John was used to seeing Sherlock doing strange things in the living room, but he wasn't prepared come home after a long day at the surgery to find his flatmate blindfolded and tied hand and foot to the sofa. John dropped his coat in the doorway, thought better of it, slammed the door, then dropped his coat, and ran to check on his friend.

"Sherlock, are you all right?" He knelt and reached to ease off the blindfold.

"Don't touch it, John," Sherlock commanded irritably. "You'll ruin the experiment."

John eased back on his heels. "Experiment?" He sighed. "All right then, as long as it's voluntary. At least you're clothed."

Sherlock shrugged, as well as he could with his hands tied together and pulled awkwardly over the arm of the sofa above his head. "I considered trying it nude, but I didn't want to scandalize Mrs. Hudson if she happened to come check on me."

"You don't think the blindfold and the ropes might have given her pause?"

"Nonsense. She's seen much worse."

That was probably true. "Doesn't mean she wouldn't worry about you. Hell, I worry about you, despite my best efforts to the contrary. How exactly does tying yourself to the sofa count as an experiment?"

Sherlock gave an exasperated sigh. "It's for a case, obviously."

"Oh, obviously."

"Since you're here, though, would you mind giving me a hand? The accountant in the case was found nude, and I can't get my clothes off while I'm like this."

John didn't bother to suppress his eye roll - Sherlock was probably monitoring his footsteps and the sound of his breathing and whether John had developed a slight cold since the day before, but with the blindfold Sherlock could have no way to sense that particular little rebellion. "If you wanted me to untie you, you should have just asked."

"No!" Sherlock shifted his weight on the sofa. "Just - the scissors are on the kitchen table. Cut my clothes off - I can always buy new ones."

"Sherlock, I am not cutting your clothes off like some damn performance art piece. That's outside the job description of both 'flatmate' and 'friend.' Very, very far outside."

"Please, John?" Sherlock turned his head unerringly toward John, despite the blindfold. "It's for a case!"

John cursed himself, his inability to tell Sherlock no, and his damn predictable penchant for getting in over his head, but he went and got the scissors. Then double-checked that he had locked the door to the flat, just in case.

"You sure you want me to do this?" he asked as he knelt once again next to the sofa.

"Quite sure, thank you." Sherlock sounded smug.

John sighed and started cutting. It's not like he hadn't done this before, on the battlefield, but it was . . . different with Sherlock. The man wasn't bleeding, for one, and for another he was trussed up like a deer on a spit and blindfolded to boot. Not that John had ever envisioned this exact scenario - it was hard to envision Sherlock this helpless even under the best of circumstances - but the sight did send some warm signals to John's groin which he would have preferred not to deal with.

"What's the case?" he asked, desperate to find a non-sexual topic of conversation.

"Forty-seven-year-old accountant found dead in his living room, blindfolded and nude, tied to his sofa. Lived alone, no evidence of anyone else having been in his flat. Mycroft believes he might have been in possession of paper copies of some rather important files, but of course the files aren't there now so it's unclear whether the files never existed to begin with or whether someone was there with him." Sherlock shifted sharply as John's scissors traced down over his hips, neatly slicing off his trousers and boxers.

"And you had to replicate his death?"

"He - mmmgh, careful with those! - he had obviously just recently ejaculated before his demise. I'm attempting to ascertain whether it's possible he brought himself to climax alone, despite not being able to touch himself. I obviously succeeded in tying myself up adequately, so at least so far, it's possible everything was self-induced and he died of cardiac arrest like the coroner believes. But I'm doubtful he could do everything just by thinking."

John tugged the ruined clothing out from under his friend. "And of course, the idea of a purely mental exercise outweighed your aversions to anything so banal as sex." He put the scissors down on the end table and went to toss the useless clothes in the kitchen trash.

Sherlock's sound of disapproval was clearly audible, even with John's back turned. "Don't be daft, John," he called after him. "I have no issues with sex - I quite enjoy it, really. There's just always something more interesting to do."

"You're not doing it right, then," John muttered. Mostly to himself, but of course Sherlock heard him.

"That's entirely possible," he admitted. "I haven't had a lot of practice recently."

"I know, I know, married to your work. No time to meet nice impressionable young women."

"Not looking for women, John. Now if you don't mind, I need half an hour or so alone - I'll yell if I need you."

John opened his mouth to comment, closed it again, and finally opted to grab the afternoon paper and disappear up to his room. Surely Sherlock wasn't admitting to being gay - and John didn't want to hear about it even if he was. Too close to home. Maybe there was something interesting Sherlock hadn't already memorized in the paper.

He made it twenty-five minutes before he finally had to admit he hadn't read a damn word of the newspaper. All he could see was Sherlock, tied nude to the sofa, his half-hearted erection twitching faintly . . .

Damn it. John put down the paper and headed back down the stairs. Surely Sherlock would be done by now -

But he wasn't, as John found out when he came back in sight of the sofa. Sherlock was straining against the ropes, flushed and now very, very erect, but he obviously hadn't met with any success yet.

No point in pretending Sherlock hadn't heard his footsteps on the stairs, though. John took a step further into the room. "Any luck, Sherlock?"

The detective groaned darkly. "Does it look like I've had any luck, damn it? I can get this far without any problem, but no matter what I play out in my head, I don't seem to be able to manage any physiological reaction. I've been concentrating so hard-" He sucked in a deep breath. "Has it been half an hour yet?"

"Twenty-five minutes. Close enough."

"When I say half an hour, I bloody well mean half an hour," Sherlock snapped. Or would have, if he weren't still straining and panting in an entirely un-Sherlock-like way. It came out more plaintive than anything. John wondered just when the last time the man had denied himself something was - Sherlock had an irritating habit (one among many) of just taking what he wanted without thought for the consequences. In this case, though, he couldn't reach his goal, and the deprivation had to have been killing him.

John knew what he should be doing. He should be stomping back upstairs for another five minutes or so, then coming back out and insisting on cutting Sherlock loose whether he wanted it or not. Instead, he just leaned against the door frame and looked his fill.

Sherlock naked was an impressive sight, he had to admit. The man had almost no body fat whatsoever. His muscles, however, fit his personality - all or nothing. The muscle groups Sherlock found useful for his career as a consulting detective - in his thighs, his forearms, his lean stomach - those were all well-defined and clearly targeted for exercise. Nothing was for vanity, though, no over-built biceps or pectorals or anything that would detract one extra ounce from Sherlock being an optimized criminal-capturing machine. His skin was an unhealthy shade of white, evidence of his indifference to proper nutrition and sunlight when he was in one of his moods, but John found he rather liked the contrast of the dark hair against the pale skin. Just enough chest hair to be interesting, without obscuring that fascinating physique.

"You're still watching me," Sherlock commented. John opened his mouth to deny it, but then Sherlock moaned softly and suddenly John couldn't speak. Sherlock stretched, his body rippling across the sofa, making John's mouth go dry. John turned to go back upstairs -

"No - stay." Sherlock moaned again, rubbing his shoulders restlessly against the nap of the fabric below him. "It's helping."

Obviously. John couldn't tear his eyes away from where Sherlock's erection was proudly standing away from his body, but - "I'm helping?"

"I can hear your breathing getting faster," Sherlock half-whispered. "I like knowing that you're enjoying this. I've known you were gay for ages, of course-"

John sputtered. "I'm not-"

"Bi, then. Whatever. Labels don't matter. I don't use a label for myself, either. But there's a rather large part of me that wants you to touch me, and that's the part that's kicking in right now with you watching me and wanting to touch me just as much as I want you."

John had to swallow down a rather large lump in his throat before he could speak again. "I thought you wanted to do this without any touching?"

"I do. But I want to think about wanting to be touched, which isn't the same at all. Please, John, stay. Keep thinking about what you'd do to me if only you weren't intimidated."

Am not. John knew he was being baited, but for once, he didn't feel like Sherlock had the upper hand. His embarrassment and his drive to one-up Sherlock warred, and his libido won by a surprisingly large margin, considering he hadn't thought it was really part of the tug-of-war in the first place. It helped that Sherlock was still blindfolded, couldn't pierce him with those savage eyes -

"You're going about it all wrong, you know," John said in an unaffected tone. Reasonably unaffected, anyway. He slid into the armchair, consciously drawing a bit closer to Sherlock but still keeping his distance. "What are you fantasizing about?"

Sherlock's eyebrows drew together. "Masturbating, what else?"

"See, that's not going to do it. You'll never trick yourself into an orgasm if you just think about something you could have been doing anyway."

Sherlock looked peeved. "What alternative is there?"

John sighed and closed his eyes. "If we continue this conversation, Sherlock, it's going to change some things. You realize that, don't you?"

"Things were ready to change."

"I don't want to ruin a friendship-"

"Damn the friendship, John. We're still going to be friends. But right now I'm a friend who is in desperate need of a shag, which I'm still not getting, and you're dangling an answer in front of me and then refusing to tell me what the solution is. What should I be thinking about, if not getting off?"

Hell. John pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed again - but what more invitation could he ask for? Sherlock was literally tied up and begging -

"You want me to walk you through it?" he asked.

Sherlock licked his lips. "Please."

John felt his own arousal grow at that tiny flash of tongue. And that little blip was enough to strip away the rest of his resistance. He reached down to palm himself idly. "Okay then, but don't say I didn't warn you."

"Please," Sherlock repeated.

John leaned back in the chair, hand still gently caressing his own erection, and propped his feet up on the table. He was surprised to discover he didn't feel the need to plan out what he was going to say - it all came so easily . . .

"Don't think about your body's physical responses - just listen to my voice. You've got no choice - I tied you down to your own couch, blindfolded you, and now all you can do is listen."

"I tied myself down," Sherlock objected. "And the couch isn't mine as much as -"

"Hush. Tell your overgrown brain to shut up for five minutes and listen to me. No matter how it actually happened, you are restrained there because I want you to be. And you won't be getting untied until I say so."

"Mmmmmm."

"I'm keeping your blindfold on because I want you to concentrate on my voice. Just my voice, Sherlock. You can answer me, as I'm talking, but I won't tolerate interruptions. If you interrupt me, I'm going to untie you and take off the blindfold and go upstairs and leave you feeling aching and empty and frustrated. Do you want that?"

Sherlock's cock twitched. "No. Keep going."

"Don't order me," John shot back. "You've got no say in this. You're only here to react." He unzipped his pants, let his hand trace over his own cock, felt himself getting hard at the chance to utterly blow his friend's mind. He knew Sherlock was listening, had deduced what he was doing . . . "I'm taking my cock out now, Sherlock. You want to see it, don't you?"

Sherlock nodded mutely.

"You want to, but you can't. You can't take off the blindfold." John allowed himself an audible moan as he finally got himself free of his briefs and could touch himself properly. "Mmmmmm - I'm touching myself now, just gently running my fingers over my cock, letting it know what's coming next. You want me to touch you too, don't you? You want to be able to touch yourself."

Sherlock's mouth fell open as he sucked in a breath. "I do - I want you to touch me. Want to be touched -"

"So imagine it," John interrupted. "Imagine my hand closing over you, not enough to relieve anything yet, just enough to ratchet the tension up tighter. What does my face look like, as I watch myself touching you?"

"It's - tense. You're concentrating. Thinking hard."

Damn right I would be. "Yes - I'm watching myself stroking you, wondering what else I can do to torture you a bit before I come. I'm not doing it for you, I'm doing it for me - I'm stroking myself with my other hand, a bit faster, a bit tighter." He tightened his grip and suited the action to the words. "Still just feather-light touches against your skin, though. Never enough. Perhaps I let go and trace a line across your stomach instead."

He was gratified to see Sherlock's abs tense, see his breath lock. "Want you."

"Of course you do. But you can't have me, can only imagine . . . I keep my hand going, up over your chest, and I run my palm over your left nipple. My palm feels - how does it feel?"

"Warm. And . . . gentle."

"It is. For now, at least. It's gliding over you, massaging your pectorals. I'm teasing my fingertips through the hair on your chest, little light brushes against your skin. Can you feel it?"

Sherlock's head tilted back a bit farther, pressing into the sofa cushion. "I feel it. John, that's so odd - I feel it . . ."

"Watch it too, in your mind's eye. Watch my hand drift back down, massaging little circles into your skin as it goes lower. I'm splaying my hand out flat against your stomach - my fingertips almost span from one edge of your ribcage to the other, right at the bottom, you're so thin. And I'm dragging it lower, pressing down a bit - it's uncomfortable, isn't it, a little bit of discomfort but masked by how you're eager for me to come back to your cock . . ." John pressed his free hand against his own stomach and drew in a breath. "You want me to touch you, don't you, but I'm holding my hand there against your skin, just out of reach -"

Sherlock moaned and bucked his hips. "Want it . . ."

"So do I. You can read it on my face. You can read everything. What do you see?"

The detective let out a sharp pant and licked his lips again. "I see that sharp look you get in your eyes sometimes," he admitted, his voice needier than John had ever heard before. "You're proud of yourself, proud of making me want you."

"I am. I love having the great Sherlock Holmes at my mercy."

"Oh, God." Sherlock gulped, his adam's apple bobbing. "You're - you like seeing how I can't breathe properly. You know damn well that if I weren't tied down, this would all be over in less than a minute because I don't have the patience for this. And you want to be in control."

"Also true." John wondered how much Sherlock was fantasizing and how much he was truly reading John, even with a blindfold on, even halfway through some bizarre imaginary scenario. The man was terrifying sometimes. "I want this to be good for me, and for you, and so I keep my hand right there on your abdomen, just higher than you want it, and I give my cock a few more lazy pumps with my other hand just for good measure. I'm hard now too, Sherlock, but I've got better control over it than you do. I can get what I want, but you can't, because you're still tied down and forced to wait for whatever I decide to do next."

"Do it, John," Sherlock pleaded. "Whatever it is - do it -"

Damn. He was begging . . . and it was mind-blowingly erotic. "I stand and take off my trousers and briefs," John said, and suited the action to the words. Sherlock was clearly aroused by the whisper of fabric as it slid to the floor, the tip of his cock glistening now. "I've still got my shirt on. Well, half-on - I've unbuttoned it, but it's hanging loose on my shoulders. You can see my chest and my stomach and my cock and my thighs and they're all tense now, all waiting for you to touch me." John's eyes darted to where Sherlock's hands were grasping at thin air. "But you can't, can't touch me with your hands. How do you want to touch me, Sherlock?"

Sherlock's grunt was barely human. "Want you in my mouth. Want to taste you."

Now John was the one closing his eyes and trying not to pant. "Since you ask so nicely . . . Yes. You open your mouth for me, pleading, and I come up beside you so my hips are just next to your head. Close your lips over my cock and swallow. Yes, now. Do it."

Sherlock obediently closed his mouth and swallowed. He was nearly lost to the fantasy now, John could tell, and it was all John could do not to go over there and follow through. Still, the sight of Sherlock swallowing against his imaginary erection was enough to bring John to the brink. He had to tighten his grip around the base of his cock to keep himself from spilling too early and ruining it. He freely let Sherlock hear his moan, though, and Sherlock's whole body rippled in response.

"Keep at it, Sherlock. How do I taste?"

"Smooth. A bit salty."

"You love it, don't you?"

Sherlock shuddered. "Want you."

John pinched the base of his cock again, regaining some measure of control. "I know. Feel my hand - the one that's been weighing on your stomach this whole time - feel it suddenly swoop down lower and wrap around you. You can feel my warm fingers on your cock, and you want to thrust against me so badly -" - Sherlock's hips bucked again - " - but I'm moving my hand with you, keeping that delicious friction just out of your reach. My call, Sherlock, not yours."

"Fuck."

"Not right now. Right now I'm taking what I want, and what I want is that agile mouth. I want you pleading with me, begging me to finish you off, but you can't because my cock is jammed so far down your throat you can't even breathe unless I let you. And I'm flexing my hips in and out, gliding against that warmth, and you can tell I'm close. What do you see?"

"You're breathing hard." Sherlock's breathing got even heavier as he spoke. "You're flushed, your skin is warm against my cock and against my mouth. And your face -" He broke off and shivered. "Your eyes are closed, your head back, you're desperate. For me."

"That's right - only for you." John kept his hand on his cock, but deliberately stopped moving it, trying to hold on . . . "I'm straining, I want to come in your mouth, I want to see you taste me. I don't give a damn whether you want it or not. And you're trying so hard to wait for me, trying to let me go first, but then you feel my other hand come up and cover your balls and I'm pumping your cock and you can't help it, you come. Hard."

Sherlock gasped and his whole body shuddered as he came in great spurts. John let go of his deathgrip on his cock and jerked once, twice, and then he was coming too, a freight train of orgasm hitting him right in the chest and leaving him breathless and shaky in the armchair.

"Damn." Sherlock's voice was still a bit uneven. "I had no idea."

John let his head loll against the back of the chair. "Not entirely what your experiment required, I'll wager."

"No." Sherlock frowned. "But close. Clearly I just lacked experience in creating the proper fantasy. When I've dreamed about you, it was never quite so . . . informative."

John's mind froze at when I've dreamed about you. Slowly his wits were trickling back into place. "Sherlock -"

"Don't bother," Sherlock said dismissively. "We went over this already - you're not gay, I'm not gay, but we both want to shag each other's brains out at the earliest possible opportunity." He paused, then amended himself with a slight grin. "That won't be immediately, truth be told, but I'd be up for a more hands-on encounter after supper, perhaps. What's for supper, by the way?"

Should have known the annoying Sherlock would be back in force pretty quickly, John realized. "Don't you want me to untie you first? Before you start assuming I'll cook for you?"

Sherlock's puzzled look translated just fine, even with the blindfold covering part of his face. "But you always cook. Of course I assume. And yes, I think it's time to get off this infernal sofa - I've got a crick in my elbows now."

"You sure?" John couldn't help teasing. "I think the experiment was inconclusive."

"It was. The accountant may well have been alone, or not. But even the great Sherlock Holmes needs an adequate refractory period."

Typical. "I'm shocked there's room in that skull for both your oversized brains and your oversized ego."

Sherlock shrugged. "Ego doesn't take up physical space, obviously."

"Obviously. It was a joke, Sherlock."

"I know. But it's going to be even more crowded up there, now that I've got to devote more room in my brain to you."

John smiled and looked around for the scissors.