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The first time Sherlock had an accident in front of John, it really was an accident.
They were visiting John’s old friend Nicholas in Brixton, with whom Sherlock had become acquainted when he had offered his assistance during a case that had involved computer hacking.
Nicholas had popped out to the shops upon realising there was no milk for their tea, leaving John and Sherlock alone on the sofa. Sherlock’s need to go was pressing, and he distracted himself by playing with John’s fingers. Though he was not one for affection, John had noticed Sherlock become increasingly touchy-feely over the several years they had lived and worked together.
John eased himself out of Sherlock’s grip. “I’m just going to use the bathroom,” he muttered before wandering out of the living room and down the hall into the small downstairs toilet. Sherlock grimaced. John had reminded him how much he needed to go after the pint Nick had offered him upon arrival, which, although not urgent as of yet, was really quite irritating and a little painful. He cursed his own bladder for its shyness which made him uncomfortable and simply unable to use the toilet anywhere but his own flat.
Sherlock winced when he realised he could hear John use the toilet on the other side of the wall, the consistent stream making his need much, much stronger. When the toilet flushed he grimaced and his hand darted to hold himself tightly due to a wave of desperation. He quickly pulled away when John padded into the room.
“You alright, Sherlock?” he asked, an eyebrow raised.
“Yes, of course,” Sherlock responded calmly, though by now his need was so bad that he actually whimpered when John sat down beside him, jostling him slightly. John sighed, exasperated, used to Sherlock ignoring his own needs.
“Come on, what’s the matter? Are you in pain?”
“Not at all.”
“Tell me, Sherlock. I’m a doctor; I can help if you’re hurting.”
Sherlock knew John would be insistent so he decided he should probably tell him the truth. Biting his lip nervously, he hung his head. “It’s nothing,” he whispered. “I just need to use the toilet.”
“First door to your right,” John told him, unconvinced. Why would Sherlock be acting so jumpy and breakable and tense just because he needed to use the toilet?
“No, it’s not that bad,” Sherlock murmured. “It can wait until we get home.”
“You’re acting like you’re about to burst, Sherlock!” John argued. “I won’t have you wetting yourself on Nick’s sofa!”
“I have no such plans!” Sherlock found himself shouting so loud that a spurt of urine wet his boxers and his hand was automatically squeezing himself tight again, his eyes shut in response to the pain.
“Sherlock, have you just…Did you just wee?”
“Only a little…”
“Are you an idiot?”
John’s cutting tone hurt him slightly, and he couldn’t tell if the tears that rose in his eyes were from the pain of such a full bladder or the fact his best friend was angry with him. “You don’t understand…”
“Then make me understand!” John barked as he shot up from the sofa, grabbing the hand Sherlock was using to hold himself, which let another bit spurt out until he tensed his stomach muscles so hard it hurt to stop the flow.
“I have a very shy bladder, John! I literally can’t go anywhere but at home!” he whimpered as John dragged him into the bathroom.
“Well you’re going right now and we’re certainly not at home,” John scolded, cringing at the wet spot growing around Sherlock’s crotch. “You’re wetting yourself in front of the toilet, you bloody idiot!”
“I can’t stop it!”
John made a strange wailing noise and spun Sherlock around to face the toilet. Standing behind him, he unzipped him and pulled out his penis, aiming it at the bowl. The stream stopped. It hurt Sherlock badly, but he just couldn’t continue to go. “Have you finished?”
“No.”
“Then finish!”
“Stop shouting at me, John,” Sherlock said, his voice so small and broken that John actually felt a little guilty. “Put me back in my trousers. Please.”
John did as he was asked but kept his arms around Sherlock’s waist, his forehead resting against his shoulder, holding him tight as he wet himself. He could feel his shoulders shaking as he cried silently. “Shh, it’s alright. It’s just an accident.”
“I’m so sorry, John.”
“Shhh.”
When he was done, Sherlock tied his coat tightly around himself to hide the evidence, and John sent Nicholas a text that said they’d been called away for an emergency by Lestrade before taking his best friend home in a taxi.
The second time Sherlock had an accident in front of John, it was also in front of Lestrade, Donovan, Anderson and a handful of other people involved with the police, and once again, it was an accident…sort of.
They had rushed to the crime scene straight after dinner, leaving no time to go home and use the toilet after Sherlock’s glass of wine and two glasses of water. Sherlock was just starting to feel the discomfort when they were called to a second murder scene that appeared to be connected, the fast ride in Lestrade’s police car jostling his bladder all the way.
They had been there half an hour, already much longer than usual, because Sherlock’s pressing need to use the loo was slowing down his usually speedy deductions. It wasn’t too bad, but even digesting food was enough to slow Sherlock down. He needed to be on top form to work his magic.
“Sherlock, everything okay?” Lestrade asked, resting a hand on Sherlock’s lower back as he loomed over the dead body, trying to work things out.
“Yes, fine.”
“You’re working very slowly,” Greg observed, running his hand along Sherlock’s shoulder blades. Sherlock wondered what on earth he was doing, stroking him like that. It was if he was trying to soothe him…Did he look like he was in pain? “Why are you so tense?”
“I’m not tense at all! Please leave me to my work.”
“You’re really tense,” Greg sighed. “Are you unwell? Don’t strain yourself if you don’t feel well.”
“I feel fine!” Sherlock barked.
A smirk on his lips, Lestrade leant in to whisper in Sherlock’s ear. “I know you need the toilet.” His voice was low and dark and sensual and oh God, he was enjoying this, enjoying watching Sherlock tense, squirming occasionally, trying to resist holding himself. He enjoyed it when Sherlock was desperate…and, shamefully, Sherlock realised he enjoyed it a little bit too.
“I don’t think I can hold it, Greg,” Sherlock whimpered, turning into Lestrade a little bit so he’d be the only one who saw when he held himself tightly. Why the hell was he joining in with this little game? There was no way he had a piss fetish, no way on earth… "I might go in my trousers. Take me somewhere hidden. Please,” he pleaded.
“Are you sure you can hold it all the way to an alleyway?”
So Greg had a little kink for humiliation too, huh? Sherlock really didn’t want to wet himself in front of everyone, but being so desperate in public he had no other choice, and he’d rather it was in front of someone who would enjoy it than someone who would laugh at him or, even worse, pity him.
So he let go; wet himself in front of Greg Lestrade, and he didn’t pull away when Greg touched him, and he stood close behind him when he led him back to his car to take him home, and while Greg was screaming at Anderson for laughing at Sherlock he wondered, somewhere deep inside himself, if John would enjoy it too.
The third time Sherlock had an accident in front of John, it wasn’t an accident – it was an experiment.
He downed three glasses of water while John was getting ready and had two glasses of wine at dinner with John and Mycroft with a jug of water in between, claiming he didn’t want to become intoxicated. Mycroft had warned him to slow down, knowing all about his bladder shyness, but Sherlock had dismissed him.
Now, they were walking home, and Sherlock was desperate. He walked slowly, thighs pressed together, keeping a close eye on John. Of course, John had noticed - Sherlock was making it impossible not to – and it was making him feel rather uncomfortable with the way it made his cock twinge.
“Mycroft warned you to slow down,” he scolded quietly when Sherlock’s entire body shivered.
“I’m a big boy, I can hold it,” Sherlock scowled.
“I beg to differ,” John smirked. “Remember Nick’s? And the crime scene, when Lestrade had to take us home because you-”
“Pissed rivers all over myself?” That made John’s cock jump and he stifled a gasp. “Yes, I remember, but we’re almost home. The prospect of our own toilet just ten minutes away will get me through, I promise.”
“If you’re sure,” John sighed.
Sherlock smiled. “Lestrade got so angry with Anderson, remember?”
“Well, he was being a twat. Doesn’t it hurt your feelings when he and Donovan are so nasty to you? They call you a freak, they’re always undermining you when they know you’re right, they-”
“John,” Sherlock grunted. Of course it hurt him. Well, it had at first. He’d just been trying to help the guys out - they’d never get anywhere without him! – but Lestrade was the only one who ever appreciated him. Now, though, he was used to it, and he’d almost completely shut himself off from feelings. Feelings towards anyone but John, that is. He definitely had some sort of feelings regarding John. “No. It doesn’t hurt me.”
They walked for five more minutes and the desperation started to become unbearable. Sherlock wanted to give up there and then but he had a plan, and he had deliberately forgotten his key so he could wet himself on the doorstep, acting all innocent and upset. He stopped for a moment, leaning over, hand pressed deep into his crotch.
“Jesus, Sherlock, you idiot! You’re going to hurt yourself.” John could barely bring himself to say what he did next because it turned him on in ways he never, ever wanted to admit. “Please, just let go.”
“People will see,” Sherlock said quietly.
“It’s dark, and no one’s going to be looking at your crotch.”
“I should have brought my coat.” He’d deliberately not put his coat on over his suit jacket so that he’d be completely on show for John at the end of the night.
“Don’t worry about it Sherlock. Just let go.”
“No, we’re almost home. Just two more streets.”
Two more streets later and Sherlock’s boxers were damp, but his trousers weren’t. He didn’t hold back in admitting it to John, and he noticed that his older friend was bulging in his trousers, hiding it with his hands so it wouldn’t be noticeable to anyone who wasn’t looking for it like Sherlock was. Sherlock searched his pockets on the doorstep of 221B.
“John, I’ve forgotten my key. Shit, I’ve forgotten it. John, I have to go so badly!” Sherlock was whimpering, his eyes squeezed shut, tears dripping out of them. He was leaning against the door with one hand, the other hand holding himself so tightly his knuckles were white.
John desperately rapped on the door with his fists, hoping Mrs Hudson was awake. He wanted to turn away, hide his boner, but he noticed that Sherlock was crying and the urge to comfort his friend took over and he rested a hand on his side, rubbing gently, soothingly.
“John…”
“Shh, it’s alright. Don’t hurt yourself. Let go, Sherlock. It’s okay, I’m here.”
Sherlock’s head dropped to John’s shoulder and he pulled his hand out of his crotch, finally letting himself lose control. John’s hands rubbed his back supportively as he wet himself, making sure not to embarrass John by showing he could feel his boner pressing into him. He was sure any minute now he would have one, too.
As soon as Mrs Hudson opened the door, wrapped in a dressing gown, John pushed past her and up the stairs, locking himself in his bedroom as soon as he got into the flat. He felt so much shame as he touched himself to the sound of Mrs Hudson fussing sympathetically around a soaked Sherlock.
The fourth time Sherlock had an accident in front of John, it wasn't an accident, and he wasn't even trying to pretend it was one.
John had figured out that Sherlock had figured him out. The amount Sherlock got desperate while they were out had increased dramatically, and there was no missing Sherlock's eyes on John's crotch each time, waiting for a boner.
He was enjoying it thoroughly. It was amazing letting Sherlock hit his kink so often without feeling guilty about it, because Sherlock clearly wanted it even more than he did. Though Sherlock would do it at almost every new crime scene to entertain Lestrade, and that would make him jealous.
"Oh, John, I need to go."
They were on the sofa, watching detective programmes, mainly so Sherlock could laugh at their apparent stupidity. John rested a hand on Sherlock's trembling thigh. It was probably logical to recommend Sherlock go to the bathroom, but that would be no fun.
"Badly?"
"Badly. John, it's bad."
"I'm doing the washing tomorrow. You can go."
"I don't want to. Will you hold me?"
The request almost made John come there and then. Sherlock was not a cuddler; he didn't want to be held in that sense. There was no reason Sherlock couldn't hold himself, or why he should have to at all, but John didn't exactly mind.
He was extremely shy about it. His hand crept up Sherlock's thigh, hesitating, before Sherlock grabbed it and shoved it in his crotch. John squeaked.
"Hold me, John. I don't want to wee my pants."
John cupped Sherlock's crotch with his trembling hand and squeezed gently. Sherlock pressed his face into John's hair, moaning quietly, holding himself back. "I need to go so badly. So, so badly. It hurts, John, it aches." He could feel Sherlock very quickly growing hard through his pants in his hand. It felt damp; it could have been piss or pre-cum, John had no idea.
Sherlock had started to cry and John sunk his free hand into his curls, stroking through and massaging his scalp. "It's okay, you can let go, it's alright."
"John?"
"Yes?"
"I want to be your boyfriend."
And then Sherlock had lost control and his piss was soaking through his boxers and his trousers and seeping through John's fingers, and John was coming in his own pants, and it was bliss.
The first time John had an accident in front of Sherlock, he actually didn't.
Another crime scene. Outside, in the countryside, with no nearby toilets. John had no worries about going behind a bush, but he had never tried being the desperate one with Sherlock, so when he felt the uncomfortable fullness in his bladder he decided not to take care of the problem.
It wasn't that bad, seeing as he hadn't gulped down stupid amounts of water like Sherlock would do just to get into this situation, but he could pretend.
They had come out. They'd told Mrs Hudson first, then Mycroft, then Lestrade and his team; everybody present knew, so John wasn't at all afraid to unfold Sherlock's crossed arms and settle against his chest as they waited to be allowed under the police tape.
"I don't understand your obsession with cuddling," Sherlock sighed, but it was playful, and he wrapped his arms around John's waist regardless.
"I need to use the toilet," John said quietly. Sherlock tensed up. It made John nervous and he started to pull away. "I'll go behind the bushes."
"Hush now John," Sherlock grunted, pulling John back into his hold. He pushed John's t-shirt up just a little and used his thumbs to massage the bare skin of John's hips like he did whenever they were half-asleep on the sofa together in front of a mindless film. "You're not desperate yet."
"I am. I really am, Sherlock."
Out of the corner of his eye John noticed Lestrade watching them, so he let his hand slip down to hold himself. "It's bad, Sherlock," he whimpered. Sherlock pressed a soft kiss to the crown of his head.
"I'll take care of you, John. I won't let anyone make fun of you. I won't even let anyone see," Sherlock promised quietly. "I'll take you home, I'll change you. I'll give you a bath. Would you like that?"
John nodded. He had no idea that Sherlock wanted to take care of him like that, but the thought made him feel warm inside. "It's okay to let go," Sherlock whispered.
"I can hold on. I can go behind the bushes. If you want to work on this crime scene..."
"You're nervous." Sherlock stopped massaging John's hips and moved both hands to above his bladder, pressing gently. "Don't be. I like it, and it feels nice. Nicer than you'd think."
But John was too nervous. Tears rose in his eyes as he started to feel like he was letting Sherlock down. Sherlock wanted this, but he just couldn't wet his pants; not here, not in front of all these people. His shoulders shook a little.
"Are you crying?" Sherlock gently turned John around in his arms and kissed away the few stray tears. "John, darling. It's okay. You don't have to do this, I'm not asking you to. We can move slowly, we can do this when you're ready. Oh, John, don't cry!"
He pulled John tightly against him and let him sniff into his chest until he had calmed down, and then he took his hand and led him to the nearby bushes. There was no point in making John have an accident now, the mood wasn't right.
So John pissed in the bushes, and Sherlock felt more in love with him than he ever had before.