After he was finished berating himself, Sherlock took a deep breath. John and Mary will be arriving shortly for a Sex Visit. What is the ettquette here? It's you. They're not expecting any sort of etiquette if it's you. What would they be expecting? Supplies. He had a condom...just one... in case he should ever need it. He'd buy a box. A medium sized box. Rifle through it a bit, throw a couple away so it looks like I didn't just ... pop down to the store this afternoon and... buy them. Lubricant. Need that. The rather expensive handcream he used on the rare occasions when he decided to service his erections directly, rather than ignore them as an unfortunate biological distraction, wouldn't be sufficient. He dropped into his chair. Hours to prepare. Wine...should I get some wine? I think I'll get some wine. He chuckled darkly. Condoms, lubricant and wine. Good thing I don't give a toss what the clerk thinks; everyone knows what I'm up to with that at checkout. Then, I should, clean the flat? He peered into his bedroom, which was sparse enough to always appear clean. Need clean towels though...could get messy. Might need that. Tesco first. Condoms. Lubricant. Wine. Now.
****
Supplies purchased, flat reasonably clean, but not too clean. He tossed a stack of papers on the floor for good measure. Now Sherlock was browsing though the internet, getting a sense of what they might chose to do. It wasn't particularly helpful, and there were only so many possible combinations...limits to what could go where. Watching random people having sex was not very inspiring. Watching John have sex? Considerably more so. Oh. Was that what he was meant to do...was that Mary's angle? That clicked alarmingly well... he would be witness to a demonstration of what they had found in each other. What he wasn't privy to. A demonstration of possession. He felt vaguely ill. In his eagerness to be as close to John as possible, he had neglected to notice the obvious.
Well. Motivation had always been his weak point. He had never cared why a perpetrator committed a crime. Could be any number of reasons, or no reason at all. So long as the criminal was apprehended, the puzzle solved, he had done what he had set out to accomplish. He was not entirely skilled at determining his own motivations either. What exactly did he want from this experience? John. More of John. To see John. To hear John. He felt a warm rush through his body just thinking of what John would sound like; he hadn't felt anything remotely close to that during the previous hour spent navigating pornography websites. If he couldn't touch John, couldn't be touched by John, it was still something to treasure. He would watch John's face, study every intricate detail. I'll get to see John's face when he... Sherlock was flooding his mind with images of John. Incomplete visual impressions based on mental measurements of his clothed body. His Vitruvian Man. The jumpers and button-downs were deceiving; he had already catalogued the musculature underneath. Now he would be seeing it, in... an hour's time.
A shower. If he was to be a participant in any way, rather than mere observer, he would need to be clean. That would be proper etiquette. Though he found himself wishing John wouldn't be. More John, less soap. He stripped and stepped into the shower. Fascinating, how quickly his body reacted to that thought. He smirked. This would have been helpful information when Janine intruded on his shower as he was transitioning out of his Shezza persona. More efficient than the rather elaborate and unrealistic fantasy of John opening the washroom door had been.
Whilst washing, he debated what he would wear. Getting fully dressed seemed a tad bizarre when the ultimate purpose was to disrobe. He felt the shampoo run down his back as he rinsed out his hair. He would want a comfortable shirt. His soft cotton vest, striped pajama bottoms and his blue silk dressing gown. He toweled himself off, dressed and sat in his chair, unsure what to do next. He brushed his teeth, then rinsed thoroughly until there was no toothpaste residue. He trimmed his toenails. He let the wine breathe. He let himself breathe. He waited.
FILL 7/? "Three" (Threesome fail)
****
Supplies purchased, flat reasonably clean, but not too clean. He tossed a stack of papers on the floor for good measure. Now Sherlock was browsing though the internet, getting a sense of what they might chose to do. It wasn't particularly helpful, and there were only so many possible combinations...limits to what could go where. Watching random people having sex was not very inspiring. Watching John have sex? Considerably more so. Oh. Was that what he was meant to do...was that Mary's angle? That clicked alarmingly well... he would be witness to a demonstration of what they had found in each other. What he wasn't privy to. A demonstration of possession. He felt vaguely ill. In his eagerness to be as close to John as possible, he had neglected to notice the obvious.
Well. Motivation had always been his weak point. He had never cared why a perpetrator committed a crime. Could be any number of reasons, or no reason at all. So long as the criminal was apprehended, the puzzle solved, he had done what he had set out to accomplish. He was not entirely skilled at determining his own motivations either. What exactly did he want from this experience? John. More of John. To see John. To hear John. He felt a warm rush through his body just thinking of what John would sound like; he hadn't felt anything remotely close to that during the previous hour spent navigating pornography websites. If he couldn't touch John, couldn't be touched by John, it was still something to treasure. He would watch John's face, study every intricate detail. I'll get to see John's face when he... Sherlock was flooding his mind with images of John. Incomplete visual impressions based on mental measurements of his clothed body. His Vitruvian Man. The jumpers and button-downs were deceiving; he had already catalogued the musculature underneath. Now he would be seeing it, in... an hour's time.
A shower. If he was to be a participant in any way, rather than mere observer, he would need to be clean. That would be proper etiquette. Though he found himself wishing John wouldn't be. More John, less soap. He stripped and stepped into the shower. Fascinating, how quickly his body reacted to that thought. He smirked. This would have been helpful information when Janine intruded on his shower as he was transitioning out of his Shezza persona. More efficient than the rather elaborate and unrealistic fantasy of John opening the washroom door had been.
Whilst washing, he debated what he would wear. Getting fully dressed seemed a tad bizarre when the ultimate purpose was to disrobe. He felt the shampoo run down his back as he rinsed out his hair. He would want a comfortable shirt. His soft cotton vest, striped pajama bottoms and his blue silk dressing gown. He toweled himself off, dressed and sat in his chair, unsure what to do next. He brushed his teeth, then rinsed thoroughly until there was no toothpaste residue. He trimmed his toenails. He let the wine breathe. He let himself breathe. He waited.