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distraction
He could take this.
His right eye twitched and he slapped it with enough force to smack the lid into his eyeball.
He could bloody well take this.
He'd invaded Afghanistan, for God's sake. He'd tended to the wounded. Blood fucking everywhere. That's right.
He'd been shot at. Got shot, even.
He could take this.
He smacked his other eye to prove a point, but instead of leaving him with satisfaction, all he got was blurry vision.
Okay, so Sherlock had been working for four months. So what he hadn't gotten any attention in that entirely too long span of time. So what Sherlock had been passing out frequently. Preferably in his bed. So what he hadn't had a decent shag in far too long. Far too long.
In fact, who cared his penis could burst? Not Sherlock.
Oh no.
Even though he should know this was entirely possible.
He should know.
Well, it wasn't. At least not from continuous neglect. But, you know, sometimes, when John Watson is determined, it's better to roll with it.
So it should be possible. Not that he wanted Johnny to go exploding on him, but it would sure help him to prove a point. And his dangling bits sure felt like shattering into a fountain of tiny, fleshy sparks whenever Sherlock walked out of the shower looking for a towel and John had to yell he'd get the carpet wet in order to distract himself.
He imagined the sandy remains of his genitals falling out of the legs of his lovely jeans whenever he practised his swagger.
Thinking on this, John had had to distract himself by looking at the rotting corpse on the pavement when Sherlock twirled as if he was bloody fucking participating in a Russian production of the Swan Lake; had to distract himself by thinking of a warped version of his mother doing the nasty with a troll-like version of his dad (but, to be honest, at least he was getting some,) whenever Sherlock spoke.
Even now, as Sherlock lay stretched out over the couch, his long legs dangling over the edge like a misshapen rag doll and his eyes looking over his case notes through long eyelashes, cheeks slightly flushed from the lack of sleep, he had to think of an imagined version of Sarah's vagoo to get rid of the very comfortable, very, very uncomfortable feeling in his underbelly.
John was a simple man, you see.
One bad-ass motherfucker, but still just a man owning a few skills the average human did not.
A man who simply needed a cuppa a day and, if the possibility arose, just a bit of lovin'. That was all. And if John didn't get at least one of these, John was not a happy man.
Sadly for Sherlock, - or luckily, depending on how you look at it. Not very lucky for the man who was waiting for his brother's murder to be solved, I'm sure – John was a) very unhappy to have discovered deep-fried lungs in the teapot while he didn't even know they owned a frying pan, and b) sick of using his left hand all the time. So was his left hand, just to be clear on that. So when Sherlock sighed and flipped a page, John's fingers actually cramped up at the prospect and this was well enough. He stepped up to his yawning dollface and damn well made it crystal clear he needed some sweet, sweet seeing-to, preferably involving as much skinny nakedness as possible, by simply pressing his erection against Sherlock's ear. Which was classy in its own way, thankyouverymuch.
Sherlock looked up, slightly bewildered, possibly at John still being there, possibly because it was slightly more dark outside than when he started staring at the writing in his hands, and slowly looked up.
"Not that I mind the view, John, and really,-" he looked at John's flies. "You appear to not either, but what am I to do with this?"
John licked his lips and thought about it, the front of his jeans rubbing against his love's cheeks as he swayed slightly.
And Sherlock thought John took an awfully long time saying nothing and took it to himself to start humming row, row, row your boat while shoving his fancy cheekbones into John's adorably pouty stomach (but he was 'still bloody fit, he'll have you know.')
John thought and thought and thought some more, and seemed to be content with this for as long as it took for Sherlock to reach merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily.
It was not until he caught himself trying to focus on a suspicious stain on the ceiling that he huffed a laugh and grabbed his oversized, walking, talking, living doll by the hair and slightly pulled.
This was Friday evening. It was no time to be looking at ceiling stains caused by any variety of bodily fluids or anxiously looking at photographs of a suspicious death, waiting for them to speak, or a detailed report on the lacerations on his face, or any seemingly dull activity, basically, because really, as much as Sherlock liked his work, with his actual love not two feet away, it was not at all that hard to get distracted.

Description

distraction
He could take this.
His right eye twitched and he slapped it with enough force to smack the lid into his eyeball.
He could bloody well take this.
He'd invaded Afghanistan, for God's sake. He'd tended to the wounded. Blood fucking everywhere. That's right.
He'd been shot at. Got shot, even.
He could take this.
He smacked his other eye to prove a point, but instead of leaving him with satisfaction, all he got was blurry vision.
Okay, so Sherlock had been working for four months. So what he hadn't gotten any attention in that entirely too long span of time. So what Sherlock had been passing out frequently. Preferably in his bed. So what he hadn't had a decent shag in far too long. Far too long.
In fact, who cared his penis could burst? Not Sherlock.
Oh no.
Even though he should know this was entirely possible.
He should know.
Well, it wasn't. At least not from continuous neglect. But, you know, sometimes, when John Watson is determined, it's better to roll with it.
So it should be possible. Not that he wanted Johnny to go exploding on him, but it would sure help him to prove a point. And his dangling bits sure felt like shattering into a fountain of tiny, fleshy sparks whenever Sherlock walked out of the shower looking for a towel and John had to yell he'd get the carpet wet in order to distract himself.
He imagined the sandy remains of his genitals falling out of the legs of his lovely jeans whenever he practised his swagger.
Thinking on this, John had had to distract himself by looking at the rotting corpse on the pavement when Sherlock twirled as if he was bloody fucking participating in a Russian production of the Swan Lake; had to distract himself by thinking of a warped version of his mother doing the nasty with a troll-like version of his dad (but, to be honest, at least he was getting some,) whenever Sherlock spoke.
Even now, as Sherlock lay stretched out over the couch, his long legs dangling over the edge like a misshapen rag doll and his eyes looking over his case notes through long eyelashes, cheeks slightly flushed from the lack of sleep, he had to think of an imagined version of Sarah's vagoo to get rid of the very comfortable, very, very uncomfortable feeling in his underbelly.
John was a simple man, you see.
One bad-ass motherfucker, but still just a man owning a few skills the average human did not.
A man who simply needed a cuppa a day and, if the possibility arose, just a bit of lovin'. That was all. And if John didn't get at least one of these, John was not a happy man.
Sadly for Sherlock, - or luckily, depending on how you look at it. Not very lucky for the man who was waiting for his brother's murder to be solved, I'm sure – John was a) very unhappy to have discovered deep-fried lungs in the teapot while he didn't even know they owned a frying pan, and b) sick of using his left hand all the time. So was his left hand, just to be clear on that. So when Sherlock sighed and flipped a page, John's fingers actually cramped up at the prospect and this was well enough. He stepped up to his yawning dollface and damn well made it crystal clear he needed some sweet, sweet seeing-to, preferably involving as much skinny nakedness as possible, by simply pressing his erection against Sherlock's ear. Which was classy in its own way, thankyouverymuch.
Sherlock looked up, slightly bewildered, possibly at John still being there, possibly because it was slightly more dark outside than when he started staring at the writing in his hands, and slowly looked up.
"Not that I mind the view, John, and really,-" he looked at John's flies. "You appear to not either, but what am I to do with this?"
John licked his lips and thought about it, the front of his jeans rubbing against his love's cheeks as he swayed slightly.
And Sherlock thought John took an awfully long time saying nothing and took it to himself to start humming row, row, row your boat while shoving his fancy cheekbones into John's adorably pouty stomach (but he was 'still bloody fit, he'll have you know.')
John thought and thought and thought some more, and seemed to be content with this for as long as it took for Sherlock to reach merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily.
It was not until he caught himself trying to focus on a suspicious stain on the ceiling that he huffed a laugh and grabbed his oversized, walking, talking, living doll by the hair and slightly pulled.
This was Friday evening. It was no time to be looking at ceiling stains caused by any variety of bodily fluids or anxiously looking at photographs of a suspicious death, waiting for them to speak, or a detailed report on the lacerations on his face, or any seemingly dull activity, basically, because really, as much as Sherlock liked his work, with his actual love not two feet away, it was not at all that hard to get distracted.