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John Watson had known from the very first day he saw the illustrious Sherlock Holmes that he would never be bored again, not as long as the curly-haired genius walked this Earth; nothing would ever be the same again.
Every day was a new adventure. Every hour saturated with a rapid-fire of knowledge and deductions that never failed to captivate, every minute and second in Sherlock’s company meant John Watson could no longer remain immune to the pull and allure that drew him to the detective like a moth to a burning lamp on a dark night, regardless of whether he got burnt.
And whatever the world’s only consulting detective was doing, John could never fight the fascination that accompanied his every move.
But what awaited him that evening, when he returned home from work, exceeded all his expectations.
The flat was unusually quiet—something most people would welcome, but in the case of 221B Baker Street, quiet meant something suspiciously unnatural.
John dropped his leather bag on the sixth step leading upstairs, and calling out the other man’s name, walked through the flat to find him. The living room was empty, as was the kitchen, where chemical clutter was scattered as far as the eye could see.
John knew Sherlock’s iconic coat was hanging in the hall, which made it unlikely he’d left the house.
That theatrical sod wouldn’t go anywhere without his dramatically turned-up collar—every one of his entrances featured a mysterious swirl of the Belstaff’s felt.
On the tiled bathroom floor lay a pile of clothes. A burgundy shirt and branded pressed trousers. John’s imagination began feeding him some rather unique mental images. But he knew the man well enough to let those ideas dissolve again, for Sherlock Holmes did not indulge in masturbation or sexual play unless it was part of some experiment.
The doctor grunted and stared blankly at the wall for a few seconds before coughing into his hand. It was an experiment!
It was seven in the evening, and Sherlock Holmes was probably naked and locked in his room—what else could it be? Certainly not boredom; that was usually accompanied by a few lazy gunshots into the wall.
John approached the detective’s door cautiously and, for a moment, dared to press his ear against it. But no noise came from the room, not even suspicious muffled sounds. He might’ve sworn he heard a heavy breath, which only made his rational brain scream at him not to open the door.
But as Sherlock often liked to say about him, he was an idiot. Despite caution, two heartbeats after mentally telling himself off, John reached for the doorknob and prepared to open Sherlock’s door.
“Sherlock? Sherlock, are you in there?”
“Hhhh…”
The older man froze. “Sherlock, are you alright? Can I come in?”
“Hhhh…”
Right. Two identical answers meant something was definitely wrong. But two-thirds of Sherlock’s experiments would be labelled “wrong” by the average person, whereas John, after years in this flat, would just wave a dismissive hand.
But the moment the door opened, he froze in place and stared. Before he could count to three, he burst out laughing so hard he nearly lost his breath. He leaned against the doorframe and couldn’t stop.
On the floor in front of him, sprawled on the dark carpet, lay Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock Holmes in a red corset laced so tightly he could barely move—though that seemed like the least of his problems, because it looked like the genius couldn’t breathe either, and every breath was a desperate hope to survive a few more minutes.
The whole scene was completed by red and black accessories worthy of the finest BDSM salon. Maybe that Adler woman had left something behind in him after all.
Black fishnet stockings with garters made Sherlock’s already endless legs look even longer, and the red high heels sinfully dragged John’s thoughts into places he’d forbidden himself from visiting for months.
“This—isn’t—funny, Jo—hn,” the detective panted. He lay there helpless and exhausted, every blink a monumental effort.
“You’ve never been more wrong!” The doctor pulled his phone from his back pocket and began photographing the laced-up Sherlock in a corset, stockings, and heels. Somewhere deep in the recesses of his conscience, he knew he was gathering material for long winter evenings, but he couldn’t stop laughing at the helplessness.
“When I tell Greg about this, he’ll never believe me—hold still, perfect, I need evidence.”
“J—ohn!”
“Brilliant, sweetheart, now from this angle, marvellous.”
“J—ohn,” Sherlock rasped again, but this time he sounded truly pissed off.
The smaller man pocketed his mobile and stepped closer. “Didn’t know you had such kinks, Sherlock. You could’ve told me, I wouldn’t judge—and I would’ve given you more time alone,” he joked.
“Case,” came the single, meaningful word from those drawn lips.
John Watson didn’t need to be a genius to piece it together. After all, if his flatmate had been indulging in corsets and gathers at night, surely he’d have noticed by now. Then again, you never know.
“And did you solve this case of the murderous corset?”
“It’s—still—not—funny!”
“And you’re still wrong!”
“What if—you just—bloody—helped me?”
The smile was still spread across John’s face, but behind the blue irises, there was something else. Yet it was the doctor in him who finally knelt beside the man and loosened the lacing on his back to allow him a bit of that much-needed air. Though he still left him half-bound and trapped in that boned piece of ladies’ lingerie.
“How the hell did you even get into this getup?”
For a moment their eyes met, but after a few deep, relieving breaths, the shifting gaze slid away. John could’ve sworn the detective’s cheeks flushed red.
“Irrelevant. I had to thoroughly test the data and recreate the scene. The escort was found dead, suffocated, with no signs of violence. She was wearing a corset. The body was discovered roughly two hours post mortem.”
“How long were you lying there like this?” John asked, curious.
“As you might have noticed, John, I wasn’t exactly in the best position to keep track of time,” the dark-haired man said seriously—but John recognised that tone; he always used it when he wanted to dodge something.
“Bollocks, Sherlock. Even your half-suffocated, oxygen-deprived brain still works twice as fast as the average idiot’s. How long?”
“About four hours,” he admitted reluctantly.
“And you’re still breathing, though…” John burst out laughing again, eyes occasionally drifting southward.
Sherlock’s lip curled in a strange embarrassment, uncharacteristic of him. “How deductive! But yes, you’re right, the corset wasn’t the cause.”
“So I assume the experiment’s solved—unless it was the suspenders or those stunning scarlet stilettos.”
“I’m not laughing, John.”
“Well, I can’t stop!”
Another round of laughter followed as Sherlock shifted uncomfortably and glared at the doctor. “Are you finally going to help me out of this?”
“Wait, did you say it was a prostitute?”
“You weren’t listening at all, John. Keep up—I said escort.”
“I don’t see the difference,” the blogger ran a hand through his hair.
Sherlock Holmes rolled his eyes and sighed. “An escort, unlike a prostitute, isn’t contractually obliged to have intercourse with her client. She did it willingly.”
“For a bloke who’s not into that sort of thing, you sure know your way around.”
“Says you.”
John blinked in confusion, then replied: “So what, they’re just decorative? In stockings and lace?”
“More or less,” the taller man nodded, his black curls bouncing slightly on his forehead.
“Well then, this escort girl didn’t feel very pretty in that modest corset for long.”
“Evidently. Have you had your laugh now?”
“You know what? Honestly, no—and I don’t think I ever will. This is going to amuse me for months. But I’m a doctor and I can’t let a patient suffer in such a time of trial, especially one who’s struggling so much,” he reached out again and fully unlaced the corset on the detective’s back, laughing throughout. The moment his fingers touched the silky pale skin, though, the laughter stopped. He exhaled deeply.
“You’re being outrageously funny today, John,” Sherlock didn’t notice the brief falter. “Good mood implies your last date went surprisingly well. So, as the mortals say—you scored.”
John, now far from laughter, frowned. “You’re treading on very thin ice, Sherlock. If you want to stay like this, keep going.”
“Alright, alright! Just get it off me, I feel like my kidneys are going to come out of my throat,” he squirmed.
And with that, the corset finally fell to the floor. He sat there before John from the waist down in women’s underwear, his chest completely bare. Already at a glance, it was delicate, soft, and perfect.
John thought something about Sherlock’s self-inflicted torture reaching a whole new level. The shrapnel of already stirred emotions shattered in all directions, and he rubbed a tormented hand over his face.
Still, he had to remain professional. “Anything hurt? I’ll check your ribs for fractures.”
To his surprise, Sherlock didn’t protest—he just nodded briefly and started watching him with an analytical gaze, and a heartbeat later, his look unexpectedly softened. “It’s fear that hurts the most,” he whispered.
The slight tremble in John’s hands and deep swallow weren’t helping. His fingers began palpating the soft skin, rib by rib, and he looked up at the man’s face. “What do you mean?”
“Pain fades, but fear lingers.”
“You mean fear of pain? You’re afraid of pain or… What are you on about, Sherlock?” The doctor’s right hand slowly drifted to rest on the consultant’s thigh.
“Nothing hurts,” Sherlock said in a deep baritone, glancing down where John’s warm palm met the fishnet fabric on his leg. “And are you alright?”
“I’m not the one who spent four hours gasping for breath in a corset, but I don’t think I’ll get that image out of my head.”
“Because you liked it?” Sherlock asked directly, eyes locked on his.
The room was starting to feel hellishly hot—or was it just John?
“Uhm… hate to disappoint, but I don’t normally picture blokes in women’s lingerie.”
“Not blokes. But me, you will.”
“That’s a bit arrogant—even for you. I’ve told you a dozen times I’m not gay.”
“No, you’re not, John. But I’m the exception, aren’t I?”
“I—I… what the hell are you talking about?” John’s heartbeat had to be audible from outside the window. Even though he tried to appear unfazed, Sherlock’s words triggered wild tachycardia, and every intense look burned a hole down to his stomach where something started to itch.
“I was blind—I thought it was just your urge for adrenaline, that I was a distraction you needed to keep life exciting and energising. I could never fully read you, you were my irresistible enigma—but I think I understand it all now.”
“Sherlock, I… I really don’t know what you’re trying to say here.”
“I think you do. We both do—but it hangs between us like a storm in the air,” he glanced again at the hand on his leg, which a surprised John still hadn’t removed, and laid his more sinewy one over it.
John Watson’s breath caught as he looked at where their fingers intertwined. “Uhm, I really am not gay.”
“I know, John. And I’m married to my work,” he gave him a knowing look.
“I thought you… you didn’t do sentiment.”
“Sentiment can be a bad master—but also a good servant. There are exceptions.”
It was Sherlock’s deep, tender voice that pierced through the doctor’s shield of reason like a soap bubble when he smiled at the other man warmly. To hell with all pretence—he couldn’t lie to his genius, and he’d stopped lying to himself months ago.
And when he blinked again, just to make sure this moment was real, Sherlock leaned in and locked John’s lips in a brief butterfly kiss.
For a moment, it was as if time stood still. Neither dared move, and the former soldier absorbed every variable. The gentle brush of warm lips, the scent rising from the other’s body, the tickle of dark curls at Sherlock’s forehead.
Is this what happiness tasted like?
John seized the moment and, in a rare moment of boldness, reached out his left hand to pull the detective’s face and body closer. To kiss him. Properly, ardently, deeply, lovingly—in a way that carried all the years’ worth of affection and boundless devotion he’d stored away.
Because John Watson wasn’t gay.
But he loved Sherlock Holmes.