There are two types of Sherlocks in this world: the Sherlocks who know nothing about sex, and the Sherlocks who obsess about it. I figured it was time to write Sherlock using the latter trope! Please enjoy and let me know what you think!

Xxx

Sherlock Holmes was many things. A genius, a prat, a high-functioning sociopath… the list could go on. Along with the good and the bad, he also had a rather obsessive personality.

It started when he was young. And since Sherlock claimed to know everything, he could pinpoint the exact moment too—his cousin Jeff, who lived in Boston, was visiting for a few weeks during the summer that Sherlock turned 8. Along with him he brought a suitcase full of books, including a series about a teenage detective called Nancy Drew. Jeff, who never shut his mouth, went on and on about how wonderful the girl was, and how absolutely enchanting the books were.

When he returned home, he "forgot" a book from the series, seemingly "lost" in Sherlock's favorite hiding space. Finally alone, the eight-year-old crawled into his bed and read through the book, not tearing his eyes away until the final word had disappeared from his blue gaze.

What a series. People called her a detective? He couldn't help but laugh. He had solved her case in approximately 23 pages. Yet, as soon as his eyes hit the advertisement in the back of the book, listing a phone number to order the following book in the series, he was hooked.

The following morning, he demanded the remainder of the series, to which the Holmes parents happily agreed. And thus, Sherlock read approximately 112 Nancy Drew novels that summer, challenging himself to solve her case before the teenage sleuth did. When he finished her series, he set his sights on the Hardy Boys, and followed the same routine, not satisfied until he was the best and the brightest amateur detective out there.

As he got older, his obsessions changed. At age 13, he trained for six weeks to run 2 kilometers in under 6 minutes. Fifteen-year-old Sherlock absolutely had to learn Latin. Seventeen-year-old Sherlock had to one-up Mycroft, even if his older brother was off at University.

When his formative years ended, his obsessive nature changed for the worst. While his previous fascinations were rather innocuous, and in some ways beneficial to his wellbeing, his new fascinations were detrimental. From his obsession with always having the last word, to constantly being kept amused, to the drugs….

Oh, the drugs!

At least he knew how to combat an addiction. At least he knew he was susceptible to using. But what he was currently experiencing was the worst obsession he had ever experienced.

And like he remembered Jeff's cumbersome visit to his childhood home, he remembered how he got himself into the bloody mess he was in now.

Sherlock laid on his sofa, his body folded into the fetal position. From his chair, John watched the detective, an amused look on his face as he shoved a mouthful of crisps into his mouth. From his spot on the sofa, Sherlock leaned up and gave his friend a nasty glare.

"SHUT UP!" the detective bellowed, his blue orbs glaring across the room.

John snickered and ate another handful of crisps. "Oy, Sherlock, calm down. I get that you want a smoke, but no need to be a prat."

Sherlock growled and threw his feet back to the ground, sitting up to face his former flat mate. "I will not 'calm down', John. I'm doing quite well, thanks for asking. These," Sherlock ran his hands over the ten or so patches along his arms, "are working brilliantly."

The doctor rolled his eyes and ate another few crisps. "No, they're not. You're showing all the signs of withdrawal. Laying here and just thinking about a smoke is going to drive you mad."

Sherlock hissed at his friend and returned to his original position on the sofa, drawing his knees to his chest.

John groaned and tossed his now empty crisp bag to the side. "My god Sherlock, did you just hiss at me?"

The detective hissed again.

John just laughed. "Alright mate. Enough is enough. You need to forget about your urges. Find something to do that will distract you."

Sherlock hissed again. "You hate when I play my violin."

"Oy, Sherlock, your use of that instrument this past week has not been 'playing'! You've been murdering the ears of everyone on this side of the Thames."

The detective growled and turned his body on the couch, now redirecting his attention to John. "Alright then, John, how do you suggest I distract myself?"

John leaned back in his chair, clearly thinking about his response. "To a normal bloke, I'd suggest a drink to take the edge off, but the last thing you need is another vice to quell your current one."

Sherlock growled, clearly not amused. John rolled his eyes.

"But there are other methods to distract yourself," John began, "Of course, what the average man does would probably not work for you," mumbling the last part.

Sherlock brought his hands to his temples, rubbing slow circles on his tense skin. "Enlightening John. Just absolutely, riveting. Say, what else can you find in that simple mind of yours?"

John glared from his seat across the sitting room. "Must you always be a git when I'm just trying to help?"

"You're not helping!" The detective spat out, now back to sitting up on the sofa.

The doctor slumped his shoulders and took a deep breath. "Look, Sherlock, I don't know what to tell you. Quitting anything is not easy."

Sherlock dropped his hands from their ministrations on his temples and rested them under his chin, his thumbs and index fingers caging his jaw.

"And the normal blokes?"

John laughed. "Well, I reckon it varies. Many of them exercise. Some eat their feelings away. But I'd say the most common distraction is shagging. But since most men don't have a shag immediately available, the go-to is always a nice, slow, wank."

Sherlock blinked and dropped his hands, his eyes now focused fully on his friend. "A slow wank?"

John nodded, as if it was obvious. "Best distraction there is. Horny? Wank. Sad? Wank. Happy? Wank. Tired? Wank. Tense? Wank. Dis—"

The detective waved his hand, signaling for his friend to stop. "I'm thinking."

The doctor rolled his eyes and grabbed the newspaper that sat beside him, flipping to an interesting story in the back of the paper.

"Stop that," Sherlock hissed, his eyes shut, his brain clearly working overtime.

John groaned. "Jesus, Sherlock, stop what?"

"Thinking."

"Oy? Am I thinking too loudly for you?"

"Obviously."

With that, Sherlock jumped to his feet, directing his attention to his friend. John shut the newspaper and looked at his taller former flat mate, giving him an amused grin.

"Yes?"

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Explain to me the benefits of wanking."

John raised his eyebrow. "Come again?"

"Yes, John, I will come. But first, I'm curious why this is the go-to solution for the idiots of the world."

John let out a snort. "Oh, Sherlock, you are something! Look, you know the science behind sex. Orgasms release oxytocin, which lower stress levels, and dopamine, which makes us feel bloody great."

Sherlock scowled, clearly taken aback by the idea. John sighed.

"Think of it this way, Sherlock. Right now, your body craves nicotine. Nicotine floods your body with dopamine. So does an orgasm. If you wank, you may trick your body into thinking you had what you really wanted."

John jumped to his feet and slipped into his jacket. "Anyways, I gotta run to meet Mary. I rather not be here when you start shooting the wall or… worse. Good luck, and consider getting your rocks off for once."

With that, the doctor was gone. Sherlock blinked, staring at the door.

Wanking? Was he 13?

Sherlock looked down, taking in the appearance of his blue shirt rolled to his elbows, and the endless patches adorning his forearms. With a groan of frustration, he stormed into his bedroom, his door coming closed with a slam that shook the entire flat.

Months later and Sherlock now had a new obsession.

Sprawled across his bed, wearing nothing but a sheet covering his knees and below, he took his hard length into his hand and gave himself a tentative squeeze. He groaned.

He had taken John's recommendation that afternoon. And then again that evening. And then again, the following morning.

His hand began a leisurely pace, coating his length in a sickeningly sweet rose-scented body lotion. He sped up his movement, groaning into the air, inhaling the delicious scent.

He let out a gasp as his movement grew more frantic, his hips rising off his silk bedsheets with every passing second. With one final stroke, he saw white (both literally and figuratively), and collapsed on his bed, a boneless and satiated mess.

He groaned and shut his eyes.

Sure, Sherlock had wanked before that fateful day. But it was always on a need-to basis. He only ever fulfilled his needs when his body demanded. Unlike the average bloke, he never arbitrarily thought, "wow, I have some free time. Let's go watch some porn and wank myself sore!"

On top of his infrequency, his performance was always in the shower. A quick cleanup for a quick task. For Sherlock, the concept of a "slow" wank was even more surprising than the suggestion of a wank itself. It normally never took him longer than three or so minutes. In the end, it was a biological function. It didn't need to be necessarily enjoyed.

But that was then. Now, he couldn't stop. Every bloody night he had to wank himself raw, now unable to fall asleep without his head clear thanks to an orgasm. Even then, he still woke up most mornings, his cock as hard as John's bloody thick skull.

And things had only gotten worse since the incident.

Sherlock looked over at the fancy pink bottle of body lotion, staring menacingly at him from his nightstand. He growled and grabbed the bottle, contemplating throwing it across his bedroom, before defeatedly tucking it back into his nightstand.

He buried his face into his pillow and groaned. The incident. He cursed.

He had long gotten into the habit of using Molly's flat as a bolt hole, albeit his time there heavily reduced by his…absence and upon his return, the arrival of that moron Molly was somehow engaged to for a period of time. However, after a rather arduous case, Sherlock had returned to using her space.

Molly, however, had apparently grown accustomed to having her flat unhindered by Sherlock's unexpected presence.

The detective would learn this factoid one fateful evening, after eight hours of undercover work with John, moving through a brothel, followed by a chocolate factory, followed by a football game at a local park. It was a bizarre case. Or in the words of Sherlock—a fun one.

Having wrapped up his case, he stumbled to the front door of Molly's flat, digging into his trouser pocket to grasp the key, and immediately letting himself in. He dodged around Toby, who had scampered over to see why the door had opened, and walked into her sitting room, surprised to see that she must be out. It was only 9pm. Even Molly couldn't possibly head to bed that early.

Sherlock looked around her flat and made his way into her sitting room. Once assured that she had nothing of interest in her sitting room, he moved towards her bedroom, ready to sink into her rather comfortable bed.

As he neared the door, a movement in her bedroom caused him to halt, his body looking through the half open door. Molly's soft humming echoed through the room as she skipped out of the bathroom, her body wrapped in a large, fuzzy pink robe. She yawned and grabbed a rather expensive looking pink bottle of lotion from her nightstand, before dropping her robe.

Sherlock sucked in his breath, his eyes glued to Molly's nude form as she rubbed the lotion on what seemed to be every exposed expanse of her body. From her dainty ankles, to her toned calves, to her strong thighs, to her cute bum, and her shapely hips, and her deliciously flat stomach, and her round tits, and her dusty pink nipples, and her smooth arms, and her gorgeous, smiling face…

Sherlock groaned and quickly covered his mouth with his hand, his cock angrily pressing against the fly of his trousers. He continued to watch Molly rub the last of the lotion into her glowing skin, before tying her brown locks into a loose bun and storing the bottle back into a drawer in her nightstand. She then graciously dropped to her bed.

The detective swallowed, his eyes locked on her small form, tucked away in the middle of the large bed. Then, as if a dream, the pathologist ran her small hands to her chest, and began to gently caress of her small, but perfect chest.

Sherlock bit into the knuckle of his index finger, his other hand unconsciously rubbing against his clothed cock. He shivered from his spot behind the door, watching as Molly took her breasts into her hands, and began to play with the beautiful pale mounds and mouth-watering pink nipples.

The detective would soon discover that her actions with her chest were only the beginning of a delicious evening. He remained entranced as her hands moved from her chest to her thighs, and eventually to between her legs, settling on beautiful, glistening pink flesh.

Sherlock bit onto his finger harder, his free hand having stuffed its way into his trousers and now fully wanking in the hallway leading to Molly's bedroom. In simultaneous movements, he stroked his cock as she fucked herself with her fingers, her moans echoing the sounds he wished he could make.

His eyes stayed locked on her gorgeous, withering form, completely enthralled as she let out a desperate cry, and collapsed back onto her bed, her body glowing pink, and a satisfied smile on her face.

Sherlock covered his mouth and let out a strangled cry, reaching his peak, his cock still tucked into his now much-too-tight trousers. With a shaky breath, he stepped away from the door, momentarily appalled by his actions.

He peered back into the room, surprised to see Molly out of bed and back in her plush robe. Noticing her movement towards the doorway, Sherlock moved further along the dark hallway, concealing himself in the shadows. As she slipped out of the bedroom and towards her sitting room, he slipped into the bedroom, enjoying the smell of her rose-scented body lotion and the smell of female sex.

He grunted and without a second thought had torn open the drawer to her nightstand, grabbing the bottle of lotion and tucking it into the pocket of his jacket. He moved back into the shadows of the hallway and watched as Molly walked back towards her bedroom, this time holding a bottle of water and a sleepy Toby.

Sherlock let out a shaky breath as her bedroom door shut. He silently moved out of the shadows and out of her flat, wondering what the hell he had gotten himself into.

And here he was, one month later, with a dangerous obsession.

His relationship with Molly had always been a complicated one. What began as general tolerance given the circumstances (he wanted access to the lab and she stood in his way) developed into a mutual appreciation. He valued her intelligence and her facilities, and she valued…well…him.

He could acknowledge that Molly was rather visually pleasing. He could see why many men, including Lestrade and even John on occasion had shown an obvious sexual attraction to the pathologist. That being said, he had never been sexually attracted to her.

Although, he supposed he had never truly been sexually attracted to anyone.

Like Sherlock's relationships with everyone, his friendship with Molly also evolved. He grew to understand her self-esteem issues and feelings of being insufficient, to her dating problems stemming from daddy issues, and she understood his many faults, quirks and obsessions, but most of all, why he was the way he was.

And she was there to help him when no one else could. He owed Molly so much. She put her life on the line for him and he was equally certain and concerned that he would never be able to pay her back for what she did for him.

His time away for those two years, and his eventual return to London to discover that he could possibly lose her forever, had sparked a change inside of him. He now identified something in the empty cavity of his chest for Molly Hopper.

Being Sherlock Holmes, he should be able to identify what that something was. But being Sherlock Holmes, he could not.

So, part of him, a part that certainly didn't exist so many years ago, hated that he had invaded her personal space, and taken a moment that was extremely intimate and turned it into his own personal wankfest. Yet, thankfully for Sherlock, humanity only accounted for about five percent of all his thoughts, so he normally gave little concern to his morally incomprehensible actions.

He shifted over in his sheets, enjoying the caress of the silk against the bare skin. He thought back to what John had said so many months ago.

"…the last thing you need is another vice to quell your current one…"

Sherlock stared at the white ceiling of his bedroom, and contemplated the doctor's words.

For someone who considered himself to be so strong, so bloody indestructible, he sure had a propensity for picking up habits that would surely destroy him.

He shifted in his bed and shut his eyes, only for them to shoot open at the scene of Molly's laughing smile from earlier that day at the lab. John and Mary had stopped by with lunch, and the couple had gotten her to laugh about some ridiculous internet trend. He hadn't been paying attention.

He shut his eyes again, this time to encounter her soft grin as she waved goodbye, and ventured into the rainy London evening. He shot them open again and cursed.

He wasn't obsessed with wanking. He wasn't bloody addicted either. It wasn't his fucking vice.

Molly Hopper was.

Sherlock cursed and buried his face in his pillow, smelling the remnants of the rose-scented lotion on his skin.

With a sinking feeling, he knew that going cold turkey on his pathologist was going to be harder than anything he had ever kicked—heroin, morphine, nicotine, and feigning ignorance of Lestrade's first name would be nothing compared to what was to come.

He shut his eyes and forced himself to smile.

The game was on.

It had to be.

Xxx

I hope you enjoyed! I suspect this will only be two parts, but it could potentially be three. Please let me know what you think and I hope you enjoyed!