Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

I

"Sherlock!"

John is usually very aware of Mrs H living below them - it must be hard for her, and he and Sherlock should really be paying her a lot more than they are for the kind of crap that they put her through on a weekly basis. Today, however, John couldn't care less if he's stomping and shouting. He's bloody cross and it has to come out somewhere. He's sick of doing angry laps of Regent's Park - it's become such a predictable episode that the homeless who haunt those paths know him by name and wave to him as he goes by. 

He stamps down the last few stairs and throws open the sitting room door. 

"You've been snooping in my bloody room again!" he yells, quickly scanning the place to find the sneaky bastard reclining on the sofa, bare toes wriggling, poncey dressing gown artfully draped and long, pale hands together, pressing against his ridiculously full lips. 

Sherlock doesn't so much as acknowledge his presence, so John picks up his Union Jack pillow and drops it on his face.

The idiot merely pats the cushion onto the floor and takes a deep, weary breath.

"I do not snoop . Snooping implies an element of secrecy that was clearly lacking in this situation as you have discovered my earlier visit. Well done , John."

The giant berk doesn’t even bother to open his eyes, let alone look remorseful and John feels his patience wearing ever more dangerously thin. 

"What would you call it then, hmm? Rudeness? Lack of boundaries? Invasion of privacy? Theft?" John snarls as he makes a grab for the half-recognised t-shirt he's just noticed tucked between Sherlock's hands and chest. 

"Curiosity," Sherlock replies, his eyes flying open and fingers instinctively grasping the fabric of his prize when John tries to snatch it back. 

John yanks on the t-shirt a couple of times, then lets Sherlock have the damn thing with a huff of disgust. He's feeling exposed enough by Sherlock's (latest) attack on the sanctity of his room, without having to wrestle him for his own sodding t-shirt.

"That's why humans invented questions," John growls. "When humans want to know things about other humans they bloody well ask questions. They don't wait until they're alone and then riffle through the other human's stuff.”

"Boring," Sherlock mutters morosely. 

"Excuse me?" John's almost certain he felt something pop in his brain. Though a skilled medical professional, he briefly wonders if people can die of irritation and, if so, how many peeved-looking corpses Sherlock must have left in his considerable wake.

Sighing as if John is the stupid one here, Sherlock speaks. "It's much more interesting to find out for myself and also more likely that I'll get an honest answer. Objects don't lie, John."

"And what the hell is that supposed to mean?" 

He falls for it every time and he knows he shouldn't. Sherlock says something infuriating and John reacts. Every. Damn. Time. It's almost Pavlovian. He can't help himself. The man drives him utterly demented when he's like this.

"People lie all the time,” Sherlock shrugs, waving one eloquent hand in John’s direction. “It's almost a biological imperative. They lie to others, they lie to themselves, they lie to make themselves look good and they lie to make themselves feel better. But objects, John, the detritus of a life lived! Objects are a repository of reason and  sentiment - if you know how to look at them and what questions to ask, the truth unfolds before you."

"That's a bollocks excuse to go through my things and you bloody know it! You’ve already deduced me so many times that you claim to know me better than I know myself!”

"Perhaps I do, but I'm not interested in any of the obvious things - I already know all of those things about you. I want to know the things that you don't talk about - the things that you won't tell me - the things you try to hide."

"For fuck's sake! Why?" John yells, plot utterly lost now. “If you want to know something about me, just bloody ask nicely! I’ll tell you. It’s as simple as that.”

Sherlock sits up suddenly. It forces John to take a step back or get smacked in the chin; he hadn't realised quite how far he’d been bent over the prone figure of his flatmate whose eyes are suddenly intent and assessing.

"Really, John?  Can you tell me why you keep your dog tags on your dresser and your medals in a torn shoebox under your wardrobe? Or why you have the number of that SOC officer you chatted up a fortnight ago on your bedside table but you haven't called her? Why you use the hand cream in your bedside drawer when you masturbate but have a bottle of personal lubricant at the back of the bottom drawer in your dresser? Why you have tickets to concerts you attended and tickets from train journeys you took as a teenager and although you have kept your textbooks, the only thing you have from your years of medical training is a library card from King's College? It’s tucked in with those tickets, so it is clearly of significance. It didn't take me long to work out the answers so I don’t know why you’re getting so worked-up. I was only in there for a few minutes."

He seems to run out of steam a little. "Oh, and your condoms have expired," he finishes with a flourish. 

John swallows carefully and deliberately unclenches his fists. He breathes through his nose. Slowly. Twice. 

"Those things are private," he explains in a very, very quiet voice that Sherlock ought to recognise as dangerous by now, but seems to ignore every time.

"Exactly. That's how I knew you wouldn't tell me. Even though I've just asked nicely ." He gives John one of his infuriating non-smiles and swings himself back down onto the sofa, primly resuming his thinking posture. 

John thinks about a few laps of the park with sudden longing, but there are only so many things that he can let Sherlock get away with - only so many times he can back down and let Sherlock carry on running riot through what passes for order in his life.

"I know you don’t place any value in the feelings of lesser beings, but that is not okay. It's not fair to be deducing all this stuff from my possessions, Sherlock. How would you like it if I barged into your room and went through all your stuff?"

"Lestrade's already done that this month," Sherlock replies airily. 

"He was looking for drugs because you were acting up and withholding evidence again - not deliberately searching for things that are personal to you. It's different."

"Well, feel free if it will make you feel better," Sherlock shrugs, utterly unconcerned.

"What?"

"Help yourself. I really don't see what all the fuss is about."

And, like straws on camels, that is the phrase that breaks the doctor’s back, his remaining, microscopically thin veneer of reason gone with an ill-judged word.

Fuss? Sherlock thinks that John is making a fuss about this? Sherlock thinks that John is the one being unreasonable for asking him to stay out of the few possessions he has brought to the flat they share?

"I bloody will," he hisses.

"Good for you!" Sherlock declares and closes his eyes again.

John stands and stares at Sherlock for a full minute, his blood roaring in his ears. The man cannot see that he has done anything wrong, never mind that they have been over and over the ‘personal boundaries’ conversation. He lies there, serenely smug, composed and untouchable while John can feel the scowl on his face, so deep it must be leaving permanent lines. He notices his fists opening and closing, itching to flick him or mess up his perfect hair, but seems unable to stop the motion. 

"Right," he gruffs and with few other choices, he stalks off to Sherlock's room.

"Just mind my sock index," Sherlock sends after him with a note of warning. 

John mutters about the bad things he would like to do to Sherlock's stupid bloody sock index, pushes open the posh twat's door and stamps inside. 

II

It's not that John hasn't been in Sherlock's room before - he's delivered clean laundry, looked for things under Sherlock's directions (that sound more like orders) and, on occasion, he's even brought him tea in here - but this is very different. Sherlock has goaded him into a temper and now he's given him carte blanche to nose around in his bedroom as if it's tit-for-tat compensation for having been all over John's bedroom with those all-seeing eyes of his. God! He's utterly infuriating and John would like to be able to say that he's completely uninterested in the contents of Sherlock's room but that's not true; you don't get to meet someone like him and not wonder what makes him tick, what's important to him, what he lets the world see and what he hides. 

The truth is that John hesitates and the reasons are twofold:

1. John has a shred of decency and needs to get over his own innate politeness 

and

2. He doesn't know where to start. 

It feels strange, but he cannot deny that there is an illicit thrill in being let loose in here. He makes a slow circuit of the room, running his fingers along the furniture as he goes - dark wood, heavy styling and expensive, probably antique most of it - not like all the other hand-me-down stuff and Ebay finds that the rest of the flat is furnished with, so it's probably Sherlock's own. It's very ‘him’ in a strange way. Sherlock is a man out of time for all his intelligence and the speed and skill with which he wields that mobile of his. Visually too, he's unusual; like the furniture, he's well put together of good quality materials but he stands out.  And... this line of thought is getting him nowhere so, overcoming a huge wave of guilt, he picks a spot and begins.

He sides open the top drawer of Sherlock's dresser. Underwear one side, pyjama trousers the other. The pants are all black (stylish and classic and probably made of silk or something. John is not going to touch them to find out, thank you very much) but the pyjama bottoms are all old and soft, cotton and worn-thin flannel. The t-shirts too, look like the only thing between them and the bin is Sherlock's stubbornness.

Okay, that wasn't so bad, John thinks, so he moves to the wardrobe and pulls the double doors open. A mirror on the back of one door reflects John's furtive face as he runs his hands over Sherlock's perfectly hung jackets and trousers, and the shirts still in their thin plastic sheaths from the dry cleaner. There's very little variation in Sherlock's wardrobe - nothing you might call casual. Sherlock either wears a suit or his pyjamas - there's no middle ground with him, which is more interesting than it should be, but John is not sure why or what it means. 

There are shelves at the top of one side and there's something in here that smells woody and spicy; John recognises it from the scent of Sherlock himself. Under the shelves, which seem to be filled with elements of Sherlock's disguises (a high-vis jacket, some chef's whites, a pair of jodhpurs and a pro polo shirt for starters) are some drawers similar to the ones you used to find in old-fashioned menswear shops, more dark wood and strong shapes. 

He checks the bedroom door over his shoulder , then opens the bottom drawer and puts a hand down the back, running his fingers along folded bed linen. This is the obvious place to put anything that you might not want others to see - every teenager in the UK knows that.

Of course, there’s nothing there, only crisp, dark pillowcases and, rolling his eyes at himself, John closes the drawer. Opening the top one, John finds the infamous sock index and pulls it out for a better look. It is a precision system, all the pairs are folded to the same size and laid on end, in rows. The vast majority of Sherlock's socks are black, fine knit and probably stupidly expensive. There are a few dark navy pairs for variety (except not really because John can only tell they are blue because they are lined up next to the black ones, other than that they are just as dark.) Feeling justified, he picks up a pair of the blue socks and a pair of the black socks and swaps them over, enjoying what he hopes Sherlock will interpret as chaos. 

He sides the drawer shut and closes the wardrobe.

Whatever else he may or may not have achieved with this show of defiance, he has messed with Sherlock's holiest of holies, and that feels like a revenge of sorts.

So far, so nothing though as far as incriminating or embarrassing mementoes are concerned. John crouches down and peers beneath the wardrobe, but there's not even a dust ball under there. He stands up and casts his eyes around the room again, trying to think like Sherlock would, when his eyes light on his bedside table. Is that too obvious? That was where Sherlock had found some of the most cringe-worthy items in his flagrant violation of John's room. It feels hideously personal, but John steels himself. This is why he is here; to explain to Sherlock, with examples he can understand, why it's not okay to go through a man's stuff or call out his masturbatory habits. 

The top drawer slides open easily and John peers inside. There's a box of tissues, some batteries, some pens, a pair of goggles, two of Lestrade's ID badges as well as various other badges from hapless Met officers he doesn't recognise, three of Mycroft's credit cards, a takeaway menu from the Moroccan restaurant they like, some loose change and a shuriken throwing star. It's surprisingly tame and John feels disappointment begin to creep up his spine to join the guilt.

He closes that one and pulls open the next drawer down and… hits the motherlode. It’s so good, in fact, that he blinks several times in shock. There are three assorted bottles of lube - one still in its plastic wrap, one just open and one over half used already,  as well as some clean, stacked flannels, textured condoms, several… are those clamps?... and a sleek black dildo - not flashy or obscenely large though unmistakably a device designed for personal pleasure. But instead of a rush of triumph, John is more curious than anything. 

He's wondered, of course, if Sherlock has a sexual thought in his entire make up - he shows precious little interest in the women and men who vie for his attention (until he says something so devastatingly rude to them that they run for cover). In fact he seems oblivious more than anything, and John has considered more than once whether his flatmate was, in fact, asexual. Even Sherlock in his infinite ignorance of what is an acceptable conversation topic knows that you don’t casually ask a mate what their sexual preference is, what floats their metaphorical boat, or whether it floats at all. And it’s not okay to ask around either; who would he even ask? Greg seems to know him as well as anyone (but John) and he appears as baffled by Sherlock as any Tom, Dick or Harry off the street. Asking Mycroft doesn’t even bear thinking about and nor would he betray Sherlock’s trust like that. So John has been left wondering.

The discovery of this drawer of delights changes things dramatically. Not only would it appear that Sherlock does have an interest in pleasuring himself, but he seems rather adventurous if the dildo is any indication. John has seen too many outliers in his career to be able to definitively predict that Sherlock is gay - he's encountered too many men who like to be penetrated who do not identify as homosexual to draw conclusions from a dildo and a bottle of lube.  If John had to choose between straight or gay, he would definitely put his money on Sherlock enjoying the company of men above women, but it would be naive to assume that Sherlock might fall into one of only two categories when he himself doesn't fall firmly into one camp or the other. He suspects that without external childhood influences, a lot more people would enjoy significantly greater flexibility in their sexual tastes and genders of choice. Or perhaps Sherlock only requires his own company and doesn't enjoy sharing such intimacy with others.

But then if Sherlock is gay (an unsubstantiated theory) and interested in sex (some strong evidence but no definitive proof) then... 

He feels a wash of compassion gradually flow through him. John has never noticed any evidence of a lover, not in their flat and not when Sherlock has returned home after going out without him. Does he not like to share his body's physical needs with others? Has he not been able to find anyone he trusts enough to share this with? Because Sherlock doesn't have time for people as a rule, but if John is the exception to that rule then what else might Sherlock be willing to share with him given the right circumstances?

Slamming the drawer shut, John closes down that line of thought at the same time. He swore to himself that he wouldn't go there again after six months of hoping that Sherlock might look his way sometime. They are friends - the greatest of friends - and John is learning that’s a big thing for Sherlock. According to some not so subtle hints from Mycroft on their first meeting and later confirmed by the man himself, Sherlock doesn't really have friends. He has colleagues and associates and family and even some acquaintances like Mike Stamford, but whether or not Sherlock thinks of them in any other capacity than how they fit in with the work, is another question. So John finds himself in a subset of one  - people Sherlock knows and likes. It's a role he cherishes and one that he would be loath to surrender, or forfeit on a gamble that they could be something more.

He's losing his taste for this game now. John came in here angry and determined to make Sherlock pay for making him feel exposed the way he did. But he was looking at his flatmate’s actions through the filter of his own experiences and that's where his error lies. Sherlock isn't like anybody else that John has known; in a lot of ways that was his appeal to begin with, at least. He has a certain way in which he interacts with the world that is not limited by being polite or worrying about what others think. Why should he bother with such trivia when his overwhelming passion is for knowledge and deduction and answers and puzzle pieces. If Sherlock isn't interested in people outside of his work, then surely the greater crime is perpetrated by those who see him as a means to an end - who are happy to benefit from his brilliance but are unwilling to endure the silences and the nocturnal symphonies and the experiments that give him the answers he needs to solve other people's problems. Perhaps Sherlock shouldn't be blamed for shunning the companionship of others when others have not extended that same courtesy to him unless they were to gain by it. 

So Sherlock has riffled through John's room - but not for a case, not as an experiment, not because there is anything to be gained by doing so, but because he genuinely wants to know things about John. Perhaps that's how John should be looking at this. He has the detective's friendship and his attention - what might one deduce from his wanting more from John than from any other acquaintance he has?

Maybe this is all about Sherlock wanting to know John better but not having the social skills necessary to get the information that he wants. Maybe John, unwittingly, is behaving in the same pattern as Donovan and Anderson and countless, faceless others who have rejected Sherlock based on how he is instead of seeing past that to who he is.

John sighs, quietly and irritatingly disappointed in himself, and also slightly concerned that Sherlock’s behaviour will deteriorate  further when he lets him get away with this one as well.

On his way out of Sherlock's room John passes the dresser that Sherlock uses to deposit his keys, wallet and the day’s haul of pickpocketed items. Both wallet and keys are still there, but they are not what has caught John's eye. In a room devoid of knick-knacks and clutter, the pile of paper stands out and John pauses.

Intrigued, he reaches out and lifts the Buckingham Palace ashtray off the top.

The first item is a press cutting - one from a couple of months into their friendship. They had solved a kidnapping case - the son of a famous sports personality. The story had been widely reported and followed avidly by the press and public alike. After thirty-six hours of no progress, the Met had asked Sherlock if he might be prepared to take a look. The boy had been returned home unharmed within four hours of Sherlock's consent to assist. There had been a press conference afterwards in which Sherlock’s part had been praised but he had refused to take questions from the reporters, so John had stepped in and fielded a few, vaguely explaining Sherlock's process in finding the child and uncovering the perpetrator in the guise of the star's former manager. John remembers the case well; he had been proud of Sherlock that day and he had wanted people to know it was the unparalleled mind of his friend that had solved the puzzle. Indeed, he recalls that he'd needed to rein in his admiration when retelling the story or he’d have inadvertently revealed the recently hidden depth of his feelings for the man. 

The image attached to the cutting is of Sherlock and him, John unwittingly looking straight into the lens while Sherlock's head was turned towards him, watching. An odd choice, John thinks. Sherlock is something of a minor celebrity now. Gone are the days when he used to have to go looking for cases to occupy him. Now they come to him - some through Lestrade and the Met, but others from people who have heard his name and who value the discreet input of an agency other than the police. Many of them are too dull for Sherlock to even reply to, but he has taken a few that have led to his name being passed on by those in the know. 

John recalls that Sherlock had not rated the solve of that particular episode nor relished the coverage that had come with it. He’s had cases he’d enjoyed more and some of those cases had got his name in the papers - so why has he chosen this particular press conference and this particular image?

The next piece of paper is equally random - a note John barely remembers scribbling for Sherlock one day when he hadn't come home by the time John had gone off to work. It was nothing more than a quick ‘ see you later - there's some dinner in the fridge if you want it’ , but Sherlock must have picked it up for whatever reason. John checks, but there is nothing more on the paper.

There are a couple of train tickets to Exeter from their case on Dartmoor. There's a bill from the nice restaurant they went to when they were staking out an address in Marylebone. There's the copy of John's birth certificate, which he still doesn't know how Sherlock acquired. There's a rough map he drew to explain to Sherlock where he'd been when he was shot, then a couple more press cuttings.

“Huh,” John mutters. Slightly bemused, he puts the papers back in a pile and puts the ashtray back on the top before leaving the room. There’s no sense in procrastinating any longer.

The madman is still lying on the sofa, long toes still curling and flexing. He opens his eyes when John stops beside him and just for a second, John swears he sees something fragile flicker behind  that direct gaze before the bland mask comes down.

"Feel better?" Sherlock asks, his drawl ever so condescending. 

"A bit." 

John licks his lip and then sits down on the coffee table, his elbows braced on his thighs. 

Sherlock instantly turns his head to watch him for a few moments,  eyes narrowing. 

"Problem?" he asks.

"No, no problem."

Sherlock looks unconvinced, as if he's wanting to say something but uncertain of the reception it will get. Unable to meet this penetrating scrutiny, John sets his gaze on Sherlock's left shoulder. 

People don't talk about these things for a reason - they are difficult and they make you vulnerable to the person you tell. You have to trust them with this hidden side of you - that they won’t react with distaste and that they will repay your faith in telling them. If there’s anyone that should hear these kinds of things about John, then it’s Sherlock, but knowing that doesn’t make it any easier, so when John finally speaks his voice is low and laboured.

"The medals are in the box because I'm not comfortable with having them. When I came back I didn't feel like I'd earned any of them, I wasn't a hero, I was a doctor who got in the way of a bullet. So I put them away."

For a man who was lying unmoving to begin with, Sherlock's stillness is so obvious it's as if he resonates with the tension of his silence.

"Perhaps one day you will feel differently about them," Sherlock offers eventually, his cryptic words delivered in a voice more gentle than John is used to hearing.

John shrugs off the unexpected and unlooked for kindness. He's not that man anymore anyway.

"Laura's telephone number is still beside my bed because I forgot it was there. I'm not going to call her. It's... it's a bit of a habit, self-defence maybe..." John shrugs again. "I had no intention of calling her. I just... I wonder sometimes if I... It's... I'm not proud of it, but knowing that I'm still able to engage with someone... in that way..." 

John hopes that Sherlock will say something, make some kind of gesture that he understands what he's saying, but he doesn't, just listens intently. John swallows and tries to force into words things that he'd rather not think about in relation to himself. 

"I'm not seeing anyone, Sherlock. I haven’t for a while now and... and it helps to know that I'm not utterly incapable of attracting someone - whether or not I'm interested in them." He laughs at himself, a bleak sound. "Like I said, I'm not proud of it."

Sherlock sits up suddenly and John follows him with his eyes, sitting back to make space for him. 

"John, " Sherlock says seriously but pauses, and John is grateful.

He doesn't need a lecture about his girlfriends, thanks all the same. After a few disastrous attempts at dating when they first moved into Baker Street, John realised that he was actually not all that bereft when they were inevitably chased away by Sherlock's antics. It became a bit of a game in some ways after a while, which he knows isn't fair to the women who gave him the time of day in the first place. In the end, the effort of finding and placating them wasn't worth the investment. He hadn't been looking for anything serious and he didn't think his dates had either, so any women he did catch the eye of were for fun and were summarily dropped whenever Sherlock called for him. 

As the cases have picked up, John's sex life has trailed off. He doesn't miss it per se, and he's perfectly capable of taking care of his urges by himself most of the time. To be honest, Sherlock has stepped into the role of his most significant other, their work and home lives overlapping and adjusting around each other's quite pleasingly, but without a physical aspect to their partnership. John is frustrated to admit to himself that this is the best relationship he's ever been in - and the idiot in question probably has no idea that they are even in a relationship!

Sherlock has a frown on his face and John needs to forestall whatever it is he has to say.

"I don't need to tell you about the hand cream - that one is your fault."

Sherlock's mouth drops open at that and his face goes a strange combination of slack and pink which strikes John as rather odd.

"If you had a flatmate who regularly went through your stuff, you wouldn't leave anything so incriminating as lube around either."

There's a short silence in which Sherlock blinks way too many times before John clarifies.

"Well, you would but..."

Sherlock seems to rally somewhat and gives John a faint smile. He clears his throat.

"It's a physiological irritation and one that I don't seem to be able to ignore as easily as sleep or food," Sherlock admits.

John's eyebrows flick up before he has the sense to mask his reaction. He can't definitively say that Sherlock is being weird today, because Sherlock seems to have an inexhaustible supply of quirky, surprising and downright shocking so, within those parameters, talking about his mastubatory habits is not the strangest conversation that John has ever had with the man. It’s more candid than John is used to but that seems to be what today is about. He supposes this is Sherlock's way of bringing something to the 'let's expose John Watson's darkest secrets' party. The madman would not know what was appropriate sharing if it jumped up and bit him on the arse. But it is him making an effort, so John nods knowingly and tries very, very hard not to think about what Sherlock does at night with that drawer full of delights. But...

What does he think about when he's getting himself off?

Or who? Male or female?

Does he rush though it like he does with his food - all hurry and resentment? 

Or does he take his time and do it thoroughly?

Does he always use...

"John?"

"Yes?" John barks, too loud and too fast. 

"The librarian?"

"Oh yeah," John smiles reflexively, glad to have got away with his slightly voyeuristic thoughts without embarrassing himself. "We used to... Wait. How did you know it was the librarian?"

"If it were someone you simply met there, the library would not have been the important factor. You would have kept a napkin from a favourite coffee shop or some item more personal to her. The library card indicates that this relationship revolved around the building itself and as students commonly make use of a university library only as a last resort, I imagine that your visits there were to see her in her workplace rather than study dates. Obvious."

"You don't miss a bloody trick do you?"

Sherlock has the humility to shrug. His face softens. "It clearly meant a lot to you that you have been hanging on to it for so long. What was her name?"

John leans back and crosses his arms. This could be interesting. This is the one trick that perhaps Sherlock has missed.

"Nathan," he says and his lips turn up without his express permission. " His name was Nathan. He was my first boyfriend."

Sherlock's gaze is intense but he doesn't show any surprise. He must have known that John wasn't being entirely candid with his insistence that he wasn't gay. On the list of things that John's not proud of, this one is a biggie. He’ s been pretty vocal about that - it is the conclusion that many people jump to when he’s introduced as a flatmate or friend, and John gets irritated at their smirks and knowing airs, particularly when Sherlock has shown no sign of interest in him in that way.

To be fair, John hasn't been with a guy in years - that's just the way it has turned out rather than a conscious choice. And then he met Sherlock and for the first time in a long time he's felt interest in a man for something more than a quick bit of stress relief. He’d known that Sherlock was something different straight away; he hadn't known how that would translate into him becoming the centre of John's world. He’s made his peace with that in the last couple of months, preparing himself for Sherlock to be the one who got away, the one who everyone who comes after will never measure up to.

" Boyfriend . There's always something," Sherlock sighs, his lips twitching when John's eyes flick to his with recognition. He'd got Harry's sex wrong too, right back at the beginning. 

John grins in return.

"You couldn't have got that from a library card anyway. Not even you."

"Hmm, that would be… First? You said, ’first’ boyfriend,” Sherlock says.

"First and only," John admits ruefully. "No matter how modern the Army claims to be, being attracted to men isn't something you want to advertise, if you get my meaning. Watch the wrong guy for a few seconds too long and you find yourself in all kinds of situations you don't want to be. It happens a lot - it shouldn't but it does. No one talks about it and you learn bloody fast or you go home."

Sherlock nods and looks away and John wonders if he actually understands, if he’s known that kind of tension himself.

"Why am I surprised that you're not surprised?" John asks after a few moments of uncomfortable silence.

"To be fair, I wasn't sure. I thought maybe you were successfully suppressing any homosexual tendencies or urges you might have had."

"I haven't acted on any… urges... with a man... in a really long time. For a while I wondered if it was just a phase I'd gone through," John admits, rubbing his thumb over the knuckles of his opposite hand.

"And now?" 

John glances up into Sherlock's direct gaze, but can't sustain eye contact. He said it himself - Sherlock rarely misses a trick and a misstep now could bring John's carefully created world down around his ears. He has lived for months like this, being in love with his best friend and flatmate, and persuading himself that it's okay, that they can live together, work together and be this close without it driving him nuts. But that plan relies on these things remaining unspoken - if Sherlock asks the right questions, if he notices John's avoidances and hesitations, there's no way he will leave well alone.

"And now... it's your turn to share," John says with a shade too much colour in his voice. 

"Share? Share what?" Sherlock leans back into the sofa and cocks his head, his curls lending him a spaniel-like air.

"I've answered your questions," John says, affecting a teasing tone. "Now you tell me something."

"Ask away," Sherlock says, as if this was some kind of game - truth or dare without a thought for the stakes.

And John can't. Sherlock sits, all unassuming and strangely eager, and John cannot think of a single thing to ask that won't feed into his own yearning. It feels all wrong; voyeuristic and self-serving. Sherlock deserves better than to have John pawing through his sexual history. If he'd wanted to discuss his likes and dislikes he would have...

As the next thought roars into his mind John's body jolts as if he's had a shock and he straightens slowly, giving it time to fit into his view of the world.

Sherlock never says or does anything without a reason, and yet he left something as personal and potentially embarrassing as a dildo in one of the first places he knew someone would look. He then invited John, twice , to search his room, knowing that he would find it. Did he want John to find it? And what would he possibly have gained by doing so other than to let John know that he was a man who enjoyed an orgasm - and a mildly adventurous one at that? What would Sherlock achieve by letting John know this? He's the original overthinker - he tries to consider any possible consequences of his actions - he has plans within plans to achieve his desired outcomes. 

And here's the really big question, the one that John has to persuade himself to even entertain. It's nuts surely? It's unlikely in the extreme, but...

What if John is the desired outcome of this scenario?

He can feel the hairs on the back of his neck prickle, but now he's begun this train of thought, he can feel it hurtling him towards a conclusion that is so outlandish as to be ridiculous and he has to decide how much of it is real, and how much of it is his own want, bleeding through.

What if Sherlock were finding a way, however indirectly, to gauge John's reaction to this hidden side of him? What if Sherlock wanted to lead John down a certain way of thinking, to reveal something about himself and to observe from his reaction whether that might be something that he approved of or would be interested in? What if Sherlock wanted John to see him in a different light with new potential?

What if Sherlock Holmes wanted to let John know that he was interested. In sex. In sex with him specifically.

Sherlock is watching him with a certain wariness now. There is still that spark in his eye, that keenness that seems to be almost daring John to follow the trail of breadcrumbs he has left. 

If John is wrong about this, if he has overshot Sherlock's intent by a country mile then he's going to look like the most massive fool in the world. (And that's if Sherlock had any intent at all - who the hell knows? God, it's all so confusing.)

But there's something about the way Sherlock is sitting awaiting John’s questions, about how still his hands are for once, about how alert he looks, how invested.

With everything to lose, and everything and then some to gain, John breathes deeply and settles himself. Just like aiming a pistol - no distractions, eye on the prize and be very sure of your reasons for pulling the trigger.

"Have you ever had sex with another person?"

"Please, John, I am thirty six years old and not completely hideous. Surely it must come as no surprise.” He doesn't seem fazed at all at John's direct manner, in fact his eyes shine with intelligence and challenge.

"One night stands or relationships?" 

He shouldn’t ask. God, he really has no right to know these things, but the thought of a sexually active Sherlock makes something primitive and possessive flare in John’s chest out of nowhere.

Sherlock looks mildly surprised at the question but answers anyway. “I have found my need for sexual release and intimacy to be intermittent in the past. As such, a short, casual arrangement can most expediently fulfill such requirements. I am aware that this is not often regarded as the most fulfilling method to achieve satisfaction and that had I experienced what difference a connection with one's sexual partner might make, I might have made more of an effort to prolong or encourage a liaison.”

John wants to stop and pick at that thread, to find the reason that Sherlock hadn't known that passion or friendship or love might make a difference to the way a person felt about sex, but that would take them off on a tangent, and now isn't the time - he has momentum and a talkative flatmate, a rarity not to be wasted. He makes a mental note to follow it up one day soon and continues.

"Were your partners male or female?"

"Male."

"That was your preference or just what was immediately available?"

"My preference," Sherlock answers quickly. "Then and now."

John wishes again that he had time to breathe here. He wants to mentally take stock of all the pieces of information that Sherlock has gifted him today, take his time and tally them up to make sure this is heading where he thinks (hopes) this is heading. He shifts a little, guiltily aware that he's already becoming aroused.

"But you don't have a sexual partner now?"

"No," Sherlock licks his bottom lip and then catches it between his teeth. John can't decide if that is nerves finally beginning to show or if Sherlock knows that it drives John slightly crazy when he does it. "As I intimated earlier and you know how I hate to..."

"Repeat yourself, yeah, yeah, I know. You said that you thought that the relationship you have with a potential sexual partner might be significant for you? Increase your satisfaction, I think you said."

"That is my contention. That has not been the case in my experience, which has led me to the conclusion that sex is a waste of time and energy and that I should only engage in partnered coitus when my own ability to satisfy my drives has not proved efficient. I believe I may have been hasty in that assumption."

"What makes you say that?" John congratulates himself on the steadiness of his gaze and voice when internally, he’s a horny, hopeful mess.

Sherlock hesitates for the first time and John's heart lurches in his chest. "My experience of sex has been varied but frequently disappointing. Being unacquainted with a lover can make things uncomfortable and awkward and I frequently consider giving it all up as an unnecessary exercise. I have yet to be convinced that it serves any purpose that cannot be fulfilled in other ways. " 

"When did you realise that you might have been hasty in that judgement?"

"Quite recently." Sherlock's gaze is unnervingly direct; John recognises the expression from when Sherlock is waiting for him to catch up on a case. Sherlock can never just give a straight yes or no, he always wants John to work things out for himself from the spoon-fed facts he has been given. This is exactly the same - a tiny bit excited and impatient, but trying not to show it.

"Any particular reason?"

"I found myself fixating on and... I suppose you would call it fantasising about someone. It came as something of a surprise to me."

"I would call it fantasising, would I? And what would you call it?" John asks, half-teasing but also trying to give himself a second to think. He's almost certain that he knows Sherlock's mind, but he's been wrong before when it comes to the mad, brilliant bugger. 

“Well, at the time I called it inconvenient but now I’ve had a chance to think about it, I find... I’m quite enjoying it,” Sherlock reveals, suddenly very interested in the cuff of his dressing gown.

"And this someone is a person you know well?" John's heart is beating a tattoo inside his chest and he can't quite believe his voice hasn't let him down yet.

"Yes." There's a little warm smile with this that Sherlock directs at the floor.

"And do you think he knows that you are interested in him?"

Sherlock pauses to think, the tip of his tongue wetting his ridiculously perfect cupid's bow, his eyes flicking momentarily to John. "I think he might be aware of it now," Sherlock murmurs. "Finally."

It's all John can do not to jump him right here , right now. God, please don't let him be wrong about this. " And you believe he is interested in return?"

Sherlock nods once.

"What makes you think that?" John presses and can't stop the grin that is breaking out across his face.

"Well, there are a few things that made me... hope that he might find me to his taste, but most recently, it's the fact that he had one of my sleep shirts tucked under the pillow of his bed."

John almost chokes at that, something that Sherlock doesn't miss, of course. John doesn't want to look more closely at the t-shirt he was struggling to recover from his flatmate but his eyes are drawn to the material clutched in Sherlock’s hand. John has marl grey t-shirts himself - he assumed that Sherlock had taken one of those from his drawer, not stuffed his hand down the back of John's bed and searched , thank you very much. 

"There is a completely reasonable explanation for that," John begins, but there is a matching smile tugging at the corner of Sherlock's mouth and John straightens as he realises that he has just played straight into his flatmate's hands. 

"Then please correct me, doctor,"  Sherlock invites.

"It was in retaliation for one of the many, many times that you stole..."

"... borrowed..."

"... stole my laptop. I just found it in my laundry pile and kept it. I meant to return it, but I kept forgetting..."

"... for four months..."

"... to bring it back."

They smirk at each other for a moment, until that becomes uncomfortable and they both look away. It's a lot to take in. They are neither of them strangers to an adrenaline-fuelled lifestyle, they are used to twists and turns, and fielding whatever it is that their lives have decided to throw at them on that particular day. John has stared down CIA agents with pistols, been drugged on three occasions (that he knows about) and been given an ASBO, while Sherlock has gone hand to hand with trained killers, haunts the streets of the seedier areas of the city at night and antagonises people whose only wish is to hurt him. And that's all in just the last few months. So why is it this that has them both hesitant and unsettled? Serial killers are not a problem, but admitting that they have feelings for each other is beyond them?

"You know, you could have just said," John says eventually.

Sherlock meanwhile returns to the contemplation of his dressing gown sleeve. " The same could be said of you."

"I did! The first case… at Angelo’s. Remember?”

Sherlock’s brows draw down for a moment before his expression clears.

“That was a little more subtle than I was prepared for,” he complains.

“Yeah, well, you were all brilliance and deductions and I was off my game. You still turned me down though.”

“You should have asked again,” Sherlock huffs.

“What? And risk another put down? Besides, as I got to know you, I thought that maybe you weren’t into anything physical. All that stuff about transport and chemical defects.”

“Mmm.” Sherlock looks away. “And what do you think now?”

“I… Well I think you… I mean, this is rather an elaborate plan to engineer for a conversation about..." He can't actually think of how to end that sentence. Is ‘ us’ too presumptuous?

"Perhaps," Sherlock allows.

"You can ask me anything, you know. Anytime,” John offers softly.

"This wasn't the kind of thing that comes up in conversation," Sherlock counters, frowning slightly, and John wants to ruffle his hair and hug him. How can a man who picks up strangers for sex be so reluctant to speak his mind?

"So what happens next?" John asks when the quiet has stretched too long to be entirely comfortable.

Sherlock shrugs and tries on an unconcerned air, the impact of which is lessened by the way that his gaze keeps straying to John. It's like being back at school again, feigning nonchalance in case the object of your affection laughs in your face. John feels a twinge of pity for him that his coping strategies seem so very adolescent, possibly never having had the opportunity to mature.

John rubs a hand over his chin and thinks. Sherlock is clearly waiting for him to lead the way on this. He doesn't know if that is his lack of relationship experience or something else... nerves, maybe? Or is he trying to give all the control here to John for John's sake, to make him feel less pressured? If he is making the calls then they are going to go at a pace that he dictates, but that’s strangely out of character for Sherlock who always leads from the front. 

Despite what his body is telling him, maybe taking it slow is the right way to go about this. If they pause between each step, then if this does all blow up in their faces, at least they have a shot at staying friends and continuing with the work. Jumping straight into bed now will make it that much harder to come back from. 

"Maybe...” John clears this throat. “Maybe you'd like to have dinner with me tonight?" John manages eventually, half expecting a withering retort.

Sherlock's head jerks up and his eyes get an assessing look about them.

"Alright."

"About seven - nothing flashy." John even manages a cheeky grin when his mouth's as dry as Sherlock’s humour.

Sherlock rolls his eyes and gets up from the sofa, walking around John. “Fine,” he mutters.

"Oh, and Sherlock? No more snooping, okay? If you want to know something, ask me. I will do my best to answer you truthfully."

Sherlock looks a little conflicted at that, but agrees with a short nod. He looks back over his shoulder as he opens the door to his bedroom to give John a quick, genuine smile.

“See you at seven,” he says as he steps through.

John is left to his thoughts, as erratic and overwhelmed as they are - elation and excitement locked in a struggle to the death with nerves and trepidation. So it’s a good minute before he notices that Sherlock has left his t-shirt beside him on the coffee table, where he cannot fail to see it.

A peace offering or a lover’s gift, John wonders?

Chapter Text

Chapter Two

When Sherlock emerges from his room at five to seven, he's dressed in shirtsleeves and a pair of fitted trousers which is what passes for casual in Sherlock's world. John doesn't miss that the shirt is his favourite - the plum coloured one that makes Sherlock's hair tint red and his skin look like fresh cream - or that the trousers are perfectly tailored to be snug across Sherlock's distractingly curvy arse. Nor does John fool himself that this was by chance - Sherlock has undoubtedly noticed John's reaction to the shirt and to the cut of these trousers in particular, and chosen them for exactly this reason.

Sherlock pauses to take in the scene and John can tell from the tilt of his head and the raised eyebrows that he has made the right choice for tonight’s venue.

He has spent the afternoon wracking his brains for where to take Sherlock on their dinner date, but everywhere John has considered has as many cons as pros. Sherlock is a bit of a personality these days and has been known to be recognised in public. For their first dinner as… more than friends... John wants Sherlock to be relaxed and for them to be somewhere private, not having to keep looking over their shoulders or worry that they are being listened to. The choice to eat at home was simple; the logistics of it are less so. John has compromised - the kitchen is still a  disaster area following Sherlock's recent spore experiments, so cooking something was not on the agenda, but John likes his solution. 

The candles might be a step too far, but John is pleased with the blanket spread out on the floor of the sitting room. The various taster dishes are staying warm in the oven for now, but the wine is open and breathing on the hearth, and the light streaming in through the slightly open windows is thickening as the sun begins to set. 

"Hi," John smiles a little breathlessly, all the clever lines that have been running through his head have fled and he finds himself suddenly overcome by the magnitude of what they are about to do. This day has been a long time coming, a day that John has longed for but never truly believed would happen. Now, miraculously, it's here and he feels completely, woefully unprepared.  

Sherlock's eyes are smiling, even if the quirk of his lips could be misconstrued. He lifts his chin and takes a deep sniff of the air. "You talked Angelo into a takeaway?"

"I told him it was to impress you," John admits and licks his lips as he waits for Sherlock’s response. It’s a habit he’s struggled with for years, whenever he’s stalling for time or feeling exposed. He does it around Sherlock a lot, needless to say.

"Well, in that case... I'm impressed." Sherlock steps further into the room, his gaze taking in the scene that John has set, and then quickly taking in John himself. 

"Perfect," he says and the smile follows, real and so very Sherlock, but with a flash of something new - something that makes John’s palms sweat and his breath catch.

John's heart must be visible through his shirt, so hard is it thumping. He's too old and too world-weary to be feeling this way. He doesn't have any other frame of reference for the emotions which seem to be running amuck through him. John supposes it's because he has never been on a date with someone who he considers to be his best friend before. 

He has dated women exclusively since he joined the army; the occasional tryst with another man sprang from opportunity and need rather than the idea of anything more long term than getting each other off with minimum noise and mess. It had never been something you could call dating by any stretch. 

John’s had fewer dates since he's been living at Baker Street and fewer still that progressed to a second date or beyond. All of them have had the Sherlock Holmes effect to contend with, be that ill-timed and repeated texts, demands that he attend the crime scene of the day, bring him biscuits or fetch his phone for him. Maybe that’s why he’s feeling so overwhelmed by this now - he’s out of practice. But he can be romantic, when the occasion demands, and John has decided to just be himself. Sherlock already knows him too well to believe whatever suave veneer of desirability he might have applied, so he gets the ‘warts and all’ version. It was Sherlock wanting to know John's most private thoughts that started this  - John feels it only fair that they are both genuinely themselves this evening, as far as the unfamiliar activity will allow.

It's odd to see Sherlock slightly out of his depth, and despite his smiles and his banter, John knows that he is; his fingers twitch and his eyes dart away when John catches him staring.  It makes him feel better about his own nerves. 

"I don't know much about wine, so I let Angelo choose," John says, breaking the silence to retrieve the bottle and pour Sherlock a glass. "I hope it’s okay."

He takes the deep, red wine and waits for John to fill and lift his own. They tap glasses, eyes locked, and Sherlock takes a mouthful. His eyebrow raises and he swallows, licking the taste from his lips.

"I hope he didn't charge you what this is worth," Sherlock murmurs, holding the glass up to look at the colour. "It's delicious."

"I don't think he can have, based on your reaction. But we already knew he had a sizable romantic streak," John says, wishing he could taste more than his usual nice or not nice. He realises the assumption that he has made in that second. Sherlock has talked about sex and connection and fantasies  - no one has mentioned romance or love. 

His world tilting slightly, John wonders if he has completely misread this, put his own long hidden desires and regard for Sherlock in place of what Sherlock actually wants - a sexual partner and someone to share orgasms with, nothing more life changing than that.

John clears his throat and shoots a furtive glance at his flatmate where he meets an exasperated expression that says 'Don't be an idiot' as clear as day.

"For a chef, burglar, ex-con and wine buff, he is surprisingly insightful when it comes to matters of the heart," Sherlock says, with emphasis on the last words. 

"I thought you'd been reliably informed that you didn't have one," John responds immediately. God! What a stupid thing to say. He's babbling. It's mortifying. Where have all his first date lines gone? Where is his charm and wit? He and Sherlock seem to be on the same page as far as where this is going, and John has immediately lost any semblance of cool. He's euphoric and fooling no one. He needs to tone it down but his grin keeps bubbling up whenever Sherlock speaks.

"I may have made a miscalculation," Sherlock muses. "Theorised without sufficient data. I had not factored in short, tenacious doctors with guns and a tendency toward dreadful knitwear."

John's heart is getting the workout of a decade - if it weren't for the present company, he would be booking himself in for an echocardiogram first thing in the morning. But he knows the cause of the swoops and missed beats is the man standing before him, sipping wine and looking about as ridiculously pleased as John has ever seen him - and John's seen him with a tupperware full of fingers before, at which Sherlock had beamed as if it were Christmas. This smile is less scary and much warmer, he is glad to note. 

"It's always a mistake to theorise without sufficient data. Interestingly I myself had not accounted for lanky, gorgeous drama queens with massive brains and dressing gown fetishes." 

"Rookie mistake," Sherlock shrugs and smiles shyly. "Could have happened to anyone."

John had had a plan earlier - he's sure of it. But he has an overwhelming urge to forgo dinner and go straight onto dessert - Sherlock Holmes and the mystery of how far down his perfect chest that delightful flush of his stretches. John thinks he could eat that with a spoon and want seconds forever.

Sherlock clears his throat slightly, drawing attention to the fact that John is staring. This in turn reboots John's brain, and the plan drifts back into view. 

Going slowly.

Right.

"Right, well, I'll just get the..." John gestures over his shoulder and walks off to the kitchen. He crouches down to peer through the oven door and takes the opportunity to give himself a little mental shake, while Sherlock can't see him. 

He's behaving like a crazy person and 221 Baker Street already has enough of those. He still cannot quite believe this is real, expecting at any moment that Sherlock will begin to snigger, unable to keep up the charade of falling in love with John any longer. The man has a quirky sense of humour at the best of times, but this would be cruel, even by Sherlock's socially stunted standards. 

John takes a few breaths and mutters to himself.

"Right, Watson. Slowly. Don't rush this. One thing at a time."

"Can I choose the one thing?" Sherlock asks from directly behind him, and all the effort John had made in calming his erratic heartbeat is for nothing. He refuses to turn around with guilt and embarrassment written all across his face, so he tugs the tea towel from the oven handle and uses it to pull out the tray of food. John rises, places the tray on the hob and turns, crossing his arms to face Sherlock.

"Look," he begins, but Sherlock is ignoring him and craning his neck to see over John's shoulder.

"Oh, is that Saltimbocca?"

"Yes, but..."

"What's in the tortellini?" Sherlock's nose twitches as he lifts his face to scent the air. "Black truffle and..."

"Lobster," John supplies, helpless against the rush of emotion the man stirs up in him. "Sherlock,  I really think that..."

"Can I have a fork please?"

John is so shocked by Sherlock asking to eat something, to say nothing of the please , that he moves to one side and pulls cutlery from the drawer, handing it to him wordlessly.

Sherlock takes a piece of pasta and pops it into his mouth, closing his eyes to chew in apparent rapture. John has to work very hard not to voice the whimpering sigh that watching Sherlock relish his mouthful elicits. He cannot immediately determine whether it’s Sherlock's desire to eat that is doing it for him, or whether it’s the sight of his lips closing around the tines of the fork, the movement of his jaw as he chews and the way the creamy skin of his neck arches in delight at the flavours.

When his eyes finally open, they are immediately on John. They flicker across his face rapidly, followed by the tiniest quirk of his lips. Sherlock takes the tea towel from John's unresisting fingers and uses it to lift the tray and take it back to the sitting room.

"Come on, John! Get it while it’s hot, as they say," he murmurs over his shoulder.

Damn him! Is he doing this deliberately? He’s Sherlock Holmes - of course he’s bloody doing this deliberately! 

But… 

How does he…

Do people who have deleted the Solar System even know what a double entendre is?

John swallows hard and follows Sherlock back to the sitting room and to the place he has put together for their first date, and if he's walking a bit oddly he's not going to be the one to acknowledge it first.

Sherlock sits, cross-legged like an overgrown schoolboy. He's left his shoes beside the blanket in an uncharacteristically polite gesture. The tray of food sits on a low side table that John has pulled over to the fireplace for this specific purpose and he smiles in welcome as John joins him, albeit with less grace, on the blanket. John manfully endures the next few minutes, which are taken up with Sherlock rather theatrically groaning over the range of dishes Angelo has made for them. He’s pleased to be able to say that he did not whimper.

He retrieves his wine and passes Sherlock his glass knowing that this is all on him. If he lets Sherlock get away with his usual tricks, John will find himself two years into a sexual relationship with this beautiful madman and still not have any idea of what the hell they are both doing. Sherlock might deduce it from the state of John's cuticles or how frequently he buys bananas or whatever, but John is not a genius consulting detective - he's just a man, a very good doctor, but a man nonetheless. And yes, he needs the answers spelled out for him.

"We can't go on not talking about things. If we haven't learned that by now then we don't deserve to get our happy ending," John says carefully. He doesn't add 'whatever that might be' but it's on the tip of his tongue. "You're the one who wanted to know things about me, so here’s your opportunity. Let's talk."

Sherlock twists his lips and frowns before he sighs in what John takes as agreement.

"John, we have lived together for over a year. In that time I have learned almost everything I need to know about you but have found that there is always more I want to know.  Although you might feel that you are at a disadvantage in that your observational skills are distinctly average,  I can assure you that you can trust your instincts in this matter."

John sips his wine, nods encouragingly and waits until Sherlock rolls his eyes with dramatic flair.

"Fine!" he snaps. "You are not alone in your attraction. For some time now I have been considering how best to address this situation and bring it to a mutually acceptable conclusion. It was obvious..." Sherlock snaps his mouth shut and his eyes cut to the side, clearly searching for the words he needs. "I believed.... I hoped that the indications I had from you that you found me... that you wanted to..." Sherlock's shoulders seem to slump. "How do people do this?" he demands plaintively, slumping back against his chair. "It's excruciating!"

"You're doing fine," John assures him, a smile ticking up the side of his mouth. "It's all fine. "

Sherlock's eyes zero in on John's steady gaze and, as John intended, he appears to take courage from this reminder of their first shared meal. He huffs a short breath and tries again.

"I was attracted to you - you... seemed to return my interest but I couldn't be certain that your want was something that you were aware of or something that you would act on. The longer I hesitated the less certain I became. When you took that police officer's telephone number, I assumed that she would be the next girlfriend, and when she failed to materialise I... I went looking in your room, to see why not and... I got distracted. When I found my shirt, it gave me renewed hope that you... that we…” He pauses, uncharacteristically fumbling over his words. 

“I just wanted to know, one way or the other because not knowing is... difficult. So I moved a few of your things around to make it obvious I'd been there. I knew you would react when your irrational ‘ personal boundaries ’ were ignored and give me the opportunity to find answers.” Sherlock helpfully supplies the ironic air quotes too.

John, god help him, even understands some of that rationalisation. It's a very Sherlockian solution to the problem, in that it’s overcomplicated and morally bankrupt, but clearly it has had the desired effect because here they are, on a date, talking their way around the situation. The ends justify the means, as Sherlock would say. 

"And what have you found out?" John asks, dreading as much as needing the answer.

Sherlock carefully spears a mouthful of the cooling food and chews slowly, taking time to prepare his words .

"That I am an aberration," he says finally. "You have chosen to date women since your relationship at university, most likely out of a desire to keep the peace after your sister's tempestuous coming out and because of the environment being inconducive to your tastes while you were enlisted. Since then, you have continued to pursue female partners, finding it easier. Any men that you have had... relations with have been brief, one-night affairs without commitment or any desire to form a relationship of any kind. Moving in with me was a risk on several levels not least of which was that you were attracted to the way I lived as well as a more superficial interest in my physical form."

John is beginning to wish he hadn't asked. When will he learn that to ask Sherlock a question is to invite an answer from the most blunt, tone-deaf man in London?

"Is that what it was?" he asks archly. "An interest in your physical form?"

Sherlock pauses, mid-explanation, to gauge whether or not he is being teased, giving John the side eye.

"So what was the wink and the riding crop comment about then, hm? Could it be that you had an interest in my physical form too?"

"You were... interesting. You still are. I'd have to have been blind not to notice who you were beneath the limp and the PTSD."

If John didn't want to hug the man before, then that comment would have done it. God bless Sherlock Holmes, because what he thought was so obvious, the rest of the world had overlooked entirely. John had never felt more insignificant and pointless than when he had returned from Afghanistan. He had slipped between the gaps and, he had felt, was well on the way to disappearing forever when a posh, rude, arrogant genius had turned up and dragged him back up into the light of day.

"And who was I?" John asks, watching as Sherlock takes another mouthful of Angelo's finest with obvious pleasure. He chews and swallows, carefully touching the sides of his lips with a knuckle to ensure he hasn't missed any. Sherlock makes deliberate eye-contact, licks his bottom lip delicately.

"My blogger, of course. And my friend. And perhaps, if you're amenable, something more," he says simply and John's breathing stutters. Sherlock flirts , and it's a revelation.  How can John have lived here for this long and not have recognised Sherlock for the sensual, sexual being that he is? Has he been hiding it, suppressing this side of himself for fear that it will drive John away? The thought pricks at him and makes him ache.

Slow and steady, John reminds himself as he leans across the gap that separates them, bends his head to place his lips at Sherlock's ear and whispers, "I'm amenable, very amenable indeed actually."

Sherlock turns his head, taking John by surprise and catching his half open mouth with a short, firm, off-target kiss - hard enough to make John’s lips grow hot. Leaning back, Sherlock watches John carefully, almost apprehensively. John smiles - he can't really have made his desire for this much clearer, but Sherlock is looking at him as if he might bolt. John reaches out and takes Sherlock's jaw in a gentle grip and corrects the angle, kissing Sherlock softly. It’s more than he thought possible, having only had a day to take out these buried fantasies and reconsider them. Sherlock’s mouth, usually so sharp and smart, is all warmth and welcome now. His full lips are every bit as satisfying as John dreamed they’d be.

He draws back to watch Sherlock’s response. His expression is clearer and more confident which is reassuring, and taking heart from John's example, he leans forward himself and presses his lips to John's again, lingering a little longer this time.

"I told myself I wasn't going to rush into this," John murmurs, his eyes on Sherlock's mouth unable to look away now he has tasted him. He knows the softness and the eagerness of him now and his mouth tingles in anticipation.

"If that's what you want, then I will abide by that," Sherlock replies, equally quietly. "But given the choice, I would opt for doing what feels natural in that moment. I hardly think the route we have taken to get here could be said to have been rushed."

He’s not wrong. And damn if there is any point in being in love with a genius if you don't listen to them when they are being brilliant.

They take it in turns to initiate kisses, Sherlock growing bolder each time John deepens their touches. He seems to be holding back still, as if he’s waiting for John to choose the direction and intensity of their connection. John is congratulating himself on his adherence to the slow burn plan, but in the back of his mind there’s a tiny ember of doubt beginning to glow. He can’t put his finger on it exactly - he doesn’t want to stop to analyse it when he has a trembling, pliant, willing Sherlock finally, finally in his arms.  

They have made themselves a space, moving plates, candles and wine glasses as they strive to get as close to each other as possible without sitting in each other’s laps. John has a hand on Sherlock's shoulder where he can stroke the skin of his neck with his thumb as they kiss. Sherlock has his own hand in the same position and the tiny, uneasy glow flares as John recognises what it is that has him rattled. It's taken him this long to notice because Sherlock's fingers against his neck and throat have emptied any other thought from his mind like sand from a timer. He could still be imagining this but certainty is growing.

John presses a short kiss to Sherlock's jaw before he takes his lips again, daring a sweep of tongue along his bottom lip just before he pulls away. Sherlock's eyes widen in the last of the evening light and he moves impossibly closer, placing two short kisses to his jaw, then a longer, softer one , touching John’s lower lip with the tip of his tongue. He sits back a little to watch John's reaction, his breaths audible and his cheeks flushed.

Not John's imagination then.

John smiles encouragingly but doesn’t initiate, so Sherlock tips his head, then leans in for another kiss, first on his lips with a tiny kitten lick of tongue, then a line of kisses along John's jaw and down his neck before he pulls back. It’s exactly what John did a handful of kisses ago and it had made Sherlock hum.

Just to be certain, John runs his hand down Sherlock's sleeve, then slips it between his arm and his torso, sliding a deliberate palm up Sherlock's side, over his ribs and landing squarely over his pectoral muscle. Sherlock's eyelids flutter and John moves forward, easing Sherlock onto his back. He kisses him again, sliding his fingers under the highest fastened button on Sherlock's shirt, deftly slipping it open, and the next, and the next until he can run a finger down Sherlock's sternum and palm that same pectoral, skin to skin. Sherlock is holding his breath and practically vibrating, eyes wide and adoring or clamped tightly shut by turns.

John wants to be wrong - he really, really does, but the way Sherlock is reacting to his touches and the way he is waiting for John to lead the way, the shortness of his breath and the tiny shudders that ripple through his skin - they're all adding up to something that John doesn’t understand yet, but knows he has to get to the bottom of before this goes much further.

"What do you want?" John asks softly.

"Anything," Sherlock pants, his body rising to meet John's hand.

"Tell me what you like,” John says and smiles when Sherlock hesitates. 

Biting his lip, his skin flushed, Sherlock’s voice is about a million miles from his usual imperious baritone. "You... you inside me."

John hums instinctively, because that sounds just about as perfect as anything he's ever heard.

He kisses Sherlock more deeply than ever this time, licking into his mouth and digging his fingers into his curls. Sherlock's eyes practically roll back in his head, and when John scrapes his nipple with a thumbnail, his whole body jolts with pleasure. 

"I'll just get the lube from your bedroom," John murmurs into the skin of Sherlock's neck. "Don't move."

With a final kiss, John rises and goes quickly to Sherlock's bedroom, trying to ignore the erection that is making it almost impossible to walk nonchalantly. He pushes the door closed behind him, clicks on the bedside lamp and walks around Sherlock's bed to pull one of the lube bottles from the bedside drawer. Over half of it is gone. He searches for the waste paper basket and finds it empty. John pauses and thinks, then goes to the bathroom. 

Sherlock is surely too smart to have squirted half a bottle of lube into the bin but if he was in a hurry... 

Moving the box the toothpaste came in, John finds not a sticky mess of gel, but something that is equally as incriminating. Still the same shape as the lube bottle in his hand, he picks up the plastic sleeve that peels off a newly bought bottle of lubricant. Beneath it is another identical wrapper. Either Sherlock has used all of that lube in a day (since John emptied the bin yesterday) or...

Walking as quickly and quietly as he can back into Sherlock's room, he opens the drawer again and flicks through his flannel index. They are all brand new, never washed and by the look of them, never used. The box has the same number of condoms in it as is advertised on the outside and John lets slip a hiss of exasperation. 

This whole thing, this entire day has been a set up to get John to this point; jumping a man who quite possibly has never had sex with anyone in his life and particularly not with this dildo, lube or stack of clean up cloths.

John sighs, puts the lube bottle and the plastic covering in his back pocket and hesitates. He has no idea how this will go, but he will have to tread very, very carefully.

He has two and a half opening lines as he steps through the door into the mellow candlelit sitting room to find that he doesn't need a line at all.

Chapter Text

Sitting in his chair, Sherlock’s face is utterly impassive and his shirt buttons are firmly refastened. The room is darkening now with only the candles and the glow of the streetlights, and the shadows gather closer, like a stage set with the austere looking man the focus of attention.

John can still make out the slight stain on Sherlock’s cheeks and throat from where he’d kissed him, but that’s the only sign that anything happened at all.

"Don't!" he barks as John takes a breath. "Spare me your facile attempt at deduction. I don’t think either of us have the stomach for that right now."

"I don't think that's going to help," John says mildly. He steps further into the room, excruciatingly aware that if this situation is to be salvaged in any way, it will be down to him. John knows the signs of a defensive and angry man, and his heart aches momentarily, both for his friend and for what they had so nearly done.

Sherlock looks at him sidelong, then quickly away - returning to dismissive and bored. 

Rolling his neck, rather than wringing Sherlock's, John prepares to be insulted, belittled and ignored. He breathes a couple of cleansing breaths, just like his therapist taught him, and decides to preemptively forgive Sherlock for all the crap he is just about to dish out in his direction. He needs some light if they are going to sort this out, but he opts for a table lamp rather than the harshness of the overhead light.

"I suppose it's too much to just ask you to explain why you did this?" John’s voice is deliberately non-judgemental and he reminds himself to keep his body language open and relaxed.

Sherlock's expression is set, his eyes fixed on John's chair as if willing it to burst into flames. 

"Right." John sniffs. "Fair enough. The hard way it is." He ambles to his chair and sits directly in Sherlock's line of sight unless he chooses to move. John's guessing he won't - backing down is not his style. Thankfully, neither is it John's. 

"Let's see if I've got this right.” He eases back into his seat, setting his hands on the arms as if this were a normal conversation on a normal day and not the direction of their entire future on the line.   “Do feel free to correct me if I have it arse about face."

Sherlock runs a thumb over the nail of his index finger and you wouldn't even know that John was in the same room for all the attention he's being paid.

"You have deliberately been into my room and snooped through my things in order to get a rise out of me."

Sherlock twitches slightly at the word 'snoop' and John takes heart.

"When I came down to have a little shout at you about it, you had already set up certain items in your room to mislead me into believing things about you that I had not previously considered. So when I ranted about my privacy you were able to invite me to treat your own room to the same scrutiny that you gave mine, knowing that I would find these items and draw these conclusions. You then encouraged me in my belief that you were more... experienced than you really are in sexual matters."

Sherlock rather pointedly looks at the clock and then turns his bored gaze back on John. "Are we done yet?" he asks.

"No," John tells him quietly and sends him a short, hard smile. "Not quite yet. I'd like you to tell me what you hoped to achieve by this."

"Obvious," Sherlock drawls and John has to hold on quite firmly to his rising frustration.

"Indulge me," John grits.

"You're attracted to me but have been unwilling to proposition me. I needed to know if that was because of internalised homophobic feelings or because of my personality, your perceived impression of me or some other reason."

"And the best way to go about that was to lie to me?"

"I didn’t lie, I may have talked around certain assumptions you made, but I did not lie to you,” Sherlock replies in a chillingly disinterested voice. “As I recall, until you had an uncharacteristically inspired idea about how to test my story, we were rolling on this very floor engaged in what looked to be shaping up as a very promising fuck. The reasons for my choices speak for themselves, I think."

It shouldn’t be so shocking to hear such profanity from Sherlock’s mouth, but it is and it rattles John into a poorly judged rejoinder. 

"And that's what you want from me? A good fuck? Is that all I’m worth?"

Sherlock shrugs and looks away. "You live here. It would be more convenient than trawling the streets for a willing partner."

John tries not to let his body react to this deliberate provocation. This is a tactic that he has seen Sherlock employ before - rather than admit that he wants something or is affected by a situation, he will lash out and say something precisely calculated to be the most hurtful rather than leave himself exposed. He's exceptionally good at pinpointing what will get the biggest reaction and John fights the urge to clench his jaw at the thought of Sherlock out cruising for someone to give him what he claims to want. But hot on the heels of that thought is the other barb, the one that implies that John is not an essential component in this transaction and he has to look away and breathe through his nose for a few more seconds.

"So if we're all done with the talking..." Sherlock’s smile is dagger sharp and utterly insincere.

"We're not done talking," John keeps his voice mild with a gargantuan effort, and Sherlock glances at him, his eyes narrowing before sliding away again.

"Why did you want me to think that you were more experienced than you are?" John asks. 

"Who says I'm not experienced?" Sherlock retorts with infuriating ingenuousness. 

"I do. You were shaking so hard, I thought you were about to pass out or come in your pants just from a few kisses. You've never even kissed anyone like that before, have you?"

"Of course I have kissed people," Sherlock scoffs.

"For a case," John adds, watching the man opposite. It's not a question and John sees his accusation hit home - a moment’s hesitation and a blink before his face returns again to the blank, indifferent stare. Now John has him on the ropes, Sherlock, who is normally so opaque, is the most obvious and expressive that John has ever seen him - whether that is his own failing or John's heightened awareness isn't clear, but John doesn't argue with his newfound insight.

"Could we get to the point of this conversation, because I have things to do?"

"Alright,” John agrees, deciding that maybe a more direct style will reduce the amount of posturing from the younger man. “What makes you think that I would only be interested in you if you were more experienced?"

"Aren't you?"

"Answer the question."

"You've answered it yourself. As an experienced partner, I was to be seduced with dishes of my favourite foods, expensive wine and candles. As a..." A look of irritation flickers across Sherlock's face, twisting his lips and making his movements jerky.

"Novice?" John supplies, tipping his head to one side and speaking evenly.

"... you seem to have quite lost your appetite." Sherlock finishes without acknowledging John's contribution.

"And what makes you say that?"

"Oh, you know, little things that were present previously that seem to have all but disappeared," Sherlock shrugs elegantly, waving a hand in John’ general direction.

And if he has weathered all the other insults, John can certainly ignore Sherlock's cheap shot about the size of his cock. For now.

"It's hardly surprising,” he continues, his voice hardening. “No one who has struggled with their own sexuality is going to be interested in an inexperienced man in his thirties, let alone one that you know first-hand to be as obnoxious and demanding as I am. And so I say again, and you know how I hate to repeat myself, I think we are done here ." 

Sherlock rises from his seat, challenging him with an arctic stare while John has to lift his chin to maintain eye contact.

"I think you're making another mistake - theorising without evidence again," John responds quietly, knowing how much this must be getting under Sherlock’s skin, despite appearances.

“Is that right? And you’re an expert, are you?” 

"Mm-hm,” John agrees. “I think you're looking for the wrong thing.”

“Unlikely.”  Sherlock’s voice holds no trace of doubt and if John didn’t know him better, he’d be taken in by this.

“Come on, Sherlock. Think bigger. Lust is powerful but often transient. Look again."

Reluctantly, Sherlock turns his face to John fully and his bored eyes take their time to scan down his body. John manfully resists the urge to cover strategic areas and lets Sherlock look his fill. It takes a few seconds and when he reaches John's feet, Sherlock begins again from his head, his eyes flicking from one point to the next, lingering here and there. A crease forms between his eyebrows and John doesn't even want to know what it is that Sherlock is seeing, only that he is seeing it.

"I don't... I don't know what that is." Sherlock admits, his irritated scowl underlining his lack of certainty.

"You're selling yourself short, Sherlock. We could let you trick me into bed,  but what about after? What if there was more to be had?”

"What more? I've already offered and you turned me down."

John’s laugh is hollow and quiet. "I've been with men and women, and a few of them might have become something more if I'd put my heart into it. Quite literally actually. But I didn't. And now, here you are trying to seduce me with half-truths and sleight of hand when I think that I might have actually found something I could..."

John rubs his hand across his mouth, shakes his head and pauses until his sense of control returns. How can Sherlock be so blind? How can they have come so close and still have failed to connect?

He leans forward in his chair, hands clasped between his knees, making their conversation more focused and more intimate as Sherlock, miraculously, sits back down in his own seat. 

"You know what I can't get out of my head from your room? And it's not what you think," John warns when Sherlock opens his mouth to make some pointed retort. "You'd set up the drawer for me to find, but you’d already given me the evidence that I needed right there. It's taken me all afternoon to realise it, but…  you kept the tickets from our train journey to Devon. You have press clippings, but you have only kept the ones that had pictures of both of us. You still have the note from the table that I left you a few weeks back, for god's sake."

Sherlock's expression goes from incomprehension to surprise and he stills entirely, darting glances at John's face and hands.

"So? What was your plan for after the sex, hmm? Shake hands and never mention it again? Go back to your experiment? Or was this physical need something that requires addressing periodically?" 

John knows he’s being confrontational, no, intense . He knows he’s labouring his point, but he can’t let Sherlock do this to him. To them .

Sherlock shrugs like an overgrown, objectionable teenager, avoiding John's eye.

"I mean I'm all for orgasms, but I know some other tricks that might appeal, if you're interested."

"Like what?"

Got him , John thinks and resists the urge to grin in triumph.

"Like why don't you date me and find out?"

"Date you? Isn’t that what this was?” Sherlock flicks a finger at the candles and the dishes.

“I mean more than once. Repeatedly. Indefinitely.”

“Like your... boyfriend?” Sherlock asks, his brow furrowing. “Isn't that a little juvenile?”

John grins. "You're never too old to fall in love, Sherlock."

Sherlock blinks for a disconcerting lengthy period and John knows a thrill of ice climb up his spine, wondering if he has utterly misread this and Sherlock is about to laugh in his face.

It seems to take several decades for Sherlock to reply, but when he does, John is holding onto his nerve by his fingernails.

"Alright, we could try that.”

“Good.” An understatement, considering the flush of relief that makes John feel quite giddy - cold and hot all at once. He doesn’t know how Sherlock’s mind works at the best of times, so how the man regards relationships will be a mystery until he deems John worthy of explaining it to him.

To cover this, John reaches for the wine bottle and holds it over Sherlock’s glass, waiting for a response. Sherlock watches warily, then nods slightly, taking the glass once it is recharged. They both settle more comfortably in their seats, neither of them quite daring to make the next move apparently. Instead they sip their wine and watch the candles dance in the slight breeze from the window. It’s almost completely dark outside now and the dozen candles that John lit are multiplied by their reflections in the glass of the mirror and the picture frames. The city noise filters in from outside, quieter now the working day is done.

Their eyes catch and slide away several times. It’s not awkward, exactly, but John discards his first few ideas for how to break the silence between them before he settles on the direct approach.

“Can we talk about this now? Truthfully this time?”

Sherlock turns to look at John, eyebrows raised. “Already?”

That's not a no in John’s book.

“Was any of what you told me about your sexual history true?”

Sherlock sighs, but looks more resigned than exasperated. “In a manner of speaking. There was a chap at university who invited me to his room. I think he was expecting me to be more worldly than I was, but I didn’t correct him or try to discourage him. I  found the entire episode to be rather anticlimactic and have deleted most of the encounter.”

“Oh? Did you not…” John makes a vague hand gesture and Sherlock rolls his eyes at him.

“If I did, then I have deleted that too. We had nothing in common other than being teenaged and libidinous, and once he had what he wanted, he very quickly lost any interest he might have had in me.”

“That’s rough,” John offers. “It sounds like a lot of people’s first times to be honest, but they usually give it another go and it gets better.”

“I am trying to ‘give it another go’,” Sherlock mimics, “But you are being uncooperative.”

Sherlock is missing some pretty major points in that assertion but John can’t really argue with the results. Psyching himself up mentally, he decides that they might as well get all of the most awkward conversations over and done with now. He takes a deep pull of his wine.

“So, the… uh… contents of your bedside drawer?”

“Were chosen to convey my interest in the matter, as you suspected.”

“Right, so... you… don’t…” John tails off again. So much for the psyching.

Sherlock stares at John as if he’s gone mad, shaking his head slightly.

John mutters some bad words under his breath. “So you don’t ever use the...uh…”

“Oh! No, it was purely to make you curious.” He watches John’s face which must be a fetching shade of puce by now. “Not that I am averse to experimenting if you’re...”

John tries to laugh, breathe and drink at the same time, and ends up choking so hard on his sip of wine that it comes out of his nose meaning that he’s forced to accept Sherlock’s handkerchief to mop himself up.

By the time he’s recovered, he realises he has rather lost the upper hand in this conversation.  Sherlock is looking decidedly more smug and seems to have regained some of his prior swagger. 

“That’s…” John sucks in a breath, “... no, I mean yes… but, er… no, what I meant was do you ever…”

He’s a doctor. He’s been to war. He can do this.

“Masturbate,” he blurts, much louder than he means to.

“Ohhhhh,” Sherlock says, “Oh, I see. Well, yes, recently with some frequency. I’m not completely inexperienced, it’s just sharing the occasion that is somewhat new to me.”

“Okay. Right. Great. That’s good to know.”

Sherlock tips his head and his gaze sharpens. “You thought I was… what exactly?”

“I had no idea. I just didn’t know where to start or what you might want. I mean… I’ve never seen you so much as notice anyone, so it has crossed my mind that you might be completely uninterested.”

“As I told you, I am largely apathetic with regard to others, both socially and sexually. Having you living here has been something of an anomaly in more ways than one.” John is pleased to notice that Sherlock seems mildly surprised by this. Damned with faint praise can go hang itself, he’s going to interpret that as a positive and not look back.

“Well, some people don’t become aroused unless they have a strong connection with their partner, and even then… what I’m trying to say is that you don’t have to pretend to be anything you’re not for my sake.”

Sherlock watches John for a moment and lets a slow breath go. The expression he bestows on John is not quite calculating but there is definitely some mental gymnastics going on behind those silver eyes.

“John, I think if we have learned anything from today, it is that I have remarkably little idea on any of this. I cannot pretend to be anything I am unaware of. My knowledge of this subject comes from observations I have made in aspects of the work and some adolescent insecurity. So, in essence, I have yet to discover answers to any of the questions you might ask.  All I can tell you is that I find myself in the unusual position of craving the company of another person, that I become aroused in their presence and to thoughts of them. Furthermore, and unusually, I would like to pursue this craving and see where it goes. 

Now add to that your own greater experience in things of this nature, your own repression of your sexuality and the fact that we live and work together, and even I can see that this is never going to be a simple matter. But since moving into 221B I have already noted… modifications in my behaviour  - a nascent ability to compromise when required and the surprising desire to please, so there are promising signs. But if you are interested, then I am committed to solving the obstacles before us and attempting this.”

John has never been able to resist the innocence and earnestness of Sherlock at his most stripped back. It isn’t often that his genius lowers the persona long enough for his innermost self to emerge, but when it does, John will move heaven and Earth to give him what he wants.

“Alright,” John nods.  A single word, and yet on that inadequate sentiment rests the weight of John’s future happiness. “Yeah, alright then.”

Sherlock blinks at him, a shy smile slowly curling the corner of his mouth.

“With the following provisos,” John adds, ignoring Sherlock's eye roll. “No more lies or taking liberties with the truth. We discuss every situation as it arises and come to a mutual agreement on how to proceed. If you still have questions, I will answer them as far as I can as long as you stop snooping.”

“I don’t snoop,” Sherlock mutters and scowls, looking a lot more like himself.

“Fine, no more seeking answers to questions about me without asking me first. I’m not saying this for the sake of control or even from a place of greater experience, Sherlock. I am concerned that you are still learning about what you like and what you don’t like, and I’m not just talking about sex - I’m talking about all of it; living together, the work, sharing more of yourself with someone than you have before. You’re incredible and singular and I don’t want to change any of the things that make you that way. So I only want to give you experiences that make you happier, that are good for you. Do you understand?”

“I understand and I hope I don’t need to tell you that I reciprocate that sentiment,” Sherlock replies, shifting in his chair and doing his best to maintain eye contact. John thinks he might have met his match in his aversion to discussing emotions, but this stuff is important, especially if this is Sherlock’s first stab at an adult relationship. He smiles encouragement and Sherlock huffs at him, which just makes John’s smile wider.

“So, I think we have the friendship thing pretty well covered by now.”

“Agreed,” Sherlock nods and the pleased, involuntary smile that accompanies the word has John’s chest swelling with boundless affection.

“What about the work?”

“You know my mind on this; I enjoy working with you, I’m more efficient and you stimulate my process in unexpected and advantageous ways - you are vital to my work, in short, so I find it utterly tedious when you make excuses not to join me,” Sherlock says immediately.

“When I’m at work, you mean. Earning money,” John counters.

“Dull.”

“Necessary.”

“Debatable.”

“Alright, we can look into that and discuss it sometime soon.”

Sherlock blinks and beams as if he has already won that point. Which he hasn’t. It’s been an ongoing argument for a few months now. Sherlock’s work doesn’t run to a timetable and John’s work doesn’t run without one. The chances of those two states overlapping in any significant way are slim, but John is stuck with one foot in Sherlock’s mad world of sleepless nights and foot chases, morgues and mayhem, and one in the world of medicine and a steady salary. They need to talk about...well, everything in regard to this topic and now is not the time for that discussion. They have bigger decisions to make.

“So, what about the rest? What do you want this to look like? What do you expect?”

Frowning, Sherlock mumbles, “I thought this was more your area of expertise.”

“In some regards, yes, but I don’t know what you want from a relationship - or if that’s even what we’re talking about.”

When Sherlock merely watches him warily, John has to elaborate.

“Is this just… for sex? Is this just for companionship? Is this a romantic situation? Is this long-term? Monogamous? Is this an experiment?”

“Not an experiment,” Sherlock mutters harshly.

“Okay,” John says slowly, surprised at the vehemence behind the words. “You seem very sure of that.”

“If it were an experiment then I would be interested primarily in the parameters and the method, and only then in the results. And although those are all interesting, they are not the greatest motivator for embarking on this… relationship.”

John’s heart tumbles in his chest to hear Sherlock say the word, however hesitantly, and he has to work hard to get the conversation moving forward again.

“So what would you say was the greatest motivator?”

“You. Your time, your attention, your affection, your care, your support, your stability.”

“All of which you already have,” John points out gently. He wants to stop the world and give the appropriate amount of wonder to Sherlock’s little list, and god knows, he wishes he had Sherlock’s memory at times like this. But his flatmate is still talking and John’s soaring spirits will have to remain unexamined for now.

“I want them on a more exclusive basis and a more permanent one.” His eyes meeting John’s and darting away repeatedly, John is struck by what it is costing Sherlock to reveal these thoughts to him. Vulnerability is not an emotion that Sherlock usually allows himself.

“So, just to be clear, you want an exclusive, romantic, physical, long-term relationship.”

Sherlock nods once, his indifference ever ready to fill the gaps when nervous.  “If you feel the need to label it.” 

“That sounds… good to me,” John says, speaking with utmost care. He has never felt more buoyant in his life. “Yeah. Yeah, that sounds… good. Anything else?” 

John is finding it harder to keep the grin from his face, and Sherlock's bright eyes and the endearing pink flush on his cheeks and nose aren’t helping either. 

“And… well, I… likedwhatweweredoing. Earlier.” Sherlock clears his throat and sits up straighter. “I would like more. Of that. Please. As soon as is convenient.”

John tilts his head and has to persuade himself that it would be very bad form to jump Sherlock right now. His shirt might be re-buttoned, but his hair is still deliciously dishevelled and he looks so eager.

When John begins to rise from his seat, Sherlock leaps up like a jack-in-the-box, already having taken a step towards him by the time John straightens. He can’t stand still, shifting from foot to foot impatiently, his eyes tracking John’s every move.

John doesn’t smile, although he wants to. Sherlock’s enthusiasm is both endearing and encouraging, to say nothing of it being very good for John’s ego. Getting the phone number of a pretty SOCO is one thing but having Sherlock Holmes’ grey eyes watching you like you have the secret to eternal happiness is another thing entirely. He’s looked at Sherlock with longing and, yes, lust before, but to see it reflected back at him is intoxicating and powerful. This is going to get out of control pretty much immediately unless John lays some further ground rules because Sherlock is a brat and not nearly enough people in his life have told him ‘no’ when he’s wanted something he shouldn’t really have. 

John lays a perfectly steady hand on Sherlock’s chest and makes some meaningful eye contact, until he stills completely. Sliding his hand up to Sherlock’s long neck, he curls his palm around the nape, holding him in place and feeling the heat and the hum of his anticipation buzzing just beneath his skin. John leans in and Sherlock’s eyes flutter closed.

“I thought you had things to do?”

The betrayed look on Sherlock’s face would be comical if it weren’t likely to become an all out strop imminently, so John relents and nuzzles Sherlock’s jaw before drawing back.

“We’re going to take this slowly, alright? I’m not saying we won’t get there, but for someone who disregards his transport as often as you do, this kind of thing might be… a lot to take in.”

“I’m not a child, John,” Sherlock huffs, but there’s a plaintive note to his argument that John hears loud and clear. 

“No.” He lets his eyes slide deliberately down Sherlock’s body and back up slowly, taking the scenic route. “No, you’re not, and I’m not making decisions for you but I would ask you to trust me on this. You are a man with a tendency to disappear into his head and one who has been known to disregard quite serious threats or even injury in the heat of the moment. I don’t want to push you now and hurt you or lose you. Besides, there’s plenty of other things we can do while we’re on that journey.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrow, his head turning slightly.

“Like what?” he asks, watching John warily.

And there’s that thrill of anticipation spreading warmth through John’s veins again.

“Do you want me to tell you or do you want me to show you?”

Sherlock doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t need to. John recognises when Sherlock shifts his weight back slightly, giving John room to elaborate.

They have kissed already, but the rush when their mouths touch now feels equally as powerful as the first time, John thinks, tasting the sparks of their attraction on Sherlock’s tongue. He is calmer now but still charmingly enthusiastic. John makes sure to slow everything down and doesn’t even think about his next move until Sherlock is initiating kisses and humming in response whenever John does something that he particularly likes. Time stretches, lost to heat and the novelty of their position.

His neck beginning to ache and refusing to rise onto his tiptoes, John pulls back much to Sherlock’s displeasure. Taking him by the hand, John leads the way to the sofa and sits them both down. When John leans back, his arms stretched along the sofa back, Sherlock only hesitates for a moment before he fits himself into the waiting embrace and melts against his side.

John turns his head to take Sherlock’s mouth again, and finds he’s already there. His expressive hands hang awkwardly for a moment as their lips meet, but when John places his free hand in the curls at the nape of his neck, Sherlock rests his palms against John’s chest. It’s quite clear that he has a very sensitive scalp and a tiny tug and scratch produces a deep, grumbly moan which sounds very positive.

Keeping an eye on Sherlock for signs that he is becoming overwhelmed is no hardship but John finds himself getting repeatedly distracted by the man reacting so beautifully under his hands. Sherlock’s body isn’t an unknown - he’s quite free about wandering around the flat in various states of undress. But while John might have caught glimpses of his flatmate, the reality of Sherlock’s form is a hundred times more transporting as his lover.

He’s reassuringly human. His skin is pale with a scattering of freckles and moles, his stubble is surprisingly reddish and he occasionally seems as if he doesn’t have complete control of his long limbs. Despite being whip thin, he’s well-muscled and strong and although it’s been quite some time since John has been with a man, he’s remembering all the reasons he used to enjoy it - the fact that it is his best friend and someone he already loves is lighting John up like nothing he has known before. 

He shifts closer still and Sherlock slides back, twisting to recline. With a quick, reassuring grin, John follows him, careful not to put any weight on anything critical. 

“Are you okay?” John asks quietly, stroking the curls back from Sherlock’s forehead. His eyes are still tracking and he blinks up at John with a sweet smile on his face.

“Yes, John.”

Well, alright then, John thinks. 

Sherlock’s neck turns out to be as sensitive as his scalp and he squirms and pants as John maps the most delicate spots. He also seems to have found enough confidence to start a little exploration of his own, and what’s more, he appears to have a bit of a liking for John’s shoulders and chest. John is not going to be complaining about that because having Sherlock’s large hands learning the shape of him and just the touch of his skin has to put today up there with one of the best days of John’s life so far. 

They are both getting a little heated now and when Sherlock manages to somehow wriggle his way to be fully beneath John so he is lying in the cradle of Sherlock’s pelvis, John knows that he needs to make a decision about how far this should go tonight. 

Sherlock is coping well, as eager and engaged as he was to start with - more so, if possible. He might be more wound up by some heavy petting and kissing than he should be but John hasn’t noticed any instances of hesitation or seeming overwhelmed. John has waited so long for this; so long, in fact, that he wasn't even aware that he was still waiting. And if Sherlock’s hints and reactions are to be believed, then he has equally been invested in them finally getting their acts together.

Carefully John drops a soft kiss to Sherlock’s kiss-swollen lips at the same time as he lowers his weight and brushes their groins together. Sherlock gasps, stiffens, then groans in appreciation. His hands fly to John’s arse, grabbing two handfuls and holding John tight to where he needs him most. When Sherlock opens his eyes, John greets him with a shaky smile. Sherlock’s hands are so big, his grip so determined and John hadn’t realised how painfully hard he is himself.

“Yeah?” he asks and waits for Sherlock’s nod before he lines up their hips so they can rock together. And it’s so very, very good. Sherlock has hooked a knee over John’s, using the leverage it provides to press up into John’s easy thrusts. The fleeting recognition that Sherlock is beginning to use his initiative and trusting the feedback from his senses about what feels good and what might make it even better flashes across John’s consciousness before he is caught up in their rhythm again.

Sherlock is not loud, but he is vocal about his experience. His hisses and sighs and moans are gorgeous and they spur John on, hoping to elicit more of the same. When Sherlock adds breathy repetitions of his name, John thinks it’s possibly the best thing he has ever heard. Sherlock’s deep voice becomes increasingly more broken and higher as his need becomes greater.

“Sh… Sherlock? You still with me, love?”

Sherlock’s eyes open slowly, all heat and want and pleasure drunk.

“You don’t have to if you’re not comfortable, but do you want me to… do you want to come?”

“Oh god, yes!” Sherlock insists immediately. “Please, John!”

“Okay… can I touch you?”

John can’t believe he’s still capable of this rational questioning, but he can see the trust and openness in Sherlock’s face and he meant what he said earlier - he only wants what is good for Sherlock.

When he receives a nod and a shimmy shift to give John more space, he’s content that Sherlock is still making considered choices and sits back on his knees to reverently cup the prominent bulge in the front of Sherlock’s trousers.

“Oh god,” Sherlock gasps, pressing his groin up into John’s hand unsubtly. 

Fumbling to get the fastener and zip sorted from this unusual angle, John tries not to stare as he frees Sherlock from his trousers and pants. Framed by his shirt and pushed aside trousers, Sherlock’s cock is nothing at all to be ashamed of, his hair trimmed and as aesthetically pleasing as the rest of him. It’s awkward and inelegant, but Sherlock is clearly beyond caring and John can’t ignore the thud of lust that knocks the air from his lungs as he’s finally skin to skin with Sherlock’s cock.

His fingers greedy and fumbling, John helps Sherlock from his clothes when he starts to push at them with uncoordinated hands. John’s heart leaps higher still seeing Sherlock leading the way in this - this is the Sherlock he knows, the man he loves - decisive, bold and impatient. John cannot help himself, and the second Sherlock is bare, he’s on him, touching and kissing and learning the textures and scents and sounds of him.

Sherlock is complicit in this, hiding nothing, revelling in John’s attentions and meeting his every gesture with obvious pleasure.

“John, I… Oh, god. Please… Oh, John, please. That’s… that’s so…”

Slurred, high-pitched words and pretty pleading tumble from Sherlock’s mouth and he’s already leaking profusely from an impressive erection. This is quite possibly the first orgasm Sherlock will ever have shared with another person, and John wants to show off a bit, demonstrate how clever his tongue can be or how deft he is in finding a prostate, but he resists the urge to tease and make him wait. 

With the perfect timing of planets aligning, John remembers the lube bottle in his back pocket and he pulls it out, finding enough coordination to pop the cap and get a palmful. Sherlock’s eyes, tightly shut, fly open as John’s hand glides down his length and back up, slowly coating every square centimetre of skin. 

John thinks he could do this all night and never get bored; Sherlock is so responsive to his touches. Getting a glimpse of him like this feels like a gift and a privilege. With one hand working his cock, the other is free to explore the places that he has only imagined and Sherlock seems keen for John to know every inch of him from the way he moans and strains towards John’s touch.

John kisses his flat belly, sucks a mark into the crease of his thigh, nibbles along his bottom rib, keeping up his unhurried, tight grip on Sherlock’s throbbing cock.

“I’m… c...close,” Sherlock stutters suddenly, his hand snapping out and folding around John’s, holding him still. “Is it… am I… too fast?”

John sits back, reluctant to leave the promise of his lover’s skin and sees Sherlock’s embarrassment in his averted eyes.

“Listen to me,” John murmurs, waiting for Sherlock’s full attention. “Next time I promise, I will make you wait, I’ll make you beg and bring you to the edge more times than you think you can bear, but tonight, this time, let me see you fall apart, Sherlock. Let me see you come now. Please, love.”

Sherlock’s eyes are wide open, pupils blown and John sees the moment that Sherlock understands, really understands what he is to John. He pulls his hand away slowly and nods, gaze boring into John’s face.

John begins a rough stroke that always does it for him, when he’s aching and ready to come. Sherlock’s hands switch between grasping John’s thighs and fisting handfuls of the shabby leather sofa. His whines are becoming almost ultrasonic and mostly just air, and he seems to be coming apart under John’s gaze and hands. 

Sherlock bends his knee, his hips pumping up in time with John’s strokes and John presses his mouth to the creamy skin of his inner thigh, grazing his teeth along the smoothness there, nipping gently. His eyes seek out John’s, a look of such surprise and adoration on his face, John doubts that many would recognise this as the same arrogant, cool tempered man he presents to the world.

“It’s okay. Let go now. Come on, love,” John tells him, his voice scratchy and hoarse. In that instant, he knows what he wants and he tips forward, taking Sherlock into his mouth, suckling through the lingering trace of lube and flattening his tongue against the underside of his shaft in a decadent swipe up to the head, where he laves the tip of his tongue hard against Sherlock’s frenulum.

Sherlock’s cock swells and John leans back to watch as he stills, shudders from head to toe, then convulses, his stomach and thigh muscles contracting spasmodically as his body releases heavy spatters across his chest, belly, groin and the sofa. 

“Oh god, yes!” Sherlock gasps, his voice suddenly and shockingly back in its normal register. John continues to stroke, his touch progressively lighter when Sherlock slumps back, panting and spent.

John prays that this is something that he remembers with total recall for the rest of his days. It would be a crime to forget that he saw something as beautiful as this - Sherlock, his chest heaving, cheeks and throat flushed rosy, his hair a sweaty tangle, covered in his own come. A debauched vision, mercifully lacking his sharp tongue at this moment, he is better than any furtive, guilt-riddled fantasy that John could possibly have come up with. Without a hesitation, John knows he has to kiss those bitten lips and the last of those frantic breaths. He bends forward over Sherlock’s lax, heated body and kisses him deeply and thoroughly even though his lover’s responses are slow and clumsy.

Leaning back on his heels once more, John watches the recovery. Sherlock, with visible effort, smooths his breathing and comes back to himself, gradually becoming aware of his surroundings again in a manner quite gratifying to the man who has just taken him apart so comprehensively. He licks his lips, blinks for what is an almost alarming amount of time and then his eyes zero in on John.

“You okay?” John asks, trying to keep the smugness out of his voice. 

Sherlock nods slowly and clears his throat. “More than,” he insists. His gaze skitters down John and back to his face. “You… I… I want to do that to you, too.”

“Suits me,” John agrees, “As long as you’re sure. I don’t want…”

“... me to do anything I’m not comfortable with and lots of other very sensitive platitudes - all unnecessary, I can assure you.”

Of course the brilliant bugger can speak in full, complex bloody sentences already - John can’t believe he considered anything else.

Sherlock is already moving, his eyes bright and becoming more focused as he nudges and manhandles John into the space he was previously occupying. He appears utterly unselfconscious as he carefully knees his way between John’s legs. He rearranges John’s thighs and roughly tugs the belt loops on his best jeans, shifting his hips into a precise location, the criteria of which John cannot fathom and then he… stops. The head tilts and the eyes narrow and a stillness that John has become familiar with descends over the world’s only (naked - very, very naked) consulting detective. It is Sherlock’s ‘I’m thinking’ expression and although John has been on the end of this look before it has never been in quite such intimate proximity or had such a gleeful edge to it.

Lying, waiting for Sherlock, John feels a tiny bit self conscious… okay, a lot self conscious. His cock, so hard it hurt only a couple of minutes earlier, is beginning to flag. He doesn’t know quite where to look, staring at Sherlock is too difficult when he is feeling so exposed, but to look away might make him think that he isn’t invested in this, so he tells himself to study Sherlock the same way that he is studying John.

Sherlock is enviably flexible, his knees tucked up beneath him like a child might sit when engrossed in something. What remains of the candlelight warms his milky skin and sets highlights in his dishevelled curls the same blue-black of sloes. He ought to look mildly ridiculous with his sex flush still receding, but he doesn’t - he looks relaxed and… happy. 

When John’s studies finally make it back up to Sherlock’s eyes, he finds they are waiting for him, alert and burning, and a profound feeling of achievement bubbles its way through him - that he could be capable of making Sherlock look so joyful .

He leans over John’s prone form and teases him with soft, short kisses, leaving John rearing up for something deeper. Sherlock smiles and hums, clearly proud of having learned a trick or two of his own already and doesn’t allow John to be too greedy, leaning back and leaving John unsatisfied.

His fingertips alight on John’s thigh, and he’s so keyed up now that he actually twitches at even this slightest touch. Sherlock takes his time, lets his fingers trace a pathway that makes sense only to him - down to the edge of John’s knee, then up to his hip, then a palm grasping the back of his thigh and then, when John is thinking he is prepared to beg, a fingernail dragged slowly up the zipper of his jeans.

John groans quietly and this seems to rouse the detective from his contemplation. He makes short work of button and zip and slides a hand inside. John stops breathing altogether as Sherlock’s investigations continue, a fingertip search of his most intimate places. Sherlock hasn’t dragged his eyes away from John’s cock yet and when he shifts, his gaze bounces up to John’s face, urgent and flushed again.

“I want to… can I…?”

“Yep. Yeah, whatever you want,” John manages to breathe.

Sherlock's hands are gentle at first as he frees John’s cock from his pants, but he becomes bolder with each passing moment, with each hum and sigh that John makes. He makes a fist around John who has to bite the inside of his lip to keep from groaning. 

John’s skin is damp from their exertions and Sherlock seems fascinated at the textures. Digging between the cushions, John finds the lube bottle again and with what he’d like to think is a modicum of dexterity and a cheeky wink, he takes Sherlock’s hand and fills it with a generous squirt.

Sherlock’s next stroke is a revelation, with a firmer grip but the texture of the lube, it makes his hand glide down John’s length, coating him from root to tip.

John’s mouth decides to ignore all his suggestions.

“Guhhhh! God! Fuck! Oh fuhhhhh!” is the most sensible part of it but Sherlock doesn’t seem to notice, all his attention on making certain that he has laid his fingers on every single part of John that he has never seen before. Once or twice he stops completely to regard a particularly interesting piece of him, but John’s needy whines seem to be able to reach him, wherever it is he goes at times like these, and he always comes back to himself sufficiently to get things moving along again. 

When John’s moans are almost constant, Sherlock leans over to touch his lips to John’s, kissing the whispered pleading from his mouth.

“You amaze me, John Watson,” Sherlock rumbles. “You always have.”

John opens his eyes and Sherlock’s, storm and silver and sky, are right there, as guileless and hopeful as he has ever seen them.

John comes hard, wave after wave of pleasure rocking him to his core, stealing breath and reason. He’s dimly aware of Sherlock’s murmurs of encouragement and the way that he doesn’t let go until John is utterly spent, ensuring that every last ounce of delight has been wrung from him and he is a contented puddle of human satisfaction.

He hadn’t been sure if Sherlock would stay, but after they have caught their breath, shared a couple of shy smiles and grimaces at the state of John’s clothes and the sofa, he is beyond thrilled to discover that Sherlock is a cuddler. He carves himself out a space beside where John has collapsed and carefully inserts himself into John’s arms, watching him with interest as if he is expecting a rejection even now. 

So John kisses his nose.

Sherlock blinks and wrinkles his face, wiping the dampness onto John’s shoulder before realising that’s probably not what lovers normally do. His eyes dart to John to gauge his reaction.

So John kisses his nose again and smirks.

There follows several minutes of stealth kisses, retaliatory licks and increasingly damp skin, which leads to giggles, which leads to a contented quiet that John knows Sherlock won’t keep for long.

“That was…”

“Amazing,” John interrupts. “Fantastic. Life changing?”

Sherlock’s grin is slow and slightly predatory.

“Hmm,” he affirms. “Repeatable?”

John considers this for a moment, his gaze on Sherlock’s hopeful face. Well, why not? He’s years past being able to get it up again this fast, but with the scent of them in the air and the warmth of Sherlock in his arms making his heart beat unevenly again already, if there was a good time to try, it would be now.

“I didn’t even manage to get you naked,” Sherlock sighs, as if this is a horror on a par with man made fibres in his sock index or London’s criminals all seeing the error of their ways at once. 

“Well, practice makes perfect,” John offers with a lazy and ironic shrug. 

Sherlock rises and stretches, and John, now he is free to look as he wishes, cannot drag his eyes away. Sherlock flicks off the table lamp and crossing to the hearth, he deftly extinguishes the remaining candles between forefinger and thumb. He’s very slim, all fine muscle and bone. In the remaining light from the streetlamps, Sherlock is utterly without shame, taking his time to close and lock the windows before he turns back to John, a knowing smile on his lips.

“We can clear up in the morning,” he says in a voice that does something to John’s central nervous system, compelling him to squirm slightly as other parts of him also begin to sit up and take an interest. What this man can do to him with just a word should probably be illegal but he manages a nod and a noise of affirmation.

Sherlock walks to the sitting room door and pauses, looking back over his shoulder flirtatiously to where John sits, mouth open and heart thundering the blood through his veins again already.

“We could have been doing this for months, John. Think of all the wasted opportunities,” Sherlock remarks. He lets his gaze linger across John whose body seems to ignite under the unsubtle scrutiny. “I have a lot to catch up on.”

John watches as Sherlock takes a few steps toward his room, hips subtly swaying and arse positively begging to be squeezed. He pauses, then twists to see the reaction to his provocation. 

“Coming?” he asks.

John is on him before he reaches his door. 

Fin