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John thinks about it quite often. He's thinking about it now. There are different forces in nature: gravitational force, electrical force, magnetic force and the force of nature known as Sherlock Holmes. He wonders which of those are the strongest, but not for long. With a powerful rocket, gravity can be overcome. Given enough distance, even a magnet fails to attract iron. A single discharge of energy, and electrical forces are equalised. But Sherlock, well, nothing and no one can escape that force. Not even John Watson. No, he is locked in the detective's orbit and that's not going to change.
John shakes his head. Maybe Sherlock's not a force of nature at all. He's energy. That's it. Sometimes the man is potential energy, laying on his sofa in his pyjamas and dressing gown. More often he is kinetic energy, striding around a crime scene making deductions, whirling around with his coat billowing after him. What would it be like to be immolated by all of that energy being released at once instead of in little drabs? Fuck. The sex would be incredible. John wants to experience that. He wants to be at the centre of the conflagration and see the walls of the flat burn down around them as they come.
He gets his wish. Sort of.
On the way back home after a case, Sherlock grabs him by the arm and pulls him into a dark alley.
"What the bloody hell!" John exclaims, "Is someone following us?"
Sherlock growls into his ear, "Hush, John. You don't want them to hear."
"Who, the killer?" Adrenaline is already coursing through John's veins.
"Don't be absurd. We're not in any danger, John."
"Then why... "
Sherlock cuts John's question off by the simple expedient of a kiss. He can feel it, the moment when his blogger relaxes into him. John’s mouth opens and the detective plunderers it for long moments.
John can feel Sherlock's fingers unbuckling his belt and it’s suddenly hard to breathe. "Fuck, Sherlock. Not here. Not like this."
"Yes, John. Right here. Right now." He moves his long fingers to unfasten John's zip. "I heard you this morning in the shower. You were masturbating, but you weren't thinking of Sarah. You were thinking of me. When you climaxed, you called out my name, John. Then later, at the crime scene, you couldn't keep your eyes off of me. Your pupils were dilated. You were breathing hard. Did you notice when I checked your heart rate? It was elevated. You want this. Tell me that you do."
John closes his eyes. "God, yes. I really do."
"Good," Sherlock smirks. "Now that we have that out of the way..." He has John's cock out now and, sometime while he was talking, he has pulled out his own as well. Sherlock takes them both in hand, wrapping his elegant fingers around both their lengths. He gives them one long stroke.
The shudder of pleasure that passes through John makes him gasp. "So... Oh God! You didn't know before this morning."
Sherlock breaks off from kissing John's throat. "Don't be absurd. I've known ever since that first night at Angelo's."
"Then why, ung," John can barely speak.
Sherlock is stroking their cocks together and he has started nibbling on the lobe of his blogger's ear.
"Why did you wait so long? You. Complete. Wanker!" This feels so good, but John really wants to know.
"I had to see if you would stay." Sherlock is breathing hard himself. He's wanted this for so long and now he doesn't have to wait. "You did. Even after the head in the fridge and the lab at Baskerville. I thought you would leave, but you surprised me John Watson."
John almost says "Thank you", but he places his hands on either side of Sherlock's head and pulls him in for another kiss. This kiss is even better than the first. Sherlock tastes vaguely of cigarettes, but John can't be arsed to care. He just wants this to last.
"John," Sherlock says when they break apart. He sounds ragged, needy with arousal and plunders John's mouth once again.
The force of the kiss drives John's head back against the brick of the building and he cries out into Sherlock's mouth. The sudden pain brings their location crashing back into his awareness. They're in an alley. This is wildly inappropriate. Any of the people passing by the end of the alley might see them. They could get an ASBO. Wouldn't that be perfect? God! What if Greg followed them, wanting to talk about the case and found them like this. "Home, Sherlock."
"I don't want to wait," comes the rumbling answer and it shoots straight to John's already hard cock. "I've waited too long for this already, Doctor. I won't wait any longer."
John moans. "Fine. That's... just fine." And it really is because he's waited too long for this as well. Besides, it's dark and no one is going to notice.
A sudden burst of cold washes over John's exposed cock. Sherlock has let him go and is fondling his blogger's bollocks. John shivers. The detective wraps his coat around John as best he can.
"Better?"
John hums his approval, too lost in pleasure for words. Sherlock laughs softly and returns his full attention to his blogger. He loves the sounds that John is making.
A sound comes from deep in the alleyway. "Sherl... Sherlock. What was that?"
"Nothing, John. Just ignore it."
John wants to ignore it, but his soldier's instincts won't let him. He grasps Sherlock's hands and pulls them away from his body. "Could be muggers... dangerous," he pants out. The scrapping sounds coming from the darkness seem to confirm his suspicions.
Sherlock breaks his hands free from John's and returns to his ministrations. "Can you hear them, John? Really hear them? Ah, yes, there are three of them. Listen to what two of them are doing to the third. Tell me what you hear. Even you should be able to make this deduction."
John clamps his mouth shut on the moans of pleasure that are, even now, trying to escape him. He listens. He hears a groan. Of pain? Words come, just barely audible, to his ears. "Again. Just like that. Jesus!" Definitely not pain then.
"Oh, I see. This must be a popular spot,” John quips.
Sherlock breathes his reply into John’s neck, “Apparently.”
The things that Sherlock’s hands and mouth are doing to him cause John’s eyes to roll back in his head. He gives himself to the sensations eagerly. Once again, cold envelops his aching cock as Sherlock pulls away and abruptly falls to his knees before John. In a flash, the cold is replaced by the heat of Sherlock’s mouth. “Fuck! God, Sherlock.” The feeling is so intense, better than he had ever imagined because this is Sherlock, his detective, his obsession doing this to him. He wants to look down and see that face, that mouth, as Sherlock sucks. John opens his eyes and before he can drop his gaze to the sight that he so earnestly wants to see, he spies the CCTV camera that’s mounted just at the entrance to the alley. It’s turned vaguely in their direction and, from the glow of the red indicator light, John can see that it’s on. “Bloody Mycroft!”
Sherlock doesn’t pause. If anything, he works more frantically and John’s hips begin to shift in response. It’s not long until John is thrusting into Sherlock’s eager mouth and it feels “So good, I can’t…” He is about to come and the detective is the one doing this to him and Sherlock’s beautiful and hot and “Oh… God.” Now Sherlock is making small needy sounds and John is vaguely aware that Sherlock is working himself toward orgasm even as he sucks John’s cock and that’s good. It’s right. Sherlock should be enjoying this as much as he is.
The CCTV camera catches John’s eye when it shifts slightly. “Sherlock…” he gasps “Mycroft. Your brother…”
John can almost feel the heat of Sherlock’s brief glare, but it fades swiftly. The detective hums and hollows his cheeks out as he sucks and John is coming and it’s glorious because Sherlock is coming and shivering and this is better than any drug because it’s John.
“Thank you, John.”
His blogger laughs because that is possibly the most ridiculous thing that Sherlock has ever said. “You idiot. Thank you.” John lets his fingers slide through Sherlock’s hair as he muses. So what if Mycroft wanted to watch? He will smile and meet the man glare for glare the next time the older Holmes shows himself in the flat.
At the entrance to the alleyway, two women come staggering. They’re singing, drunken and off key.
John is still laughing. “Like I said before, this must be a popular place.” Sherlock is still kneeling in front of him. “You need to get up, Sherlock.” He shakes his head. “I don’t imagine that even your cleaner will be able to salvage your trousers.”
Sherlock climbs to his feet, tucks himself into his trousers and zips himself up. John follows suit and soon they look respectable. No one would suspect anything, just by looking at them.
Their eyes lock and they’re giggling like they so often do at crime scenes, inappropriate or not. Sherlock takes John’s hand and they step out onto the pathway and into the bright lights of London.
--------------
Mycroft is working late at the office and his assistant, Anthea is there with him. A notification pops up on his computer and he opens it. He’s directed to a live feed which is simultaneously being recorded for later perusal. “Well, it’s about time.”
“What was that, Sir?” Anthea asks.
“Nothing of importance.” He can’t quite hide the satisfaction in his voice.
Anthea looks up from her phone, one eyebrow raised in question. Mycroft ignores her and she returns her attention to the information that she had been reading.
When the two men on Mycroft’s computer leave the alley, he closes out the feed. It doesn’t take him long to locate and edit the file down to the pertinent timeframe. He copies the edited file to a small thumb drive and deletes the original and the copy from his computer. It wouldn’t do for anyone else to see what he has seen. “Be a dear and deliver this to my brother for me.”
Anthea takes the thumb drive and nods absently before leaving. Mycroft leans back and smiles.
--------------
John answers the door when Anthea knocks. “Oh, hi. Um, Sherlock’s getting a shower, I can go fetch him if you like.”
“That won’t be necessary, Doctor Watson. Mr. Holmes sent this for his brother.” She hands him the thumb drive.
“Will I get shot if I look at what’s on it?” John asks.
Anthea smiles. “Not this time, no.” She turns and leaves.
He really shouldn’t look at what’s on the drive, John knows that, but if he doesn’t look, Sherlock is likely to throw it into the fire and they’ll never know what Mycroft has sent. He plugs it into his laptop and opens the single video file that is on it. The video is grainy, but he instantly recognises the scene. John laughs. Really, Mycroft Bloody Holmes.
Sherlock is making the most delightful sounds in the video and John starts getting hard again. He snaps the laptop closed and stalks to the loo. The door is unlocked. He strips and climbs in beside the very wet and pleasantly startled detective.
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There are no cameras in the loo, but there are several in the flat. They abruptly go offline, their feeds cut off with no warning. Whatever is going to happen later will only be known by the two lovers. As it should be.