It had been a long time since John Watson set foot outside of that room. That lonely, dark little flat, a gaping wound of endless empty space and isolation in his broken existence, symbolising everything he had lost in the war, and everything he had yet to lose if he failed to resume his life like nothing had ever happened. A lot had happened.

The tired doctor took a deep, cleansing breath of exhaust fumes and toxic vapours, emitted by the heated sprawl of urban life. Oh, how he'd missed London. He missed her energy, the vibrant, undulating energy which flowed through its citizens like a wonderful, illuminating stimulant.

John took one, unsteady step, followed by another, and began making his way to Regents Park. He knew this city well, and as he limped slowly down these old streets he was dismally aware of how much it had changed. It seemed an age ago that he was a young man here, ready to throw himself into the army with all his courage and passion. The army had eaten him alive, sucked out every bit of hope and youthful exuberance he had possessed and spit out the hollow, empty husk of the John Watson he now was, is, and felt he always would be.

Before he knew it John was at in the park, shuffling down one of the long, winding paths and coming to stand before a bench. He sat dumbly, his mind detached from what his body was doing. He didn't know how long he sat there, watching the children play and the couples strolling past with their hands joined like vices. A dark, looming figure was approaching from the far side of the park, John took little notice of this arrival until he was almost on top of him. The newcomer paused at the corner of the doctor's vision. John's soldier instincts flared; stranger, tall, well built, imposing, staying out of his line of sight, something to hide. Suspicion bubbled beneath his skin, the familiar itch of uncertainty and self-preservation niggling in the back of his mind.

The man, it was certainly a man, sat at the end of the bench, far enough away from John to make him feel less anxious, but not far enough for him to be completely at ease. There was a moment of silence between the two strangers as the other man shifted in his seat and crossed his legs in a nervous twitch, probably common for him, John thought.

"Hello" The man said, his voice a beautifully deep, rumbling baritone which made John's legs turn slightly to jelly before he could gather his composure. John's mouth was dry, his eyes flicking back and forth apprehensively.

"Hello" He replied, inclining his head slightly in the direction of the man.

There was a deliciously low chuckle from the man and a shift towards John, the man's foot nearly brushing the doctor's ankle. John flinched.

"Don't be so shocked." The man muttered, undeterred. "Post Traumatic Stress, right? Afghanistan, or Iraq, judging by the tan, gunshot wound, right, no, left shoulder, psychosomatic limp-"

"Stop it." John blurted as the stranger reeled off the information bluntly, like reciting a damn script. It was impossible that he could know so much about him from just one look.

He felt rather than saw the calm acceptance and gentle nod the stranger gave him.

"Who are you?" John asked, keeping his tone level and indifferent. The other man gave a crooked smile, the corner of his mouth lifting in a wicked yet glorious manner. He extended a pale, long fingered hand towards John and spoke.

"Sherlock Holmes" He purred, too erotic to be decent. John swallowed and turned to face him fully.

His own name he had been about to put forth died on his lips when his gaze fell upon the man. He was exquisite, an ethereal and beautiful human with strong, dominating features. He had full bowed lips almost begging to be kissed and sharp, high cheekbones which jutted sculpturally from his smooth pale skin, so prominent and enchanting they looked as though they could break the surface of the taught alabaster flesh. His eyes, oh, his eyes, they were constantly changing as the sunlight glanced off them, refracting and bending the light so that the irises flashed from blue to green to a stunning silvery grey, framed in thick dark lashes. His hair was dark, thick and curled. John could imagine it, scruffy and unkempt in the mornings, perfect and just asking for someone to run their fingers through it...someone like him...

Sherlock Holmes smiled again, and John's heart leapt uncontrollably in his chest as he fought back the giddy grin he could feel creeping over his carefully controlled expression. He made a slight whimpering sound as he attempted to stutter his name as those inexpressible eyes scrutinized him so intently it was almost pornographic.

"John Watson" He managed at last, grasping the impossibly soft hand which curled around his own fleshy paw in a strangely intimate handshake.

"A pleasure" The other man replied. You're telling me mate. John thought, letting his gaze wander shamelessly over the stranger's lightly defined chest with unabashed admiration.

The other man gently pulled his hand away, and John revelled in the lingering warmth his touch left in his own pink palm.

"I was right then." Sherlock Holmes said, a hint of irrepressible smugness creeping into his tone.

John nodded slowly. "On all accounts" He replied, clenching his hand into a loose fist in an attempt to expel the disarmingly pleasant sensation of the other man's hand in his own.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" The man asked curiously, cocking his head in interest.

"Afghanistan" John said, and the stranger smiled demurely. "Sorry, how did you-"

"That would be telling, and I could never divulge that kind of information quite that freely. You must understand, being a secretive man yourself." The other man cut him off with an apologetic smile.

Sherlock Holmes pulled back the sleeve of an expensive looking woollen coat, which swaddled his body and draped over his knees luxuriously, to glance at the delicate hands of a tarnished gold watch. As he did so, one of his thick eyebrows quirked in consideration and he let out a soft sigh of discontentment.

"Regrettably I have a prior engagement to which I must attend, please excuse my leaving so soon." He said, standing gracefully and nodding at John with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. "It was delightful to make your acquaintance, Doctor Watson."

John flinched. "Doctor?" He repeated dumbly. Sherlock Holmes merely smiled, one hand disappearing momentarily into the deep pocket of his coat. The hand withdrew with a thin slip of card held between two fingers, which was then passed to the unassuming doctor with another heartbreakingly handsome smile.

John stared down at the little square of printed card with confusion, his eyes scanning the information feverishly in his puzzlement.

"My card" The other man clarified, "should you wish to contact me."

John raised a sceptical eyebrow and Sherlock Holmes chuckled lightly. "Failing that, my website printed there should tell you all you wish to know about what I do. I hope we can meet again, you seem a very complex and fascinating individual." The man said.

John frowned slightly, unsure whether to accept the mangled complement or to take offence. "More than you know" He replied darkly, watching as the man walked away down the path. "...more than you know." John sighed, then got up, and hobbled slowly home.

When John let himself into the flat he felt...changed somehow, like he had stolen an enticing glimpse of an explicit film. He wanted more of this intriguing man, and his fingers were itching to access his laptop so that his desire could be fulfilled. But, first things first.

John ambled to the little kitchen and filled the kettle with water, then he set his stained mug on the counter and waited for the steam to rise from the appliance and the liquid to boil. He stirred the teabag but didn't leave it to permeate the water as he would have done usually, the promise of information on this new man was too much to resist.

As he waited for his laptop to whir into life, John dug in his pocket for the little card. He grasped the offending square and tugged it out so violently in his haste that he knocked the mug of tea resting on his desk. The scalding contents splashed everywhere, narrowly missing his laptop but spilling right into his crotch and over the card he held tightly. John swore loudly and leapt up, dancing a jig around the desk in an effort to cool his burning thighs.

When he had mopped up the tea and changed his trousers the doctor sat back down at his laptop, still holding the card and breathing heavily. The illuminated screen glared at him challengingly, and John took a breath and opened a new tab into Google. He glanced at the card wistfully, but as his eyes scanned the web address he realized with a sinking feeling that the text had been smudged over the end half of the name. All the doctor could make out was 'The Science of ...duction'. John rolled his eyes at his own stupidity. This couldn't be so hard. He pecked away at the keyboard to enter the first discernable half of the website before considering the final word. '...duction' He chewed his lip thoughtfully; there were only a handful words it could be. First he tried 'induction', then 'deduction', but neither search yielded any information save for the odd scientific forum or academic enrolment scheme.

He paused for a moment, gears turning in his thoughts. Picture him. His mind whispered encouragingly. John did so, and suddenly it all became clear. With a wicked smile John's eager fingers returned to the keys, tapping into the search bar 'The Science of Seduction'

The links loaded quickly and John clicked on the most readily available, holding his breath as the little hourglass turned sluggishly. Then he was there, Sherlock Holmes's webpage, large images flashing up suddenly and bombarding his senses. Only when he managed to focus on the pictures did John finally gasp a breath of surprise and arousal.

The images featured the very same man he had been conversing with pleasantly only hours before, displayed for all to see in various compromising and deviant positions. The doctor gave a soft, desperate moan as his eyes roamed over the wonderful expanse of flesh exhibited before him. Sherlock Holmes lay depravedly, draped over a velvet armchair, his pale limbs stretched across the arms and one leg raised over the back, a luxurious cut of black lace concealing his crotch and his fingers steepled under his chin, a glorious half smile lifting his perfect mouth.

As John skipped through the promotional photos his heart began hammering against his chest excitedly. Every picture was more intense and more deliciously arousing than the last. John's face flushed as he laid eyes on the other man, back curved impossibly over the armrest and legs spread erotically in invitation. His head was thrown back, his lips parted slightly in ecstasy. John realized with a jolt that his body was responding unsurprisingly from staring at these photographs, he was half hard in his pants and sweating with unrepressed lust. He hadn't felt like this for anyone in a long time, but he couldn't take his eyes off Sherlock Holmes, it was entirely unlike him to feel this intensely turned on for anyone, let alone another man.

The final photograph in the selection awakened something in him he hadn't known he missed before now. John groaned helplessly and his hand strayed to the front of his jeans to palm his now straining erection in search for his release. Sherlock Holmes was straddling the chair, his muscled thighs gripping the velvet and his pert buttocks clenching teasingly. The photograph was taken from the front of the chair, and the subject faced his body away from the camera with his head thrown over his shoulder. The expression on the man's face was one of dominance, and there was a teasing glint in his eye which made John's cock twitch wantonly. The doctor began rubbing himself absently through his trousers, scanning the photograph feverishly, aware that his breathing had grown heavy and his palms were sweating again.

There was a little box of information concerning Sherlock Holmes's trade, his fees, and contact information on the left side of the photograph. John stopped his manic pleasuring and took a breath, reading the text slowly in an effort to calm himself. He had never been much interested in self pleasuring, and to do such an immature thing now at his age was beyond his normal tendencies. He resigned himself to thinking about Margaret Thatcher in her underwear in an effort to become flaccid and focus clearly on the details concerning his recent acquaintance. His attempts at gathering control of his body were in vain as he read the little box through a few times.

'The illustrious Sherlock Holmes is delighted to provide sensual punishment for your own pleasurable entertainment. Prices on request, your innermost desired indulged and your most secret fantasies exposed and enacted. Mr Holmes expects clients at his home and will receive you upon appointment, care of his personal assistant Miss Molly Hooper. Enquire 221B Baker Street, London, England. Confidentiality obtained, security and privacy provided, comfort...optional. Know when you are beaten.'

This information was followed by a list of contacts, including a phone number, a repeat of the location, and an email address. John stared long and hard at the email address. He could do this. There was no question that he needed to see this man again, and as soon as humanly possible. He was still uncomfortably hard and aching for his release, but he refused to indulge his body's primitive needs before he did something about his lustful feelings towards Sherlock Holmes. He couldn't quite believe he was doing this, him, the respected Doctor John Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, contacting a prostitute. This man was a male prostitute, catering to the higher classes indeed, but a sex worker none the less. John groaned, why was he feeling these things, these raw, animalistic impulses, after so long? He was lonely, in need of companionship, love, intimacy. He craved closeness with another human being more than anything. And so, it was with this epiphany, John opened his email and began to type the address.

He wrote formally in his message, trying to dispel the sense of uncleanliness he felt at contacting and arranging to meet with a prostitute. 'I am interested in arranging an appointment with Mr Holmes at his earliest convenience.' John sat thoughtfully for a moment, mulling over his possible next sentence. 'No specific requests.' He finished, and typed his name, clicking the send button.

John sighed, and then he shut his computer down and walked, somewhat uncomfortably, to the small bathroom for a very, very long shower, anticipating the response with nervous excitement. He didn't have long to wait...

Thanks for reading, I hope you liked it, please review! ~K