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They were walking through the park on the way back from a late lunch at a particularly nice French restaurant when the yobs struck. Sherlock would have liked to attribute the random attack to part of a mass conspiracy concocted by a crack team of his deadliest enemies, but he had to admit that all his speedy deductions as the group of youths had accosted them on the pathway had been of disorganised mischevious intent. It could have been anyone who unexpectedly got a bag of stinging, filthy, unhygienic grit thrown in their face, it just happened to have been Sherlock.
John, of course, had been saved by his own insufferable shortness, only having a bit of the stuff dusted over his hair to show for the misadventure.
Sherlock, having for some reason opened his eyes exetremely wide at the moment of the attack, was not so lucky. He was briefly aware of John yelling 'Oi!' at the retreating footsteps of the kids before the god awful irritation of his occular membrane began.
"I can't see." Sherlock stated the fact cooly, but the emotions that came with temporary helplessness were already begining to crowd him. He felt his footing change slightly - he must have meandered off the pathway and onto the grass. The grass of the municipal park. God help his shoes.
John caught his arm and held him still, and Sherlock was just relieved enough to comply.
"Let me see. No - let me! Do you actually believe I'm a doctor? Sometimes I wonder... I've cleaned grit out of peoples eyes before, Sherlock!"
"Sand." Sherlock said, because his logic was crumbling away a bit because of the discomfort - and pain - in his eyes and although he wanted to let John sort it out for him he couldn't force himself to move his hands away from his face or open his stinging eyes.
"Excuse me, which one of us has been in the desert recently? I know the difference between sand and grit, there were whole days when I had nothing better to preoccupy my thoughts... Oh for christ's sake! Come here."
John was prising Sherlocks hands away from his face with his strong grip, for a few moments they wrestled gently, and then Watson used one muscular arm to restrain both of Sherlocks wildly flailing ones against his chest. Of course he knows how to deal with a patient who's trying to fight him off, Sherlock thought, and realised dimly that salt water was streaming down his face. He was repulsed by the wet untidy feel of it hanging off the bottom of his chin.
"Sherlock, open your eyes, let me see. It could be important."
With a trememdous effort of will, Sherlock opened his right eye. He felt John's rough thumb pulling down just under his eyelid before he felt the horrible crowding sensations. Cold air, salt water, grit, combining into this god awful sting that he just couldn't think through. His eylid snapped shut reflexively and he sprang backwards away from John with nearly enough force to unbalance himself.
"Oh for the love of..." John was grabbing at him again, yanking him accross damp, slippery grass to push him down onto the cold metal of a park bench. Sherlock immediately covered his eyes with his hands again, even while feeling a prickling of shame at his behaviour. John sat next to him and Sherlock heard him rummaging in his bag for a minute. Then he felt John grip his face and turn it towards him. He couldn't help it, it was instinctive, he elbowed John in the stomach.
"Fuck!" John shouted with unreasonable loudness into the chilly air. Sherlock was aware of him grunting and clenching his fists until he was calm again.
Sherlock was just thinking how annoying John's endless patience could be when the man himself leapt into action, swivelling to hook his leg over Sherlock's lap and sit astride him, pinning him in place.
Sherlock was so surprised that he blinked both his eyes open for a second, at which point John squeezed the contents of a bottle of water into his face. John held Sherlock's flooded eyes open with calloused thumbs and swiped at the larger pieces of grit with careful fingers. Sherlock made a shameful squealing sound, but found that the agonising stinging was already abating. John massaged his lower lids as he cried out the last of the grit.
"See, that wasn't so bad now, was it?" John laughed. Sherlock couldn't help but laugh in response, though it sounded a bit like a sob. His face was still wet, but his eyes felt... better. Much better. God, how pathetically he'd been acting...
"You're such a bloody baby!" As ever, John was on hand to confirm his thoughts. The doctor took out a hankerchief and began to dry Sherlock's face with it and Sherlock just let him.
He became aware of his surroundings again, of John's thighs clamped tightly round him and the warm heavy pressure on his lap. Of the closeness of John, how sturdy and firm he was. Almost more disconcerting than having someone literally in his face was his own apparent reaction to it, as his brain caught up with the situation. Sherlock thought how odd they must look to any passer by. And god knows there had to have been a few in the park at this time of day. What would they see? A small, solidly built (he'd used to think 'chunky', but somewhere along the line he'd edited his own thoughts) man in his late thirties straddling a tall thin man on a park bench, holding his face tightly in his stubby hands? Sherlock was about to relay the thought - surely it would amuse John - but he seemed to be producing an unusual ammount of saliva and his mouth felt thick and slow so he didn't. An idea as to why he might be producing more saliva than usual glanced across his mind, and to his dismay he felt his face heating up rapidly, some small tingling sensation at the nape of his neck.
This was exactly why he normally avoided physical contact with people. It could lead to unexpected places, even for him. The body was unreliable, it's endophins and pheromones could cloud rationality with their thick fog.
Not to mention that, on the rare occasions when Sherlock Holmes actually became aroused his rapid mental processes somehow made everything happen much quicker. Also a side affect of seldom experiencing physical contact, Sherlock thought, it becomes such an illicit rush. A little could go a very long way.
With that in mind, he began to push at John, who appeared to still be concerned with Sherlock's eyes.
John chuckled. "Oh, you want me to get off."
Sherlock winced a tiny bit. "Nnnghhggg." He said.
John lifted up his leg to clamber off him, and the sudden release of pressure and rush of cold hit Sherlock unbelievably hard. His hands curled around the edge of the lightly rusting seat until the metal bit into his skin, he clenched his jaw hard enough to hurt, feeling his teeth grind with the effort of keeping his face somewhere approaching neutral, and as John settled down next to him again, he felt hothothot semen spurting out of his penis and into the fabric of his underwear, soon to soak through the front of his (thankfully black) trousers.
He thought he might have made a very slight nasal sound, and his breathing was a little accelerated, but Sherlock was hopeful that John wouldn't guess what was happening to him. He could feel the waves of guilty pleasure in his toes now, obscene against the leather uppers of his boots. His arms were trying to shudder, but if he kept his tight hold on the bench he could hide that. His knees he pressed together as firmly as he could, hating the feeling of his thighs sticking to each other. And he had the perfect excuse for keeping his eyes shut for a while, so John needn't see his dilated pupils.
He tried to forceably slow his breathing through his nose, but it wanted to speed up again when he smelt seminal fluid so close to the distinct smell of John.
When he risked a glance at his companion, he saw that John was gingerly rubbing at the place where Sherlock had elbowed him.
"Sorry about that." Sherlock said automatically, regretting it when he heard the jarring highness of his voice.
John shrugged easily. "Proffessional hazzard."
By the time they had collected themselves enough to leave the temporary haven of the bench, John was laughing heartily at him, but it was only about the eye thing, so Sherlock let him get away with it.
He even admitted, "You were right, it was grit, not sand," to make John's victory over him complete.
With his funny walk from the abundant sticky fluid cooling as it dripped down between his legs going unnoticed, Sherlock could afford to be uncommonly generous.