This is probably the least satisfying wank I've ever had in my life.

My grip is firm and my strokes are steady, but there's no relief in sight. I can still hear Lucy's footsteps banging down the stairs in my mind, her parting words fresh in my memory. No doubt the great Holmes had already deduced the reason for her hasty exit. Fuck, no, don't think about him.

I add a half-twist to my rhythm and try to think about Lucy, which is probably a little weird considering we've almost certainly just broken up but, well, considering my room still smells like sex and my cock's still damp from being inside her…I think I can be forgiven this once. Never again, though; I learned early on in life that wanking over ex-girlfriends is a bad idea.

Okay, Lucy. Those dark curls, that slender neck. Good, yes, but I'm sure I've got her shoulders wrong. They should be much thinner, shouldn't they? And the musculature is wrong, too. The muscles I'm picturing are thick, solid, God I want to touch them-

No, no. Moving on. My mind's eye moves down Lucy's back, to a waist that's a touch too thick and hips that are a sight too narrow. Everything's wrong. Even her arse is wrong, not plump and fleshy like a woman's but hollowed in like a man's and fuck it all I'm thinking about Sherlock, I know I'm thinking about Sherlock, my cock knows I'm thinking about Sherlock because it's finally starting to pulse and-

"Shit!" Great. Fantastic. On top of wanking to first my ex-girlfriend and then my male and practically psychic flatmate, I've now managed to make a mess all over the floor because I was somehow startledby my own damn orgasm and didn't catch it all in time. Christ.

I huff out a breath that might have been a laugh if this all wasn't so pathetic and wipe my hand on the side of the bed I don't sleep on (sheets need a washing anyway, no big deal). The mess on the floor gets cleaned up with a discarded sock. I tug on my sleep clothes and amble down to the bathroom, wash my prick, hands, face, and hands again in that order, before wandering through the front room to the kitchen. Sherlock, for reasons unknown, is laying face-down on the floor in front of the fireplace, his arms lying limply at his sides.

"Tea?" I ask, wondering if he'll know from the inflection of my voice or some other random tell that I just came all over my bedroom floor thinking of him.

"Mmf," Sherlock says by way of answer, his face still pressed against the floorboards. That can't be comfortable but I leave him to it, glad that he isn't looking at me whatever the reason. I fill the kettle, flip the switch, take down the mugs, wipe them out. Routine. Nice, boring routine. Nothing better for settling one's nerves than the process of tea-making, I've always said. (Although that line of thinking takes my mind back to Soo Lin Yao and the museum, to my worry for Sherlock and my guilt for the girl, and maybe it's best I just focus on the bloody tea for right now, hmm?)

Tea bags; milk; sugar. I set everything up patiently, methodically. A flitted glance tells me Sherlock is still lying on the floor, apparently unmoved. I take down a box of digestives (chocolate ones, thank you Mrs. Hudson) and dump a few of them on to a plate. "Sherlock?" I say, pouring the heated water over the teabags. "Do you want to watch some telly?"

"Eleven," Sherlock replies, his head turned a little so that his voice isn't muffled.

"How-" I shake my head. "Fine." Sherlock is very particular about the Doctor Who he is willing to sit through. He doesn't like Nine's ears, and David Tennant puts him off entirely. Anything older than that is "ridiculous, kitschy, and unwatchable" (his words; definitely not mine) but- and he'll never admit this, I know, but it's true- he's oddly fond of Eleven. I've seen the contemplative looks he gives fish fingers sometimes and I'd bet my right thumb he's wondering how they'd taste with custard. Sherlock acts like he's above it all but I think I'll make a Whovian out of him yet. "Put it on, won't you?" I ask, taking the tea bags out and chucking them in the bin.

"No," Sherlock answers, sliding up from the floor and flumping into the kitchen. He gives me a sort of brooding look and snatches his mug from the counter before returning to the sitting room, this time falling on to the couch with limbs flailed, somehow not spilling a drop of tea.

I take my mug and the plate of biscuits and follow him, setting the food down on the table and queuing up the DVD. "What's got you in a strop?" I ask, fiddling with the remote control. I'm not that old, I should be able to handle this, but all that time in Afghanistan has put me a little behind the technological curve and-

Sherlock snatches the clicker from me with a sigh and puts on "The Beast Below" as I settle down on the sofa beside him. We rearrange the furniture pretty regularly, to Mrs. Hudson's chagrin, and this week the sofa has wended its way towards the telly. Giving me another dark look, Sherlock sips his tea and then sniffs, "I'm not in a strop. I am fine."

He's clearly not but I've got enough going on and I'm not going to push him, so I settle back and admire Amy Pond in silence. This is another Sherlockism: he refuses to watch the episodes in proper order. He claims that a show with the central theme of time travel shouldn't be affected by something as typical and ordinary as plot chronology. Considering I've already seen them all, I just go with it. If he wants to be lost, that's on him.

The title music comes up and I'm humming along almost cheerfully under my breath when Sherlock's feet suddenly make a forceful impact with my thigh. His toes curl in, digging and shoving simultaneously, and I find myself jarring quite uncomfortably against the arm of the sofa, tea sloshing warmly into my lap. "What the-" I swear under my breath and set the mug down on the table forcefully before grabbing his ankles and shoving them. His feet come right back, kicking me roughly. "Sherlock!"

The man in question looks at me defiantly. "I want to lie down," he says, sounding every bit the fussy five-year-old. His arms are crossed over his chest and his eyes are dark and sod it all, he's gorgeous when he's being imperious.

I clear my throat. "Too bad," I say, aware that my voice is a little gruffer than normal and unable to do anything about it. "You can share the sofa like a civilized human being, Sherlock."

"Or?" Impossible-coloured eyes light up mischievously.

"Or," I answer, blood warm, "I'll shove you off this couch and you can resume lying on the floor while I stretch out all over the cushions."

Sherlock scoffs, but there's still a playful glint in his eyes. "I'm sure that would go exactly as planned," he says, grinning, and then he stretches his legs out and sets his feet unceremoniously in my lap. "Better?" There's something sly about the look on his face.

"Mm," I answer, incapable of speaking. His feet are shifting minutely and one of them rubs, sole-down, across my prick. I grab his ankles again, maybe a little more roughly than I intend to. "Quit fidgeting," I manage, my voice embarrassingly hoarse.

Sherlock sighs and settles back against the sofa, for all intents and purposes focused entirely on the show. I don't have the slightest idea what's happening on the telly; Sherlock's feet are warm and won't lie still, constant shifting and grazing and making me flinch. Thank God I just came twenty minutes ago or I'd already be half-hard. I have got to get his feet out of my lap, and soon…but how can I remove them without making the reason unsettlingly clear?

A little shift and the press of his heel against the head of my cock makes me groan, and then play off the groan with a stretch. Fuck! This is not working. What do I do, what do I do…

Just then, Sherlock's feet withdraw. I look at him to see if he's realized what I already know (that I'm a sick bastard, half in love with a lunatic and going mad from just the barest of touches) but Sherlock's just stretching, his T-shirt riding up his stomach and forcing me to look away. He sighs and slumps over, but not the way he was lying before. He's reversed himself and his head falls to my thigh, warm and solid and breathtaking.

We don't do this. We're not Holmes-and-Watson, crime-fighting-during-the-week, cuddle-on-the-weekends duo. There is absolutely no reason Sherlock Holmes should be lying with his head on my lap and his fingers dancing across my knee. None whatsoever.

And yet, here we are.

Sherlock yawns and fidgets, his curls tickling even through my thin cotton pj's. I don't even realize my hand is frozen in the air until Sherlock sighs and takes it in his own, pushing it into his curls. What are we doing? I don't even know, but my fingers start raking through his dark hair without waiting for permission from me. Sherlock makes a little contented humming sound and resumes watching telly, presumably, although honestly he could have turned the thing off and I wouldn't have noticed. His hair is soft, softer than I'd expected, and it smells a bit like my cheap shampoo and his incredibly expensive conditioner. It's warm, too, and I have the sudden and very strong urge to push my face into his hair and just breathe in the scent of him. "This is nice," I say hoarsely, because it is. I can feel Sherlock nod, my fingers still wound in his hair and his cheekbone pressing into my thigh.

I let my hand slide a little lower, just to the nape of his neck, and- Jesus Christ- he arches his neck a little, exposing white flesh and the rapid beat of his pulse. My throat goes tight and my fingers tremble just a little as I slide them along his skin, pausing with my fingertips pressed against the drumming vein just under his jaw. Christ, his heart is racing. What are we doing?

Sherlock turns a bit in my lap, the back of his neck settling against my thigh and his eyes locking with mine. The motion causes my hand to slide over his Adam's apple and settle on his throat; I move my fingers back up his neck, ghosting a touch along his jaw and cupping his cheek, my thumb briefly brushing his lower lip. And God, his lips part at that, and- "Sherlock," I say, my voice far too deep and husky to hide what I'm thinking, "what are we doing?"

"Watching telly," Sherlock answers, his tone casual but his voice just as rough as mine (and fuck, that's too much, knowing that he's affected by this for all that he's pretending otherwise). His eyes are dark and there's a hint of a flush at the base of his throat, but for a moment he almost looks stroppy again and asks, "Unless you'd rather be doing something else?"

"No," I say, too quickly. "God, no." I swallow hard, my hand stroking back down his face and to his neck. "Only…"

Sherlock sits up suddenly, sliding up on to his knees and grabbing my shoulders. "Don't think, John," he says, very seriously. "I'm much better at thinking than you are and I've already considered every aspect of this, weighed the costs versus the benefits, debated every possible outcome." He leans forward, his face inches from mine but his eyes still intensely focused on my own. "This is the conclusion I reached." And then, impossibly, he closes the distance between us, his eyes falling closed at the last second, and kisses me. His lips are full- Christ- and so warm and soft, but the kiss is a little clumsy until I take charge of it. I slide my hand back into his hair and sit up a little, pressing back against him firmly, feeling each shaky breath he lets out as a warm flutter against my own skin.

"Fuck," I gasp, pulling him closer. I never even dreamed of this, not really. Never let myself. This was never a possibility, or so I thought.

"I thought we could work up to that," Sherlock says and I'm taken aback, but then he's smiling against my mouth and shifting, bringing one knee over and between my leg and the armrest, straddling me despite the already preposterous height difference and tipping my head back against the sofa. He grinds up against me a little and holy shit he's hard, I can feel it against my stomach and fuck I've never done this, I don't know what I'm supposed to do with that but he's kissing me and it's brilliant and-

"You're thinking," Sherlock mumbles, kissing me again and again, his hands fumbling with the hem of my T-shirt. "Stop that."

"I don't-" I say, but rest of the sentence disappears in a haze as Sherlock runs his hands up the bare skin of my chest, his nails lightly scratching. Sherlock is rocking slightly in my lap, his breath ragged as his mouth trails down my throat, sucking and nipping and making me gasp. How is it possible that Sherlock is the dominant force here? So far I've just sat back and let him do as he wished.

Well, no time like the present for changing that. I grab his hips hard and lift, heaving him up- "oh!" he cries, clutching me, wide-eyed- and tossing him down on the sofa, easing between his parted legs and coming down on top of him. His knees come up automatically, his legs going to my hips and pushing me down further, both of us groaning at the contact that seems almost painfully close despite our clothes being in the way. Sherlock's arms loop around my neck and my hands slip down between the cushions so that I'm doing a sort of push-up over him. I don't know who starts it but within seconds we're grinding against each other frantically (and I haven't done this since I was a bloody teenager, but then I haven't felt like this since I was a teenager, like there wasn't enough time or space or breath left to wait any longer), Sherlock arching his back and actually moaning underneath me, soft broken moans that make me shudder with need. We aren't even kissing anymore; I have my face pressed against the warm, damp heat of his neck and his head is thrown back, his hands scrabbling across my back. "John," he gasps, after only a few minutes, and then: "oh…"

I think that's what unravels me, that tiny, whispered "oh" and the way Sherlock's body goes stiff against me, his fingernails digging into my ribs and his hips stuttering. It's the tone of surprise in his voice and something more, something that I'm too humble to call awe but which I never hear in Sherlock's voice anyway, and I did that. Me. "Oh, fuck," I rasp, and then it's over, I'm shuddering and panting and slumping down against Sherlock's chest, completely spent. I think the last time I came in my pants I was maybe fifteen and asleep (and mortified in the morning, as I recall) but I don't even care that it's sticky and uncomfortable because Sherlock is kissing me again, a deep lazy kiss that makes me sigh with contentment.

"I have a very strong affectionate bond with you, partly chemically-induced and partly sentimental," Sherlock says softly, after a moment, "but you're heavy."

"Oh." I laugh and ease up, shimmying into the space Sherlock creates for me at the edge of the sofa. I'm still turned to face him, smiling like an idiot, but it's okay because Sherlock's got a little smile on his own face and his eyes are glittering happily. I lean forward and kiss him again, a sweet chaste kiss that seems almost out of place considering. "Sorry, love."

He laughs a little at that and sets his hand on my hip, fingers flexing. "Now what?" he asks, looking unsure for the first time all evening.

I don't know what he wants long-term but I don't want to ruin this, not yet. "The Hungry Earth?" I suggest, knowing he hasn't watched that one yet.

Sherlock's mouth twitches. "All right," he says, half-smiling, and I turn over, settling my back against him and grinning idiotically at the easy way he puts his arm around me, hand sliding up my shirt and settling on my stomach. I can tell I'm getting old, though, because Amy's not even done anything overly dramatic or stupid before I've slipped into a light and dreamless sleep.

A/N: I have no idea why I wrote the first half of this, and I wasn't planning to write a resolution but then my muse said "yeah, no, you're writing it" so here we are. I honestly do think Sherlock would prefer Eleven. They have a lot of similarities (which isn't surprising, considering the writers and all) and also Eleven is just…great. I love him. And I'm pretty sure they name-drop Sherlock Holmes in "The Hungry Earth" which made me lol a little as I was writing this, but hey. Whatever. If characters on Doctor Who can be watching Doctor Who in the background (yes, that has happened) and the newspaper in Sherlock (TRF) can mention Arthur Conan Doyle, I can use "The Hungry Earth" in a Sherlock fanfic. So.