Aphrodesiac

John Watson wiped a streak of paint off his forearm and came downstairs.

"One room down, and one hall way, you planning on helping me with yours", he asked Sherlock, who at the moment was engrossed in his reading. "I've removed the door already and painted the far wall. We won't need to do the kitchen or lounge with the new wallpaper"

"Bloody hell, I thought she was dead" murmured John as he looked down to the road under their font window. The snow outside was mounting heavily and it was, in his opinion, impossible for travel.

What is she doing here he thought. Not several minutes later did he hear her footsteps in the stairwell and into the room walked Irene Adler. The hairs on the back of John's neck bristled as he turned to see Sherlock lift his head. Several moments passed.

"And?" asked Sherlock letting his eyes return lazily to the newspaper in his lap. Figured there would be a bit more reaction than that thought John waiting for the woman to respond.

"And?, is that all you have to say?" she asked airily sauntering over to the detective. She lifted her left leg, planting her long heel firmly on his armrest and letting her dress fall limply to the side. John peered beyond to the woman to the detective, sitting there in his fitted trousers and purple shit.

"Just because you put your bare knee in my face… and whatever else you are showing off, does not change my level of interest." She looked taken aback, as if she were going to be welcomed, desired even.

"Why would you…" she started

"Help you escape… yes" he supplied drolly, "because I can, and why not, you were a worthy opponent. You have been conquered, no need to be a bad sport?" She was aghast. John could tell by the look on her face that she was not here to manipulate him. She had no phone, no requests, no interest in deciphering any codes and Sherlock knew that, yet he showed her no mercy. She had been his weakness and he had coldly extinguished any sentiment which once may have been, opting for desolate, sterile, resolution.

"Again, I am not interested in whatever you are offering" he said and swatted her leg from the arm of his chair as if it were an unwanted obstruction to his view, a pesky window shear or tree branch. The room was frigid as she stood awkwardly before him in her long cloak. John wondered if she had any clothing on beneath it.

"Well then" she sighed and looked out into the gray gloomy sky.

"It does not look as if even the strongest of motivators will soften your resolve" she whispered. In a quick movement the woman emptied the contents of her pockets out onto the side table and left. A small vial, not bigger than the top of one's pinky finger rolled around until to came to rest on the side of its cork.

They both stood looking at it.

"John," came Sherlock's deep voice, "don't touch it" Sherlock brought his hand up in warning. An explosive thought John.

"Should we call the bomb squad?" John asked shakily and began to dig in his pocket for his phone. "For heaven's sake I've just painted and…fumes."

"No, no, it's nothing like that" said the detective without any indication that he was worried.

"Lestrade then?" asked John.

"No need to worry him John, by my estimations, it's nothing more than an aphrodisiac, something she'd planned to slip me during dinner if she had the opportunity, besides neither Lestrade nor any bomb squad will be able to travel tonight. John looked outside again. The sky was gray and ominous and the window was now encrusted with ice making it barely possible to look through. By the looks of it, the snow was so high it has completely engulfed all four tires of Ms. Hudson's sedan. John looked worried.

"It's not an explosive" Sherlock assured him and in spite of the look of terror on Johns face, went to pick up the vial. John leapt from his perch at the window.

"What makes you so sure Sherlock" he demanded. "The woman walks back in here after faking her death, leaves a mystery vial and you just want to shake it around on a hunch?"

"I saved her life John, she thinks, or thought, rather, that…" he paused. "…that I was romantically inclined"

"Well why'd you go and do that?" John bellowed. "You can't go around leading women… especially that woman…leading them on Sherlock!" He stalked off to the kitchen.

"I wasn't leading her on. John get back here, I wasn't leading her on."

"Then you've changed your mind then?" he quipped as he popped back out of the kitchen, silver serving dish and bell jar in hand.

"If it were an explosive, are you under the delusion that you could simply scoop it up in the same way you'd scoop up a bee? Were you just going to throw it out the window?"

"There is a bloody vial in our living room that might very well blow up Sherlock, and we have no ability to get rid or it or leave the flat ourselves, do you grasp the gravity of the situation?" Sherlock grabbed the vial shook it vigorously and then tossed it to John. With a short dash the doctor grabbed it just before it hit the floor.

"If it were going to explode it would have done so by now" said Sherlock flatly. John was breathing heavily.

"You're fine, you're here, I'm here" said Sherlock in his patronizing tone, strode over to him and took the bottle.

"John you're breathing is still labored, perhaps you need a drink?" Sherlock paused and then drew in a sharp breath of air himself. The bottle was fractured and a small drizzle of fluid had leaked out into his palm. He could feel his own pulse quicken and his collar tighten and Johns breath was dry and haggard.

"I think," said Sherlock, "I should excuse myself…" he finished. Placing the vial on the silver platter, he almost dashed to the safety of his room. He could hear scuffles as John ran up the steps and into his own chambers.

"Shit, shit, shit, paint" he heard and then the scuffles began again as John raced down to the lounge. John couldn't breathe, Sherlock couldn't breathe.

My door, thought Sherlock, John had removed it. He laid on his bed, took in a sharp breath and focused on the waves running through his body. First he was flushed, then his palms began sweating and a tingling sensation crept into his abdomen and down into his groin. As it became hotter he felt as tough he had to urinate as the pressure built up between his legs. His back arched and then his knees stiffened. Peering out of his bedroom door and through the kitchen he could see John pacing. He'd periodically sit but spring back onto his feet and keep pacing then stop and bend at the knees willing the sensations to go away. Sherlock breathed in and was almost consumed by the paint fumes. Where was the door when you needed it he thought and seized again letting another wave ripple through his back, between his legs and into his knees. He clenched and then stood up shaking himself out. Pacing, John had it right, Sherlock thought as he made figure eights in the tiny space. Good lord he thought, when will it end; he saw John glace back toward his chambers and then run his hands modestly between his legs as if he were seeking warmth in the cold.

Johns thighs were burning and his stomach was a raw bottomless pit swirling with…. change of thought he said to himself. He sat down again and wriggled around on the spot. With no privacy in the flat he continued to pace. Worried that Sherlock was suffocating in the small room he marched down the hall but Sherlock stormed past him.

"John, I appreciate the concern but this is not the time" he said sinking down onto the couch and concentrating. Slowly he regained his composure and looked up at his flat mate.

"What did you want?" he asked, as if there were nothing the matter.

"How can you be so clam?" asked John who looked like he was ready to shed his skin. "I ah, I am, I wish the flat weren't full of paint fumes" he said with frustration.

"Why's that?" Sherlock taunted while trying desperately to maintain his composure. John hopped lightly on the spot, then closed his eyes as his back tensed again.

"Be…because I'm trying so hard, Sherlock…" Sherlock hummed.

"to, ah, not…" John marched across the room and gripped the couch on either side of Sherlock's head. "To, to… to not…Sherlock. I need to…" he pulled both knees up on either side of his mate bringing their groins together. His arms were stretched out in front of him still gripping the couch behind Sherlock's head.

"I need to… " he was looking for approval Sherlock realized and blinked once hoping that was sufficient. John pushed down and undulated pushing Sherlock back and then ground up and down attempting to create friction.

This was not like anything he had experienced with a woman thought John. He had no idea what to do. The desperation was growing and the sensation pounding in his groin was so intense that it drowned out any sense of heterosexual propriety. He released his right hand and pushed into the couch cushion he was sitting on hoping to get some leverage.

Sherlock attempted to remain composed and sat still as a board, not moving. John held his breath as he felt Sherlock's smooth shaven skin slide across his face. His stomach bristled at the sensation and he was inclined to kiss the man but his sense of better judgment, though weak and deteriorating, continued to hold. While his body was wrought with an uncontrollable urge for release his mind remained clear and utterly devastated by his actions.

"How can you remain like…" John groaned and ground further into Sherlock "this…" He wondered at Sherlock's stone like composure. "I need…" he repeated until Sherlock let out a slow gasp of air and began grinding back. John pushed into the cushion with one hand and pulled at the back of the couch grinding harder.

Sherlock's head rolled backward and he grabbed John's hips pushing vigorously into them. "John…" he breathed, and shoved him backward for what John felt like was an eternity. He was disgusted with his behavior, his inability to conduct himself with dignity, but craved so desperately the increased friction that he flipped John onto the couch and shoved his trousers down in the front exposing his boxer briefs. He reached behind the doctor and pulled him close as he continued to grind.

John, unprepared for this sudden response jerked away.

"It's alright Sherlock" he said, "I just need to…" John reached between them and opened his own trousers so that they were boxer brief to boxer brief. With cotton to cotton John could feel his friend's balls shift beneath him. "Oh God, Sherlock" he said as he drilled into him harder and harder seeking relief but getting none. It was as if release was not possible.

God, Sarah, he thought. Sarah would never forgive him if he had sex with his flatmate. They'd barely begun sleeping together themselves. He thought of her scent, a clean earthy lavender, her smooth skin and beautiful breasts but as he rubbed against the person in front of himself he felt only sinewy muscle and a hard unforgiving chest beneath his divine purple dress shirt and smelled the pure scent of liquid glycerin mixed with unearthly expensive aftershave. He breathed in deeply and shuddered sending a shock down through his torso.

Sherlock's mind whirred even faster than normal. John would not be happy tomorrow if this progressed he thought. He held the smaller man in place and shifted his weight back and forth.

"It's getting worse" said john matter-of-factly. Sherlock stood up and shed his pants completly, at the same time pushing Johns' to the floor. "John," he said "I am sorry about this…"

"It's fine Sherlock…" he answered as Sherlock pushed his shirt up slightly and eased back down, grinding them together. "Just…oh, yeah" he hissed as skin met skin. Sherlock lifted him slightly so he could slide his penis between his legs and between his arse cheeks.

Sherlock drew in a sharp breath as his desperation reached a new peak. He held their faces together with his palms as he moved rhythmically in and out, not liking where this was going. With difficulty, he tried not to pay attention to the fact that the room was littered by CCTV cameras and just focused on the moment, the feeling, the sensation; he also pushed the nagging suspicion out of his mind that they would have a very uncomfortable living situation on their hands come morning. Sherlock moved his hands in under John's shirt and drew them down toward his groin where he grabbed his hips.

"You know as well as I do where this is going, do you want the top or the bottom?" Sherlock asked bluntly. John stared. He knew this question was coming but hadn't realized he'd be confronted with a discussion.

"It's not a hard question John, do you want the arduous task of, shall we say arranging affairs…that means you have the luxury of pretending it's Sara you're fucking… or to be fucked yourself? There was an edge of distain to his words. John shuttered and clenched Sherlock with the muscles of his arse and Sherlock's back tensed up with urgency.

"John, John…as much as I am enjoying the repetition, this is becoming tedious" John held his breath thinking for a moment he was on private property so to speak, trespassing. "Not to say you are tedious, but the motion, John, its repetitious" Sherlock clarified as he continued to move between his arse cheeks.

"Whatever, just do whatever you'd like Sherlock" he said, his face turning red.

"Really, embarrassed, it's a bit late for that" Sherlock chided.

"So should I turn around?" asked John tentatively. He didn't particularly relish the thought. He was used to having a connection with the women he slept with. Sherlock stood up and grabbed the front of his shirt.

"Bed" he said dragging him toward his room.

"Paint" reminded John

"I'll open the windows" Sherlock pushed him backward onto the mattress and lifted the frozen frames as far as they would go.

"Jesus, Sherlock it's freezing in here."

"Unless it is remedying the situation it will have to do" John nodded uneasily.

As John was lying on his back he looked up at Sherlock and wondered if he was going to undress. Of course not, this wasn't a date, he thought. This was a necessity, an unfortunate necessity he told himself. Besides, it was a bit too cold for that.

"Do you want me to turn around" he asked again feeling strange and out of character. Sherlock didn't seem to hear or if he had he ignored the comment and straddled him again. He was still wearing the purple shirt and even John had to admit that it was a turn on. Were Sherlock standing above him on any other day in nothing but that shirt he realized, he would still be turned on.

"Sherlock, you are beautiful in that shirt" he said taking the detective off guard. Sherlock paused and then silently reached under his shirt and gripped his hips while he slid between his legs and the between the check of his arse. His skin was frigid and the wind was blowing forcefully spraying light snowflakes onto the bed.

"I predict we have a few hours left of this before it wears off" said Sherlock wiping a drop of sweat off his face before it dropped off the end of his nose.

"Right, we'll shall I flip over?" John asked for a third time but Sherlock did not answer. Instead he reached into his nightstand and grabbed a bottle of lotion and applied it to himself.

"Come here John" he said quietly. John rose to his knees and came to face his flatmate. The two stood there on their knees facing one another in silence.

"Is it wearing off?" asked John. Sherlock continued to look at him.

"Oh, sod it" he said and leaned forth, kissing Sherlock on the lips and drawing their bodies together. He pushed Sherlock back off of his knees, straddled him and lined up. It stings he thought as he pushed down onto him but kept pushing until he had taken him in completely.

"Oh my God, Sherlock, Christ" His body burned with desperation but he sat there not moving, just looking at the man beneath him. John leaned forward and kissed him again, this time on the face. Again, Sherlock looked stunned and a sudden flash of emotion swept across his face before he sealed it back in side. John began to move slowly lifting up and sliding back down. Sherlock gasped. His mouth remained open while John repetitively rose and fell until they both went over the edge. Sherlock began to orgasm filling him with an immediate rush of hot thick liquid.

"My God, my God, my God" John chanted waiting for it to end. For a moment it seemed as if it would continue forever. Sherlock's head hung backward, his mouth was open and sweat dripped from his wet curls. He eventually pulled himself forward embracing John and taking in the sensation of being united in such an intimate way. He was still ridged and from the looks of it so was John. At this angle John couldn't move but he could bear down satisfying the continued desperation within him.

"I can't tell if this is time dependant or release dependant" Sherlock gasped breathlessly. "This could last anywhere from an hour to twenty four; I'll have to take a closer look at the serum, see if it's a toxin or pheromone based." John was already exhausted. His muscles hurt and he was freezing with the window open.

"I'd say the fumes are gone" he said motioning toward the windows, indicating that it was now time to close them.

"No doubt" Sherlock responded but neither man had the strength to move and they continued to be joined. Instead he hugged the older man close to his body for warmth. "I feel close to you" he said, pulling him in even further. Moving his arm behind the doctor's back he laid him down and looked into his eyes. Slowly, very slowly, he began to move, sliding in and out of him. His breathing quickened and he began to inhale raggedy sharp breaths, leaning forward periodically to take in John's scent. His breath hitched and he orgasmed. Again it seemed to be prolonged and again both men were ridged when it was over.

"We have to separate Sherlock, I'm pretty sore" said John as he slid backward. It was as if he were retreating backward down a tunnel and then, all of a sudden he felt empty, very empty. John crawled stiffly to the edge of the bed and closed the windows before crawling in under Sherlock's silk sheets. He was still somewhat stiff but the effect was wearing off.

"Every muscle hurts" he said but Sherlock, lying on top of the covers beside him, was well on his way to sleep. John pulled down his dress shirt, tugged the blankets out from under him and covered the sleeping detective. His mind was whirring. He'd always felt connected to Sherlock, even closer than a brother he thought, his mind drifting to his own sister. Even now as the drug was wearing off he felt attracted to him, like he wanted to touch him, to feel his smooth white skin, to pull in close and sleep next to him…to feel loved by him.

Carefully John slid closer to Sherlock until he was flush with his back. He ran his hand along Sherlock upper thigh and paused on his hip bone wondering how he could feel so strongly, such intense desire to touch him. Again he ventured up under the shirt and between his legs. The skin was smooth and hot but dampened with sweat. He ran his fingers across down the length of his penis and measured him loosely in his fingers. Sherlock was long and fairly large around. Careful not to wake him he traced a line down the back of his penis, over his balls, over the perineum and back to his anus. Twenty four hours ago, no three hours ago, he would never have dreamt that he would be feeling the creases between his flat mates legs. For Christ's sake, this wasn't even a medical exam. He was lying with a man, half naked, in bed, feeling his genitals and it was turning him on. His heart jumped slightly in his chest and his stomach heaved, thinking that only this morning he had been with Sara, had been between her legs, feeling the same smooth skin, but had experienced nothing this intimate and consuming. He was all at once enthralled and repulsed, his heart was pounding with the thrill of the chase, with intense desire but his stomach was overturning ever moment or so and threatened to reject its contents.

John continued to touch him, running his finger through his crack and touching the opening. He pressed lightly noting that there was little give. He was a doctor; he knew that this part of the body was not designed for penetration, but his heart was pounding with the urge to open and enter him. John dropped the thought immediately pushing it out of his mind. For God's sake he thought this is wrong on all levels. He hurt all over, his back, triceps, his bottom and the muscles deep within it. His mind ached, his heart ached, his pride ached.