sherlock.” Hands, tongue, Sherlock, oh fuck I’m getting close already.

“Your taste John, it’s you.” He spoke with awe, out of breath, pick cheeked, so amazing. I still have my hand in his hair as he hovers over me. “There’s nothing to compare it to, nothing else like it. It’s better licking it off your cock than my finger. Purer.” Any time, lick me, taste me, anything.

“Sherlock.” I’m know I’m pleading. God if I hadn’t had that wank before now it would have been over the second his tongue touched me. I don’t even know what I’m asking for, I just want more. I’m moaning and panting, trying not to writhe on the bed. Sherlock’s fidgeting too, his dick neglected.

“Do you want me to touch you too? Move round.”

“No, I want it like this. You first, I have to see.”

“Ok, later then, I want to.”

He kisses my tip as an acknowledgement and I lose my breath again. More kisses all over the head, little licks and I’m making more noise now, it’s a wonderful torment.

“You’re harder than before aren’t you?” He effortlessly pulls my foreskin over and slides it up and down, slow, too slow to come but god... so fucking good. I can’t answer. “Beautiful, perfect.” He kisses my hips either side, breathing in deeply. “Mmm, John.” He nuzzles me licks and mouths up the length of me, his free hand now exploring further afield while he strokes me slowly. My stomach, hips, legs. “Every day, John, everyday I’ve thought about you, wanted to see you, learn everything there is to know.”

“Yeah, god, um,” My mouth is so dry from my heavy breathing I can barely speak. He’s still nuzzling, his hands everywhere. They both slide up the insides of my thighs and to the underside of my arse that shows in this position, tracing the crease from the bottom up to behind my balls, massaging, fondling. “God...”

“This won’t be enough for me; I’ll need this again and again. Can you give that to me?”

“Yes, yes, please, I’m so close Sherlock.” I stroke his hair back so I can see his face. God, amazing.

“I want to see you get hard next time. Maybe in my mouth.”

“Oh fuck, Sherlock. Yes, yes, fine.” He’s moving faster now. “Little tighter, god, yes, that’s it.” My free hand grabs his shoulder; I need to be touching more of him.

“You can be loud for me John, I know you try to be quiet, I want to hear you. I need to hear you just as you are.”

“You know...? Don’t care, yes, so close.” His mouth comes down over me, suckling the tip and I thrust up involuntarily and cry out. Loud. I couldn’t help it. He’s taking me in, filling his mouth, opening as wide as he can until the whole of my head inside. “Oh Christ, oh fuck.” I see that pink mouth, those lips like I’ve never seen before stretched as far as they can around me. Most people don’t even try and god, Sherlock’s humming and moaning, his tongue rubbing that sweet spot. Fuck, I’m going... “Sherlock, I’m...”

He pulls away gently and jerks his hand fast for me. “I want to watch John, come, please, I’ve waited so long.”

“God, oh god, yes.” My knees draw up a little and I’m coming, oh fuck, coming so hard. Huge great spasms and waves, hot splashes all over me. “Sherlock, oh god.” Tight, hot, amazing, Sherlock, fuck, so fucking, coming, oh... fuck. Sherlock.

I don’t remember closing my eyes but I have to open them to see Sherlock, his hands covered in my come, one pulling furiously at his own cock and another in his mouth sucking. Four fingers.

“Oh fucking hell.”

He looks at me and comes with a beautiful cry of my name, leaning forward so I’m covered in Sherlock. “So amazing, god, you’re brilliant.” I don’t know if he can hear me, his eyes half closed, his body trying to curl in on itself with the power of its orgasm. I feel him coat me, hot on my own cooling fluid. He’s watching everything.

He sits back on his knees panting and I can’t bear to have him so far away. I grab a sticky hand and pull him so he lies next to me. Spent, beautiful, sleepy eyed and... mine? I lean across and kiss him before he’s caught his breath, just a gentle press to his slightly swollen lips. I lick my lips, he tastes of me.

“John.” He says my name, not as a question, not as anything really.

“That was pretty amazing. Fucking spectacular actually.”

“It was.” I kiss him again, this time teasing at his lips which part for me, his tongue finds my mouth and I let him explore while I do my own, lazily and glowing. “Your mouth tastes just as good as you do. Different, very different, but like you.”

“Thank you. You taste good too.” I kiss his temple and lick a little to taste his skin. “Scrumptious.” He smiles and looks the most content I’ve ever seen him, even after solving a case.

“I... I meant what I said; I don’t think I can live with this happening once. There’s so much I want, so much I need. Namely you. Completely.”

“So... a relationship then?”

“I think I’d enjoy that actually.” He sounds surprised, like the thought hadn’t occurred to him before now.

“There has to be a next time, I haven’t actually touched you yet, not all the places I want to anyway.”

“Yes, well I was rather in need at that point and I didn’t want to bother you. Or wait. Next time then.”

“You’ll be the death of me, Sherlock.” I kiss his forehead and damp curls.

“I do hope not, we’ve only just begun. I’ve had little over a fortnight to come up with ideas; it may very well take years.”

“Well considering I’ve been thinking about you ever since the pool we might have a lifetime of things to try. You won’t have a chance to get bored.” We kiss again but when I get the urge to hug him tight I realise the state I’m in. “Can you pass me the towel Sherlock?”

“Yes, you are rather a mess.”

“Whose fault was that?”

“Yours. You do have an exceptionally lovely cock.”