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Sherlock Holmes's life had taken an interesting turn ever since John had been let in on his very personal secret: he had a piss kink.
It had started off with an accident, literally.
The piss kink of his own often took him to the verge of desperation, squirming wildly in efforts not to spill his bladder. But this was only when he was alone. Only when he was ever alone.
He liked to do this at home, when John was out, or when Sherlock was at Barts, or even occasionally in the storage room at New Scotland Yard. As long as he knew that he could get home afterwards, because that was the second bit of his greatest secret: he had a shy bladder.
Except around John.
John was the strange contradiction to the rule. There had been many close shaves, and a few accidents, in the past year that John had known. Not that Sherlock tried to do it purposefully- not most of the time- but yet, there it was.
And a few times, they weren't accidents. They were planned... or prompted.
Sherlock crossed his ankles. His eyes were locked on a petri dish in front of him, but his hands shook as he dropped a singular drip of liquid onto the chemical in the dish.
"John?" he asked, without looking away from the reaction.
"Hmm?" John replied disinterestedly, his eyes on the television. "If you want me to go to Tesco, you've got another thought coming. I'm watching this movie."
Sherlock smirked, allowing himself to look up to see what John was watching. Something action-packed, with bombs and gunfire and car chases. Very James Bond, but without the 007 himself. Sherlock dismissed the thought and looked back at his petri dish.
"No, John, I don't want you to go to Tesco right now. I just needed to bring it to your attention that I will be needing the toilet after this experiment is finished."
The television was on in the sitting room, but the sudden silence that descended seemed to be louder than the action movie.
This was another game.
Sherlock only wanted to use the toilet when he heard John's approval- you can go- although it didn't always work out. John liked to play this game, especially ever since Sherlock had started acting like a drill sergeant during their little hold-it games. John was classically conditioned to respond to an order, but he was always very eager to dish them out.
It just didn't always work out, because John had said a) no calling me at work, b) no waking me up when I'm sleeping, and c) do not call me while I'm on a date. So, Sherlock didn't wait for the permission to be granted at those times, just got up and shuffled to the bathroom lazily when the need arose.
But, John was home now.
"... Let me know when your experiment's finished," John murmured, sounding much more interested than he had just a moment ago.
"Right," Sherlock replied coolly, returning to his experiment.
As it were, it took twenty minutes to finish the experiment. He knew that he could have left it. He could have; it wasn't time sensitive or anything. But he was stubborn, and he had wanted to finish it. As a reward to himself, he could use the toilet.
"Ah, yes," he murmured, smiling as he sat up straight. He must have miscalculated just how long it had been since he had last made a trip to the loo, because the motion hurt a bit more than expected. "Ah..."
John had twisted around in his chair to look at him curiously. "Experiment went well?"
"Yes," Sherlock said pleasantly, getting to his feet. He curled his toes and gripped onto the edge of the table, swallowing. "Yes, it did."
"Come over here?"
Sherlock frowned slightly, looking across the kitchen at John. "Can't it wait a moment? I really need to-"
"No."
John's voice was steady, albeit a bit shy, although Sherlock could barely believe his ears. John had never denied Sherlock when he was so close to pissing himself.
"Excuse me?"
John stood. "I said 'no'. Now come over here."
Sherlock didn't move. His mind was conflicted. "John, I know that this was my idea, and you know that I'm open to any sort of experimental phase that we want to test, but I really need to go."
"I know you do, and if you don't come here, it's going to be longer."
Sherlock stood up straight and relinquished his grip on the tabletop, padding silently across the kitchen and into the sitting room.
"Yes?" he asked, stopping in front of John. "What do you need me to do?"
John pointed to the sofa. "Sit."
That, Sherlock could do. He took the five steps to the sofa and carefully sit down, trying not to jostle his bladder.
"Yes?" he repeated, looking up at John.
"Stay there," John murmured, turning away.
Sherlock frowned, watching John walk back to the kitchen. This was different. They played this game only once in awhile, and really it was only for Sherlock to get a reaction out of John, but... John wasn't giving in. He was flushed and embarrassed, but he wasn't giving into Sherlock's need or desire. Not at the moment when Sherlock needed it the most.
He shifted his weight, scooting his bottom across the leather of the sofa.
"John-" he started, but John had just walked back into the sitting room.
He was carrying a bottle of water.
Sherlock squirmed, his stomach cramping at the thought of anything else to drink. "John, no."
John didn't hesitate- well, maybe a bit- before handing the bottle to Sherlock. It was cold. "Drink."
"I can't," Sherlock retorted, passing the bottle between his hands. The liquid sloshing within the bottle and the cold dew on his fingers made his bladder throb painfully. "John, I have got to piss. This isn't my usual antics-"
"Drink it, Sherlock, or so help me, I'll make it worse."
Sherlock couldn't deny the arousal, but his urge to piss was drowning it out. "How could you possibly make it-"
John moved forward, placing his hands against Sherlock's shoulders. He pushed him back, pushing his back against the sofa. His knees were straddling Sherlock's lap now, their crotches just nearly about to brush.
Sherlock, his breathing accelerated, dropped the water bottle onto the sofa. Thank goodness that the lid was screwed on it tightly, because he hadn't been paying attention. He placed his hand against John's chest to push him away.
"You need to move," he said.
As if that wasn't obvious. Sitting up straight hurt and the notion that John was only inches away from his overly-full bladder made him want to squirm. It was difficult to do that, though, when he had one-hundred seventy some pounds of soldier practically sitting on his lap.
"Drink the water, then," John replied calmly.
Sherlock wondered where he got that boldness from. It needed to show up more often.
"John, I can't-"
John slid his hand down, his fingers hovering above Sherlock's stomach. He looked at Sherlock's distended stomach before meeting Sherlock's gaze.
While Sherlock had thought it was difficult to squirm with a soldier sitting on his legs, he was wrong. With impending doom looming a half centimeter away, Sherlock squirmed wildly.
John didn't have to move, but Sherlock's squirming bumped his stomach into John's hand accidentally and he gasped as piss jetted into his pyjama pants.
"John, John, let me up," Sherlock gasped, trying to dislodge him without pissing himself. "John, the couch!"
"Better not piss yourself, then," John murmured, trailing his fingers over Sherlock's bladder.
Sherlock thrashed about, his trousers dampening as he finally managed to roll John's weight off of him. He was just about to lunge to his feet when John's arms locked firmly around his waist, making him topple with crumbling control onto John's lap.
He struggled vainly to hold on as piss jetted out of his cock, soaking his trousers and seeping into John's lap. He jambed his hands between his thighs and desperately tried to hang on, his breathing heavy and small trickles of urine already dripping down his legs.
"Sherlock," John gasped breathlessly. His erection was pressed into Sherlock's hip awkwardly as the consulting detective struggled over his transport.
"John, let me go!" he cried, panic taking over.
"Go," John breathed, pressing his hand against Sherlock's stomach again.
Sherlock gasped as the pressure tipped to unbearable and his bladder reflexively let go. There was no stopping it, even though he struggled to get out of John's lap, completely drenching his pants and John's. It was like golden bliss, sweet, golden bliss, except he was pissing into John's lap and he had never been so mortified.
He didn't stop wriggling until his steam had fizzled off, and even then, John's hands on his hips made him very nearly unable to sit still. He felt warm and comfortable and wet, John's hands were warm, and Sherlock could feel the doctor shaking beneath his own tremouring body.
"John," Sherlock started, but John shushed him. "John," he said a bit louder, "Mrs. Hudson is right downstairs. If she sees us like this-"
That seemed to snap John back to reality. His hands fell away from Sherlock's hips. "Right. Go-" he cleared his throat- "go get cleaned up. I'll be... I'll be upstairs if you need me."
Sherlock didn't say that he wanted him, just carefully crawled off of John's lap. His pyjamas were heavy and soaking, draping low over his prominent hips as he stood. Rivers that hadn't been caught trickled down his legs and Sherlock saw the full expanse of his accident: John's trousers were soaked and he was very probably sitting in a puddle of piss.
John noted Sherlock staring. "I'll clean up. Go have a shower."
Sherlock took a deep breath before nodding, turning to traipse with wet steps across the room.
Sherlock was once again treated in his piss play, but it took almost a half a year. Until then, their games died off thanks to John dating again and Sherlock's abundance of cases, but he waited patiently for John's girlfriend to leave him and the cases to have a break.
It was in the middle of this that Sherlock learned something interesting.
John was ticklish.
Sherlock saw the panic in John's eyes when the information had been laid bare before him, but Sherlock hadn't reacted, not visibly.
It had been when John had brought the girlfriend over to Baker Street. He had been picking up something, his mobile or his coat or something, and they had only been there for ten seconds when Sherlock launched away from the sofa with a crazed exclamation about a case. John had paused, watching as Sherlock swiped his mobile off the table and feverishly dialled Lestrade, explaining in quick breaths what he had deduced.
Girlfriend hadn't been impressed, and she had prodded her finger into John's side to get his attention. John's reaction had been immediate: he had jumped with a breathy laugh, his face flushing as both Girlfriend and Sherlock looked at him.
Ticklish in the sides. Ironically, so was Sherlock, but no one knew that except Mycroft, who had rather tortured Sherlock as a child, tickling him until he couldn't breathe. Thankfully, Mycroft hadn't had devious plans when they were young, just childish tendencies. Sherlock, however, had devious plans, albeit if it was a bit childish.
He kept these plans quiet until, three months later, John's girlfriend dumped him and, happily, the break in Sherlock's work occured at the same time.
He was sure that John thought that he had forgotten about the ticklish bit by now, but Sherlock never forgot anything that he thought was prudent.
He knew instantly by the way that John was walking as he entered the flat that his flatmate hadn't had quite the time to swing to the loo before grabbing a cab from the pub.
Sherlock sat up straight, sitting Indian style on his bed, as John stepped into the flat.
"John!" he called.
John's answer was delayed. "What, Sherlock? Whatever it is, it has to wait. I'm about to piss myself."
John's absent exclamation proved that he was truly desperate. He only ever said that if he was literally to the brink, and usually it was a lot more forceful if he was playing games with Sherlock.
"It'll only take a second," Sherlock lied smoothly.
"I can't wait a second, Sherlock," John said, peering into Sherlock's bedroom. He was bouncing on the spot. "What do you want??"
"Don't just stand there. Come here and look at this so you can avoid pissing on my bedroom floor," Sherlock retorted. "Hurry up."
John toddled from the doorway to stand next to Sherlock's bed. "Look at what?"
Sherlock twisted around to point at the other side of his sheets. When John leaned forward slightly to see what Sherlock was pointing at (nothing), Sherlock grabbed a fistful of John's jumper and dragged him forward.
John gasped as he fell forward. Sherlock caught him against his chest, although not before noting wetness blooming against John's trousers.
He really hoped John got control of himself, or this was going to be less fun.
"Sherlock!" John gasped, struggling to right himself. "Sherlock! Fuck it, stop! Let me up!"
Sherlock dug his fingers into John's sides, earning an actual yelp from his distressed flatmate. John thrashed wildly, giggling and swearing and trying to breathe, all whilst trying not to piss himself, Sherlock was sure.
"Stop! Stopstopstopstopstop! Sherlock!" John gasped. "Sherlock, I've got- I gotta-"
Sherlock folded his legs around John's legs, increasing his tickling.
"SHERLOCK!"
Delicious warmth suddenly flooded Sherlock's thighs. For a short second, Sherlock thought that maybe he had soaked his own trousers before he realized that John had stopped struggling, but had gone limp, breathing heavy as he hid his face against Sherlock's shirt.
Sherlock hitched John up slightly, bringing their crotches together. The friction was complete pleasure-pain and John made a squeaking noise, squirming again. Sherlock placed his hand against the small of John's back, pressing him close.
"Shhh..." he murmured, closing his eyes as John's piss soaked their clothes and his sheets.
The warmth kept coming and coming, a never-ending fall of urine tinkling against their bodies. Sherlock was obscenely close to either pissing or orgasming, maybe both, but feeling John breathing heavily against his chest, holding him close, smelling the scent of beer and piss pervading the room... It was bliss.
He could lay here forever.
John shifted slightly, pressing his face closer to Sherlock's neck. Sherlock repositioned his grip and smiled when John's breathless sigh brushed his neck.
"Sherlock...?" John mumbled.
"Hmm?"
"Do you have to piss...?"
Sherlock shifted his hips. "I suppose I could."
"Would you...?"
Sherlock opened his eyes lazily. "Where do you want me?"
"Hang on..." John murmured. He pushed himself up before rolling over, flopping onto the bed next to Sherlock. "Alright."
Sherlock smiled and levered himself over John. He looked so... attractive. His hair was mussed, his eyes glazed, sweat trickling down his temples, and pink dusted across his cheeks. His chest was still rising and falling quickly as he stared up at Sherlock.
"I really do need a piss," Sherlock murmured conversationally. It wasn't terrible and he wouldn't normally be squirming for release for at least another hour, but the pressure was there. He closed his eyes, trying to relax. It took a few, unsuccessful seconds before the trickle of urine started. But then it increased in power, dampening his trousers before beginning to pour freely.
He lowered his weight carefully onto John's form, letting his urine warm their cooling clothes again.
"Sherlock," John whispered.
Sherlock opened his eyes, meeting John's gaze.
They stayed like this as the quiet hiss of Sherlock's urine filled the air. When it quieted, neither did they move still, relishing in each others arms and the warm piss pooled around them.