John held the fridge door open and subconsciously clenched his free hand into a tight fist. So tight, that even his blunt nails were able to pinch at his skin.

"Honestly Sherlock," John grumbled to himself "How do manage to use the last of it every single time!?" He was so desperate that he even moved the severed hand to check there wasn't some tiny carton he had missed. Resigning to the sad truth he trudged out of the kitchen and flopped down onto his favourite armchair. His thoughts lingering on the poor teabag sitting completely dry in his mug. It was almost as dramatic as Sherlock's entrances into their shared flat. 'I refuse to get the bloody milk this time' He nodded and huffed out a breath, reassuring himself that he could in fact do that.

Why is the milk gone again?

JW

I required it.

SH

For what!? You don't even take milk in your coffee!

JW

Tying up loose ends on the last case.

SH

John stared at his phone in disbelief. He had no idea how milk could of possibly had anything to do with their last case.

The store is only a 5 minute walk

JW

Shouldn't take you long to get yourself there then.

SH

SHERLOCK!

JW

John waited 5 minutes before giving up on a reply from his ridiculous friend.

His Friend. The word sounded bitter in his mind and even worse when he said it out loud. He tried not to think of Sherlock as more than that. Denied those insistent folk, like Mrs Hudson who constantly referred to them as a couple. He supressed any feelings of that nature, thank you very much.

There are times however, John admits begrudgingly to himself that he feels it. When they're on a case with danger waiting at every turn. When they run through London streets, hearts pounding and breathless. It's not just a spark or a flutter in his stomach but like his whole body is alight. Burning for Sherlock. The man who saved his life, solves crimes and uses all the bloody milk.

Somewhere in between thinking about how much of a lazy sod his roommate is and how utterly attractive he is, John starts to palm his half hard cock. It's only half past 4 or there about which gives him roughly twenty minutes before Sherlock is due to arrive home. Risky but with his cock straining against his pants he can't help but take it. A small sigh escapes his lips as he wraps his calloused hand around himself. He can't help but imagine Sherlock's slender fingers instead of his own, pumping him till he begs for release.

Lost in said fantasy, John doesn't hear the taxi pulling up, the creak of the door opening or the footsteps climbing the stairs and approaching him. It isn't until that all too familiar baritone voice inquired from behind him, "You didn't buy any milk then?" that he stopped mid-stroke, red faced and wide eyed. John didn't move. He couldn't. In his defence Sherlock hadn't moved either. Once John's mind had realised that his hand was still wrapped around his cock he went to pull away, to button up his pants and to apologies profusely. This plan however, was completely forgotten when Sherlock told him "Don't stop," John was shocked by how rough Sherlock's voice had suddenly become "Please".

With shaky hands John took his hardened member and began to stroke himself again. The warmth coiled in his belly and he panted heavily. He was so close that all it took was Sherlock's voice growling "cum for me John." for him to lose control.

Thank you for reading! I'm thinking of leaving it as a one shot but I will happily write some more if people are interested. Reviews are always appreciated and gives me motivation to write more and better ! (: