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Chapter Text

There is that blissful moment that occurs between sleep and consciousness, just as you wake but before you open your eyes where you can't quite recall arbitrary facts such as the date, the season, or even the city in which you fell asleep. Generally that moment is just that, a moment, a few brief seconds before reality seeps in and you remember everything... however that moment lasts a mini eternity if, the evening before, you consumed enough alcohol to kill a small horse. John allowed himself the luxury of keeping his eyes closed as he woke, the sensation slowly returning to his aching limbs, the pounding in his head reaching tumultuous volume, and the less than comfortable feeling of sheets itching against his apparently bare flesh.

Nights out with Mike Stamford were certainly... interesting, John would give him that. Ignoring the disturbing rumble of his stomach ('a fry up' John thought absently, that would be a good idea) he slowly gave in to consciousness, dared himself to stretch slightly, testing the damage done to his dehydrated muscles. His arm came into contact with something warm, something most definitely human, and his eyes snapped open so suddenly that the room swam. Not his room. He sat up, rather too quickly, his dizziness impairing the motion as several thoughts occurred to him at once.

Thought number one was that no, this definitely was not his bedroom, thought number two was that this most certainly was not his bed, and thought number three was the painful realization that he was not, in fact alone. Turning his head in almost slow motion, his fears were confirmed, laid beside him, very much awake and alert was his best friend, his flatmate, Sherlock Holmes.
“Holy bloody fuck.” John muttered his voice hoarse, Sherlock did not blink, he did not flinch. He was laid flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling with half glazed eyes and an unreadable expression on his face.
“You're awake then...” Sherlock mused.
“What... what happened?” John dared to ask, sliding one hand inconspicuously down his side to confirm that his initial theory had been right – no pants. The covers were arranged artfully across Sherlock, exposing his completely bare chest and tapering off at a level that could not have been accidental, showing only a brief glimpse of hip bone but concealing his modesty.
“You know my methods – deduce.” Sherlock's voice was... odd to say the least, or perhaps it was residual beer-ear on John's part.
“Fucking hell.” John mumbled, his hand raising to run through his hair. “Seriously – fuck!” He seemed incapable of proper sentences, at least ones that didn't include profanity. The obvious then. He'd slept with Sherlock. How the hell had that happened? He tried to piece the puzzle together, but his mind stonewalled against anything after Sherlock showing up and insulting everyone at the Last Bow pub where he'd been sat with Mike.

John took a few moments to compose himself, his hangover was truly a bitch and it would have been difficult enough to deal with this sober. He stole the occasional glance at Sherlock, who refused to meet his gaze, eyes focused determinedly on the ceiling above the bed they had evidently shared.
“Fuck.” John said again, in a quieter, more resigned, slightly defeated manner.
“I tried to stop you...” Sherlock whispered, and John's blood ran cold, that did not sound good. He was suddenly very awake, very sober.

“Oh god.” He panicked. “Oh god, I didn't? Tell me I didn't!?” His heart was hammering a violent tattoo against his chest, Sherlock's face remained blank, cold, distant, disassociated. “Sherlock...” John said, swallowing a lump in his throat. “I didn't... Did I force you?” He breathed through a growing sense of unease. There was no way Sherlock would have agreed to any of this, he was pretty much asexual, married to his work, and John was apparently a monster when he was drunk. It took Sherlock an age to reply, an age in which John was convinced he ought to consider handing himself straight in to the police on a charge of rape.
“No.” Sherlock responded eventually. “No, I consented.” He barely rose his voice above a whisper, but John heard it loud and clear
“Oh. thank god.” John groaned, his breathing slowing to a human rate while he tried to process that thought.

There was a painful silence, safe in the knowledge that at the very least he hadn't raped his friend, John's hangover returned full force. He moaned and clutched at his sore head.
“Tea?” Sherlock offered into the stillness of the moment.
“Er... yeah.” Sherlock nodded his head slightly, still avoiding John's eyes, he stood up gingerly and John somehow forgot not to look, Sherlock was as naked as expected but John's eyes were drawn to the small bruises low on his hips, marks made from greedy fingers digging at his flesh. As Sherlock crossed the room, John noted with a pang of guilt the slight limp in his gait. They'd gone all the way then. Sherlock reached the door, slipped on his red dressing gown, hesitated only a moment, his fingers brushing through the fabric of his blue one, before taking it in hand and throwing it blindly towards John on the bed.
“Come through when you're ready.” Sherlock said, vanishing into the flat.

John stared helplessly around the room, it was as messy as it had ever seemed on the few occasions John had dared to venture into No-Man's land, however this morning it was littered with articles of both of their clothing, apparently shed in a hurry the night before. John searched half heartedly for his pants, but after stumbling over his shirt which appeared splashed with whiskey, and stepping on a shirt button that had obviously popped off of one of Sherlock's best shirts he gave up, and pulled Sherlock's dressing gown on. It smelled of Sherlock and that thought was oddly comforting, it did however drown him, and he had to roll the sleeves up to fumble for the doorhandle, convinced that it moved twice in his attempts to turn it. He staggered through into the living room just as Sherlock placed a mug of tea and a couple of aspirin at one end of the table, then curled himself up in the chair opposite.

Awkward was not the word, feeling oddly exposed in only Sherlock's dressing gown, John lowered himself tentatively into the armchair across from the detective. He gratefully accepted the tablets and sipped at his tea.
“How's your memory?” Sherlock asked cautiously.
“Non-existant.” John muttered, trying to remember the last time he'd drunk himself into amnesia, certainly not for a good ten years. He was much too old for this.
“Do you want to know?” Sherlock broached tentatively.
“Yes. No. I don't know. Do I?” John sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose, trying to make sense of the whole situation in his head. Obviously there were feelings for Sherlock, strong ones actually, ones that tended to plague him even when he did his best to avoid them, creeping up on him in the dead of night, but goddamnit he was not the idiot people believed him to be, he'd never have acted on them of his own volition and certainly not in that manner! He must have been absolutely sozzled and thrown his common sense (and decency) out the window. Sherlock went quiet again, he kept shifting uncomfortably in his seat which steadily worsened John's shame.

“I'm sorry.” Were the words that roused John from his thoughts.
“What?” John replied, utterly confused. “YOU'RE sorry?” he asked incredulously. “By all accounts it looks like it was me who made a drunken fool of himself and...” He trailed off, not really wanting to finish that sentence.
“You were in no fit state... I should have stopped you.” Sherlock's voice was no longer cold, it didn't contain that distance, it was raw, uneven, his usually unshakable baritone faltering in hesitation. John just looked politely confused.
“Yeah I was wondering about that... why didn't you?” John wondered aloud. “I mean, it was obviously my stupid idea, you weren't drunk... you could have said no... hell you could have just punched me? So how come...”
“Because you said you loved me.” Sherlock had never sounded so small, and John closed his eyes trying to picture telling Sherlock he loved him for the first time under the haze of innebriation. Sherlock bit his lip, uncertain as to whether he should continue, he only spoke again when John had opened his eyes.

“Initially I said no.” Sherlock explained. “You'd made your intentions perfectly clear...” John didn't even want to imagine how he'd done that, plagued by unwarranted images of him lunging at Sherlock in a clumsy drunken attempt at a kiss. “I told you that you were drunk, that you needed to sleep it off and you'd feel differently in the morning...”
“And I didn't take no for an answer?” John asked with a hefty sigh. Sherlock smiled weakly.
“You were... rather insistent.” He admitted. John cringed slightly. “I got you to go to your room, sort of pushed you onto the bed... you seemed to go to sleep so I left you there and I sat in my room, thinking.” John frowned, why the hell hadn't he just stayed in his own bed? Sherlock rearranged himself in his seat once more, a slight wince that he couldn't quite hide quickly enough for John not to notice did nothing to ease his ever growing guilt.

“You crashed around for a bit upstairs before coming down again, you fell down the bottom three steps.” Sherlock added, because of course he knew that without having to ask, he had heard it, worked it out. “You came into my room... do you want me to stop?” Sherlock asked, suddenly realising that perhaps John did not want to hear this after all.
“No.” John sighed, “You might as well continue... I came into your room...”
“You started apologizing.” Sherlock went on. “Kept telling me you were an idiot, that you were drunk... started talking to yourself mostly. 'You weren't meant to find out like this, wasn't meant to happen this way'... you weren't making much sense.” He explained. “Just loitering in the doorway, babbling on.” Sherlock began absently picking at a loose thread on his own night gown, the one not currently adorning John's figure.

“You came over... sat on the edge of my bed and said you were sorry. I told you it was fine, suggested you go back to bed. You seemed a little... distressed.” Recalled Sherlock. “Then you said you loved me. Told me you always had. You rambled on a bit... you seemed genuinely upset that you'd made a pass at me earlier, kept saying it 'wasn't like that, you have to believe me'...” Sherlock hesitated, evidently not sure he wanted to divulge this next snippet of information. “It wasn't you.”
“Pardon?”
“It wasn't you... who started it.” Sherlock murmured embarrassedly, eyes flicking around the room before settling on the fireplace. “You were distraught and I didn't know what to do, I...” This was so unlike the Sherlock that John knew, Sherlock Holmes never struggled with words, he never forced his way through a conversation. John's guilt increased tenfold. “I wrapped my arm around you.” He breathed softly. "I suppose it was an attempt to comfort you..." Sherlock mused.

"And then... only for a moment you seemed... sober. I knew you couldn't be but you were suddenly incredibly serious told me that you loved me and that you'd wanted to do this for the longest time and then you sat up straight and kissed me..." Sherlock's eyes fluttered closed for a moment as he recalled the sensation of John's lips against his own. "It all escalated rather quickly after that." Sherlock put forth, running his left hand through his curls.
"How quickly?" John asked, immediately mentally kicking himself for asking such a tactless question, Sherlock didn't seem to mind, he let out a low, dark chuckle.
"The alcohol didn't impair your performance, if that's what you mean?" John felt a blush rise on his cheeks, slightly glad for the fact he'd not given Sherlock the impression he was completely shit in bed... not that that was the point of course.

"I uh... there were er... bruises on your hip..." John's voice waivered slightly, because he was not entirely sure how to broach that particular aspect. How did you innocently ask if you were too rough in bed? Sherlock's magnificent eyes, usually so well in tune with the little details flickered downwards to survey the damage, only to realise he was now swathed in his dressing gown. If he had bruises, he hadn't been aware of them - what that said about the state of affairs John was not quite sure.
"I think that's predominantly the after effect of you attempting to steady yourself..." Sherlock mumbled sounding a little embarrassed as he spoke up next. "For the most part you were surprisingly gentle, I have no basis for comparison, however it was all quite... impressive."
"Uh... thanks, I guess? Wait... when you say 'no basis for comparison'..." A dim lightbulb went off in the fog of John's head. Oh god... he wasn't? John had thought on it briefly before, the possibility that Sherlock was a virgin had seemed high - but John had never really worked up the courage to ask. It was none of John's business, or most certainly hadn't been until yesterday.

"Sherlock... was last night... was it your first time?" He asked awkwardly. Sherlock nodded and John outwardly groaned. "PLEASE tell me you mean your first time with a man, and not your first time overall?" He sounded a little helpless.
"Overall." Sherlock concluded in a no-nonsense tone and John placed his palm to his aching forehead.
"Oh god. I took your virginity." He moaned softly, mortified at the fact. Sherlock however, scoffed.
"You didn't take anything, John. I relinquished it willingly." He said firmly.

There was a long pause before Sherlock spoke again.
"I am genuinely sorry." He said softly, because Sherlock Holmes did not DO apologies - under any circumstances. "You were in no fit state and I took advantage of that fact." John frowned, slightly mollified that Sherlock was so willing to take the blame on something that was clearly not his fault. "I knew you were drunk... I knew you were rambling... and I knew you didn't mean it." John's heart literally ached. He could not let Sherlock believe that last night was just an alcohol-induced moment of madness, which was evidently what the detective thought. It pained John to think that nobody had ever told Sherlock they loved him - no wonder he'd been overwhelmed. Nobody had ever touched him like that - he was only human. Of course he gave in. John should have been someone Sherlock trusted implicitly, and John had gone and fucked it all up. He had to set it right, even if it meant embarrassing himself.
"You're slipping, Sherlock." He said with another half-hearted sigh. He'd already said it once, so he could not justify keeping quiet any more. "Two out of three." Sherlock quirked an eyebrow, curiosity peaked.
"Pardon?"
"Yes, I was drunk. Yes, I was rambling... but I did mean it." He took a deep breath before continuing.

"Last night should never have happened." He thought he saw Sherlock wince slightly at those words, and wondered briefly why. "Not like that, I shouldn't have... I wasn't going to tell you." He said firmly. "But what I said last night... it's all true. I do... y'know..." He lowered his voice a little bit before whispering. "I do love you." And there it was. Out in the open. All said and done. John wondered (weakly) how they were supposed to move past something like this. Sherlock said he could delete things from his memory... would he do that with this whole incident? John didn't want Sherlock to continue beating himself up over it, but the thought of neither of them remembering was slightly torturous. John didn't need to remember it to know, it would continue to haunt him.
"Oh." Came Sherlock's reponse.

For a long time there was a drawn out, awkward silence.
"So... yeah. I'm sorry." John finished, lamely. Sherlock shook his head, curls untamed from sex and sleep, bouncing about on his head.
"Don't be." His voice was still soft and low but there was a less rugged, broken quality to it. "How long does a hangover usually last?" John blinked. That was it? Changing the subject? They were just going to ignore it all.
"Uh... about 4 or 5 hours?" He ventured, a bit clueless as to how he was supposed to respond to the sudden dismissal. Sherlock nodded thoughtfully and glanced at the clock over the mantle. John followed his line of sight - did Sherlock have somewhere to be? A case? It'd be a distraction certainly... "I didn't get much sleep last night." Sherlock said, rising from his chair. A lesser man than John Watson would have cringed at the implication, but no, John focused on the slight pang of pain that shot across Sherlock's face from the effort of standing.

"I need to lie down..." John nodded, the man needed space. Understandable really. "However, when you are suitably recovered, you may join me in the bedroom for a repeat performance." John blinked repeatedly.
"I'm sorry, what?" He asked incredulously, certain he had misheard, the look of shock on his face near priceless. Sherlock crossed the room so he was standing in front of John, he looked calm. Peaceful even.
"I will attribute your temporary mental incapacity to the after-effects of alcohol and humour you this once. I would never have allowed the events of last night to transpire had I not felt the same affection for you as you do for me." There was a small blush on Sherlock's cheeks as he spoke, barely distinguishable in the early morning sunlight. John's mouth fell slightly open in shock. He'd considered every variable possible when he'd thought of telling Sherlock how he felt (he had repeatedly dismissed the notion) and had not expected it to turn out this way in a million years. "Oh don't sit there gawping like a fish, it's incredibly unattractive." Sherlock said, rolling his eyes characteristically.

"You..." John started but was unable to finish as Sherlock swept dramatically downwards, his face hovering millimetres in front of John's own - stunning him into silence.
"In case your hangover has rendered you too sluggish to see where this is going, I intend to kiss you now." Sherlock informed him before closing the distance and bringing his lips to John's.

For a second or two longer than he should have been, John was too shocked to respond - he'd later blame the hangover, but the moment Sherlock's mouth began moving against his John's muscle memory from the night before kicked in. He didn't remember kissing Sherlock but he remembered how to kiss Sherlock, his free hand rising to cup Sherlock's cheek and pull him impossibly closer. Sherlock's tongue glided along John's bottom lip and he parted them instinctively to let him in. Sherlock was being deceptively gentle, most definitely leading the kiss but not in a way that made John feel controlled or dominated, he stroked his thumb over Sherlock's cheekbone as they parted slightly. John took a moment to recover his breath before leaning back up for another, Sherlock however withdrew, returning to a standing position. Sherlock had a slightly distateful look on his face, nose scrunched endearingly.
"And before you come to bed, do make sure to brush your teeth. Stale whiskey is not a particularly pleasant taste." He instructed. "You can join me when you feel a bit better." He said, before sweeping off into his room.

John sat there for a minute, willing his brain to function beyond the thought of 'oh my god''. The last twelve hours had made absolutely no sense and it was more than his alcohol-addled mind could process. Then again, Sherlock Holmes was in the bedroom - waiting for him. That was something John could definitely get his head around.
"Sod the hangover." He grunted, ignoring his aching head and sore muscles, dragging himself out of his armchair and following Sherlock into the bedroom.

Chapter Text

2. Adrenaline.

There is that blissful moment that occurs between sleep and consciousness, just as you wake but before you open your eyes where you can't quite recall arbitrary facts such as the date, the season, or even the city in which you fell asleep. The moment passed quickly and John's stirring brain was assaulted with visions of last night, memories barging into his sleep addled brain in a steady queue. It had been... well, fantastic was the word that sprang to mind. A small smile played on his lips as his eyes fluttered open. Sherlock lay beside him, naked as he could be, sleeping soundly and John allowed the recollections of the night before into his head.

There had been no words. A case, a very interesting one by Sherlock's standards, a severely morbid one by John's and everybody else's. Adrenaline in their veins, the thrill of the chase over and done with, falling into each other against the wall of the flat. Heated kisses and passionate hands wandering all over each other. Absolutely amazing. Mind blowing. Even before they made it to the bedroom John knew where it was heading. Months of sexual tension were bound to come to a head eventually, resulting in the pleasant wake up call of John in the detective's bed. His fingers absently ghosted over Sherlock's waist as he found himself wondering what came next.

They'd not discussed it at all and even as John remembered the feel of Sherlock's tongue against his own the doubt started to press in at all sides. It had been so easy to see Sherlock as asexual and that view had been shattered last night. An adrenaline fuelled fuck was one thing but it was difficult to see Sherlock wanting a stable relationship, wanting commitment and promise. Now the heat of the moment had faded - what would he say when he woke up? 'Thanks for the shag, bored now, any more cases?' Seemed likely. John's mouth found its way to Sherlock's neck and he placed feather light kisses over the angry purple marks he'd left the night before. It hadn't been particularly rough, but it had certainly been intense. John didn't think his gaze had left Sherlock's the whole time

His lips traced a familiar path down Sherlock's throat, much gentler now. Soft kisses, tender and sweet against skin he only knew in desperation and fervour. As much as he was loathed to admit it, John loved this mad, insane, impossible man, with all his heart, and the thought that last night was a one off, that it may never happen again was daunting. John had no doubt that Sherlock would be able to brush past this little 'blip', ignore it (delete it?) and pretend it never happened, should he so wish. John didn't want that for a minute, but if last night was all he'd ever had, he didn't want the night to end. Not yet. He flicked his tongue out and lapped at Sherlock's neck as he slept, bracing his hand on Sherlock's bony shoulder.

For a split second before Sherlock woke, John noted that he'd never seen the detective asleep. Never had he seen the younger man so at peace, so calm and quiet. Then he began to stir, roused by John's ministrations against his neck and John felt a pain in his chest. It couldn't end yet.
"Mmm." Sherlock murmured vaguely, as he took his own moment to come round, to shake off sleep and return to the world of the waking. John's fingers worked their way down Sherlock's bicep and he shifted his body slightly closer to Sherlock's warmth.
"Don't." John mumbled into the crux of Sherlock's shoulder, ceasing his kissing and resisting the urge to nuzzle him instead as Sherlock yawned dramatically.
"Don't what?" The genius muttered, obviously still half asleep by the lazy lilt in his voice.
"Just don't." John told him firmly. "Whatever speech you've got planned, whatever variant of 'married to my work' or 'flattered by your interest' you've got up your sleeve, just don't." John didn't move, his chest against Sherlock's back as they breathed together - possibly for the last time.

"I don't want to hear that it was a mistake, I don't want to hear that you don't feel the same, okay. Just... just give me five minutes..." John's voice did not waiver, and he had to give himself credit for that. "Just five minutes to pretend that this could work."
"It's far too early for your sentimental drivel." Sherlock grumbled into the pillow and John sighed. What else could he have expected from the cold fish, really? "But for the record I was going to say nothing of the sort." After that comment he went quiet for a long moment, just enough time for John to start feeling awkward about being pressed so close to a man who probably didn't want him there. Sensing John was about to pull away, Sherlock spoke again.

"I was just going to say the manner in which you woke me... the sensation was rather pleasant." The words spoken were rather soft, as though Sherlock was severely contemplating falling back asleep. John didn't know quite how to respond to that one, anybody else and he'd have gone right back to it - but this was Sherlock, Sherlock who didn't always mean what he said, and didn't always say what he meant. He had liked it, but did that mean he wanted more? John continued ghosting his fingers up and down Sherlock's arm, only hesitating when the detective emitted a frustrated sigh.

"I know you're slow on a morning but for goodness' sake try to keep up. I was in no way indicating that you should stop." Sherlock growled frustratedly, John lowered his head once more and continued scattering soft open-mouthed kisses over Sherlock's neck. John enjoyed the mewl of contentment Sherlock issued as John's tongue swept over his pulse point - that had certainly surprised John the night before, Sherlock was very vocal in his moans, gasps and groans. Maybe the excitement and energy of the moment had got to him but every purr, every growl and every whimper the detective emitted had helped John unravel him, helped turn him into a writhing, pleading mess the night before. Even now as Sherlock tilted his head upwards, exposing more of his throat to John's attention, there was an element of the wreck he could so easily become if this continued.

No. John would not be sucked into this trap again, if they were going to go at it again they needed to talk it over properly first - like adults... if John could tear his lips away from the intoxicating taste of Sherlock long enough to speak of course.
"So..." He mumbled against Sherlock's skin, slipping his arm around Sherlock's waist and drawing him closer so his back was flush against John's bare chest. Sherlock was far too tall to be the little spoon really. "We're really doing this then?" He bit down very gently and felt Sherlock's form shudder which had the dual effect of concerning John (was he about to get shot down for suggesting it?) and causing his cock to twitch in interest at the small of Sherlock's back.
"You'll have to elaborate, doing what?" John was almost positive Sherlock hadn't meant to lower his voice so seductively on the last word of the sentence, and mentally accredited it to the fact his tongue was languidly probing at the back of Sherlock's shoulder.
"You and me." John confirmed, his fingers inching slightly down Sherlock's abdomen in an attempt to determine whether Sherlock was half as hard as John was becoming.

Sherlock heaved a dramatic sigh.
"I told you, it's too early for sentim..."
"Sherlock." John cut him off with a warning tone.
"I might have known you'd want to talk about it." His tone was so sulky it annoyed John, who literally bit Sherlock in retaliation (this did not have the desired effect of pissing Sherlock off, in fact quite the opposite as he arched quite wantonly into the action, arse rubbing John's semi-on teasingly).
"Yes, funnily enough I don't generally shag my best mate into the mattress and not talk to him about it afterwards." John said haughtily. "What are we doing, Sherlock?"
"Round two?" Sherlock suggested, hopefully.
"I meant... long term? Is this going to be a regular thing? Are we..." He trailed off, realising he sounded like a clingy ex girlfriend or something.

Noting John's disappointed sigh (evidently, John really wanted to talk about this), Sherlock moved quickly - with a strength John hadn't known him to possess, he flipped them over so he was pinning the doctor to the bed, his hands on either side of his head, their bodies flush against each other.

Oh. Well, that answered the question of whether Sherlock was aroused or not. Definitely a yes. Sherlock pressed his thin form against John, making sure to grind his erection against the former soldier's own, he hovered his lips just over John's.
"Listen to me and listen carefully." Sherlock whispered, letting his breath play on John's mouth. "If you think for one moment that I intend to willingly give up nights like last night, then I have severely overestimated your intelligence." John's tongue darted out instinctively to whet his lips and Sherlock watched the movement with hungry eyes. For one dazzling moment, John was convinced Sherlock was going to kiss him, he was right there for god's sakes, only millimetres away.

Then Sherlock's stomach growled in displeasure, and the detective yanked his head back, gazing down in slight shock.
"Oh," He mused. "Apparently intercourse stimulates my more basic needs of sleeping and eating." John couldn't help it, the moment had just been entirely and utterly ruined but he just couldn't stop himself from laughing. Sherlock looked so genuinely surprised that he was hungry, like this was a fascinating new discovery that John's chest filled with a laugh that escaped entirely of its own accord. Sherlock's cheeks turned a hint of pink before he clambered off of John.
"Come off it, I didn't mean..." John said, still chuckling as Sherlock crossed the room and pulled on his red dressing gown.
"Tea. Toast. Boring, apparently mandatory conversation. Then back to bed." Sherlock said decisively, he picked his blue gown off the hook and threw it at John, covering his arousal, before adding "You may take a minute to... compose yourself." He left the room.

Composing himself turned out to be a much more difficult task than it ought to have been. John's body wanted to calm down, but his mind kept helpfully supplying pictures of the previous night's dalliance. The way Sherlock's fingers had grasped at him so desperately, the sounds he made near constantly, that lithe body pressed against his own, the feel of pushing into him for the first time. John groaned softly, this was not helping at all. He was sorely tempted to take the matter in hand - it wouldn't take long at this stage, but no. Sherlock had all but promised they'd be back here in this bed shortly, and his left hand seemed much less appealing in comparison. His heart was racing, possibly even harder than it had the night before. Adrenaline was one thing, anticipation was another.
"For god's sake John, you're not seventeen any more." He grunted, sitting himself up and using sheer will power to turn himself off for a short while.

When he finally emerged into the kitchen, Sherlock's second best night gown wrapped around him he was well and truly offline. Sherlock was darting about the kitchen with a piece of toast in his mouth. It was all slightly odd, really, if John hadn't known last night had actually happened, this would be fairly ordinary. Sherlock gesticulated vaguely in the direction of the grill, which upon closer inspection on John's part, was toasting more bread as Sherlock hit the button on the kettle and dashed off to intercept Mrs Hudson on the staircase (yes, he wanted the newspaper, no she was not currently welcome in the flat). John sat himself down with his tea and toast, marvelling at the sheer normality of the situation.

In the absence of adrenaline, without the high in their veins and their blood rushing south - was there anything there? The answer was of course yes, yes there was something there, under the surface. It had been hidden for a long time, just out of sight, growing stronger each day. It was really no surprise to John that it had all gone down this way, his only immediate fear was that whatever this was - it was only one sided? A distinct possibility. Sherlock returned, paper in hand and settled down opposite John, threw the paper open and began highlighting things of importance. While John mused on where Sherlock had produced a highlighter from, when he himself couldn't ever find a bloody biro to take a message Sherlock spoke up
"You may speak, I am listening."

"Ah... right, well, about last night..." John began, wondering how to start.
"Do you regret it?" Sherlock asked, not glancing up from the newsprint.
"No." Came the immediate response. He didn't need to think about that one. "Wait... do you?"
"No." Simple, succinct, to the point. Very Sherlock. John nibbled at his toast as he went over the situation in his head.
"And you've made it quite clear that you want it to happen again..." He started cautiously.
"Excellent deduction, John. What gave you that idea? The morning erection or the fact that I promised to take you straight back to bed as soon as you've finished eating... hurry up by the way." He added impatiently, selecting a paragraph on a particularly grisly scam involving a local hospital telling women their newborn babies had died and then selling them on in an adoption scandal.

John blushed slightly, but he wouldn't let Sherlock just brush this under the carpet.
"Yes well... What are we, Sherlock?" He spoke as clearly as he could through his mouthful of bread.
"In the broad spectrum of things? Human. Narrower? Male. Narrower still? British..."
"Sherlock!" Sherlock looked up at this admonishment, apparently having said the wrong thing.
"You're going to have to be a little more specific, John. This... is really not my area." His words were apologetic but his tone was not, opting for a slightly distant, cold, analytical manner, leaving John uncertain as to what to think. He sighed slightly.
"Okay. I meant... are we a couple... or is this strictly a sex thing?" Well, that was a bloody awkward sentence. John didn't like the look of deep thought that crossed Sherlock's features as he lay down the highlighter and steepled his fingers below his chin.

"Honestly?" The detective asked, pale eyes scanning John carefully. John frowned slightly 'Honestly?' was never a good response from Sherlock, in inevitably preceded something sharp and cutting. "I don't know." And there it was. The most brutally honest words Sherlock could ever utter. Because if Sherlock didn't know something, you were in fucking big trouble.

"I'd never considered the possibility before last night." He went on, something slightly awkward in his words. Sherlock hated to admit when he didn't know something, usually citing that it wasn't that he 'didn't know', it was that he 'didn't yet know'. "I... did not predict this."
"Really?" John asked, slightly incredulous. John had seen this coming, hell the entire world had... yet Sherlock had missed it. Sherlock gave a staggered nod, still looking rather tense.
"It's all rather... new. I am hesitant to put a label on the emotional aspect until I'm more certain. The sex, however, is a definite." John exhaled slightly. Truthfully, he didn't like the sound of a whole 'friends with benefits' situation one bit, but if this was all Sherlock was capable of offering... was John willing to settle for second best?

"So... just a sex thing then?" He had to ask, for confirmation, because he knew that even though it wasn't what he wanted, he would take anything Sherlock gave him. He wasn't going to accept under the delusion that Sherlock would ever change, no, he knew he could not hope for that, but he would gladly accept whatever he could get - because love makes you do stupid things.

"You misunderstand me." Sherlock said dismissively. "This... arrangement... relationship if you will, is not purely sexual. There is an element of romance - on both sides if I'm not mistaken?" It was John's turn to nod awkwardly, slightly stunned. "Yes, I had presumed as much. I do want to continue, however I am unwilling... incapable of classifying it as 'love' just yet... which is what you want to hear. That isn't to say that I am not in love with you, just that I don't have an experience with which to compare it, so it may take a while before I feel comfortable with the turn of phrase." John mulled this over, trying to make sense of it.
"So, what you're saying, albeit in a long-winded, unnecessarily convoluted manner... is that you fancy me?" He couldn't hide the smirk on his face, especially not as Sherlock's cheeks tinged pink at the accusation.

He sounded slightly disgusted as he finally responded with
"If you insist on phrasing it in the terms of a thirteen year old girl then yes. I fancy you." He sighed exasperatedly.
"So we ARE a couple then?" John pushed.
"A couple of what?" Sherlock started, but was cut off by John's death glare. John was not in the mood for 'yes, we're a couple of homosapiens, a couple of human beings with their chromosomes arranged in an XY manner etc.' "Yes. We're a 'couple'. Happy?"
"Ecstatic." John said, grinning as he downed the last of his tea and stood up. "Just as long as we both know where we stand. Now... about that second round?" Sherlock returned the slightly wicked smile as he abandoned the last dregs of his tea and followed his lover back to bed.

Chapter Text

3. Need

There is that blissful moment that occurs between sleep and consciousness, just as you wake but before you open your eyes where you can't quite recall arbitrary facts such as the date, the season, or even the city in which you fell asleep. As John slowly returned to consciousness he wanted that moment to last forever. A burning pain in his backside and a gut-wrenching feeling of guilt dragged him as far away from the comforting arms of sleep as it could. What the hell had he been thinking!? John rolled over slightly, the bright sunlight filtering in through a gap in Sherlock's bedroom curtains stung his eyes and he clenched them tightly closed.

Realising he was alone in the bed, John tentatively opened his eyes (this room was far too bright) and sighed. Sherlock had left the room. Just as well, John didn't know what the was supposed to say to him about all this. He didn't know whether or not he'd end up punching him, actually. He wondered briefly, how he'd got himself into this mess, he wondered for longer how he was supposed to get out of this mess - then he wondered some more. How late was it? He had work today didn't he? Could he even walk? Sherlock had certainly done a number on him... The cane? He still had that somewhere didn't he?

Sherlock's digital clock (has to be digital, John knows his insomnia worsens with a ticking clock) read '08:48'. Shit. He had to leave for work in 12 minutes. Sitting up proved to be quite painful, and there was the less than pleasant sensation of cold lube and old come dribbling out of his arsehole, he cringed. He felt well and truly disgusting but he had no time for a shower, instead he cleaned himself off as best he could with some tissues from Sherlock's bedside table. A quick search for his clothes reminded him that most of them had been shed in the living room, only his Y-fronts remained, balled up at the bottom of the bed. He slipped them back on, trying not to think too hard upon the small pearlescent stain on the front of them.

He stared at the door for a moment, Sherlock was likely behind it, in the living room or the kitchen... John still didn't know what to say or do but one thing was certain, he couldn't go out there dressed in only his underwear. No, John Watson would not reduce himself to the walk of shame in his own damned flat, he wasn't some moronic teenager making ill-advised sexual decisions for goodness sake. He grabbed Sherlock's best dressing gown (the red one) and slipped it on for decency... not that they had any sense of that in 221b apparently. He caught sight of himself, briefly, in the mirror and wished he hadn't. His hair was stuck up at odd angles, there was a large purple mark on his neck (John refused to acknowledge it as a 'love bite') from where Sherlock had claimed his territory, all in all he had the off combination of a post-coital glow and a shameful face. He pulled the robe tighter around himself and marched out of the bedroom.

Sherlock was curled up on the sofa, in nothing but his second best dressing gown, a cigarette in his mouth and the tab ends of twelve others in an ashtray at his feet. John crinkled his nose, ignored the reproachful look Sherlock shot him and crossed the room, straight upstairs to his own bedroom. He also chose to ignore the pounding of his heart as he got dressed, he was not afraid of Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock was just a spoiled child who was not used to not getting his own way. Once more he wished he had time for a shower, he reeked of sex and guilt but work came first, plus it would get him out of this home turned hell-hole for a few hours. Finally he decided there was only so many times he could brush his hair before he had to face the music properly. He headed downstairs, fight or flight mode fully initiated.

"I'm going to work." He announced, grabbing his coat from the hook. Sherlock glanced up from his fourteenth cigarette, watching John carefully. John normally didn't mind the way Sherlock did that, roved his eyes over him like a hawk about to devour a mouse but today it grated on his last nerve. He gritted his teeth as he tied his shoes.
"We'll need to talk about this." Sherlock said. It wasn't a question, or a demand, it was a simple observation.
"Yeah, we will." John agreed, grabbing his cane from its longterm place by the door. He'd forgotten how paranoid the cane made him... it made people stare at him and the last thing he wanted today was more unwelcome attention. He stopped to remind himself that most people weren't like Sherlock, most people couldn't just glance at him and tell him who he'd shagged the night before. John hesitated slightly, wondering if he should say something. Sherlock shifted awkwardly in his seat.

"Could you pick me up some more cigarettes on your way home?" He asked. John started to turn around to shout at Sherlock but decided he just needed to get out of the damn flat before he hurt someone.
"Fuck off." He growled, and stomped out the door with as much energy and fury as a man with an anal-sex-induced-limp could muster.

John had hoped work would ease his troubled mind. By lunchtime he'd misdiagnosed two colds as chest infections and accidentally misprescribed Mrs Blakeley's inhaler (she had noticed before she left his office, thankfully.) He was grateful for his lunch hour... well, until Sarah quite chirpily commented
"New girlfriend then?" John froze, his sandwich (which he'd had to purchase from the sub-par canteen, he hadn't had the time nor the inclination to make a lunchbox this morning) half way to his mouth.
"What?" He asked, hoping his voice didn't sound too choked. Sarah smiled and with a massively inappropriate sunny disposition continued with
"You've got a love bite, right there." She pointed at the corresponding location on her own neck.
"No." He said firmly. "No new girlfriend... uh... it's a bug bite." He knew how weak that excuse was and he could tell she didn't believe a word of it. That completely put him off the idea he'd been toying with of asking her out again, a woman seemed like a very good idea at the minute. But not Sarah. No. She knew too much.

He didn't think it was even possible, but his mood worsened throughout the day. Not aided by Mr Ball's third 'brain heamorrhage' of the month. He was in no mood to suffer fools, and rather than kindly tell the young man that he should not believe everything he reads on google and advise him to take two paracetamol for his obviously bog-standard headache, John broke all doctorly protocol and told him where he could shove his brain heamorrhage. That earned him a slapped wrist ("Anybody else would have you sacked! You're obviously distressed about something, go home and sleep it off John. You can come back when you've calmed down." John had felt suitably ashamed of his actions and chose not to tell Sarah to stuff her bloody job.)

Having spent half the day convinced he didn't want to be at work, he realised he'd rather be anywhere but home. The actual prospect of having to talk to Sherlock about last night was giving him palpitations he'd not seen the likes of since his last war nightmare. He expected the shame and the embarrassment to grow as he made his way home, it didn't. It gave way to anger, an insurmountable fury directed squarely at the detective. By the time he got into the flat he was trembling with it, like a volcano ready to erupt.

"You don't need to worry about not having brought cigarettes." Came Sherlock's voice the minute he stepped through the door. "I found your hiding place." John blinked - how the hell could Sherlock go through all of this and still be Sherlock? "Very clever, keeping them in the sugar bowl..." Backhanded compliment, the ones he usually gave when he knew he was in trouble. "I never look in there as you always make the tea... I suppose I should make tea occasionally." He mused offhandedly. John slipped off his coat, he could not bring himself to look at the detective, prattling on about inane things like cigarettes and tea. He took off his shoes and lay his cane against the door.

"Let's talk." Sherlock offered, indicating a seat. John clenched his fists, annoyed by Sherlock's calmness.
"Let's talk." John agreed with a growl. "Let's talk about the fact that you THREW yourself at me last night!" He snapped, turning to face the detective, who did not look in the least bit surprised that John was shouting, as though he'd thoroughly anticipated the doctor's behaviour. For fuck's sake, trying to get a reaction out of this man was like trying to talk a brick wall into laughing at a joke.

"Let's talk about the fact that I pushed you away! Let's talk about the fact that I said no!"
"You didn't say no." Sherlock said simply, and John blinked. "You said it was a bad idea... you said you didn't feel the same... you didn't say 'no'." Because it was a very Sherlockian trait to remember conversations word for word - especially when recalling them for the sake of an argument. Git.
"Oh for fuck's sake do I have to spell it out for you! I told you I'm not gay!"
"You then proceeded to have gay sex with me." Sherlock deadpanned quite seriously. His tone did not betray his calm demeanour, nor did his face.

"I didn't WANT to have sex with you, I made that pretty damn clear!" John took a step back, genuinely believing that if Sherlock didn't wipe that calm, cool-headed expression off of his face he'd end up punching it off (and he wouldn't avoid the nose and teeth this time!).
"Are you implying that I raped you?" He asked, raising one eyebrow, he hadn't moved from his seat on the sofa.
"No. No I'm bloody not. Because I said yes in the end didn't I? Because I always say yes to you. Because people CAN'T say no to you, can they! You took what you wanted without giving a bloody thought to the consequences, to hell with anyone else's feelings as long as you got what you suddenly decided you wanted!"
"Needed." Sherlock replied, his voice irritatingly steady. "I took what I needed, yes. I told you why..."

"Oh yes, the big revelation! You're in love with me, eh? Mister asexual, 'married to my work' Sherlock Fucking Holmes! In love? HA! You don't tell someone you love them then not ten seconds later climb into their lap and forcibly stick your tongue down their throat!"
"Keep your voice down." Sherlock scolded. "Unless you want Mrs Hudson to overhear your little tantrum."
"Tantrum!" John hissed, shaking with rage - he genuinely wanted to throw something (preferably something heavy) at Sherlock's bloody head. "You manipulated me, Sherlock! You knew JUST what to say to knock me for six and then seized the fucking moment! So yeah I eventually consented but you had your hand in my jeans and it was pretty fucking hard to think by that point!" He howled, not bothering to lower his voice. Hell, Mrs Hudson was used to their fighting.

John's hands were already balled into fists, his nails began to cut into his palms.
"Sherlock, what you did was selfish!" He began.
"Agreed." Sherlock nodded.
"Inappropriate!"
"Wildly." He replied with another nod.
"Cruel!" He growled.
"Possibly." Sherlock agreed.
"Wrong!" He spat.
"Ah... disagree."

"What!? What part of co-ercing a straight man into bed with you is 'right' on planet Sherlock!?" John demanded.
"Will you stop with the 'straight man' bit, I understand that I acted inappropriately in the heat of the moment but we can't begin to discuss this like adults until you get over your little sexuality crisis." Sherlock's voice began showing the first signs of annoyance and John felt as though somebody had thrown cold water over his face.
"My 'little sexuality crisis' for fuck's sake Sherlock I am STRAIGHT, okay! Heterosexual! As in likes to fuck WOMEN!" He cried.
"Oh yes, because you were 'straight' last night when you were begging me to go faster? How about when you were screaming my name? Or praying to a deity?" Sherlock's tone still held traces of irritation and that made John even madder than he'd thought possible. How the hell was Sherlock angry with him!?
"Oh my god." John groaned.
"Yes, something along those lines." He countered cockily.

"Oh for crying out loud Sherlock!" John ran one hand through his hair and stared at the man sitting on the sofa. "You... you actually don't see that what you did was wrong? Do you?" His voice lowered in incredulity. "You're not right in the head, Sherlock! They told me! They told me you were a bloody psychopath!" Sherlock's eyes flickered with what could be shock. He'd heard that word from many people in his life, but never from John. "I don't know why I thought this would work! You need help, Sherlock! Serious psychiatric help! I can't DO this anymore! I can't be your bloody psych nurse alright! I'm done!"
"Calm down." Sherlock said softly.
"No I won't fucking calm down, I can't do this anymore. I've had enough. I'm leaving. Good luck finding some other 'idiot' to follow you around London, alright. I'm off!" For the very first time in the conversation there was emotion on Sherlock's face, some sort of pain or sorrow crossed his features but John turned on his heel and stormed upstairs before Sherlock could give him the sad eyes. He would not be manipulated again.

He flung himself onto his bed and already had Harry's number half dialled before he'd taken a breath. It rang twice before she picked up.
"Y'alright Johnny boy?" She asked cheerily and he sighed. No. No he was not alright.
"Can I come stay with you for a few days?" He asked, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He had a headache from all the shouting, even though it had been him shouting.
"What's he done now? If you two've had another row over body parts in the bloody fridge..." Came his sister's voice from over the phone.
"No it's... it's more than that... I just need a place to crash til I find somewhere else to live." He said, the reality of it hitting him. Fuck. Finding another flat share in London was going to be hell.
"Somewhere else? Oh dear, what's happened?" She sounded slightly exasperated, this was certainly not the first time John had called her after a fight with Sherlock.
"It's... a long story." John mumbled.
"Well aren't you lucky, I've got all the time in the world." He heard the sound of a kettle being filled on the other side of the phone and knew Harry was settling down with a cuppa, expecting him to recount the tale.

He sighed. He supposed if he could trust anybody with this it would have to be Harry.
"We sort of... slept together."
"Slept together slept together or... taking it up the arse slept together?" Ah, he'd forgotten how brutally honest Harry could be. So ladylike. Under different circumstances he'd probably be mildly affectionately amused by her attitude, right now it just wasn't helping.
"The second one..." He muttered awkwardly.
"Ah! Congratulations." She chirped, as the kettle clicked off. He heard a chair scrape.
"Shut up." He grumbled. "It was a mistake, alright? And now we've had this huge row and..."
"Oh... oh don't tell me he changed his mind! He didn't say it was an experiment or something weird did he? Bloody bastard..." John cut her off before she could start on a venomous rant about his (former?) flatmate
"No no... it was me. He just... he threw himself at me Harry... I didn't know what to do or say and... I don't know it just sort of happened."

He swore he could see Harry's puzzled look from over the phone.
"Right... okay you're going to have to start at the beginning, John, because I really don't see how sex 'just sort of happens'... or why you then fought about it." John made himself comfortable on the bed, this could take a while.
"Well... he got back late last night... at about midnight. He'd been on a case with Lestrade and sometimes when he goes off on his own... well, without me, he ends up injured so I'd stayed up to make sure he got home okay."
"Aw." She cooed.
"Shut up or I won't tell you." John threatened her.
"My lips are sealed. Go on." She prompted as John recalled what happened next.

"He came in and... he looked like he'd seen a ghost. He was really pale and... and quiet. He's NEVER quiet after a case, Harry he likes to brag and recount his acts of superhuman intelligence... there was obviously something really wrong. I said hello at least twice and he just sort of stared at me... through me." John gulped recalling those pale eyes looking more haunted than he'd ever seen them. "He took off his coat and scarf and his eyes never left me the whole time... Then he said... he sort of announced it... "Just so you know... I couldn't bear to lose you. I'm in love with you." and I sort of... I kind of froze? It just seemed so random and he didn't look... right, still. He crossed the room... I was sat on the sofa at this point by the way. Then... he was sort of everywhere." John knew his story telling skills were quite weak at the best of times, nevermind when he was emotionally involved with the story.
"What do you mean he was everywhere?" She asked, sipping at her tea.
"He... he kissed me but he kind of took hold of my face and... he was everywhere. He was sat on my lap and sort of straddling me..." John paused because really it seemed a little bit odd to be discussing his sex life with his twin sister - he'd heard of close siblings but... really?

"Right..."
"So I put my hand on his chest and broke the kiss kind of gently because I wasn't really mad at him... he was obviously worked up about something, y'know? And his mind... it doesn't work the way other people's do so I... I calmly told him that it was a really bad idea."
"And he said?"
"He said "I know." and kissed me again. I didn't respond to it... it was... well it was really weird. He was sort of clinging to my shirt. I pushed him away again and said a bit firmer "I'm sorry, I don't feel the same." and he just... he looked me dead in the eye and softly said "I know." again." It was the first time John was really thinking properly about the pre-amble to last night. He'd become so obsessed with the act that he hadn't concentrated on what had led to it. There was something about the sound of that second 'I know' Sherlock had said... like he'd been genuinely upset.

"He kissed me again, harder that time... tongue and everything it was... very strange - he didn't even seem to know what he was doing... he missed my mouth like twice."
"Was he maybe drunk?" Harry offered, having her own experience of drunken liasons.
"No... definitely not. I've seen him drunk and that's not it... plus..." John paused not really wanting to articulate the phrase 'he didn't taste of booze' He settled on: "there was no alcohol on his breath. I wasn't really responding to the kiss so that might have been why he seemed rubbish at it? I don't know...

Anyway I was trying to work out how to get him to stop when his hands... he started unbuttoning my shirt and I kind of freaked out. I batted his hand away... I told him he'd really regret it in the morning and he said "I really won't." and... he kind of latched onto my neck? I don't know he was kind of giving me a hickey I guess?" John glanced at the mirror on his dresser and ran one finger over the angry, slightly raised purple mark "He got my shirt open while I was a bit distracted with his mouth." Harry giggled and he glared at the handset.
"Look be an adult about this or I swear I WILL hang up and go stay with Greg or something." It was an empty threat, Greg was having issues with his estranged wife and they'd hardly want John kipping on their sofa - but Harry didn't know that.

"Fine fine... it all sounds a bit awkward I'll give you that but really it's hardly the worst 'first time', I don't understand why you've had a tiff."
"I tried once more... pushed him back and told him clearly "I'm not gay."." Harry snorted into her cuppa and John seriously considered making good on his threat to hang up on her. "He... he just looked a bit serious and said "I need you."... I didn't really know what to say to that... Sherlock never NEEDS people... a case maybe? A distraction? But he's never needed another person... If he'd said 'I need this' or 'I need it' I could understand but he definitely said he needed ME..." John sighed softly, already starting to feel a little guilty about shouting at Sherlock - because even via his own retelling his consent was 'iffy' at best. Sherlock was right... he hadn't outright told him no.

"His hands were wandering and there was just this... this moment... like he was looking me dead in the eye with his hands on my chest and... I don't know? I guess he was maybe... asking for permission or something? I didn't say anything... what the hell are you supposed to say in that situation?"
"Nice arse, your room or mine?" Harry suggested.
"Harriet Watson if you don't stop answering my rhetorical questions I swear I'll...."
"Alright alright!" She grumbled. "God you're grouchy, did he keep you up all night?"
"ANYWAY." He interjected before Harry could come up with some lewd comment about his stamina. "It gets a bit blurry after that... he lost his shirt and he was still kissing me and... I wasn't even touching him - like his hands were all over the place and he was kissing my closed mouth and it was just... really awkward. Then... his hand was in my jeans!" John hated the fact he squeaked a little bit trying to explain that.

"Were you hard?" Harry asked, an amused lilt to her voice. John blushed furiously.
"That's not the point!" He stammered, incredibly embarrassed.
"It's totally the point, John." She said firmly.
"I'm not discussing this with my sister!" John objected and he heard Harry's infamous Watson growl.
"Answer the question, were you hard?"
"Well... yes, a bit!" John admitted feeling the heat in his cheeks. "But it's been a while! And there was six foot of half naked detective writhing in my lap and rubbing against... places... I wasn't trying to..."
"So then what happened?" She asked.
"I kind of... I guess I moaned a bit? Or gasped? I don't know... either way I opened my mouth and he took that as an opportunity to deepen the kiss and I kind of... I sort of just gave in at that point I guess?" John ran one hand over his face. Really he couldn't blame Sherlock for being confused about the consent issue... John hadn't exactly protested very hard.

"Then sex happened." John concluded. "I'm not going into more detail okay, it's creepy enough I told you this much."
"Spoilsport."
"I shared a womb with you Harry, I'm not sharing the..." He groaned softly. "Do you SERIOUSLY want the gorey details?"
"Gorey? Wait was he like really kinky or..." She asked, concern in her voice and John realised he'd inadvertently worried her.
"No... nothing like that." John said honestly.
"Was he rough with you?"
"Not really." John mumbled, trying hard not to remember Sherlock's hands gently gliding over his body. To be completely honest John didn't think any of his previous girlfriend had paid that much attention to him and that was an oddly discomforting thought. The actual sex bit had hurt like hell at first but he supposed that was normal...

"So... after the 'sex happened' what happened? He came and left so to speak?" Harry asked, trying to work out where the anger and fighting had come into it.
"No... no he lay with me for a bit. Kind of clung to me to be honest... everytime I tried to speak he shushed me... eventually just told me to go to sleep. I was knackered Harry... I'd waited up til midnight and... I just fell asleep there in his bed." John admitted, recalling Sherlock's almost soothing 'Shh. Sleep.'
"O...kay, so... he was off with you in the morning?" She enquired.
"No... no he was kind of quiet... when I got up he was chainsmoking in the living room..." John mumbled awkwardly, remembering how tentative Sherlock had seemed that morning. He'd even tried to rile John by asking for cigarettes... he'd done that to get a reaction, John was certain.

"Right... so... why have you two had a row?" Harry asked cluelessly. John frowned.
"I was... angry okay. I didn't exactly say yes last night..."
"You didn't exactly say no either." Harry said pointedly.
"Yes, okay, retrospectively I see that." He muttered darkly. "I was just... I was pissed off okay? It's a lot to deal with and I... I shouted at him."
"Right..." Harry said, prompting him to tell the full truth. She'd always been able to drag the truth out of him when he'd been omitting it. To hell with Sherlock, nobody on this earth was as manipulative as Harry Watson.
"I... accused him of coercing me into bed... I swore a bit... I laughed at him when he tried to reiterate that he loved me... I... may have implied that he needed therapy... and I told him I was moving out..." John trailed off, suddenly awash with guilt.

"Okay so... to summarize... your best friend tells you he's in love with you... you then proceed to have by all accounts a rather amazing roll in the hay and a cuddle afterwards. The next day you have a change of heart... you call him a nutter, pretty much tell him he raped you and that you're leaving him because you're straight and he's a nutter?" Harry summed up with painful honesty. John sighed.
"I've been a complete arsehole, haven't I?" He groaned softly.
"Just a bit, yes."
"I don't know what to do..."
"Well an apology would be a start!" Harry insisted.
"Obviously." John cringed slightly as he realised how much like Sherlock he sounded when he said that. "I mean... look I really care for him, honestly I do. I'm the first to jump to his defence when people start having a go...I know what people think but I'm not actually gay..."

"Okay. Shut up a minute." Harry instructed firmly. "Right so... just for a minute pretend that Sherlock's a girl." She told him.
"He's NOT a girl..." John grunted at her.
"Shut the fuck up and pretend okay!" She scolded in her ever ladylike manner. "So you've got this female best friend... she lives with you, she laughs with you, you'd kill for her... you'd die for her, you've got this weird sort of connection where you know what the other is thinking, she's an absolute genius and to top it all off she's sexy as fuck... tell me you wouldn't be all over that?"
"Well, yeah but..." John was cut off.
"Exactly. You find those qualities attractive. You'd be head over heels if he were a girl..."
"He's NOT a girl, Harry!" John expressed again.
"You're attracted to his personality, okay - so it's a gender incompatibility, then?" John hesitated before he answered that... he wasn't entirely sure he liked where this was going.

"Yes, I guess I'm attracted to his personality but..."
"John... last night proves that you are sexually attracted to him... as a man."
"I'm not! It was... I was..." He desperately searched for an answer finally settling on. "Oh fuck." As it hit him. Harry was right. He'd not only got it up, he'd got off on it too. With the sexuality aspect cleared up, John thought about everything Harry had said about their friendship and groaned softly. Oh he was an idiot. The whole world had seen it coming and he hadn't. He was in love with Sherlock Holmes. Fuck. Fuck fuck fucking fuck.
"Knew you'd get there in the end." Harry said, a smile evident in her voice. John stared at his hands, expecting to see a tremor but there was none - there never was under pressure. "What are you still talking to me for, go talk to him!" She urged.
"Right, yeah bye." John hung up. Damn, he was supposed to thank her wasn't he? He'd call her later.

Hell. He was going to have to do some serious grovelling. It was all really new but it was right - in his head he knew it was right. It had been a sudden realisation but as soon as it had occurred he saw it all in hindsight - every moment from the one they'd met, every time they'd accidentally flirted or people had mistaken them for a couple... every little smile and secret glance. Dear god it was sickening. He sighed heavily and made his way downstairs, Sherlock was still sat on the sofa, now with his head in his hands, John had tried to be quiet but the step that was third from the bottom had a loose panel and it creaked loudly. Sherlock's head shot up and he looked almost wild, he'd not been crying, that much was obvious, but he definitely look distressed.

Before John could say anything that remotely resembled an apology, Sherlock spoke up.
"Tell me what to say." Sherlock pleaded. "You're my moral compass. Whenever I do something a bit not good you tell me what to say to make it better. Tell me what to say to fix this and I'll say it." John stared, looking at Sherlock for the first time since his epiphany. He wasn't going to do an arse-heel turn, no. Sherlock was definitely still a manipulative, infuriating prat - definitely. There was also this side to him though, the side he didn't show to most people. This almost childlike innocence, the man who genuinely did not understand how human beings worked.
"How about a cup of tea?" John offered gently. Sherlock scrambled out of his seat to stand in front of John.
"How about a cup of tea?" He repeated verbatim and John smiled, he hadn't meant it like that but Sherlock was obviously trying his best to make amends.
"I..." He was about to correct Sherlock but couldn't help it. Just this once. "I'd love one, yeah." He nodded and Sherlock clattered about making the noisiest cup of tea ever in his haste.

John sat down on the sofa and a few moments later when Sherlock returned with two mugs of tea he took his gratefully, allowing his fingers to brush against Sherlock's a little in a pitiful attempt at reassurance.
"Come sit." John nodded to the other end of the sofa and Sherlock sat beside him tentatively - uncertain whether he was about to be yelled at again. "I'm a really nasty bastard when I'm angry." John said apologetically. Sherlock gave a non-commital noise as answer, sensing that insulting John might not help the situation. "How about we have that grown-up discussion then?" John put forward after a moment or two of silence. "I'm done shouting and swearing now I promise."
"I'm not a psychopath." Sherlock informed him, he didn't sound upset or offended that he'd been called one, he was merely correcting him. John nodded.
"I know... I shouldn't have said it and I'm sorry." He agreed strongly. Sherlock seemed to accept this as sufficient, he raised his mug to his lips and sipped at his tea.

"I don't understand." He admitted, defeatedly. "Are you angry because of what I said, because of what I did, or because of what I am?" He asked and John frowned remembering that he'd insulted Sherlock for all three things. He'd not responded well to Sherlock's love confession, to his come ons or to him being a man and to be fair none of those were really his fault... well actually yeah the come ons were entirely his fault. What had lead to that though?
"I'm not angry anymore." John said honestly, not really sure where to start. Well... when it doubt, start at the beginning. "What happened last night, Sherlock?"
"We had sex?" Sherlock suggested uncertainly.
"Well yes I was there for that bit." John said in what he hoped was a light tone. "I meant before that? Last I heard you were out on a case with Greg? What... spooked you so much?" He asked, curiously.

Sherlock looked just about as uncomfortable as he could and shifted awkwardly in his seat.
"I got it wrong." He confessed bitterly. "I got it wrong and someone died." He averted his eyes, suddenly fascinated with the contents of his cup.
"No offence but that's never bothered you before." John recalled quite vividly the old lady strapped to the bomb and Sherlock's lack of compassion in that case.
"No." Sherlock agreed. "It doesn't usually... sentiment is not my strong suit."
"So... what changed? What was so different about this one?" Sherlock scowled slightly, he did not like to admit to his own weaknesses and this one was a big one.
"The victim's name was John." Sherlock said bitterly, John frowned slightly, obviously confused. Sherlock gave a heavy sigh.

"It's a common enough name..." John ventured.
"Historically the most common name in the English language." He grumbled, put out by his own flaw. "It's the kind of emotional attachment I'd scold anybody else for, the sort of sentimentality that I loathe in the huddled masses... but I just couldn't disassosciate." His frown deepened as though he was highly disappointed in himself.

"I play games with myself, in my head." Sherlock explained, empassioned once more by showing John exactly how his mind worked. "If I can solve this one I get to insult Anderson, if I can fix this I get one free shot at Lestrade's pitiful sex life. Immature I know, it's how I keep it exciting, it's how I compartmentalise it. This one was... I was so convinced I was right - I always am." He scowled. "I told myself that if I could save this anonymous John whom I didn't know from Adam... I told myself it would keep you safe." He stared at the floor now, dishusted with his own logic.
"You're the one who told me we can't save them all, Sherlock." John hoped he didn't sound patronizing. Sherlock glared at the floor now.

"I COULD have saved him though. If I'd just stopped and thought... it should have been obvious that his sister used his car, the seat was adjusted just so and..." Sherlock clenched and unclenched his free hand and sighed. "It doesn't matter, it was completely irrational of me to project my own fears onto a stranger but when we got to the house expecting to catch the murderer... 'John' was eviscerated. Almost completely dehumanised. I just... I couldn't do it. I walked away and I'm not proud of that. I came straight home and you... you were there, waiting up for me. Ready to patch me up if it had all gone wrong."
"Yeah..." Hindsight's a funny thing, John always expected Sherlock to come home injured, he'd always expected to have to stitch him or bandage him - he'd never given much thought to how worried he was that Sherlock may not come home one evening.

"I just... I needed you to know it. I needed to tell you, so I did. I needed to show you so.... I did." He said plainly and though John did not agree with his methods he could hardly fault Sherlock on his reasoning. It's awkward when you realise the ones you love are not immortal - that they could die at any moment. John certainly had no plans on going anywhere anytime soon.
"Are you sure? That you love me?" John had to ask, even though he already knew the answer.
"Yes." He did not hesitate to respond. "Positive. I didn't choose to fall in love with you, I had absolutely no intention of ever being in love with anybody. Then again I always thought I wouldn't live to see thirty so..." He sighed once more and rose his eyes to look at John for the first time during this conversation. "I knew the moment I met you that you were different, I knew by the time you shot the cabbie that you were something new, I didn't figure it out until you were clad in semtex and jumped on a maniac, willing to sacrifice yourself to save my life. Once I'd named the blasted emotion, I avoided it like the plague. I had no intention of informing you of my feelings."

Sherlock swilled the last dregs of his tea around in his mug.
"I apologise..." Sherlock hesitated, he was not very good with apologies and he still wasn't certain to which aspect John had objected to. He decided to go broad spectrum. "If you feel I trivialised your sexuality. I should have taken it into account before I imposed my needs upon..."
"Shut up for a second." John cut him off and he immediately fell silent.

"I've been thinking and... well. I wouldn't shoot a cabbie or jump on maniacs whilst wearing a bomb for just anybody. Hell I wouldn't kill or die for most of my ex girlfriends..."
"Yes you would." Sherlock interupted him. "You would. It's your nature. If you could save anybody you would try your hardest, that's why you've been both a soldier and a medical man." John paused, he'd never really thought about it like that but now was not the time for an emotional delve into his career choices.
"Right well... what I meant was..." John was stuck. he knew what he was meant to say here but it was surprisingly difficult. Had it ever been this much of a struggle to tell girlfriends that he loved them? Had he ever felt as strongly for any of them as he had done for the mad man in front of him?

He stared at Sherlock who was looking worn and exhausted.
"Are you still going to leave?" He interjected again, sounding a little helpless.
"No." John swore. "No, I'm not going to leave."
"I meant what I said." Sherlock said firmly, he definitely seemed relieved that John wasn't moving out to get away from him. "I couldn't bear to lose you... and if I ended up losing you due to ill-advised actions on my part well..." He trailed off because really they both knew what would happen in that scenario. He'd fall apart, go back to his old ways.
"Sherlock would you just shut up, for two minutes." John hoped he did not sound too irritated. Sherlock nodded cautiously and John mulled it over, how best to say it. "Like I said, I've been thinking and..." No he'd tried that one. Damnit this should not be so difficult. Then he was struck by a moment of brilliance. He'd take a leaf out of the detective's book...

He leaned forward and took Sherlock's empty mug from his hands and placed it on the coffee table. Sherlock looked curious but said nothing. John nodded, confirming his decision in his head before darting forward and kissing Sherlock. He heard Sherlock's sharp intake of breathe. The kiss was very different from last night's first ones, both of them were wired and responsive but it remained gentle. John's lips toyed softly with Sherlock's, all in all it was quite pleasant until Sherlock placed his hand on John's chest and in perfect mimicry of last night, eased John away from him. He shook his head, his curls bouncing.
"John, fourty-five minutes ago you didn't want to know me..." Sherlock was confused. John took the hand that was pushing him away, into both of his and raised it to his lips, kissing Sherlock's knuckles gently.

"You're an infuriating prat and you drive me up the wall." He told Sherlock who nodded in agreement, staring at his hand where John kissed him. No sense denying what he was. "But... I wouldn't have you any other way. What you did last night was exactly like you said 'wildly inappropriate', things happened way too fast and I didn't have time to process any of it, it was overwhelming, but it forced me to re-evaluate things and well..." He kissed Sherlock's fingers once more and looked up at him. "If you'll have me?"

Sherlock pursed his lips and furrowed his brow, he tried to pull away but John had not let go of his hand.
"I'm trying to tell you I love you too... you could look a bit happier about it." John mumbled.
"I had not anticipated you returning the sentiment." Sherlock admitted awkwardly.
"That's a bad thing?"
"Not bad just... I'm not entirely sure I can be what you want me to be." Sherlock took a deep breath trying to explain this as best he could. "I've never been anybody's 'boyfriend' or 'partner' or 'other half'... I'm selfish and controlling, you said yourself I'm manipulative." He was frowning deeply, thinking too much.

"You don't want to be together?" John asked, obviously bewildered.
"I do." He said hurriedly. "But you have to know what you're letting yourself in for. I won't change. I'll still obssess over cases, I'll still be rude to friends and relatives, I'll still..." John raised a finger to Sherlock's lips, silencing him once more. Sherlock nearly went cross eyed trying to stare at John's finger and swallowed to try reduce the tension.
"I know, okay. I told you, I wouldn't have you any other way. We're not going to be a chocolates and flowers and cheesy movies kind of couple, I'm not going to expect anything more of you than you already are. We're still going to fight about you running off on your own and leaving body parts in the fridge and I'll likely still have to tear you and Anderson apart at crime scenes okay?" Sherlock mulled this over before nodding.
"Okay." He agreed, still nodding and reminding John of the dog on the car insurance advert just a bit too much.

Then something strange happened, neither of them and both of them moved at the same time, nobody started it and they both started it, either way they ended up with their lips locked and their hands grasping for purchase in each other's shirts. It wasn't as timid as before, nor was it as heated as last night, it was a happy medium a cautious exploration of the other's mouths laden with intent and desire. Breaking apart Sherlock lay his forehead against John's, breathing gently and processing the events of the day.
"And John?" He said softly.
"Hm?"
"Next time I see her, remind me to thank your sister." John kissed him once more, just to wipe the goddamn smirk off his face.

Chapter Text

4. Want

There is that blissful moment that occurs between sleep and consciousness, just as you wake but before you open your eyes where you can't quite recall arbitrary facts such as the date, the season, or even the city in which you fell asleep. The lure of sleep was tempting, but not quite as good as the reality he woke up into. John slipped into consciousness curled against Sherlock's bare chest, with one thin, strong arm wrapped around him supportively. For the longest moment he lay there, content with the sound of Sherlock's heartbeat just beneath his ear, he sighed happily, unable to remember the last time he'd woken up feeling so calm and utterly at ease.

"You're awake?" Sherlock whispered from above him.
"Mmhmm. Good morning." He greeted sleepily with a lazy offering of a soft kiss in the centre of Sherlock's chest, the detective's hand moved slowly up and down over John's shoulder. As he came round a bit more, relinquishing his hold on the comfort of sleep for the more pleasing sensation of the world at peace, he realised that the world only contained the two of them, as one many limbed post-coital entity.
"Good morning." Sherlock agreed, his voice strong and deep as ever (John could feel it rumbling within his chest) with no traces of sleep.
"How long have you been awake?" John asked, inhaling deeply. Sherlock smelled of stale sweat and sex, it should have been a discouraging scent but it reminded them both about last night, how they had spent it exploring and pleasuring each other for the first time. He could not help but place another kiss against Sherlock's pale skin.
"Since about 4.30am." This was not unusual for the detective, he didn't sleep as long as most people and John had been used to it when they were friends and acutely aware of it when they had slipped into becoming lovers.

Many nights since they had gotten together, John had fallen asleep beside the detective only to have him sneak out in the middle of  the night, he had learned not to be offended by it - Sherlock got some of his best ideas in the early hours of the morning and often dashed off to make notes or solve problems or begin experiments in the wee hours. John was glad he'd stayed in bed last night though, he would never have admitted it but if he'd woken up alone after their first time he'd have been a little disappointed.

And what a first time, if John looked stupidly goofy with pride Sherlock had the good grace to say nothing as John raised his face to look at his lover properly. Sherlock had never looked  so blissfully calm in all John's time knowing him, his eyes were half closed and looking directly at John, and his lips curled in the vaguest hint of a smile. He looked youthful, carefree, almost innocent - almost. His hair was a dead giveaway that he'd spent the night indulging in carnal pleasures he'd feared he'd not possessed.
"Feel alright?" John wondered aloud.
"A little sore." Sherlock mumbled, tilting his head down and placing a kiss of his own into John's equally messy hair.
"Hot bath in a bit?" He suggested, laying his palm flat over Sherlock's heart as it beat a slow tattoo against his ribcage. Sherlock hummed in agreement, his entire body vibrating softly in the early morning light caused him to look a little ethereal - a fallen angel.
"Sounds like heaven." Sherlock replied, unknowing of John's romantic notions of debauched angels.

"Any regrets?" John asked him, his head clear of the early morning drowsiness now.
"Mm... I wish we'd done that sooner." The detective admitted causing John to chuckle softly. It had been Sherlock stonewalling against taking their relationship further, begrudgingly confessing that physical intimacy was not his strong suit (and subsequently confirming John's long-held belief that Sherlock was in fact a virgin - mildly surprising in this day and age but not really that big of a shock to John's system) He'd been patient, let Sherlock set the pace of it all. They'd shared a bed almost from day one, Sherlock claimed it helped him sleep when John was in his bed (despite his frequent night time wanderings, he was still keeping a much more regular sleep schedule now than he had done before) and John had found it pure torture to lay beside the eccentric genius, so close but not allowed to touch. He'd lost track of how many cold showers he'd needed to take after waking up to Sherlock's heat and scent lingering on the covers.
"I did tell you that you'd enjoy it." John teased.

"Three months and two days." Sherlock murmured, watching curiously as John's fingers sketched abstract patterns on his stomach.
"Hm?"
"That's how long it took for you to convince me to have sex with you." Sherlock informed him, John didn't quite agree with the phrasing (he'd not had to convince Sherlock of much) but he knew that what Sherlock was trying to say and what he actually said were usually two very different things, so he let it slide. "I'm sure that's longer than you've ever spent trying to get a woman into bed."
"Yes. It was worth the wait though." John reassured him.
"Was it?" Sherlock asked, genuinely not knowing. He'd rather enjoyed himself last night, but he had no idea of what constituted a 'successful' sexual experience (mutual orgasm probably and that had happened so...).
"Yes, you bloody idiot, it was." John laughed gently.
"Yes... I suppose it was." Sherlock agreed thoughtfully, mind racing with factors other than his own sense of satisfaction that could conclude the night had been a success all around (Time? Good. Location? Perfect. Preparation? Fine. Yes. It had been a good night.)

"I can hear you thinking you know." John mumbled. "Stop over analysing. You liked it, yes?"
"Yes."
"Then there's nothing to think about." John told him, breaking their embrace to sidle up Sherlock's body and lay propped atop him. He looked his partner in the eye as the taller (longer?) man spoke.
"My brain doesn't just turn off. I will over analyse any and all information given to me and you gave me a lot to work with last night." Sherlock's hands slipped up and wrapped around John's shoulders, pulling him down for the first kiss of the day.

Sherlock had not always been so keen on kissing. In fact the first week of their relationship had contained only the one kiss that had gotten them together in the first place, aside from that one (which had sort of taken them both (and the entirety of Scotland Yard) by surprise) Sherlock had skirted around the issue. Several times after the long-awkward-talk that had followed the very public first kiss John had thought Sherlock was going to kiss him, only for the detective to dart forward and pat him on the shoulder or head awkwardly. It had not been the most conventional form of affection ("Did he just pat your head? Are you his boyfriend or his pet dog!?" - Sally Donovan) but John understood that Sherlock didn't really understand appropriate displays of affection and though he'd later allowed Sherlock to dictate when their relationship progressed it had been John that initiated the early kisses.

And they had always startled Sherlock so pleasantly. Whether the detective had said something clever and deserved a kiss or if he just really needed to stop talking and John could only think of a kiss to silence him, he'd always immediately freeze and sort of melt against the kiss, becoming a much softer-spoken calmer version of himself afterwards. (Lestrade had initially vehemently objected to Sherlock and John 'snogging at crime scenes!' citing it as 'bloody well inappropriate!', however when John had ceased this behaviour for a week or two, Lestrade soon found it was more appropriate to have them kissing than to have Sherlock reeling off deductions about his personal life and insulting the relatives of the deceased)

It stunned him now, even though he'd initiated it. Sherlock was constantly in a state of surprise with John, amazed that someone actually wanted to kiss him, fascinated that John actually cared where nobody else did, astounded that despite his own nature Sherlock was in love with this brave, slightly mad soldier. He deepened the kiss and John was more than happy to oblige, flicking his tongue into Sherlock's mouth (and emitting a soft groan remembering where that same mouth had been the previous night). Sherlock broke the kiss with a slight gasp.

"Interesting... the memory of a sexual response is enough to trigger a sexual response..." He mumbled, lifting his thigh to brush against John's growing arousal. John's face split into a cheeky grin.
"Yeah, funny that." He teased, knowing how much fun it was going to be to teach Sherlock about sex. Nobody ever got to teach Sherlock about anything. John dipped his head so his lips were against Sherlock's ear. "I mean who would think that remembering your mouth wrapped round their cock would be in the slightest bit erotic?" He licked the shell of Sherlock's ear, causing the younger man to shiver slightly. "That laying naked against your frankly bloody gorgeous boyfriend, knowing how he looks in the throes of an orgasm could be a turn on?" He whispered, blowing gently over the stripe he'd just licked. Sherlock gave an odd noise, a bit like a whimper that he'd tried to suppress, resulting in a small squeak.

"Who'd have guessed that knowing you can reduce the man who never shuts up to a mewling, whimpering, gasping mess could be sexy, eh?"
"You've made your point." Sherlock conceded, squirming under John's ministrations. John laughed softly and pulled back, honestly Sherlock definitely looked good enough to take right here and now on the bed but John understood Sherlock in a way that most people (possibly even Sherlock) did not. Sherlock said he had 'new information' to deal with, and when Sherlock had information he did all he could with it. John could quite easily talk Sherlock into round two, maybe even round three if he was feeling particularly amorous, but he'd be overwhelmed. When Sherlock was overwhelmed he backed off and John did not fancy another week of being cold shouldered (like the time two months ago when John had accidentally given Sherlock his first erection in 5 years. Sherlock had refused to speak to John all week while he dealt with the emotional repercussions). Knowing how easy it would be to unsettle the laid back, lazy morning dynamic, John took a surprising amount of self control and pulled himself away from Sherlock.

"How about that bath?" He offered, standing up, ignoring his semi-on. Sherlock looked suddenly slightly shocked, he'd really thought they were going somewhere with all that flirtatious pre-amble and slight dirty talk... he nodded slowly, unsure what he'd done to make John go from bedroom eyes to running a bath but he let John go across the hall in his second best dressing gown (the blue one, it was unofficially his now anyway, he wore it often enough)

When Sherlock had suitably recovered from the shock of being turned on and abandoned, he heard the tap in the bathroom stop and dragged himself out of the warm comfort of his bed (his bed, always his. John's room annoyed him) and slipped on his red dressing gown, following John into the bathroom.
"Just finished." John said, indicating to the full tub. Sherlock nodded slowly. "Well... get in."
"Will you be joining me?" He asked, hoping he sounded airy and uncaring.
"Sherlock, the tub's barely big enough for your bloody gangly great legs, you're not going to get two people in there. Anyway I'm not the one with a sore arse, am I?" He smiled fondly at Sherlock, who had turned slightly pink. "Thanks for that... by the way. I had sort of thought you'd want to y'know... be in the driving seat so to speak?" Sherlock slid his robe off, once again exposing himself to John.

He'd been naked and vulnerable last night, but John had been in a similar state, now John was fully shielded by Sherlock's too-big dressing gown and Sherlock felt oddly exposed as he stepped into the bath.
"No use me being in the driving seat until I learn how to steer." He answered, feeling the heat of the water wash over him as he sank down. John was right about the size of the tub, Sherlock had to bend his knees up to fit in, John would never be able to just sit on his lap in the tub like romantic couples did in sickening movies. Still... Sherlock couldn't shake the fact John had brushed him off, John had lead him on in there and now he was in no mood to continue apparently. Sherlock sloshed about a little in the water, he was too big for the tub and his knees were above the water line so were constantly cold.

The heat felt fantastic against his aching muscles, he tilted his head back and stared at the ceiling. The humidity of the room caused his dishevelled curls to wilt as John knelt at the head of the bath.
"Have I done something wrong?" Sherlock asked cautiously as John's hand submerged under the water and he splashed a bit over Sherlock's chest.
"What? No. Why?" John sounded truly bewildered, he raised his hand letting the droplets fall gracefully from his extended finger tips onto Sherlock's neck.
"You seemed... keen this morning. Then you darted off to run a bath. I wondered if I had said something foolish." Sherlock mused, enjoying the sensation.
"No, definitely not." John reassured him. "I just... I didn't want to overload you. Last night was amazing but if you're not ready for all this... new data and all..." John trailed off, distracted by following the beads of water on their journey down Sherlock's long pale throat. Dear god could Sherlock not see how much John wanted him?

"John I would not have actively participated in last night's activities had I not felt ready." Sherlock said bluntly. "Allowing our relationship to turn sexual was a mutual decision and not one I entered into lightly. It was a logical progression and -"
"Alright Spock." John said with a grin. "I get it. Here, sit forward." John ordered and Sherlock shifted in the bath to do as he was told. John cupped the water in his hands and poured it over Sherlock's mass of dark curls a few times until his hair was soaked. John applied the pearly blue shampoo, fingers sliding through Sherlock's hair, massaging his scalp.

"That's... good." Sherlock moaned quietly, nuzzling upwards into the circular motion of John's fingers. "Lovely in fact."
"Yeah, I have noticed you like having your hair played with." John smiled, vividly remembering running his fingers through Sherlock's hair the night before, pulling him closer and grinding against that beautiful body.
"No. I don't like having my hair played with. I like it when you play with my hair. Get it right." Sherlock corrected and John seriously considered getting shampoo in his eyes on purpose, instead he settled on a kiss, kneeling up and tipping Sherlock's face towards his, lips meeting in a soft, loving kiss. Sherlock tasted warm and sweet, a fantastically familiar notion now.

John didn't need to help Sherlock bathe, but he did anyway - running a soapy sponge over his body and becoming gradually more enamoured with the soft throaty sounds Sherlock issued in appreciation. A mewl here, a purr there - it was adorable. At the beginning of their relationship, John would never have dreamt that Sherlock would be so vocal. John himself was the sort of bloke Britain was proud to boast, the guy with a bit of a romantic streak but not one to verbalise any intent, desire or issues he came across. Sherlock didn't shut up about anything, ever - but John had assumed he'd hold his tongue in the romance department. He did not. He told John when he was happy with something, he told John when he was not. The same applied to sex, though he did not use as many words then.

Last night he had keened and mumbled, murmured his approval of almost everything John had done. Yes, he was a very vocal love, and John would not have had it any other way. The water was starting to cool now and every inch of Sherlock's skin that jutted out over the water was painted with a thin layer of goosebumps.
"You'll freeze if you stay in much longer." John told him affectionately. The detective shot him a look that clearly said he knew exactly how long he could remain in the tub before being at risk of hypothermia, so John kissed him to silence him once more and grabbed the towel from the radiator as (slightly stunned), Sherlock emerged from the tub. John stepped to him and wrapped the warm towel around him.
"Are you going to be this... domestic with me every time we engage in coitus?" Sherlock asked, staring at John through a cascade of dark curls dripping into his eyes.
"Possibly." John shrugged.
"Ah." Sherlock answered, pulling the towel tighter and patting himself down lightly to dry off.

"Mating instinct." Sherlock told him, his eyes had not left the doctor.
"Pardon?" John couldn't help but smile, knowing he was in for a lecture.
"It's a mating instinct." Sherlock informed him. "Most male primates feel a kinship with their partner in the immediate aftermath of carnal activity, an urge to protect and please so that their partner doesn't seek fulfilment elsewhere... I have no intention of seeking fulfilment elsewhere." Sherlock added as an afterthought.
"Good." John said, picking Sherlock's robe off the floor as Sherlock removed the towel from his now dry body and moved onto towelling his hair, seemingly content to stand there naked. Not that he had anything to be ashamed of of course.
"If it sets your mind at ease I feel our bond has increased exponentially with the addition of a sexual component to our relationship." Sherlock offered softly. It was as close as Sherlock could get to 'I love you', thankfully John's brain possessed a Sherlock-to-English translator and he just grinned.
"Yeah." He agreed. "Me too." He handed Sherlock his robe and he seemed to survey it in John's hand, without taking it.

"I appreciate your desire to not overwhelm me with new information, however it's an entirely unnecessary concern and if you're amenable I should quite like to go for a drive..."
"A drive?" John asked confused. Sherlock sighed heavily, frustrated with John's lack of concentration when faced with his naked boyfriend.
"This is why I don't speak in euphemisms, too confusing. I am of course referring to our earlier car analogy. I was attempting to suggest anal sex without appearing too crass." He said exasperatedly.
"Ah right." John nodded, then threw a spanner in the works by crossing behind Sherlock and slowly re-dressing him.
"So it's a no on the sex then?" Sherlock asked, slipping his hands into the sleeves and feeling oddly foolish being clothed by another person. John's arms wrapped around Sherlock's waist to fasten the belt.
"Since you asked so nicely, it's definitely a yes on the sex." John told him, laying his cheek on the fabric between Sherlock's shoulder blades.

"I may not be the most experienced in this area but isn't dressing me somewhat counterproductive for this activity?" Sherlock queried, glancing at their combined form in the mirror. Dear god, John was so tiny in comparison, cuddled into him from behind.
"Yep." John told him brightly as Sherlock manoeuvred, spinning in John's grip to face him, to embrace him properly.
"I'll never understand you, John Watson." Sherlock informed him, it was not particularly meant as an insult or a compliment, just one of Sherlock's vague considerations wondered aloud.
"Good." John said with a small nod. "The day you understand me completely is the day you'll get bored and leave." Sherlock did not feel it necessary to tell John that it would never happen.

"So... you behave in a contradictory fashion just to keep me on my toes?" He asked, running his hands over John's back, wishing the material was not in the way.
"No. I just so happen to be a walking contradiction. In this instance, however, I put your dressing gown back on in here, just so I can have the pleasure of taking it off again in there." He nodded his head in the vague direction of the bedroom.
"Ah..." Sherlock lowered his head, lips brushing John's ear as he breathily whispered. "Then why are we still standing about in the bathroom?" He kissed John on the cheek, then pulled back and looked suddenly very serious. "John... you're a very good teacher and I am a very fast learner..." He said, his tone grave.
"Yeah?"
"So... can I drive?" John couldn't help it. He laughed.

Chapter Text

Anger

There is that blissful moment that occurs between sleep and consciousness, just as you wake but before you open your eyes where you can't quite recall arbitrary facts such as the date, the season, or even the city in which you fell asleep. John was dragged rudely into consciousness by the sharp sting in his cheek, joined by other aches and pains in various places, his whole body throbbing and pulsing with abuse. Lifting his arm to shelter his eyes from the harsh morning sunlight proved to be difficult as it was stuck to the pillow with dried blood (possibly his own). Well, he felt like he'd done a few rounds with Mike Tyson.

Oh right. He had. Well, not with Tyson. He dragged himself up, ignoring his aching muscles to sit up next to Sherlock, who was examining his own cuts and bruises.
"Bloody hell, you look as bad as I feel, mate." He sighed, eyeing a particularly vibrant bruise on Sherlock's shoulder. The detective did not appear to have heard him, examining a crimson gash on the back of his own hand with great interest. Sherlock's pale skin showed the bites, scratches and bumps so much worse than John's tanned skin gave away. John sighed heavily, throwing back the covers.

"I'll go get the first aid kit." He said through the tail end of his exhalation. He placed a gentle and apparently puzzling kiss to Sherlock's temple, causing his eyebrows to sky-rocket in curiosity. John padded through to the bathroom, apparently unashamed of his nudity, returning with a green box in his hand. He crawled onto the bed and opened it, silently setting to work wiping Sherlock's cuts with iodine. Sherlock winced slightly as the cotton swab rubbed his sore skin the wrong way.

"Sorry." John apologised, raising Sherlock's wrist to his lips and kissing it.
"John?" Sherlock queried. "Why do you keep kissing me?"
"You know why." John mumbled awkwardly, sweeping a scratch with damp cotton wool to remove the bloody edges.
"Oh." Sherlock observed quietly. "I really don't think my rectum is up for another round, John." John shook his head.
"That's not what I meant." He said with a sigh, opening the box of plasters to cover the small scratch. "You know, Sherlock. You must know. You know everything."
"Humour me." Sherlock drawled, turning as John moved on to the long scrapes down his back.

"I don't want last night to be all this is..." John told him, rubbing cautiously at the scratches he'd caused, vibrant red gashes down Sherlock's back where his fingernails had found purchase. "I don't want one angry and frankly quite brutal fuck to be all we are." He told the detective gently. Sherlock hissed in pain as John treated his wounds, moved back to face him as John began cleaning the wound on his shoulder, which upon closer inspection was revealed to be a bite, a ring of teeth marks in dark purple.
"Why?"
"Sex doesn't have to be so... vicious. It can be gentle and caring and soft..." John mumbled embarrassedly.
"I have had sex before." Sherlock told him exasperatedly. Slightly surprising but not the issue right at this moment, John was sure to come back to it at a later date.

"Ah... You feel guilty?" Sherlock queried as John lowered his mouth to the injury and placed a very gentle, open mouthed kiss to it.
"You know I do." John whispered, Sherlock still looking puzzled at the random affection. For a little while there was silence as John dressed and tended to the painful reminders of last night's fury.
"How do we move on from this?" Sherlock asked as John ignored his own wounds and packed the first aid supplies away.
"Well, a date would be a good start." John offered, laying the box on the bedside table.
"A... date?"
"You know, two people going out and enjoying each others company." John put forward, licking his bottom lip absently, it still tasted of iron. Sherlock shook his head.
"John, you don't want to date me." He said firmly. "You were angry last night and I don't judge you for your actions, you are predominantly heterosexual and you should not feel obligated to offer me a pity date."
"It's not about pity or... wait." John froze and looked Sherlock in the eye. "You actually... you actually don't know..." He breathed in shock. Sherlock still looked befuddled and John groaned softly.

"Sherlock I wouldn't have been so angry with you if I didn't care..." John said, taking Sherlock's hand in his. "You... terrified me. You can't go risking your life like that you friggin' idiot!" John cringed, he didn't mean to chide Sherlock's behaviour again but last night's case had been too close a call for either of them. John had been silently furious the entire journey home, and the second they got through the door of 221b well... all hell broke loose. Tongues, teeth, nails, walls, furniture... all of it in a hurried, angry hurricane.
"Yes, you told me." Sherlock said rolling his eyes and trying to tug his hand from John's grasp.
"I shouldn't have lost my temper... and I definitely shouldn't have done all this." John said, nodding his head to the bite mark. "But surely you can work out why I did?"
"Anger. Bitterness. Fury. Fear?" Sherlock was uncertain on the last one.
"Love, you bloody pillock." John sighed.

"You don't love me." Sherlock answered immediately. John was quite taken back by that. "People don't love me."
"I'm not people, am I?" He queried, but he could see Sherlock's face had become stern and cold. He frowned softly. "Sherlock... I do..." Sherlock shook his head, his curls flying every which way apart from the ones on the back of his head which were stuck together with a little blood from where John had slammed him into the wall, a shower would definitely be necessary.
"You're confusing love with guilt."
"I spent long enough trying to convince myself I didn't, that I'm pretty damn sure I do." John argued.

"You can't expect a relationship of me, I'm not capable of giving you what you want." Sherlock said eventually, changing tact.
"Hm... and what's that?" John asked, settling himself back against the pillow, Sherlock's pillows were much softer than him.
"Care, love, compassion... I'm not capable of it." He explained.
"Says who?"
"Oh we're not doing this." Sherlock groaned, knowing this was about to descend into a childish argument. "Says everyone."
"Everyone's wrong. You seemed pretty capable last night..."
"Arousal is different... though I'm not usually capable of that either." Sherlock admitted, almost curious. "There was anger and adrenaline and feelings everywhere, it's not particularly a surprise that I sustained an erection..." Sherlock said, gesticulating wildly as he spoke.
"Feelings?" John queried. Sherlock scowled, suddenly going quiet and stilling his hands which were gesturing at thin air as though 'feelings' were things floating around his head that he could bat away.

"You do have feelings for me then." John prompted.
"Yes, I do. But not those kind of feelings. I... care for you in a way I do not care for others, but it's not love." Sherlock said determinedly. "I can't love."
"Look, you can say you don't feel the same... that's fine and if it's true we can try to move on from it... but don't lie and say you CAN'T feel the same, Sherlock you can't hide behind your personality flaws."
"I'm not lying!" Sherlock protested noisily. "I'm a sociopath, remember."
"You're not a bloody sociopath, you're human, Sherlock, like it or not." Sherlock huffed in disagreement. "Right well I can prove to you right here and now that you're capable of arousal, the whole love thing's a little harder to prove..." Sherlock furrowed his brow, evidently unhappy with John but not certain why he was.

John rolled his eyes, he clambered to his knees, cupped Sherlock's cheek with his hand and darted forward to initiate another kiss, mindful of their split and bloody lips. Gentle but insistent, making a point he was positive on. John skimmed his free hand over Sherlock's bare chest and into his lap, not touching the obvious - no dirty tricks, but settling his palm on Sherlock's thigh close enough for Sherlock to feel that first spark of arousal. Sherlock gasped in shock and John seized the moment, sweeping his tongue between Sherlock's parted lips. Sherlock gave a whimper and pushed John back onto his heels. Damn the transport.
"I... concede defeat in that respect." He mumbled. "I am apparently able to become aroused without being fuelled by fury. That does not prove anything. We can't build a relationship based only on mutual sexual attraction..." He paused. "Can we?" There were rules about this sort of thing, surely?
"We could... but that's not the case, is it." John pushed.

"John... I know you like to think better of me, but you're wrong okay. Your optimism is misplaced." Sherlock frowned and lay back, trying to ignore the fact he was half hard from just a kiss. The transport was treacherous sometimes.
"I don't know what's sadder... the thought that you're telling me all this to instinctively try push me away, or that you've been told you're cold so often that you've started to believe it."
"Stop trying to convince me that..."
"Shut up." John ordered, and Sherlock paused, mid-sentence - he'd made John angry. Given what happened last time he'd got John angry, he supposed he was forgiven for the anticipatory shiver that shot down his spine. "Sit up." He instructed. Sherlock had no clue what was happening, but did as told. "I'm not trying to convince you of anything, I'm trying to make sense of what you just told me which is that you ARE sexually attracted to me and that you DO have feelings for me."
"But..."
"I said shut up!" John growled and Sherlock blinked. "Just... just go with me on this, okay." Sherlock hesitated before nodding.

John took a deep breath.
"Right this... this feeling that you have..." John started awkwardly, he reached forward and took Sherlock's hand. "Better or worse?"
"This is ridiculous, John." Sherlock protested, trying to slide his hand away from John's.
"Better. Or. Worse?" John said through gritted teeth.
"Worse!" Sherlock snapped, trying to ignore the look of hurt that flashed in John's eyes. John nodded cautiously, he leaned forward and placed another delicate kiss to Sherlock's bruised cheek.
"Better or worse?"
"Worse." Sherlock said again. "Can you please stop, you're embarrassing yourself."
"Sherlock... do you remember what happened last night?" John asked, standing his ground.
"Vividly, now let go of my hand and we can try talk about how to get out of this mess." He ordered, still trying to twist his hand free of John's grip, John held tight.
"Who kissed who first?" Sherlock froze, throwing himself back into last night's scenario to recall the fact.

"You kissed me." Sherlock said confidently. "Quite roughly, against the door..."
"Correct." John complimented. "And what did you do when I kissed you?"
"I kissed you back?" Sherlock said with a bit less confidence, confused by the firm look John had affixed him.
"Before that."
"You kissed me and I kissed you back, there was no before that." He said firmly, giving up on trying to free his hand.
"Yes there was... as you said - I kissed you, quite roughly against the door... you hesitated. Before your brain caught up with what was happening, before you realised I was furious and was kissing you... what did you do when you hesitated?" Sherlock had to really think about that one, furrowing his brow and trying to remember a split second decision made in the intense heat of a very hot moment.

"I... wrapped my arms around you?" He suggested, uncertainly. John nodded.
"Do it again."
"John this exercise is completely pointless and I am becoming increasingly uncomfortable with the fact we're both nak..."
"Shut up and do it!" John pushed. Sherlock reluctantly lowered his arms, placing his hands on either side of John's waist. "That feeling... Better or worse?" John asked again.
"Worse... much worse." Sherlock mumbled. "Why are we doing this?" Despite his claims that this was somehow worse, Sherlock didn't remove his hands from John's torso, holding him almost at arm's length but still oddly intimately.

"Worse how?" John asked, his tone suddenly soft. Sherlock frowned, he wasn't good with this sort of thing.
"Stronger..." He said awkwardly. "Mild palpitations, increased sweat production, general sense of unease, slight pang of unwelcome arousal." He observed. "And irrational emotional ties..." John nodded with each note Sherlock made, trust Sherlock to describe love as though it were an ailment. "I don't understand what you're wanting me to say..." Sherlock said earnestly, wondering if he should remove his hands from John's person but not really wanting to.
"You've already said it." John told him. "Sherlock I can't begin to fathom what goes on in your head, most of the time I haven't a clue..."
"People rarely do."
"I'm not people." John said again. "And sometimes, just sometimes, I think you don't have a clue what's going on in your head either. I hate to be the one to break it to you mate, but that thing you're feeling even if you don't want to feel it... you're in love." He said gently.

Sherlock looked as though he'd just been punched in the face again, his mind racing as he struggled to analyse it all. John waited patiently.
"I..." Sherlock started to protest but found he couldn't. Had he just been outsmarted by John Watson, the man who argued with chip and pin machines on a regular basis? He scowled at the thought, which only succeeded to widen John's grin. "How do you know me better than I know myself?" Sherlock demanded. It was not a compliment.
"I don't. I know you and I can make a fairly educated deduction from what I see on a day to day basis... something you taught me." John's smirk was entirely unwarranted. Sherlock glowered.

"And people say I'm manipulative." Sherlock muttered darkly. "I don't know how, but you just forced me to fall in love with you." John laughed long and low.
"I forced you to admit to something we've both been lying about for a bloody long time." He said affectionately.
"I wish you hadn't." Sherlock grumbled, lying back and pulling John with him as he went. "What use am I to anybody if I'm in love?" He asked, annoyed and irritated as John settled against his chest, chuckling softly.

"This is going to be a serious handicap in my work environment." Sherlock complained but did offer a soft kiss into John's hair. "Stop laughing, it's not funny."
"It is a bit funny." John said, still highly amused.
"Shut up, I'm angry with you." Sherlock said, in an incredibly serious tone of voice that only increased John's tittering. Sherlock growled softly. "You are incredibly lucky that I am too sore for a second round. Rest assured I will get you back for this."
"Is that a threat, or a promise?" John asked, still grinning like a fool.

Chapter Text

And One Time He Didn't

There is that blissful moment that occurs between sleep and consciousness, just as you wake but before you open your eyes where you can't quite recall arbitrary facts such as the date, the season, or even the city in which you fell asleep. The moment was brought into startling clarity as John woke suddenly, filled with the fear that he could NOT in fact remember the date, the season, the city, or even his name. Panic set in, he tried to slow his heart rate, right, right what did he know? He kept his eyes firmly shut as he struggled to recall the basics.

John. John Watson. Yes. That sounded about right. Okay and breathe. Right... what else. Ah yes, London in the summer... definitely London, definitely summer as he was hot and sticky. So where was the rest of it? As John's life began swimming back to him in bits and pieces, he found there was a curious gap - the last thing he remembered was grabbing a coffee with Greg (Le...strade?) while waiting for Sherlock (Ah! Sherlock, yes he was hard to forget) to do something clever and solve the problem at hand but he was having trouble remembering the case details at all, and nothing past that moment at Scotland Yard. There was a dead cat somewhere in the back of his head but there was also pyjamas that turned into vicious 7ft, man eating snakes - he was confusing memories with bad dreams. He gulped and opened his eyes, happy to find he was safe and sound in his own bedroom. Well, they'd got home (Home: 221b Baker Street *wink*) safely - that was always a blessing never to be taken for granted.

He rolled over to try stimulate his muscles if not his memory, and was nearly given a heart attack as he realised he was not alone in his bed. Sherlock lay on his back beside him, still fast asleep, splayed out on his bed, a mass of curly black hair a startling contrast against John's pale sheets, bunched up around Sherlock's hips. Oh god. Oh god what had he done. Okay... okay don't just jump to conclusions. John lifted the covers to find he was in fact completely naked, Sherlock only clad in a pair of black boxers. Not helping the thudding heart. Right then... the obvious had happened. Or had it? Sherlock was definitely still wearing his boxers... was he the sort of man who'd put them back on after the fact?

Lube - right... that'd be a dead giveaway. John shuffled upwards, careful not to disturb the peacefully sleeping detective (since when did Sherlock sleep anyway!?) and opened his bedside table looking for the bottle of personal lubricant that had aided him in his single life. Instead of being shoved hastily to the back of the drawer like it usually was, the entire drawer was messed up and dishevelled as though someone had gone through it in a hurry, the lubricant was laying on its side on top. Fuck. John tried to determine if any was missing from it but found that he really didn't have that sort of brain processing power right now. He glanced back at Sherlock, perfectly white skin glowing in the early morning sunlight. No bite marks... ah, correction, claw marks on his biceps. Damn - and John always tried so hard not to leave any marks on his lovers.

Okay so... alcohol seemed an obvious answer, but John certainly didn't remember having anything to drink, and though his head felt fuzzy and his memory was only seeping through in dribs and drabs, he didn't seem to have a hangover. Very odd. John just stared, for whatever reason he couldn't remember the circumstances that had led to Sherlock Holmes laying almost naked in his bed and that thought was a very sad one indeed because John knew how he felt about Sherlock, he'd known for a long time but he'd never dreamed of acting on it. The detective didn't do love and romance, or sex as far as John knew, but that had evidently gone out the window. John hoped that whatever had happened he'd had the decency and right frame of mind to explain to Sherlock that it wasn't just about sex. He leaned over and brushed one of Sherlock's curls from his closed eyes. He looked stunning, so calm and quiet - unusual for him.

If he were inclined to flights of romanticism, he'd say Sherlock looked beautiful like this - and why not? Hell, Sherlock looked beautiful like this. Perhaps it was just the rarity of sleep, or maybe the post-orgasmic glow (John certainly felt familiarly drained the way he often did after a night in bed with a beautiful woman), whatever it was, Sherlock was gorgeous, chest rising and falling softly with each breath. Which begged the question - how did John hold on to him now? There must have been terms last night, rules and agreements surely? Had Sherlock convinced John that it was a one-off, a never-to-happen-again occurrence? John liked to think he'd have had the willpower to refuse such an offer, but Sherlock's body was quite brazenly on display now, even a straight man would have had trouble saying no to that...

Or had John talked Sherlock into a relationship, into more than a one night stand? John wished he could remember... how did Sherlock look in the heat of the moment? That perfect heart shaped mouth open in surprise and shock at the new sensations? Was it a new sensation? Sherlock had never had a lover in the almost two years John had known him... had he had one before John was in his life? Girls weren't really his area, a boyfriend perhaps? Had another man ever laid hands on Sherlock's skin the way John had done last night? How had John laid hands on him last night? John's backside felt blessedly pain free and he didn't really have Sherlock pegged as the sort of man who'd hand over control so easily. Had they gone all the way? A mutual blow job, perhaps? God he hoped it had been mutual, he'd feel a right arsehole if he'd got off and Sherlock hadn't... was that why he was still in his boxers? No... no whatever had transpired, John was a considerate lover, he would have made sure Sherlock achieved an orgasm somehow.

And those thoughts were beginning to have an affect on his albeit slow and sluggish body. All the possibilities turned him on, John had no knowledge of being with this man (or any man actually, Sherlock was sort of the exception to the rule) - the thought of hard muscle (which Sherlock, surprisingly possessed, for a skinny guy he wasn't all skin and bones, definite definition to his wiry frame) beneath his hands rather than soft curves was oddly scintillating, how had it felt to touch, tease, taste every inch of him? He tried to conjure up memories, but only found himself relegated to the back corners of his mind - the dirty dreams he was so prone to having about the lanky self-proclaimed sociopath.

Sociopath. Right. Doesn't do emotional attachments. It was looking less and less likely that John had convinced Sherlock of anything more than a quick shag. John had thought, the past few weeks, that things had been progressing with them... he'd never really held out much hope that Sherlock would do an about-turn and suddenly want to be his boyfriend or whatever, but there had definitely been more of the little electric touches and shared secret glances and the general well... heat between them seemed to have escalated. Well that was well and truly fucked up now, wasn't it? John sighed, his fingers brushed briefly over Sherlock's sharp cheekbones - lovely, really. His skin was soft and warm, completely contrary to the cold aura he emanated.

John supposed he ought to wake Sherlock up and just ask him, he didn't want to, but he probably should. He was just leaning over to shake Sherlock's shoulders when it occurred to him. There was another way he could wake his sleeping beauty... no. No, he couldn't do that... could he? They'd already had sex... surely whatever rules had applied last night extended a few hours into the morning? Plus, John was good at it... well... he was good with his mouth when it came to women, and lord help him he'd got a long enough string of ex-girlfriends he'd had to coach through it... John tried to reverse the situation to rationalise it... if he'd had sex with a girl who was hopelessly in love with him and she decided to wake him up the uh... nice way... yes that sounded good. Who knows, maybe if he was a good enough shag Sherlock may pity him enough to keep him by his side and if not well... it would certainly soften the blow if they had to break up anyway.

John pulled the covers back a little further, exposing Sherlock in his entirety. As a last minute thought, John grabbed the lube and settled it beside Sherlock's hip, just in case it turned out he was terrible at giving head and ended up resorting to finishing things by hand. Sherlock's position made it all too easy, laid on his back with his legs splayed open slightly... perfect. John took a deep breath before slipping his thumbs under the hemline of the black (satin?...silk maybe?) boxers and slid them down to Sherlock's thighs before deciding they'd be in the way and removing them completely. Sherlock was a rare sleeper, but when he finally did submit he was apparently a deep sleeper as he'd not moved at all.

John took a moment to survey Sherlock, naked as could be, laid out in front of him. Sherlock's chest was almost entirely devoid of hair, the occasional curiously ginger curl standing alone, his underarms were thinly decorated with dark wiry hair, his leg hair was sparse and soft (John ran a finger over it to check), sat above his flaccid penis was a thick thatch of dark curls only venturing high enough to have peeked over his boxers slightly before John had removed them. Fascinatingly, John's pulse had picked up with the danger of it all. Right then... couldn't be too difficult, surely? John settled himself between Sherlock's legs, placed his hands on the bed at either side of Sherlock's waist and began a delicate trail of kisses over the taut abdomen before him.

It only took a few soft open mouthed kisses for him to feel Sherlock's sleeping cock twitch in interest, just below his chin. He glanced upwards, Sherlock still fast asleep - brilliant, it wouldn't do if Sherlock woke up before he was fully turned on, could be awkward. The way things were going, it wouldn't take long though, John successfully brought Sherlock to a semi-on by tracing the very point of his tongue over Sherlock's hip bone, his skin tasted clean and fresh, hotter here than on his abdomen. Sherlock's torso was long and by the time John's kisses, which were really more twirls of his tongue, were teasing the top of Sherlock's pubic bone his arms were becoming stretched. He drew them lightly down Sherlock's sides, settling on his hips, the hollows of Sherlock's pelvis fit John's thumbs perfectly and he drew them in soft circles - lowering his head to his target.

Almost completely erect, Sherlock was more impressive than he'd initially let on - perhaps John ought to have been daunted by his size (about 7 1/2 inches when fully erect by the look of it, definitely above the national average) but the insistent throb of arousal was dulling any doubts he may have had. He swept his tongue cautiously over the tip, the salty tang unfamiliar but not entirely unpleasant. It was just as John took Sherlock's shaft in hand, rolling his foreskin back over the head that the detective's eyes snapped open.
"John! What are..." He started, hazy with sleep and confusion but his tone alert and mildly panicked. Now or never John thought and sank his mouth as far down Sherlock's member as he could manage - which was not as far as he'd have liked. "Oh..." Sherlock gasped breathily - definitely not a protest. John drew himself slowly back up, lips in a tight seal contradicting his tongue swirling in lazy loose circles.

Sherlock's hand flew downwards and for one wild moment John didn't know whether Sherlock was going to yank him back by the hair or force him further down (and why, oh why did that last thought exhilarate him so much?). He did neither, left hand clinging to John's right shoulder in silent encouragement, fingers clenching tightly. After that it was easy enough to show Sherlock exactly how John himself liked it, but this wasn't about what John liked - he wanted to find out what Sherlock wanted, how to please him best, so his technique started to vary between long slow open mouthed teasing of Sherlock's whole shaft and short sharp sucks towards the head.

The noises Sherlock made were fascinating and delightfully unexpected, in John's dreams Sherlock had always been a quiet lover, strong and silent, but he'd been very very wrong. Sherlock alternated between almost feminine breathy gasps and whimpers, to the overtly masculine groans and growls that caused his entire body to vibrate with pleasure. Each simple sound sent pulses straight to John's groin, encouraging his endeavour - definitely not a task, a task implied it was unenjoyable and this was heavenly. It was definitely different to pleasuring a woman, which he was used to, but not different in a bad way, the weight of Sherlock's cock against his tongue made him delirious, the heat was dizzying and dear god Sherlock was so bloody responsive with his writhing and wriggling and moaning.

The only downside to giving a blow job in John's book was that after a while his jaw started to ache a little, he pulled off with a slightly obscene wet popping noise and ran slightly parted, very slightly swollen lips, down the underside, tongue dipping out occasionally to lap at the vein he was following. He drew one hand up to cradle Sherlock's testicles, massaging them lightly provoked an odd reaction from the addled man below him as he struggled to free his right thigh from underneath John's elbow. John shifted a little and as soon as Sherlock's leg was free the detective shamelessly and almost instinctively spread his legs, giving John better access.

Well... if that wasn't an invite John didn't know what was - his lips lingered over the tip of Sherlock's cock, connected by a thin strand of saliva and he spared an upward glance to see if Sherlock was actually trying to encourage him or if the move had been accidental. John hadn't been prepared for what he saw, Sherlock's free hand was fisted tightly in the sheets, his entire body flushed a very light shade of pink, head pushed back into the pillows with his eyes clenched shut and mouth open in a silent 'oh', John rolled his thumb over the slit, slick with spit and pre-ejaculate his thumb glided easily. He watched as Sherlock's face continued to contort, he could literally see each breath as it caught in his throat. He looked amazing, the very physical embodiment of sex. John gulped, yes he was definitely going to take that as an invitation.

Lowering his lips once more and never once removing his mouth from Sherlock's dick, he managed to get the cap off of the bottle of lubricant he'd conveniently placed, he knew he was being far too generous with it but right now he was surprised he could remember his own date of birth (some time in March, he thought idly, maybe April.). Fingers overly slicked, he placed the heel of his palm against Sherlock's balls, rubbing gently and letting the excess lubricant dribble from his fingers and down the cleft of Sherlock's spread legs. Only when Sherlock shivered did it occur to John that he probably should have warmed the lubricant up first - he'd remember that next time... if there was a next time.

He pointed the tip of his tongue and dragged it in a full circle around the silky ridge at the crown, flushed a brilliant red with desire, and Sherlock's hand moved as he did so. It had been resting on John's shoulder, squeezing every so often and occasionally scratching, now Sherlock settled it in John's hair - again John wondered if this was the point Sherlock would act like Sherlock and manipulate John to where he wanted him with a waspish remark, and again John was pleasantly surprised, the touch was not forceful or even critical in any way, Sherlock's fingers stroked through the hair at the side of John's head softly and gently.

Even if just for a moment, John realised that this must be what it felt like to be loved by Sherlock Holmes - the man was loud, brash, rude, violent and just a little bit mental but he was capable of such unassuming intimacy, his thumb lightly brushing the shell of John's ear. Sherlock didn't treat people like this, so John was something special, even if Sherlock didn't feel the same way - he definitely still valued John as a friend and hopefully as a person. John rewarded the small display of affection by lowering his mouth back down around Sherlock's erection, going back to sucking instead of licking and teasing, ignoring the pain in the bolt of his jaw. He coupled it by brushing the flat of his index finger over his hole, causing Sherlock's hips to jerk upwards involuntarily - if John nearly choked at the suddenness of it all he hid it well.

Sherlock tried to stammer out what was possibly an apology for his sudden movement but it merged into a strangled cry as, inspired, John managed to force himself an inch or two further down, the crown bumping against the back of John's throat. John pinpointed the pinnacle of the cry and chose that exact moment to press the tip of his index finger inside Sherlock who, for a moment, tensed terribly at the intrusion, whole body stiffening in panic, before lowering his hips back to the bed and slowly relaxing a little. After a little while, Sherlock's confusion became apparent, he didn't know whether to buck upwards into the welcoming heat of John's mouth or downwards to impale himself further on John's probing finger, inching its way slowly inwards, John made the decision for him, licking a wide stripe up his shaft before pulling off - multitasking was too difficult.

He placed a few kisses on Sherlock's abdomen and shifted all his concentration to his hand, dragging his finger out trying to ignore the fact Sherlock's internal muscles clenched and tried to pull him back in (because that made him think of what else those particular muscles could swallow), before pressing in again, twisting and curling his finger which was just not quite long enough to reach its goal. Only one thing for it then, he (carefully) added his middle finger, Sherlock flinched slightly at the stretch but there was enough lube that the sensation was only slightly unpleasant before he gave in, mewling oddly as John scissored his fingers inside him. Sure enough John's middle finger was just long enough to brush Sherlock's prostate on each inward thrust - which resulted in a very startled Sherlock yelping and sky-rocketing his hips off of the mattress in a surprised jolt that shot through his whole body.

"Oh god." Sherlock moaned, the first real words he'd managed since this all began - and again. "Oh god." John grinned a little to himself, silently pleased that he could issue those words from Sherlock (who was what John described as 'devoutly Atheist') with only two cleverly placed fingers. He continued to tease, fucking Sherlock with his fingers that at this angle were only capable of tormenting, not providing quite enough pressure to Sherlock's most sensitive spot combined with the fact John was no longer servicing the detective orally (the occasionally kiss on the flat plane of Sherlock's stomach did not count) meant that Sherlock's arousal was building but had no real outlet. John worked a third finger into the picture, analysing Sherlock's gasps - making sure they were noises of pleasure and not of pain.

Sherlock's insides were scorching hot and the heat only mounted with each curl of John's three fingers.
"John." Sherlock panted weakly, addressing him directly. John tore his eyes away from the vision of himself breaching the detective's backside and looked up at Sherlock - eyes open now, wide and pale, he looked positively wild and even though he'd only said John's name, John understood the gravity behind the word, that Sherlock was asking 10 million questions with that heated gaze and John didn't want to say no too any of them.

He glanced around - condoms? There was no evidence that they'd used one last night, which was only slightly odd as John was working on the theory that they'd had a shower after sex last night, Sherlock tasted too clean to have fallen asleep right afterwards. John struggled to remember when he'd last been STD tested... couldn't pin down an exact date but he did know for certain that he'd not had unprotected sex since then (he'd barely had sex since then - pathetic). Which left Sherlock. Sherlock had closed his eyes and thrown his head back once more, keening into the deliciously slow wriggling of John's fingers, calmed as he thought.

Sherlock didn't seem the type to go round shagging half of London without a condom, but really John didn't have a bloody clue about Sherlock's sexual history, up until yesterday he'd have been willing to swear the detective didn't even have one, and then there was the drug use - John knew about that. God he wanted to, he really did but it would be irresponsible and unsafe to...
"Oh for god's sake, John, I'm clean - if you're going to do it, just do it!" Sherlock snapped. Ah, there was the aromantic bastard John knew and loved, but any venom behind his words was sapped as he moaned once more at the feel of John dragging his fingers out of him before he reached for the bottle again. John sat back on his heels as he slicked up his own ignored erection, aware of Sherlock's analytical eyes narrowed down to this specific part of his anatomy, it twitched in his grip as John tried not to shiver under the hungry gaze. John had nothing to be ashamed of in the size department, certainly not quite as large as Sherlock, but a decent size all the same, plus it didn't really come down to size, it was how he used it - and he'd had no complaints in that department on three continents. He felt a thrill up and down his spine as he realised Sherlock was watching him masturbate and his grip tightened on himself instinctively.

He moved forward, making a mental note to kill Sherlock if he was lying about being clean and lay himself over Sherlock, pale hands clutching at his shoulders as he lined himself up. John intended to go slowly, be careful and gentle - he didn't know whether he'd done this specific part with Sherlock last night, Sherlock's actions indicated they had, as John started to tentatively ease the blunt head of his own cock into Sherlock's opening (and oh, wasn't that just heavenly), Sherlock wrapped his ankles around the back of John's thighs and thrust upwards, sheathing all of John in one smooth motion. Sherlock's hiss was drowned out by John's gasp - right then, none of this 'gentle' nonsense would be tolerated apparently, John raised his hips, withdrawing almost all the way before bucking forward once more - and fuck it all, it felt brilliant.

John was a sensible man, he didn't have unprotected sex very often, could only remember three times in his entire life where he'd taken the risk - all three times he'd been slightly drunk and incredibly horny (miraculously he'd never caught anything or got anybody pregnant) he had been young and foolish then, but the sensation of being inside someone was immeasurably better without the thin latex barrier between himself and his lover, and being inside Sherlock was massively different to being with a woman - tighter, hotter, somehow more intense. John didn't know whether it was the fact Sherlock was a male and that the anatomy was very different that was making this feel mind-bogglingly amazing so quickly or the fact that Sherlock had locked eyes with him - his pupils blown wide leaving his pale silver irises almost completely eclipsed, he still looked wild, untamed, confused, both fascinated and fascinating. John didn't let their eyes break contact, feeling the electricity there and revelling in it as he began pistoning his hips, diving in and out of Sherlock, who, having initiated the first thrust was largely submissive from that point on, ankled still hooked around John's thighs, encouraging him.

John suspected he was overwhelmed with just laying back and letting John take him, as his eyes finally fluttered closed again, his mouth had fallen open once more - completely devoid of vicious words or cutting comments but spewing half words and desperate pleas that never quite formed properly between his brain and his tongue.
'God' came up a few times, several monosyllabic
'Oh's and
'Ah's (with varying volume and pitch, loudest and highest when John thumped against his prostate he noted frenziedly) as well as a mildly amusing
'Don't stop' - as if John was going to give up mid-coitus and just walk away. John didn't think he could have stopped even if he wanted to - and he didn't, he wanted to be buried balls deep in Sherlock forever, his muscles clenching, gripping John tightly, drawing him in over and over until they were both desperate.

Sherlock's mouth was going to get them into trouble shortly if he wasn't quieter - the last thing either of them wanted was for Mrs Hudson to come knocking to make sure neither of them were being murdered. In an attempt to silence him John lay himself even flatter over Sherlock so they were chest to chest, Sherlock's cock trapped between their abdomens, it changed the angle of John within Sherlock, almost guaranteeing the doctor's thrusts would graze the bundle of nerves deep inside Sherlock. The additional friction seemed to do the trick for Sherlock, but before he could moan his approval, John kissed him, swallowing it between them. The kiss seemed to alarm Sherlock more than anything thus far had done and he froze, his held breath jarred as John didn't relent, still fucking Sherlock in earnest, still rubbing Sherlock's erection with his body. Or maybe, just maybe Sherlock had froze for an entirely different reason - oh.

He saw Sherlock's orgasm before he felt it, Sherlock tore his lips away from John's to jerk his head back in the pillows, his back arched pushing them both up off the bed in a bow, his fingernails dug into John's shoulders and the choked growl he put forward was almost inhuman. Then he started to tighten, walls clenching John in a vice grip, his quivering cock spitting hot white ribbons over their stomachs and his own chest, his whole body pulsed and shook beneath John, who had forgotten how to breathe as Sherlock's climax rocked them both - he forced himself to keep going, power through the waves crashing over them, he managed a few more aborted thrusts before he too was overwhelmed by heat and came so hard that he saw stars, riding through one of Sherlock's aftershocks until they were both trembling from head to toe, easing themselves breathlessly back down to the mattress.

John wasted no time on recovery, still inside Sherlock he began placing kisses at the bolt of Sherlock's jaw, trailing them down his neck and throat. Sherlock spoke first, sounding completely shell shocked.
"What... on earth was that?" He breathed.
"An apology." John murmured into the crook of Sherlock's shoulder.
"Right, yes." He didn't sound entirely there, his air vague and dream-like. "What are you apologising for?" He asked, still panting heavily. John sighed, he was going to have to be honest on this one - as much as he was loathed to admit it. He pulled his head back up to look Sherlock in the eye as he spoke.
"I'm sorry... I don't remember it." He breathed, raising one hand to brush a sweat dampened curl from Sherlock's forehead. "I wish I could and I don't know why I can't but I can't remember our first time. I don't know what rules we set up or anything, I just hope it was half as amazing as that was." Sherlock had paled slightly, the post-coital blush fading rapidly from his sharp cheekbones. "And if that's not enough of an apology, if you're happy to wait 45 minutes I'd be happy to apologise again." He murmured.

"Oh..." Sherlock's 'oh' was not an 'oh' of a man anticipating another sexual encounter, no, it was an 'oh' filled with dread and John was immediately worried. "John... I think you and I may have got our wires crossed..." He continued, averting his eyes for a split second.
"Hm?" Sherlock looked back at him.
"We didn't have sex last night... or do anything of a sexual nature." Sherlock said softly.
"Don't be daft of course we..." John froze, feeling his blood run cold... actually - what evidence did he have? "But... but I was naked... the scratches on your arm..." He stammered awkwardly. Sherlock's face had completely transformed from post-coital bliss to deathly serious in the space of a few seconds.

"I can explain..." He started as John began to pull away, face a furious shade of red, he tightened his grip on John's shoulders holding him in place.
"Gerroff..." John mumbled embarrassedly.
"If I let go, will you let me explain?" Sherlock asked sternly, not relenting his awkward hold.
"Yes just..." John pulled himself free of Sherlock's grip, which had lessened at the word 'yes', and rolled over, sliding out of Sherlock slick hole with a giddy thrill of misplaced pleasure. He lay on his back beside Sherlock, who was shuffling upwards to sit up against the headboard.

"What the hell happened last night?" John asked, trying not to freak out until he knew all the facts, he stared intently at the ceiling, unable to bring himself to look at Sherlock, whose debauched appearance was doing nothing to aid the awkwardness of the moment.
"You were drugged... you don't remember anything?" Sherlock asked cautiously, John shook his head. "Holly Walker... the vet who was practising illegal human medicines on her clients animals as part of a drugs trial..." John thought hard, something about it rang a bell but it was distant and unclear. "We were at the mortuary at the vets examining the body of a cat..." Oh yeah, dead cat. "When she came in and caught us... she stabbed you in the arm with a syringe full of an unlicensed drug..." John immediately began checking his arms looking for a puncture mark, Sherlock pointed it out, a tiny red mark no bigger than a freckle on John's left arm, no wonder he hadn't noticed it... John's skin burned where Sherlock's finger tip had touched him, however briefly.

"Scratched me in the struggle..." Sherlock indicated the shallow red scrapes on his own forearms, that John had mistaken for heat-of-the-moment grasps. "She was arrested... Apparently Lestrade doesn't trust me to go off on my own so he had us tailed, they were on the scene about five minutes after us." Sherlock was talking quite tentatively. "You were taken to hospital... you seemed mostly okay, just a little dazed, just wanted to go home and have a 'well bloody deserved cup of tea'..." Sherlock quoted directly.

"Ms Walker explained the finer details - the side effects of the drug, confusion, memory loss, sluggishness, delirium... the hospital made me sign a waiver that promised if I took you home I'd keep an eye on you as it's an unlicensed and untested drug. You told everybody you were fine and the 'red tape was a damned nuisance' so I signed it... we got home..." Sherlock was frowning, trying to catch John's eye but the doctor was resolutely avoiding eye contact, still staring at the ceiling like he was trying to burn a hole in it.
"And then what? You thought it was a good idea to remove our clothes and climb into bed?" He asked.

"No..." Sherlock said drily. "I intended to sit in the chair by your bed while you slept it off but the delirium had kicked in... you lost all semblance of lucidity while I was in the shower - cat hair everywhere. I left you for approximately six minutes and when I returned you were interrogating the mirror..." He did not sound impressed - at all, John supposed to anybody else, the sight of their flatmate arguing with inanimate objects would be comical. Not to Sherlock Holmes apparently.

"I spent half an hour trying to calm you down while you ransacked your room... emptied out half your drawers - when I finally got you sat down, you kept standing up and trying to leave because your - and I quote 'mad flatmate might be back at any moment'..." John winced slightly at that. "You kept calling yourself James and insisted that Mycroft had electronically bugged your cane..."
"That last bit might be true..." John said half-heartedly.
"It's not, he only bugs my possessions, he couldn't care less what you do when you're not with me." Sherlock told him dismissively. "I convinced you to go to bed, managed to talk you into your pyjamas but you kept telling me they were trying to eat you... you were yelling about snakes and just taking them off - after the third time I just stopped trying - you were getting distressed." Ah... 7ft, man eating snakes... yeah.

"And why were you in my bed?" John asked exasperatedly, trying to sift through his hallucinations in his head.
"At about three in the morning you started having a whispered conversation with the lamp, telling it you were scared and that the man in the corner - that would be me - was watching you. You weren't making much sense but you seemed to think that the lamp was me... kept asking it-me to come to bed with you because the man in the corner was terrifying... So I turned the light on and you just... you dissolved into tears," Sherlock said distastefully - evidently disapproving. "Tears are not my strong point."
"I know..."
"It was obviously still the drug in your system. You begged me... well, you begged the lamp, to just lie down with you - so I did. It's summer, too hot for clothes and you wouldn't let me leave to go fetch my pyjamas so I climbed in, in just my boxers and you fell straight asleep on your own side of the bed..."
"And then?" John asked, a little hopelessly.

"There is no and then... I must have fallen asleep at about 5am and when I woke up you were... doing that thing with your mouth." Sherlock gestured vaguely towards his own abdomen.
"A blow job Sherlock, it's called a blow job... why the hell didn't you stop me?" He sighed heavily.
"Oh yes, forgive me for not understanding that you were only having sex with me because you thought you'd already had sex with me." Sherlock said sarcastically. "Obviously that was the logical conclusion." He even rolled his eyes, making John feel even thicker than he already did.
"I just shagged my best mate - for no reason." He groaned, placing his palm over his face - he was a fucking idiot.
"Well that's not entirely true." Sherlock countered. "You're obviously attracted to me - that's usually a fairly acceptable reason for sexual intercourse."
"You're not helping." John muttered darkly.

There was a long, awkward silence, with John massaging his forehead and cursing himself for making the crucial mistake Sherlock always warned him against: never theorise without having all the facts. The evidence had all pointed toward some kind of sexual encounter - the evidence had been wrong. Fucking foolish.
"So..." Sherlock said eventually, laying back down and mirroring John's pose, looking up at the ceiling. "That was sex..." He spoke with the air of somebody discussing the weather.
"No shit, Sherlock." John grumbled, wondering how he was supposed to apologise for his ill thought out apology.
"It was... interesting." He acknowledged. "Very messy." He added distastefully, eyeing the mess on his stomach. John rolled over and grabbed the tissues from his bedside table, chucking a wad of them at Sherlock who began cleaning himself off.
"Look I'm really sorry..." He started but Sherlock held up a handful of tissues.
"Don't be." He dismissed, throwing them onto the table on his side of the bed as John cleared himself off. "It was enjoyable for both parties." It was John's turn to roll his eyes in exasperation, trust Sherlock to be so... Sherlock.

"I feel like a right twat." He grumbled, balling up the tissues and aiming for his waste paper basket. He missed by a mile.
"For a man who just had by all accounts a rather spectacular orgasm, you look rather sorry for yourself..." Sherlock observed, tilting his head side way to take in the view of John, who hastily pulled the covers over himself in a last ditch attempt at modesty. Bit late for that. "I thought this was what you wanted?" Queried Sherlock, bewildered by the sudden withdrawal.
"Wanted? No, Sherlock this isn't what I wanted..." He sighed heavily, because the half-second glance he spared Sherlock's facial features showed him the detective was confused. Well, he supposed being woken up with a blow job from your allegedly heterosexual flatmate was enough to confuse anybody.

"I didn't want a one night stand or a one... morning stand or whatever the hell this was. I wanted you... the whole she-bang, kissing, hell - cuddling if you'd put up with it, y'know an actual adult relationship." Sherlock's brows furrowed as John spoke, but he was still staring adamantly at the ceiling as though it had personally wronged him.
"Does an orgasm always adversely affect your intelligence?" John was fairly certain Sherlock had just called him an idiot - he didn't argue with it this time, he was a bloody idiot. He'd screwed up royally on this one and apparently Sherlock was going to make him pay for his mistake in insults and distance. "That's what I'm offering, John." John blinked, several times - he was still sluggish from the drug in his system and Sherlock was partially right about an orgasm dulling his senses.

"What... you... a relationship?" He asked somewhat incredulously.
"We've been dancing around it for weeks, months even. It's about time one of us did something about it." He shrugged, John rolled onto his side, actually looking at Sherlock for the first time since they'd climaxed, he tried to detect some sort of joke in Sherlock's eyes but there was none, his features schooled calmly and seriously.
"Wait... you said earlier that it was obvious I was attracted to you... you knew." He accused, the realisation that Sherlock had not been oblivious hitting him like a tonne of bricks.
"So did you, I've seen you monitoring the minuscule touches, cataloguing the overly long glances." Sherlock said simply.
"Why didn't you say anything?" John groaned. Sherlock looked perplexed.
"I thought we both knew where we stood on the matter? Ah... apparently I was mistaken." He noted John's exasperated expression as he spoke.

"I chose not to act as I believed that no matter what romantic associations were developing - we were sexually incompatible." He explained simply.
"Wait so... you were attracted to me, you knew I was attracted to you, but you didn't do anything about it because you thought I wouldn't be interested in gay sex?" There was an obvious tone of complaint in his voice.
"Quite the opposite." He said, shaking his head. "That you desired me in a sexual manner was a given, your morning shower ritual has required an additional thirteen minutes as of late, your masturbatory habits indicated you were very much sexually attracted to me." John thought he ought to be embarrassed that Sherlock had been aware of every early morning wank he'd had while fantasizing about him, he wasn't at all embarrassed or surprised by it. That was Sherlock fucking Holmes for you. "No, your sexuality was never an issue. The fact of the matter is that until this morning I'd not sustained an erection willingly since I was nineteen." John thought he might need a moment to process that but Sherlock ploughed on.

"Oh, we're doing the whole tedious back-story bit are we? You might as well get comfortable." Sherlock flung one arm out, indicating that John move into it - John was completely and utterly befuddled, he didn't have a bloody clue what was going on, in one breath Sherlock had told him he was attracted to him only to retract it in the very next. "I'm to understand post-coital cuddling is somewhat mandatory after someone allows you to penetrate them anally." He said it in such a no-nonsense tone that John, despite his reservations, felt he had little choice, he lay himself against Sherlock's side, his face in the crook of Sherlock's neck.

"Okay... explain." John said, inhaling softly as Sherlock's outstretched arm curled around him, hand settling on John's shoulder. Sherlock now smelled of sweat and sex - it was intoxicating, a few stray curls tickled John's forehead and he had to admit it was rather nice to just lie in Sherlock's arms like that - even if he didn't know where it was going.

"I have... amendment - had no sex drive... when I was in high school and the other boys were addled by a cocktail of surging hormones, copulating or attempting to copulate with air headed teenage girls behind the bike-sheds: I simply had no interest. It didn't bother me, I had studies to attend to. Sex and sexuality was trivial - the occasional erection was dealt with the way any inconvenience was, as quickly and efficiently as possible."
"You're not a robot, Sherlock..." John said softly. Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"If you're going to get sentimental and pity me for my sexuality I will not hesitate to extricate myself from this embrace. You wouldn't pity someone for being straight or bisexual or gay, so don't make out like it's some terrible tragedy." John jolted slightly at that.
"I didn't mean..."
"Being asexual makes a person no less of a person and I resent the comparison." Sherlock told him icily.
"Yeah I know, sorry... I only..." John muttered feeling a complete prat, Sherlock was right of course.

"Anyway." Sherlock cut in smoothly, before John could attempt to apologise. "It was something I found easy to repress. When I got to university - virginity became taboo, every student in the school was shagging another, or a teacher in some cases. You don't get to be a twenty-something virgin in today's society, it's unacceptable. So despite the fact that it didn't interest me, I did make certain... attempts." He trailed off, suddenly assaulted with memories he'd not confronted in a long time, he absently squeezed John's shoulder. "Three attempts, three different people. On each occasion I was either unwilling or unable to maintain an erection. The partners were... less than thrilled, each seemed to take it personally for some reason."

John had to think about that one, if he'd been a twenty-something, in university and in bed with Sherlock Holmes (who he had to imagine was scrawnier but just as handsome in his youth) would he be offended if Sherlock couldn't get off? He could definitely see how they could have taken it personally, and felt an overwhelming sense of guilt beginning to gnaw at his stomach.
"After that I stopped trying. Sex clearly didn't work for me, no sense beating a dead horse so to speak. I've never lusted after a person's body - which brings us to now." Sherlock continued.
"And by now you mean me?" John put forward, he felt Sherlock's chin briefly against his hair indicating Sherlock had nodded.

"I had no doubts that you and I were romantically compatible, I recognise the symptoms of attraction, they're not unfamiliar to me. We have what people idiomatically refer to as 'chemistry'. There have been various times in my life I have admired someone's brain, their courage or their personality - asexual does not equate to aromantic. So yes, I was attracted to you... but I had no sexual desire for you." He paused before adding, almost apologetically - unheard of for Sherlock. "Don't take it personally."
"I don't." John promised, knowing that it was far from personal - it wasn't that Sherlock wasn't sexually attracted to him, it was that Sherlock wasn't sexually attracted to anybody.
"I did consider the options. I knew you would not be happy with a sexless relationship, I briefly courted the idea of a one sided sexual scenario - letting you use my body as you saw fit."
"I wouldn't..." John started, appalled by the idea, but Sherlock cut him off again.
"I know you wouldn't, which is why I didn't offer it. I'd have been content with that situation though, it would have been a task, but one I'd willingly have endured."

It actually physically hurt John's chest to hear Sherlock talking like that, John would never have dreamed of willingly compromising Sherlock's sexuality - sex when one partner is unwilling or unable to derive pleasure wasn't sex, it was abuse, yet Sherlock was so casual about it. He'd actually considered letting John take him like that.
"I did try." Sherlock said, almost softly. "Attempted to arouse myself with visual imagery, I spent hours trying to achieve arousal over you and it just didn't happen." John knew he shouldn't pity Sherlock for this, but he did, these were not the words of a man comfortable with his sexuality, these were the words of a man who had tried everything to stop being what he was. Almost instinctively, John placed a delicate kiss to Sherlock's neck - the detective twitched slightly at it.

"Then... this morning you went and knocked the whole thing on the head." Sherlock actually sounded impressed. "Not only did I achieve an erection, I maintained it and reached a mind-blowing orgasm." John blushed a little bit there, just a little.
"I didn't mean... I didn't know... I wouldn't have..." He couldn't quite form the words.
"I'm actually rather glad you didn't know. Had you harboured the same beliefs as myself, we'd never have ended up knowing what we know now."
"Which is..." John started uncertainly, Sherlock gave a hefty sigh before pulling John back on top of him, staring up to keep eye contact.
"I am, apparently, sexually attracted to you..."
"Sherlock one time doesn't erase a lifetime of..." John sounded weary, this could all end very badly.
"Shut up and listen to me." Sherlock barked.

"It's true that if you had not forced this upon me," John hated that. 'Forced'. He was a fucking monster. Ugh. "I wouldn't have had the inclination to start it." He said, raising one hand and cupping John's cheek. "But right at this very moment? I'm in bed with you, we're both naked... I'm a little too tired for the second round, but give it a few minutes, I'm not nineteen any more." He grinned in a cat-like manner, making himself appear a bit manic, but John still looked uncertain. "Tell me you don't feel that?" Sherlock breathed, moving his head up closer to John's, lips almost touching.

"Feel... what?" John asked cautiously, torn between what he wanted and what Sherlock might not actually want. Sherlock hovered his lips just over John's, perilously close but not quite close enough.
"Heat." Sherlock whispered as John's eyes darted down to his mouth and back up. "Intoxication, adrenaline, need, want, furious desire." He purred and revelled in the hitch of John's breath. "It's all a bit new... but it's definitely there." His voice was barely audible now, the tension in the room was thickening as John waited: waited to either be told this was all rubbish and to get off of him, or waited to be kissed. Sherlock smirked.

"If you're going to do it, just do it." He repeated low and urgent, choosing his words carefully, knowing the imagery and sensations they conjured in John's mind. The temptation was too much and John closed the infinitesimal gap between their lips, meeting Sherlock's mouth with a kiss that could not have been chaste if it tried, Sherlock was right - he always was, there was definite desire from both parties, two tongues sweeping each other, two sets of teeth taking it in turn to nibble against two bottom lips. John pulled back for air and was pleasantly surprised to see Sherlock's pupils blown wide again - not only with arousal but with shock that he was aroused, a frankly stunning combination.

"Oh yes." Sherlock said, still grinning as he ran his tongue over his bottom lip, tasting John on himself. "Definitely there." He placed both his hands on John's hips, sliding him just a little further down his body to show John physical evidence of his state of arousal. Letting him feel the beginnings of Sherlock's second erection of the morning pressing against his backside. It had been maybe half an hour since they'd finished, they'd talked for a good while, John's stamina was not quite up to par, but he supposed if he'd made it to his early thirties without sex his refractory period would be fairly quick too.
"So... not asexual then?" John murmured.
"So... not heterosexual then?" Sherlock countered, apparently snogging had not wiped the smirk from his face. He drew his hand down John's cheekbone, then his jawline, he traced two fingers down John's throat and was half way down John's chest when he heard him gasp.

"Whole new world of possibilities to explore." He was using his lowest voice, the one he knew John found sexy, half growling his words. John nodded mutely. "I have an addictive personality you know... I think you're what they call an enabler." He told John, as his hand lowered, fingertips dancing over the doctor's abdomen. "Could be dangerous." He added, and it was John's turn to smirk, looking down at Sherlock with wonder and affection.
"Want to see some more?" He offered, playing Sherlock's game just as well as he could. Before Sherlock could answer with the obvious response, John rolled his hips backwards, pressing Sherlock's semi erect cock between his cheeks. Sherlock groaned, but managed to say it, albeit in a sharp breathy tone he had not intended on using:
"Oh god yes."