Sherlock Holmes doesn’t jerk off.
His devotion to not laying hands on himself started soon after he began laying hands on himself. He was fourteen.
Though he knew what wet dreams, masturbation, and orgasms were, Sherlock had been convinced he was above them. Then he woke from the first because he was doing the second which led to the third.
This was not one little bit of all right, and so, before his fifteenth birthday, he’d (mostly) stopped doing the second, which helped him gain control of the first, and so cease coping with the third.
This became relevant twenty-one years later as Sherlock Holmes stood in the sterile confines of a sperm bank wanking room. (They have not called the room that. They have not called it anything except busy. “It’s busy,” the receptionist said, “because of the remodel. Hurry on.”)
An amendment to Grand-mère Holmes’ will—something to do with unmarried males reaching thirty-five without progeny blah blah must bank their genes blah blah assets withdrawn if failure to comply blah blah—has lead to Sherlock being where he is, about to do something he has no wish to do.
And that thing is jerk off into a small vessel, so that the result can be frozen against the day there is not a sufficiency of Holmeses (being as some believe the two currently residing in London are twice more than enough, this problem seems somewhat manufactured).
Be that as it may, all Sherlock knows is that if he wants to continue not caring about something as dishwater dull as finance, he must get something sperm-like into this cup. And there’s the…rub. Due to long years of abstinence and despite quite a bit of effort, Sherlock finds himself devoid of a certain critical necessity: An erection.
                              *
Sherlock ignores the receptionist’s sharp knock and trilling call, just as he’s ignored her for the last thirty minutes.
Instead he looks down at his still-limp cock and he—
Another tap at the door, this one gentler, followed by a man’s voice.
Sherlock clenches his jaw. He contemplates opening the door with his fist wrapped around his prick. He does not do this. Instead he puts on his scarf and his coat and he opens the door. That his trousers are still pooled at his ankles registers instantly to the short doctor standing there. The man steps inside quietly—
Sherlock’s brain rat-tat-tats: Locum. Ex-army. Sympathetic. Smells ridiculously good.
—then turns his back politely.
"Um, I’m Dr. Watson and I’m stupidly sorry about this," the small man begins. "I know these interruptions are a bit not good but…uh, as we may have explained poorly, all our donation suites, except this one, are being repainted."
John Watson pauses briefly when he hears…a sound.
"I, uh, don’t understand why they did them all at once either, but I do understand that it’s lead to a bit of a traffic jam for the one room left and I’m sorry, but we’ve had to institute a time limit for—"
John becomes aware that the man behind him is…he’s…wanking to him. To his voice. Instantly John’s voice drops half an octave of its own accord. Sherlock doesn’t bother to mute his moan.
Which causes John’s voice to go suddenly husky, which leads to another fucking fantastic moan. By this point John’s so completely visualising what’s going on behind him that some fast-beating, butterfly-winged bit of him is giddy, flattered, and suddenly empathetically horny. He’s thinking a whole range of sexy things and he’s about to maybe say something when there’s a knock on the door and—
"God damn it Adele, we’re busy in here!"
—and the man behind John groans high and long in relief.
                              *
The text comes as John arrives at work two days later.
John frowns. He doesn’t recognise the number. He deletes the message.
Another text the next day.
You look sexy in your lab coat. Let’s have dinner.
John frowns-grins. Still doesn’t know the number. Deletes.
I don’t usually masturbate in front of a man without formal introductions. Let’s have dinner.
John grins and wonders how the big git got his number. He shoves his mobile in his pocket, pretends he’s not going to reply. At half six he does.
Angelo’s. Near Baker Street. In an hour?
I’m already here. Come at once, if convenient.
John giggles to himself, “Well, I suppose it is my turn.”
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A conversation with the wonderful Chocolamousse included discussion of sperm donations. Naturally that seemed an excellent way for John and Sherlock to meet. Thank you Chocola!
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