Chapter Text
It was a beautiful summer evening, so bathed in an amber sunset that even Sherlock, who was a city boy at heart, was captivated by the shimmer of light across the bay. He sipped his tea and watched the waves lap at the white sand. Sherlock sighed softly. He was tantalising himself, teasing his full bladder with the slow roll of the water on the shore. The tea was pure bravado. It wasn’t as if he was even particularly thirsty. John had made it for him in all innocence because John had absolutely no idea that he was deliberately ignoring the call of nature.
People were notoriously easy to fool. Sherlock had made a point of visiting the loo when they arrived at the farmhouse and again just after dinner. Therefore, John assumed that he had pissed. Oddly enough the deception made Sherlock feel a little guilty. He didn’t usually have a conscience about deceiving people, but John was different. John was special. Still, it was necessary, unavoidable really. However much he might want John to know, to understand and perhaps even to participate, Sherlock knew that John’s reaction might well be vastly different to that of the fantasy John who haunted his imagination.
The deception avoided a situation that could be awkward at best and potentially disastrous at worse if John flew off the handle or simply laughed in his face. Either way they would never be able to pretend that it hadn’t happened. That was why Sherlock was wearing a pad, slim and discreet, a diaper as the Americans called them, a nappy in the parlance of the nursery. It wasn’t something that he had ever done before and it felt strange; a bit naughty, a bit silly and rather more erotic than he had ever expected it to be. The important thing was that it should conceal any accidental leakage. Over the years he had become very good at hiding his desperation, but wet trousers would definitely be something of a giveaway.
There were footsteps on the patio behind him. John joined him on the terrace. They stood together in companionable silence gazing at the green and gold vista spread out before them.
“It’s a lovely evening,” said John. “Do you fancy a walk before we turn in for the night?”
“Why not? We can take a stroll along the beach if you like.”
“Sounds good to me.” John picked Sherlock’s mug up off the balustrade. “Here, you can finish your tea first.”
*
“This is a nice place,” said John. “How long did you say that your family have owned the farmhouse?”
“Since the 1920’s, the farmer went broke and great-grandfather bought him out. We’ve used the place as a holiday home over the years. I’m glad you like it.” Sherlock was surprised to realise that he meant it. He really did want John to enjoy this weekend.
“What’s not to like?” John sat down on an outcrop of rock. “Sea, sand, even sun while it lasts, it’ll probably be pissing down tomorrow.”
His body was trying to convince him that he had to go now, that he couldn’t wait. Sherlock shifted position slightly. Eventual defeat was inevitable, but he had no intention of surrendering to the tight pulse of need in his abdomen. Not here, not now, not with John beside him, although that might have been prefect in its own way, if things were different, if they were lovers.
They watched the burning sun melt into the horizon. John sat back a little until his shoulder rested lightly against Sherlock’s. It was a casual, unconscious gesture. Sherlock looked away so that John wouldn’t notice his quick half-smile. The beach was deserted, but if anyone had seen them there watching the sunset together John would never have convinced them that they weren’t a couple. Of course if they were lovers Sherlock would have put his arm around John’s waist by now and pulled him back against his chest. He would kiss the nape of his neck and -.
“Shall we go?” John asked.
Go. Oh, yes, he wanted to go. An image flashed into his mind; his trousers were open, the nappy was pulled down and he was pissing onto the virgin sand.
“Well shall we?” John said with an edge of impatience in his voice.
“Yes, let’s.”
Another fantasy was that of taking John’s hand as they walked back along the water’s edge, but Sherlock could also imagine the reaction that would provoke. They stopped at the top of the hill to look back at the last slice of sun across the water. Sherlock’s bladder quivered hopefully and again he imagined himself pissing on the beach.
*
John suggested that they finish of the bottle of wine they had started at dinner as a nightcap. When Sherlock refused he flicked the switch on the kettle instead.
The long case clock in the hall chimed the quarter hour as they settled in the lounge. John stretched out on one of the old comfy sofas and Sherlock on the other. If they had been lovers…but they were not.
After a lot of channel flicking John found a documentary on the rain forest that he seemed to find reasonably interesting. Sherlock couldn’t have cared less, but he drank just enough of his tea to avoid suspicion and sat back to surreptitiously watch John watching TV.
And to relish the sensation of needing to go, of needing to go so very much. It was almost eleven o’clock and he hadn’t been since mid-afternoon. Sherlock tensed his thighs and crossed his legs. He wished that he could tell John how much his bladder ached and how stiff it was making him. He wished that he could have a wank, right there on the sofa, without giving John apoplexy.
The documentary finished and was replaced by s film involving a death ray, zombies and a girl with very large breasts who screamed a lot.
“Why the hell is that idiot doing that?” John pointed at the TV where a terrified man was locking himself into a freezer.
“Because he’s an idiot and frightened, and because most people let fear dominate their thinking, if they ever think at all.” Sherlock tried to find a more comfortable position, one that would take some of the pressure off his cock and bladder.
John chuckled. “Or greed,” he said. On the TV screen another character had just been trapped in a bank vault by a gang of zombies with his hands full of useless gemstones. “Greed’s a big motivator, look at some of the cases we get.”
“Desire,” said Sherlock, earning himself a surprised look from John. “Needs, urges, the lure of the forbidden.”
“Sounds like fun.” It was a joke, but John looked pensive. “It’s not all bad stuff though, there are good things that drive people as well, honour, duty, patriotism. Love.”
“And how many crimes have been committed in the name of love?”
“Cynic.”
The man in the freezer froze to death and the midnight hour chimed in the hallway. All Sherlock could think about was pissing.
Most people would have been dancing around the room by now and it was getting more and more difficult not to fidget. Would this bloody film never end? Sherlock wriggled on the sofa and pressed his tightly crossed legs together. His hand curled into a fist on his thigh. The pressure was becoming unbearable and he longed to touch himself. His cock was rock hard inside the nappy.
The nappy.
He could piss in the nappy and John would never know. That was what it was designed for, wasn’t it? Sherlock hesitated. He was so painfully full that the nappy might not be able to absorb it all. Perhaps he could release just enough piss into the soft padding to take the desperate edge off his need.
No. That would make it worse not better, even if he somehow managed to stop the flow. He could always get up and go the loo, but that was boring, dull and normal, a waste of all his efforts. There was a battered litter bin under the coffee table. His cock jerked and he imagined pissing into it, a long gushing stream of relief hammering into the metal. He couldn’t, not with John just a few feet away and totally oblivious to his plight. Sherlock moaned.
“Are you okay?” John asked.
“I’m fine. I – Oh, fuck, I can’t wait!”
Sherlock doubled over for an instant before he bolted from the room.
“Sherlock!”
He ignored John’s cry of alarm. Any moment now he was going to lose control entirely. Sherlock grabbed himself between the legs as he staggered down the hallway. Oh, god, not now, not yet. He yanked at the bolt on the kitchen door, but it was too late. Sherlock was already pissing when he stumbled out into the back garden. He bent over, holding onto the edge of the picnic table for support.
“Sherlock, what’s wrong? What the hell’s the matter with you?” John sounded really worried, almost frightened.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Sherlock knew that he was going to have to tell him the truth. “It’s all right, I’m not ill. I’ve…I’ve pissed myself.”
“You’ve done what?” John was right beside him.
“I’ve had an accident.” He didn’t dare look John in the face.
John looked down instinctively and then up at Sherlock with a puzzled expression on his face. “You’re not even damp.”
The picnic table was suddenly fascinating. “I’m wearing a nappy.”
“What? God, this is fucking surreal.” John turned away. He started to walk towards the house. Then he changed direction and stopped on the opposite side of the picnic table.
Sherlock could see his profile in the shifting shadows cast by the spill of light from the kitchen. John’s jaw was very tight and the tension particularly vibrated off him. He wasn’t shouting or sneering though and Sherlock, who had braced himself for a tide of abuse, was grateful for that.
“Why have you got a nappy on, Sherlock?” John had learnt that carefully moderated tone somewhere, perhaps dealing with battle causalities or with civilian patients who were convinced that there were Martians living in their cornflakes.
Sherlock struggled to find an answer that wouldn’t sound either flippant or sarcastic. “I thought that it would hide the evidence from you if I started to leak, but I waited too long and…I don’t normally wear one.”
“Oh, that’s all right then. What is this anyway, some half-assed experiment gone wrong?”
If Sherlock said yes John would pretend to believe him. “Not exactly.”
“Oh, fuck.”
John sounded upset, almost tearful and that wasn’t something that Sherlock hadn’t expected at all. He took a step towards him.
“John, I – “
“Not now. I’ll talk to you in the morning.” John turned his head, but his smile was infinitely sad. “God, you’re an idiot. “
The sorrow in John’s voice made it impossible for Sherlock to take offence. “I’m sorry,” he said lamely.
“Now there’s a first, an apology from Sherlock Holmes. I’ll have to put that on the wall and frame it.” John sighed. “I’m going to bed. Tomorrow, okay?”
“Okay.”
He didn’t wish John good-night or try to stop him going back into the farmhouse. Sherlock was very tired. The soaked nappy felt cold, uncomfortable and faintly ridiculous. Even the urge to masturbate had deserted him. He wanted a bath. Then he wanted to crawl into bed beside John and fall asleep with his head on his shoulder.
He might as well wish for the moon.