The idea for this fic came from the brilliant mind of Emmish, who prompted me with it during my 30 days of Christmas. I never got around to doing it justice, so the two of us teamed up to make it happen.

Enjoy :)

Sherlock woke quite abruptly to an empty bed and the persistent, almost deafening pound of heavy rain upon the window, the swollen drops sounding like ball bearings against the glass.

"John?" He mumbled sleepily, batting his hand around in the vague hope of coming into contact with warm skin. Finding nothing, he groaned and propped himself up on his elbows, peering about before clearing his throat and hollering, "JOHN!"

When he had no reply, he grimaced sulkily and yanked the duvet up over his head, cocooning himself into a grumpy, chilly lump under the covers.

He thought about trying to drift back to sleep but without John he was too cold.

With a mewl of frustration, Sherlock extended one long-fingered hand to the bedside clock, which mocked him with the digits 06.12am. He threw it across the room, taking obscene pleasure in hearing it smash against the wall, barely audible against the violent rain and the thunder which was birthing in a pregnant, grey sky.

John would probably get angry, but it wasn't the first clock Sherlock had destroyed- in one way or another- and so he wasn't very concerned. He flipped over in the bed, pulling the covers tighter around his body, glaring against the offending chill.

Sherlock wriggled in irritation under the duvet, steadily reaching an unwanted wakefulness. 94 seconds later, he jolted himself out of bed, after grumbling extravagantly and being irked by a lack of an audience. He hauled the heavy duvet off the bed, and shouldered it, before making his way, naked, bleary-eyed, and in a visibly bad mood out of the room, just as an ear-shattering peal of thunder and a stunning flash of lightning invigorated the atmosphere.

He jolted at the unexpected noise, despite himself, before steadying his nerves, the sudden scare making his mood, which had already been black to begin with, even darker.

Where was John?

It was hard to hear over the pounding of the rain, the torrential downpour which was currently soaking London, which was loud even in the hallway. Sherlock paused, staring further into the darkened flat, and that's when his ears picked up another sound, underlying the rain. Another wet sound, of water running, cascading down.

Shower.

He made his way with purpose toward the bathroom, adjusting the heavy duvet over his shoulder, which he snuggled to himself childishly as the chill of the flat permeated his pale skin. He paused for all of a second before grabbing the handle of the unlocked bathroom, opening the door, and closing his grey-green eyes briefly at the steam that drenched him almost immediately.

The heat contained in the small space was a welcome relief against the pervasive chill of the rest of the flat and Sherlock felt it seep through his duvet and tease along his skin, warming him deliciously as he silently closed the door to make sure no further heat escaped.

The detective took a few moments to soak up the delightful wet heat, his striking eyes closed, and took a deep inhale of the faintly citrusy humid air of the bathroom, before he opened his mouth to expound his complaints. He was, however, interrupted, as a distinctly choked groan reached his ears, and he stared at the mosaic of hot water-droplets and shuddering, familiar skin that made up the glass door of their shower.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the sight. John stood beneath the warm spray of their shower, his head thrown back and eyes closed. The water sluiced down his skin in fascinating rivulets- down his neck, across his chest, teasing the edge of one dark, pebbled nipple, and trickling down his stomach and right on over his obviously hard, very red, throbbing cock, over which he was working his hand at a steady but feverish pace.

Short, desperate whimpers and sharp gasps were just audible over the cascade of the hot water. John was close, his body twitched uncontrollably. Sherlock could see him biting down hard on his bottom lip, and John's right hand clutched fruitlessly at the shower wall for some support, his dominant hand speeding exponentially, as did his almost-painful sobs, which the detective noted he was actively trying to restrain.

Restraint, Sherlock realised. John was trying to make no noise, was doing this under the cover of the roar of the shower and the monsoon raging outside. He was doing this covertly, touching himself, and starting to cant his hips forward, thigh muscles straining as he pumped his hips, chasing his release. He hadn't wanted Sherlock to find out.

Sherlock stood insensate as his doctor suddenly jerked violently, and shuddered, his right hand grasping the showerhead with brutal force as he ejaculated with a few short, sharp, repressed gasps and thick sighs.

Slowly, as the aftershocks of his orgasm faded, leaving his body a bit weak-kneed and trembly, John let out one long, shaky, satisfied sigh and opened his eyes. He started to wash away the evidence of his morning wank- only to suddenly become aware of the extra person in the room and start violently, his heart lurching in his chest.

"Jesus, Sherlock!"

Sherlock approached the shower door with a dangerously blank expression. "John." There was a depth of bitterness in the timbre of his voice. Pulling open the shower door, he glared down at his doctor. "I see I come second to a furtive handjob in the shower."

John flushed, suddenly aware of the warm, sticky come on his hand, his cock still a little hard and plumped from the attention he'd lavished on it. And Sherlock's eyes, raking down his body, of course saw everything. John straightened his spine, cleared his throat, and turned to rinse his hand under the shower. He wasn't going to be made to be embarrassed over having a wank. "That's not how it is. You were asleep."

"Is this a regular occurrence?" Sherlock asked, his dark curls already wilting in the heady steam of the bathroom. "You forgoing my body in favour of your own little hand?"

Sherlock watched John's eyes narrow, sparking as he became just as angry as Sherlock was. Not just as angry, Sherlock thought, there was no way John could feel the level of anger, hurt, and betrayal he was currently experiencing at finding out John preferred his own paltry hand to him.

"A regular occurrence?" John repeated, voice flat but vibrating. Sherlock knew he would start shouting in a few seconds.

Sherlock squared up to his doctor, draping the duvet about his own torso as elegantly as he could manage, and stared down at John. His porous dark curls were now considerably damp and lifeless, but despite his nudity and bedraggled appearance, he still managed to exude an air of superiority. "We have been having sex approximately 19% less often than when we first engaged in a relationship. If I can no longer fulfil you, I would appreciate it if you just told me so."

"What- Sherlock, that's not it at all." John stressed, anger suddenly wilting in the face of Sherlock's argument which, if taken at face value, meant he'd hurt his boyfriend, made him feel unwanted. "You still...uh...fulfil me."

Sherlock raised a sceptical brow.

"You do. I mean...yes, I was having a wank…but it's not because I'm bored with you. I just thought...well you were asleep and I didn't want to bother you. You always get stroppy first thing in the morning-"

"So this is my fault?"

"There's no fault!" John shouted, turning to fumble with the taps and turn the water off, brushing past Sherlock to get his towel, "I was just having a wank, Sherlock. It's what every male does when they want to let off a little stress. When they just want to get off quick. You don't have to be present for every single one of my fucking orgasms."

"I would prefer to be," Sherlock said quietly, before averting his eyes and nibbling the inside of his mouth. "Go to work. You're clearly not in possession of the physical or mental state to sort me out, so I'm going back to bed. Alone. Well, me and a friend," the detective added enigmatically, cuddling his duvet about himself, though the fabric mostly dragged along the damp tiled floor and didn't do a thing to cover his semi-erection.

John looked somewhat contrite but still angry and, as he spied Sherlock's cock framed by the duvet, he looked torn. "Sherlock...I don't care to...if you want me to..." John gestured wordlessly at the almost artfully framed cock.

"John, you are already seven minutes behind schedule. If you don't want to be fired, you'd better get dressed. You've already been late four times in the last fortnight. Oh, and you missed a spot," the detective instructed, pointing at his own jaw, the same spot that John had failed to raze while shaving.

Sherlock turned and left the room as artfully as was possible for a man wearing a damp duvet, and John clenched his fists in long-suffering temper. Sherlock's rejection stung more than he would've thought it would and John clenched his jaw as he stared at Sherlock's rigid, duvet-covered, retreating back. "Go fuck yourself, Sherlock."

"I intend to."