Archive of Our Own ^beta

It’s Mycroft’s bloody fault, pure and simple, that John’s sitting on a sofa in bloody Buckingham Palace with bees buzzing in his bloodstream and a mind that’s turned as thick as marmalade.

If John misses everything pertinent to the case they’ve just been strong-armed into taking, it’s Mycroft’s goddamn fault. Because John has no idea what Mycroft’s said, past a certain point, and John can’t begin to focus on the photos Sherlock’s sliding out of a manila envelope that Mycroft has handed him.

John’s too busy wondering what would happen if he was sitting on a sofa somewhere else with Sherlock. Not just anywhere else. In their flat. Just him and Sherlock, sitting alone in their flat. With Sherlock wearing that bloody black outfit. Tight black shirt and arse-hugging black trousers. With his pale wrists peeking out of his cuffs and the sleek column of his neck rising up out of the collar.

John’s not hearing a word that’s being said, because his mind has spiralled away from the opulent surroundings into ‘What if...?’

What if he and Sherlock were sitting alone in their flat, and John slid closer and put his fingers on one thin wrist, found the pulse point under the pale skin, and then, slipped the fingers of the other hand between the buttons of that tight black shirt? Is Sherlock’s skin even softer than that silky shirt? Would Sherlock’s pulse speed up, blood thundering under John’s fingers? Would his eyes go wide with surprise and his breath quicken? What if John undid one of those buttons and slid his whole hand inside that just-a-shade-too-tight shirt? Would Sherlock pull away? Or would he suck in a sharp breath and lean, trembling, into the touch?

It’s silly, the thing that’s whited out John’s awareness.

It wasn’t what Mycroft did, stepping on the trailing edge of sheet just as Sherlock tried to walk away. It seems to John that if he was going to suddenly start playing a sensual ‘What if...?’ game about his insane genius of a flatmate, it should have been the incident with the sheet. That should have been sexy as hell, the sheet ripped out of Sherlock’s grasp, the glimpse of lean, muscled back, and the almost glimpse of magnificent backside.

But John’s seen Sherlock in various stages of dress and undress from almost the first week they moved into 221B. Sherlock has all the body consciousness and modesty of a door, and John’s grown accustomed to the sheet, draped toga-like, around Sherlock’s tall self. He’s seen Sherlock stalk from bath to bedroom with only a small towel tucked around his hips. John’s seen Sherlock wander, sleep-tousled and bleary-eyed, out of his bedroom wearing nothing but bed-twisted, rumpled silk pants. And none of it’s ever given John pause, other than to occasionally make him suck in his own softer belly and wish he could grow longer legs.

But now some proverbial box has been opened, some hornet’s nest of buzzing thoughts and fevered images. Just because of one quick exchange.

It had seemed odd, the way Sherlock’s gaze had dipped, the way his voice had lowered and sounded musing when he said, ‘Dominatrix’.

And Mycroft had pounced on it, smirking. ‘Don’t be alarmed. It’s to do with sex’.

Sherlock had drawn himself up tall and straight and had retorted, ‘Sex doesn’t alarm me’.

Mycroft’s rejoinder had been quick and snide. ‘How would you know’?

And something bright and crystalline had exploded at the base of John’s brain.

That snide exchange was no different, really, from the many snide exchanges he’s witnessed between the Holmes brothers, but a frisson of heat had slid down John’s back. A memory of that flash of pale, naked skin he’d just witnessed had slithered across the backs of his eyelids.

Arousal, hot and treacherous, had blossomed in his belly. And the desire, the need, to be the first to run hot, greedy hands all over Sherlock’s pale skin had erupted, unbidden and unexpected, swamping all other thoughts.

As Sherlock, thankfully oblivious to John’s reaction, shuffles through a stack of 8x10 glossies, John blinks back his shock and pretends interest in the photos. He schools his expression to near blankness to cover the way his mind is reeling and his pulse is racing.

Another image jumps, unbidden and unwelcome, into his mind. Sherlock, on his back, on the luxurious sofa on which they’re sitting. John's ripped open that black shirt, and it frames Sherlock's lean torso. His skin gleams against the contrast of black shirt and pale yellow upholstery. His eyes are wide and startled, mouth open. John slides his hands from Sherlock’s sharp clavicles, down over nipples puckered up tight, down over his quivering belly. Down to where Sherlock’s erection is pressing up, ruining the line of his tailored trousers. And the sound that comes out of Sherlock... The surprised, shocked pleasure... The groan, uttered in Sherlock’s smooth baritone, burns into John's chest like really good brandy going down.

And what the hell! John shakes his head, digs his thumbnail into the pad of his index finger.

He can’t be doing this. They’re beginning a case. And it’s insane. It’s bizarre. It’s...a bit creepy that Mycroft has said something that’s made his cock twitch and his heart race. That’s made his thoughts spin out of control.

It doesn’t make any sense that he’s lived with Sherlock; seen him nearly naked, water droplets gleaming on his ivory skin; held him while he bled; run with him, breathless, adrenalin pumping, through dark alleys; laughed with him; almost died with him; killed for him, but it’s taken a snide, offhand comment by Mycroft to make John’s breath catch and his pulse jump. Over the idea of Sherlock Holmes.

But not just the idea of Sherlock Holmes. The idea that Sherlock is a virgin. Untouched.

No, not even the idea. Because it’s not like John hasn’t wondered himself, what kind of experience is hidden beneath that disdain for sentiment and physicality. He's even questioned whether Sherlock has any sexual experience at all. So it’s not the idea of Sherlock's lack of experience. It’s the certainty. John may not be as observant as the world’s only consulting detective, but he knows Mycroft hit a nerve. John saw the reaction that flitted across Sherlock’s face at Mycroft's comment. John saw how quickly it was masked.

And that mix of vulnerability and innocence that he’s suddenly sensed in Sherlock... It’s touched a nerve John didn’t know he had.

Helpless. He’s helpless to resist it, the sudden, burning impulse to be the first one to touch Sherlock’s porcelain skin. The first one to whisper obscenities in Sherlock’s ear. The first one to make him burn, to make him moan. He wants to reach over, right now, and lay his fingers on Sherlock’s wrist, stroke the soft, fine skin just under the edge of his cuff. To unbutton the cuff and put his lips on Sherlock’s pulse. He wants to feel the sudden jump of pulse as he puts his hand on Sherlock's knee and slowly slides his hand up. What would—?

And, dammit!, he’s doing it again.

John forces his attention to the photographs. That he has to force himself to pay attention to artful photographs of a beautiful, naked woman is almost as disconcerting as the images that keep wanting to crowd them out. With sheer force of will, he makes his mind walk straight ahead, one brain cell lining up after the other, like a drunk being asked to prove he’s sober.

He asks questions and give responses and stands when it’s time. Walks ahead so he won’t be tempted to watch Sherlock’s tight, high arse move under his short jacket. Walks without looking down to see whether his erection is visible, pressing against his zip.

Because this is Sherlock. His flatmate. His friend. And the most observant man in the world. As bad as it is to be having thoughts like that, it would be even worse for Sherlock to realize it. The last thing he needs is for Sherlock to notice his fluttering pulse and the heat that’s burning his face and the way John has to fight to keep his gaze from wandering. From raking down Sherlock’s long legs and studying his pale throat and his mouth. Oh, god, that mouth...

John thinks that he manages to pull it off. To not let his reaction show. To not think about Sherlock and what Mycroft’s said, damn him. Because, right away, they’re on the case. In the thick of things. With a naked woman, and thugs with guns, Sherlock drugged, and a phone with government secrets hidden on it. Mrs Hudson menaced, frightened and bruised. Her attacker even more bruised, rightfully so. All manner of the usual oddities that John encounters as Sherlock Holmes’ colleague.

John thinks he pulls it off rather nicely. (Though the moment when Sherlock demanded that John hit him got a bit out of hand. He’s not sure how he managed to hide the fact that he was hard enough to punch a hole through a brick wall while he was on top of Sherlock, pummelling him with all the pent-up frustration and arousal that’s sizzling in his veins.)

But, even with his reaction damped down, ignored, he burns. He seethes as he watches the interaction between Sherlock and Irene Adler. Because he can see there’s something there, even if he can’t quite tell what it is. And he suspects, though he’s not sure, that she knows Sherlock is a virgin, too. It’s something she says, about how she’s not sure Sherlock knows where to look at her nude body.

But Sherlock is good. He’s cool and collected and on his game. At least, until she drugs him. Which would be hilarious, in any other set of circumstances, but John can tell Sherlock is affected by her, and it eats at him. But affected how? Is Sherlock pretending? Acting? Is he aroused by her? Enough to act on it? To let her be the first one to touch his pale virgin flesh? To make him moan?

Afterwards, when Irene is gone for good—dead or in hidden away in some protection scheme or...whatever...because John’s not sure what to believe, no matter what Mycroft says—and Sherlock settles back into his normal, abnormal, infuriating, amazing self, John can’t let go of the wondering. Did he? Did she? Is Sherlock still untouched?

John tries to push it away, but it won’t leave him alone. The wondering niggles at him. Slips under his defences.

John watches. He observes. He sees in a way that would make Sherlock proud, if he only knew. He watches the way Sherlock moves. And the way he talks. And the way his uses his body. The way he interacts physically with women. And men. And, finally, John decides that Irene didn’t touch Sherlock.

He knows it's probably wishful thinking on his part. And it’s beyond bizarre, to fan the flames of his obsession with observations and assumptions. Wouldn't it be better to assume that Irene did touch Sherlock, even though she said she’s gay? Shouldn't he just assume that there’s no virginity there for him to obsess over?

Because it is becoming an obsession, but...he’s helpless to stop it. It’s taken hold of him. The wondering. The wanting. The heady game of ’What if...’?

He looks at Sherlock, standing tall in the window of their flat, with his violin tucked under his chin and lovely, melancholy music wreathed about him like wisps of melodious smoke, and wonders... What if he slipped his hand under the dressing gown, up under the ratty t-shirt, and slid his fingertips up the bumps of Sherlock’s spine? Slowly. As slowly as Sherlock draws the bow over the strings of the violin. Would John see, reflected in the window panes, Sherlock shattering as he reacts to the first touch of a lover’s fingers on his naked back? Would the music change, become something trembling and disjointed? Or would it soar?

He runs through alleys with Sherlock, and his thoughts aren’t on the case. As they pause at a corner or hide behind a dumpster, John's thinking of shoving Sherlock up against the brick wall behind him. He wants to shove his hands inside that greatcoat and feel the warmth that’s trapped between the heavy wool and Sherlock’s body. He wants to be rough, then tender. Then rough again. See just how much more heat he can generate with his practiced, knowledgeable, doctor’s hands. See what he can do to Sherlock without ever sliding the heavy coat off his body.

He wakes to find Sherlock, hollow-eyed and sleep-deprived, sitting at their kitchen table, bent over a file, or an experiment, or a tepid cup of tea. And he wonders... What if he drew Sherlock’s head in against his chest? He imagines the weight of Sherlock slumped, boneless and tired, against his sternum. Hears Sherlock’s sigh as he cards his fingers through tangled curls. It’s sweet and warm, until John slides his hand down Sherlock’s chest and teases his nipples through the rumpled shirt. And Sherlock gasps and comes fully awake. Tilts his head back. His eyes are wide and round and surprised. Heat blossoms on his sharp cheekbones as John catches his nipple between his thumb and index finger and pinches. Sherlock arches his back, pressing towards John’s fingers. His tongue slips out to wet those perfect lips. And he groans. And that voice... Oh, that voice that’s sex and silk and violin music...

From the first imagining, it’s one of John’s favourite fantasies. It overpowers even the filthier, more explicit stuff. Sherlock on his hands and knees, naked, body rocking with the power of John’s thrusts, grunts of pleasure jolted out of him. The Sherlock-sitting-at-the-kitchen-table fantasy is the one that slides across the backs of John’s eyelids in the dark, in the night, when their flat is quiet and he’s alone in his bedroom and he’s touching himself. Sometimes, he makes it as far as the moment when he slides his hand between Sherlock’s legs and maps his growing erection. He manages to fantasize to the point when he squeezes down hard on an impressive length of cock and Sherlock growls. But it rarely progresses further than Sherlock tilting his face up, that expression of shocked pleasure blooming in his extraordinary eyes, the musical moan drawn from his extraordinary voice. Because that’s where John usually comes, shuddering with pleasure, moaning quietly in his ordinary voice, and spilling, hot and wet, onto his own stomach.

He knows it’s getting out of hand. He knows he has to stop. Sooner or later, Sherlock is going to notice. He’s going to turn and catch John eye-fucking his arse, admiring the way his trousers fit and mould over it. He’s going to sense John lifting his hand, fingers spreading wide, to thread into the curly mop of hair. Or turn in time to see John snatching his hand back, fingers curling into a fist to be shoved into his trouser pocket.

And besides, he argues, Sherlock probably isn’t even a virgin. Probably wasn't, when Mycroft made his snide comments. How the hell would Mycroft know that kind of personal detail about someone, especially his own brother? How could he know Sherlock has never been shoved into a cloakroom at Uni by someone like Sebastian Moran? Never slipped into an alley with some simpering blond witness? Or paid for sex. Or—John shivers with horror and arousal at the thought—succumbed to Irene Adler on the top of a desk in a safe house somewhere. Begging her twice, his voice smoky and desperate.

Because John’s sure Sherlock helped her. Now that’s he become a confirmed, obsessive Sherlock watcher, and he’s thought about it, John knows that she’s not dead. He knows that Sherlock saved her. Somehow. And the idea that she made Sherlock beg fills John with heat and jealousy.

And he has to stop. It all just has to stop.

John falls back on his training to try to snap himself out of it. He takes himself and his laptop off to the privacy of his bedroom (but with his door open so he’s not tempted too much by the privacy) and he researches. He locks the door of his office at work and he reads.

He discovers that there’s a word for what he’s feeling. Parthenophilia. A pronounced sexual interest in virginity or virgins. It’s a fetish as old as time, a desire that’s been satisfied in brothels for ages. And still is, if the internet is to be believed. (And fuck Mycroft anyway, sideways and around a corner, for putting the idea in his head.)

John has enough of a background to understand that most of the paraphilias are a grey area in psychology and psychiatry. Some professionals won’t even use the term. After all, what’s deviant? What’s normal? Where’s the line between deviancy and fetish and just liking something different from the norm? Which brings him back around in a circle to...what’s the norm?

In his book, the norm is a pretty wide-open zone. It really is all fine. Whatever someone wants to do, as long as it’s consensual and not harming anyone, is fine.

As fetishes go, parthenophilia is a fairly innocuous fetish to have. Especially since his is linked to just one person—

He stops to consider. And, yep, his feels like it's linked to just one person. To Sherlock. Because the idea of going out trolling for a virgin stranger doesn’t make anything throb or tingle. Surfing virginity auction websites and ads don’t do anything for him.

So actually, it seems like a pretty mild fetish to have. If he was to ever be tempted to act on it, all he has to do is think about how acting on his obsession will kill it. If he has sex with Sherlock, then Sherlock won’t be a virgin any longer, and John won’t be obsessed. Ergo...it’s all just wondering and imagination and hot fantasies to fuel some excellent rounds of masturbation.

He’s fine. It’s not like this has taken over his life. It’s just his wanking life that’s been affected. And maybe his dating life. A bit. But that's more because he hasn't met anyone interesting lately, right? And maybe his obsession has affected the way he looks at his flatmate. It's definitely jolted his sense of right and wrong. Because it’s really not nice, is it? It’s rude and invasive to be thinking these things about Sherlock.

To look at Sherlock and wonder. To play the game of ‘What if...?’

What if I kissed him right now? Just now, when he’s sprawled out on the couch with his fingers steepled under his chin? What would he do if I put my hand, just there, on his belly and hooked my thumb in his navel and leaned down and kissed him? Hard and wet, tasting the edges of his teeth and sucking on his tongue? What if I yanked his pyjamas open and sucked on something else?

What if I edged up to him at a crime scene, standing back in the shadows where no one could see, and slipped my hand around his waist, up under the heavy weight of his coat, and rested my hand on his hip? What if I let my hand slide down, just where the lush curve of his arse begins? What if I let it slip lower?

What would he do if I crawled into his bed and snuggled up against him? What if I just pulled the shower curtain back and stepped, naked and hard, into the spray of warm water with him?

It’s all exhilarating. The images burning on the backs of his eyelids, the fantasies full of heat and sound, the wondering. He thinks of the things he’d like to show Sherlock, to teach him. The things he’d like to do to him. Sherlock bent over the kitchen table, knuckles white as bone as he grips the edge; Sherlock bent over his chair, fingers tearing at the upholstery; Sherlock bending John over his chair, long fingers digging into his hips hard enough to leave marks. The pleasure he’d give Sherlock. John on his knees, holding Sherlock against the wall on the stairs as he swallows him down and Sherlock’s legs give out under him. The red, crescent-shaped tooth marks Sherlock leaves on his own fist from muffling the sounds of his orgasm. It’s so hot, so sexy, the common thread running through all these...Sherlock blissed out with pleasure. That's what John wants to see...Sherlock surprised and pleased and wanting more.

It makes John hard, all of things he imagines. The fantasies that slip, unbidden, into his mind, the dreams that wake him in the night. And he muffles his shouts as he comes all over his hand and his belly, breathing silently through some of the best, hardest orgasms he’s had in years. He feels like he's teen-aged again, just discovering the joy of his own hand and his imagination. It's amazing.

And, yet, it's so not good. Even if it’s not taking over his life, he has to stop.

Maybe... Maybe...he should just ask. He should just come right out and say, ‘Hey, Sherlock, are you a virgin?’

That’s it’s. He should get them both drunk and mumble, somewhere near their fourth or fifth tumbler of whisky, ‘So, does Mycroft still have reason to think you’re afraid of sex?’

Because, he thinks, maybe if he knew Sherlock had succumbed to Irene, or to anyone, he’d stop thinking, What would he do if I wet the tip of my finger and touched it to the curve of his bottom lip? How would he taste, right there, at the corner of his mouth? Right there where his neck meets his shoulder? How would he taste, coming across my tongue?

But he doesn’t ask Sherlock about the state of his virginity.

And he doesn’t stop peeking over the top of his book, admiring the way Sherlock looks, sitting across from him in his chair, half of his face lit by the glow of the fire, the other half in shadow. John can’t help thinking... What if he put his book down and slid out of his chair onto his knees and crawled across the small space between them? Would Sherlock’s breath stutter as John insinuated himself between Sherlock’s knees? What if he pushed Sherlock’s book aside and slid his hands up Sherlock’s thighs? Would Sherlock slam his knees together like a blushing maiden in a Regency novel? Or would he allow John to part his legs? Would Sherlock’s eyes grow heavy-lidded and dark with anticipation?

What if John just told the truth? Would Sherlock welcome his advances? But he can’t do that, because what if Sherlock got that odd look on his face and said, ‘It’s not really my area, John’? Or ‘Have you forgotten, John, that I’m married to my work’? After all, if Sherlock didn’t want to be a virgin, he wouldn’t be, would he?

Sherlock is an absolute dick most of the time, but he can be charming when it suits him. He could have, pretty much, his choice of male or female companions to rid him of his cumbersome virginity. If he thought it cumbersome, which obviously he doesn’t. Hell, he wouldn’t even have to be all that charming to get laid, not with the way he looks.

Because now that John’s allowed himself to observe, he can see that Sherlock’s bloody gorgeous. Not that he didn’t see it before. It’s just that he didn’t see it before. Sherlock’s all eyes and curls and elbows. Long fingers, lean muscles, and a perfect cupid’s bow of a mouth. And a voice that’s a Stradivarius among voices.

John tries, but he can't stop imagining. Even after he tells himself he's not going to do it anymore, the fantasies slip up on him and take over his thoughts. John’s slumped in his chair, legs spread wide, and Sherlock is before him, on his knees, red glints of firelight dancing in his curls. He has John’s cock in his hand, turning it this way and that, weighing it, observing it. And he leans down and extends his tongue, hesitant but curious, and tastes—

And just before John can slide his hand down, cup the throbbing erection that’s shoving against his zip, Sherlock bursts into the flat. He’s breathing hard, clutching a spear, and covered in blood. And even that doesn’t have the power to stop the fantasizing.

All John can see, even as he carries on a calm, amused conversation with his insane flatmate, is himself, standing. Deliberately putting his book aside and walking over, leaning into Sherlock. Stretching up to lay his tongue, flat and hot and wet, on Sherlock’s bloody jaw. Licking a wide swath on his smooth skin. The taste of blood, coppery and salty, lingers on his tongue as he leads Sherlock into the bath. Strips him. Shoves him into the shower. Watches as the water sluices rivulets of blood over the hard planes of his chest. Down his biceps. Watches as Sherlock’s eyes go dark and his cock starts to harden.

It’s that image that later keeps John unruffled as Sherlock (who unfortunately bathed himself) goes mad, nearly insane with pent-up energy and frustration and lack of nicotine. That image and wondering... Would it ease that manic, nearly flammable energy if he took Sherlock up to his bedroom and laid him down on his belly, licked him until he was quivering and open, and then fucked him into the mattress? Would that slow the frantic burning in Sherlock’s brain?

But, thankfully, before John can do something stupid, there’s a case. Henry Baskerville and his hound and a luminous rabbit and a certifiably insane arse of a friend. Sherlock runs off and leaves him on the Moor. Sherlock gets frightened and hurls angry, hurtful words at him. Throws him at a woman to try to get information on their client. Sherlock drugs him, then scares the living shit out of him.

In the end, Sherlock turns on the charm and wiggles out of his woeful behaviour quite nicely. And his words—I don’t have friends. I’ve just got one.—lodge a warm ember somewhere behind John’s sternum, and no matter how much psychological water and righteous anger he throws at it, it refuses to sputter and go out.

But it’s all good, the dickhead behaviour and the near apology, because it snaps John out of the weird, virgin-fuelled fugue state he’s been in. It freezes the heated wondering of parthenophilia.

Not once, in their journey back to London, does he look over at Sherlock and wonder ‘What if...’ He watches Sherlock’s strong, capable hands on the wheel and never once imagines grabbing the nearest one and guiding it to his crotch. Well, maybe once, but just as an exercise in self-control.

Because as he imagines Sherlock slamming on the brakes, turning towards him with a wildness flaming in his eyes, John calls up the groaning, growling sounds of a giant hound echoing all around him while he cowers in a cage, and the sexual fantasy dissipates like mist in a hollow.

Apparently, being insulted and drugged is an amazing antidote for fetishistic behaviour. It’s an amazing antidote for anything, actually. Including civil conversation. He ignores Sherlock for the entirety of the journey back to London.

Back home, settled into the flat, in his chair, with a cup of tea resting nearby, a book in his lap, and his shoes off, he’s still thinking about how frightened he was and of how angry he should be. More about what a cock his flatmate can be than what his flatmate’s cock might look like. It’s a refreshing change.

And so it’s a complete shock when Sherlock, seated across from him in his chair, with his own book and cuppa, says, “It surprised me to learn that there’s no medical definition of virginity.”

It takes John a minute to catch up. To make the obvious connections and realize there’s no way this is out of the blue or a coincidence.

Sherlock knows...something.

And he’s chosen this moment to bring it up. While John’s still seething, building up a nice fantasy of smothering Sherlock with a pillow and enlisting Lestrade to help cover up the crime. (Because he’s absolutely sure Greg will help hide the body.)

Still, John tries to brazen it out. He clears his throat. Sets his tea aside and carefully marks his place in his book with a fingertip. “No. There isn’t. It’s a word that just, sort of, circles back on itself. The accepted definition of virginity is ‘the state of being a virgin’, but that’s still not a medical definition. Just society’s.”

He glances up to see that Sherlock has put his book aside and is pretending to stare at the tips of his steepled fingers. Though Sherlock is actually peering at John from the corners of his eyes, his expression is a mask of nonchalance and bland curiosity. John can’t tell if Sherlock if really that calm or if he’s masking agitation.

And that makes John even more nervous. He falls back on his professional demeanour, speaking the way he would if a patient had broached the subject. “The most accepted definition of a ‘virgin’ is someone who hasn’t engaged in sexual intercourse, but that’s not a medical definition either. Virginity’s more a cultural concept than a medical one. And a very fluid concept, at that. Especially in this day and age. For instance, if a man or woman has had oral sex, but not penetrative sex, is he or she still a virgin?”

He realizes he’s on the verge of babbling and smothers the impulse to keep talking. Because there’s imparting medical knowledge, which he’s been doing since the day he met Sherlock, and there’s talking too much. There’s exposing himself to observation and allowing Sherlock to deduce that John’s heart is racing and his mouth has gone so dry that his tongue is sticking to his teeth.

And damn Mycroft! Damn him. He pictures Mycroft cowering in a cage, being stalked by a huge, red-eyed beast. And damn Sherlock, too. The brothers should be in that cage together. Sherlock may be socially clueless, but his instinct for when to pull the pin on a conversational grenade is flawless.

After a long silence, Sherlock finally looks directly at John. He shifts, dropping his hands to his thighs, pulling his feet closer to his chair, allowing his knees to spread slowly apart. “And parthenophilia?”

In anyone else, especially considering the question, John would find the posture deliberately provocative. But with Sherlock...he’s not sure. He’s seen Sherlock turn on the charm, but to be so deliberately sexual?

John swallows. Tilts his head in pretend curiosity and plasters a polite smile on his face, but he can’t stop his gaze from flicking up Sherlock’s spread legs to where he’s exposed his groin. And, christ!, he’s sure he can see the outline of Sherlock’s cock lying along his thigh, pressing against the cloth of his immaculate trousers.

John’s glad that he dropped his book in his lap when he started talking, because it hides the way his cock is twitching its way to hardness, attempting to roll up his belly. ‘Breathe,’ he tells himself. ‘It’s just adrenalin.’ It’s just a potent combination of the danger of exposure and being under the enthralling scrutiny of Sherlock Holmes. He closes his book, finger still pressed against the long-forgotten sentence, and squeezes the book down hard on his finger.

“What about it?” He can’t stop himself from thrusting his jaw forward aggressively, but he’s proud of the way his voice sounds dispassionate. Not a quiver to be heard, even though his heart is pounding so hard he can feel it pulsing at the roots of his teeth.

“It’s all right, John,” Sherlock says gently. “I don’t mind that you’ve developed an obsession with my lack of sexual experience. Though I admit I was surprised, since you so often insist that you’re not gay.” Sherlock says it like it’s a compliment that John’s been able to surprise him.

And John supposes it is. Very few people have the ability to surprise Sherlock Holmes.

Still, shame and arousal flush through him. He forces himself to remember sitting in that B&B, staring into Sherlock’s gaze. Sherlock's remarkable eyes should have been so lovely in the dancing firelight, but instead were narrowed and hard. John remembers that beautiful voice twisted with ferocity as Sherlock spat, ‘I don’t have friends!’ John tries to concentrate on crouching in that cage, the floor cold under him, his breath harsh and hot in his throat. He thinks of how Sherlock must have been grinning, listening as John gasped and his voice choked with fear.

None of that has anything to do with what Sherlock’s just said. It’s just that they’re sitting in front of a fire. And all of the Baskerville stuff is still so fresh and raw in his mind. And he’s grasping at anything, even remembered pain, that will slow the desire that’s coiling, thick and hot, in his gut.

But he can’t hold onto his anger, because another memory shoves those thoughts aside...Sherlock’s hand, warm on John’s arm, as he says softly, ‘I only have one.’

Despite it, John manages to growl, “What the fuck are you talking about?”

And now Sherlock tilts his head, a bit surprised, but still so calm. So matter of fact. “On your computer,” he says in his velvet voice. “I saw your research on parthenophilia and sexuality.”

“And you’re guessing that it applies to me. And you.” John doesn’t know why he’s arguing. Why he’s covering. It’s a foregone conclusion that Sherlock knows. It’s a foregone conclusion that Sherlock’s going to strip him bare. Lay him out like a murder victim on the cold slab of that brilliant mind.

Sherlock waves his elegant hands in no particular direction, as if to say, ‘Oh, please!’ and gives him one of those looks. One of those fond, amused, exasperated, your-puny-little-mind-is-so-pitiable expressions. “After all this time, you still don’t realize that I don’t guess, John.”

John’s working himself up to a truly righteous fury now. Down deep, he knows it’s more embarrassment and guilt than true outrage. But he’s as helpless to reel it in as he was to stop imagining Sherlock, wracked with pleasure and moaning, beneath him. “No, you don’t guess. You pry. You invade my privacy. You make assumptions.”

“I observe,” Sherlock counters, leaning forward now, his eyes glittering.

John knows this look. The excitement of Sherlock on a case. The racing, gleaming exhilaration of an addicted brain engaged and pumping endorphins.

Sherlock pins John with his gaze. “Increased heart rate, quickened breath, dilated pupils, flushed cheeks. The scent of arousal. All while you’re in proximity to me. And those are just the physical responses. There’s also the way you look at me when you think my attention is elsewhere.” It’s said with a small amount of amusement and a huge amount of satisfaction. Like John’s another puzzle that Sherlock has just solved.

John clenches his hands into fists. If he wasn’t sitting down, if his cock wasn’t so twisted in his jeans that it would bend it in half to move, he’d leap to his feet and punch Sherlock. For real this time, and he wouldn’t avoid that patrician nose. If he was closer, he probably would have already bloodied it.

Then Sherlock looks at him, sideways, out of the corners of his changeable eyes, through his lashes, and says softly, “What if I wanted not to be like this anymore? What if I wanted to be like you? Normal.”

And it’s like Sherlock has lifted John’s fury out of him, a fiery, phallic cylinder of anger, and thrust it into a snow bank. It sizzles and dissipates like smoke. An orchestra fires up in it's place in John's chest, violins and trumpets and flutes and timpani all sounding at once. The sound circles, out of sync and too loud. It vibrates the bones shielding his heart. Every bit of heat and anger and embarrassment and desire floods into his cock, and it jumps and presses up against the seam in his jeans. John's breath catches in his throat, and he clutches at the arms of his chair, digging his nails into the upholstery.

“Virginity isn’t—” John stops himself, because his voice has squeaked like a pubescent boy’s. He shifts, trying to ease the pressure on his erection. He swallows, and the way Sherlock’s gaze lingers on his throat makes him swallow again.

Bloody hell! How does Sherlock do this to him? Keep him always so off kilter and so awake and aware and alive. It’s like walking on glass. Like handling live wires while standing in water.

“Virginity...” Sherlock prompts.

John has to clear his throat again. “Virginity isn’t abnormal, Sherlock. It’s just...what you’ve chosen. I’ve made different choices, but it doesn’t make me more normal than you. Besides, the boundaries of ‘normal’ are no clearer than the definition of ‘virginity’.”

Sherlock brightens a little and nods, obviously thinking it over, then says softly, “And if I wanted to make a different choice?”

John swallows. Again. But he doesn’t know if Sherlock’s still eyeing the movement of his throat because he can’t look at him now. His mind is threatening to leak out of his ears. He’s pretty sure he understands what Sherlock’s saying. And after weeks of fantasizing about exactly this, his body is screaming at him to jump up and start stripping off his clothes before Sherlock changes his mind. But his common sense is asking him whether that’s the best idea.

As he’s quick to tell anyone who assumes otherwise, he’s not gay. He’s not a straight arrow; he’s had sex with men. But he’s not gay. And even if he was gay, this is his friend and his flatmate. His nearly certifiable flatmate, who spears wild pigs and then rides the Tube covered in blood. Who disappears and leaves him stranded at crime scenes. Who throws screaming fits when he doesn’t have a case and can’t find his stash of cigarettes. Who pours what he thinks is drugged sugar into John's coffee, then tricks John into hiding in a cage while waiting to be torn limb from limb by a huge, red-eyed, slavering hound, and thinks it’s all okay because it was for the investigation.

Does he really want to get involved with someone like that? Well, more involved with someone like that. Entangled.

Just as he has so often, Sherlock takes the decision out of his hands. As if he’s read more than just John’s computer, as if he’s sucked the fantasy right out of John’s mind, Sherlock slides out of his chair and crosses the couple of feet between them on his knees.

It looks improbably elegant and ridiculously sweet, Sherlock shuffling on his knees, scuffing his pristine trousers on the floor. He inserts himself between John’s knees, lifts the book from John’s lap, and lets it drop with a thump on the floor. His gaze rests for a moment on the obvious bulge in John’s jeans, and his nostrils flare. Then he rests his hands on John’s forearms, pinning them to the arms of the chair. And he looks up at John, his extraordinary eyes burning with excitement and maybe a little anxiety. “Please, John,” he whispers in that voice.

That voice that’s made for sex, for moaning and begging. The one that’s invaded John’s imagination and made him come a dozen times.

It’s the voice that undoes him. The plea. It may just be more of Sherlock’s playacting, but it’s in that voice. John grabs Sherlock by his shirt and jerks him in and kisses him.

It’s nothing like all those kisses he’s imagined where he kissed and suckled and teased and made Sherlock writhe with passion. Made him so hungry for more kisses that he chased John’s mouth, whimpering when he caught it again.

It’s clumsy and painful. Their teeth clash together, and John’s lip is pinched, and Sherlock doesn’t know what to do with his tongue. Saliva slicks across John’s lips and down his chin. The kiss is breathless and wet and messy and maybe a little bit angry. And amazing.

But when John draws back, Sherlock doesn’t look so much amazed or aroused as taken aback.

It’s enough to bring sanity flooding back. For John to think about what this means.

This is Sherlock’s first time. That’s obvious after the clumsy kiss and Sherlock’s tongue flopping around like a flailing fish on a hook. And there’s an image to cool his ardour.

John smiles. He wipes the spittle off his face with the sleeve of his jumper, and then off Sherlock’s chin with gentle fingers. “You’ve really never done this before?” The idea, voiced aloud finally, makes him shiver.

Sherlock shakes his head. His gaze dips, following the trajectory of John’s fingers across his jaw, and his tongue snakes out, leaving a gleaming wet trail across his full bottom lip.

John has to force himself to focus. “Why now?” he asks softly. “Is this about what happened at Dartmoor? Because if you're thinking you need to...” He lets his voice die away.

It’s obvious, from Sherlock’s questioning expression and the way he tilts his head sideways, that he doesn’t understand what John’s talking about.

John blows out a frustrated breath.

Dense, clueless, infuriating man. Of course Sherlock doesn’t know that he’s come close to wrecking their friendship. It would never occur to him that he was doing anything other than vigorously trying to solve a case.

“Why, Sherlock? Why are asking about this now?”

Sherlock glances at his lap, at the bulge that’s still evident in John’s jeans. “Because you’re interested now.”

John looks away. It’s so damned logical, so obvious. He’s been so obvious, even though he was trying to be so discreet. Embarrassed heat adds to the arousal already burning his cheekbones. “Okayyyy... But you could have anybody. Why me?”

And now it’s Sherlock who looks away, staring at some point over John’s shoulder. “Because you’re interested.” Sherlock pauses to clear his throat. “And because...the first time should be with someone you trust. Someone who...likes you.”

It’s not lost on John that Sherlock’s just told him he trusts him. Or that Sherlock's voice hesitated before implying that John likes him. It’s not lost on John that he’s just seen that same quickly masked vulnerability that he saw at Buckingham Palace. And it affects him just as much as it did that day, making his heart beat faster and a sensation like a caress of warm fingers flutter down his spine. But he's also noticed that Sherlock switched to third person, a classic way of distancing himself from what he's just said. Maybe Sherlock's not so sure as he's pretending to be....

John lays his hand on Sherlock’s arm. The muscles are bunched, tight with tension. He says gently, “Sherlock...”

“Please, John.” Sherlock forces his gaze back to John’s, flinching as if he expects to be denied, and he licks his lips.

It’s not sexual. It’s nervousness. But it reminds John that he’s wanted to touch Sherlock’s mouth. That he's wondered how Sherlock would react if he traced that perfect bow with his fingers. He wets the tip of his index finger, just like he did in his fantasy, and strokes Sherlock’s plump bottom lip with it.

And there’s the reaction he’d imagined. That quick little stutter of breath, the sudden widening of eyes, the goose bumps breaking out across Sherlock’s pale throat. His fingers clutch at John’s knees.

It makes John feel feral and dangerous. He likes it. “You’ve never been kissed, have you?”

“Of course I’ve been kissed!” Sherlock draws himself up in protest. But just as quickly, he slumps back down, the momentary bravado has sputtering out of him. “Just not...very well.”

“And I didn’t start you off very well either, did I?” John shifts so he can outline the enticing curve of Sherlock’s upper lip with his thumb.

He’s rewarded with that same shuddering breath and a quick flutter of Sherlock’s long lashes.

“I’m sorry. I was angry with you for invading my privacy. And for making me think a huge hound was going to tear me apart.” John smiles to take the sting out of his words.

Sherlock drags his gaze away from John’s finger where it’s still hovering near his lips. “I’m...” he pauses to swallow, “...sorry, too?” It’s more of a question than an apology, as if he’s not sure. As if the words are so alien that he’s not sure he’s using them correctly.

John’s grin grows wider. “Wow. An actual apology. And your face didn’t crack and fall off on the floor, you miserable git.”

After a moment, Sherlock returns his grin.

And just like that, all John’s annoyance and uncertainty fades into tender protectiveness. He cups Sherlock’s face, runs a thumb over the arch of his brow.

Sherlock’s expression falters. Apprehension and anticipation ripple across his angular face. Then he takes a deep breath and settles to waiting, holding himself taut for what will happen next. It’s a very un-Sherlock-like hesitancy.

John’s breath catches in his throat.

This is important. This is...Sherlock’s first time. The heavy thud of arousal that has settled into his groin changes. Flickers and tingles. The orchestra of crashing cymbals and blaring trumpets in his gut morphs into a fluttering, buzzing trill of flutes.

This is his first time, too. He’s never had sex with a virgin before, so far as he knows. If any of his partners through the years were untouched, they didn’t bother to communicate it to him.

A heavier weight, a heavier realization, settles down over him. One he has to stop and think through. This is their only time, his and Sherlock’s.

Once he’s done this, if he does this, then Sherlock won’t be a virgin. Sherlock won’t be the object of his obsessive virgin fetish.

But that’s a good thing, right? As long as Sherlock’s not expecting more.

Sherlock is leaning close, waiting more patiently than John would have ever thought he could.

John takes his hands. “Sherlock... You understand how this is for me? I’ve had sex with men, but I’m not gay. And this has been a kind of...aberration. An idea I just couldn’t get out of my head. But once we’ve done this... If we do this...”

But Sherlock’s way ahead of him. He shuffles, impatient. “Yes, yes. I understand. It’s a fetish with a very short shelf life. Once I’m no longer a virgin, you’ll no longer be interested.”

John’s a bit taken aback. It's very blunt and direct, but completely Sherlock, forthright to the point of abrasive.

But for Sherlock to rate his own desirability so low... It makes John’s chest ache. “You understand...what I’m saying, it’s about me. It’s not about you. You do know how gorgeous and sexy you are, right?”

Sherlock gestures impatiently as if it’s of no importance. “I’m only trying to assure you that I understand that once you’ve taken me, I’ll no longer be the object of your obsession.”

“Taken you?” John huffs a laugh. “You sound like a romance novel.”

As soon as it’s out of his mouth, he regrets it. He realizes that Sherlock could take it the wrong way.

Sherlock merely shrugs. “I’ve never read one, so I wouldn’t know.”

John laughs. “Well, neither have I, actually. Though I had a girlfriend who liked to read me the racier parts in bed.”

“And did you like that? Someone reading pornography to you in bed?” Sherlock’s voice is simply curious, completely without the sensual suggestion that anyone else would have put on that sentence.

John’s cock jumps. God. The thought of Sherlock reading to him. That voice, reading porn to him. Christ, he could probably come just from that.

“I think...I’d like you reading pornography to me in bed,” he says slowly. “Your voice is...amazing.”

Sherlock’s smile is blinding. Sweet and pleased, the same way he’s always been when John praises him.

John feels a little lurch of pleasure that’s more than sex. There haven’t been that many men for him. Just a couple who’ve pushed his buttons enough that he moved beyond the wondering stage. And a couple who were in the right place at the right time, when he was cold or afraid or in the heat of battle, and comfort, in any form, was welcome.

But there’s only been one who’s taken up residence in his head, taken over his life and his fantasies. The one kneeling between his legs now, his head tilted slightly as he waits for John to work through his thoughts.

John remembers all those ‘what ifs’. What if he put his hand just there? What if he put his mouth, his lips, his tongue there? How will Sherlock feel underneath him? How will Sherlock’s weight feel on top of him?

“Your mouth is amazing, too.” He traces Sherlock’s lips with his thumb again. “It’s perfect, really.”

Sherlock takes a quick breath and leans in, and John can see another clashing, messy kiss coming. Sherlock’s face rushes towards his with eye-crossing speed, and he only just manages to stop it.

He’s able to stop Sherlock’s plunge and then to halt his confused withdrawal. Thank god he had his fingers hooked under that strong jaw. “Let me show you,” he murmurs, and he cups Sherlock’s head, sliding his fingers into those thick curls just like he's imagined, and draws Sherlock in.

John starts with slow, gentle kisses to the corner of that perfect mouth, and the corners of Sherlock’s eyes, and his jaw. He laves the place on Sherlock’s cheek where he punched him, all those weeks ago, then moves back to Sherlock’s mouth and kisses him properly.

John likes to kiss. He considers himself something of an expert. He has an instinct for it, for what his partner will most enjoy. And he kisses Sherlock with slow, leisurely touches. Thoroughly. Gently. Tasting him and stealing his breath. Stroking tongue and teeth with his tongue. Shifting back to chaste touches of lips, then nipping with just the barest hint of teeth.

And it’s brilliant, kissing Sherlock. Feeling him shiver. Breathing in the quickened breaths that are starting to whisper out of Sherlock’s lungs.

It’s making the blood thrum in John's veins. It’s taking every ounce of self control not to rock forward and grind against him. Not to bear him to the floor and sprawl over him and tear at his clothes.

Sherlock tastes of tea and nervousness. Smells warm and masculine, of expensive soap and cologne and the underlying hint of chemicals from the constant experiments that have become part his skin.

He pulls Sherlock in tighter and runs his hands down Sherlock’s back. Fingers mapping the jut of his shoulders and the bumps of his spine. He wants to slide his hands lower, tug the shirt out of the way, slip his fingers under the waistband of Sherlock's trousers. Down to bare flesh.

A rumble of frustration rises in his throat. He can't quite reach that far, but just the idea makes heat chase cold up and down his spine. He reaches up. Grasps handfuls of thick, curly hair and tugs, urging Sherlock closer. Tighter.

Sherlock leans into him but holds himself carefully still.

That’s not what John wants. Sherlock should be melting into this kiss. Burning up the way John's burning up. He should be swept away.

John draws back. “Not good?” he asks gently.

Sherlock quickly shakes his head. His face is flushed and his breath is a little ragged. His lips are red and swollen. “No. It’s very good. I was just...trying to pay attention.”

And John realizes what Sherlock’s doing. Sees it in his expression. He’s watched Sherlock do it a thousand times, at crime scenes, in interrogations, just standing on a busy street corner and watching people pass by. His lack of reaction isn’t discomfort. It’s focus. He’s trying so hard to catalogue every nuance of what John’s doing, that he’s reining in his reactions.

And, oh, this is going to be weird. Kissing Sherlock and touching him while Sherlock is cataloguing every move. Observing. Memorizing and deducing.

“Ah.” John smothers his smile. Obviously, he’s going to have to try a little harder.

He opens the first button on Sherlock’s shirt and traces his finger down the exposed skin. Pity it’s not the black shirt. There’s not so much contrast between the paleness of white shirt and milky flesh.

He opens another button. Not so much similarity between the softness of skin and cotton. Sherlock’s smooth chest is much silkier than this shirt.

Sherlock stares down at John’s hands as he undoes the remainder of the buttons. Shifts so that John can tug the tail of his shirt free of his trousers.

John starts at Sherlock’s clavicles and slides his fingers down. Down his chest, over his ribs, to his bare belly. He just barely dips them into Sherlock's waistband, circles Sherlock's navel before turning his hands to reverse the path, pads of his fingers moving back up. Counting his ribs. He pauses at Sherlock’s nipples. They're surprisingly dark against his pale skin, small, and already peaked. John strokes them gently, and then pinches, lightly.

That, at least, gets a reaction. Breaks the intensity of Sherlock's gaze. Sherlock draws in a sharp breath. His shoulders shift back, then tighten, as if his instinct was to arch into the touch, but he stopped himself.

John has to admire Sherlock's self control. The idea of breaking it is enthralling. It makes John's hands shake. But he wishes Sherlock could just let go. Sherlock’s turned observation into an art form, but John suspects he doesn’t know how to turn it off, to let go and just...feel.

He draws Sherlock in and whispers, “I’ve imagined this.” He touches his lips to the pulse that’s jumping beneath Sherlock’s ear. “Touching you. Being the first to touch you.” He leans back to trace his fingertips from that pulse point out along Sherlock’s shoulders, slipping underneath the shirt again.

Sherlock shivers.

John smiles. He may not have the sex and brandy voice, but his words are having an affect. John can see it in the way Sherlock’s eyes widen, the way his body sways towards him.

John retraces the same path with his nails, dragging gently on Sherlock's skin, through the warmth at Sherlock's nape, and down across his nipples again. “Have you imagined me touching you?”

Sherlock's shoulders tremble as John's nails scrape him, but his expression is carefully blank.

But is it control? Or that Sherlock really doesn’t think about things like that?

John uses his knuckles to start the shirt sliding off Sherlock’s shoulders. And he keeps his voice low, light, teasing with words the way his fingers are teasing with touch. “Do you fantasize when you masturbate?”

Sherlock averts his gaze and shrugs his shoulders. Maybe it’s just that he’s helping John ease his shirt off. Or maybe it’s embarrassment.

John just keeps going. Alternating caresses with the tips of his fingers and gentle scraping of nails, following the path of cotton sleeves down Sherlock’s arms. “I’d like to watch you touch yourself.”

Sherlock still doesn’t look at him, but his jaw twitches. Another shiver ripples down his chest. His body is in shadow, and it could just be reflected firelight, but John thinks he can see a flush starting to spread down Sherlock’s throat.

The shirt is caught around his wrists, cuffs still buttoned, and John stops to free one hand. He brings Sherlock’s fingers up to his mouth. Sucks the tips of his index finger before whispering in to Sherlock’s palm. “I’d like to see these long fingers wrapped around your cock, stroking slowly. I want to see my hand wrapped around your cock.”

He slides his hand down and brushes across the front of Sherlock’s trousers. He’s half afraid he’s going to discover that Sherlock’s not aroused, but he is. He's erect and straining against his trousers.

His cock is as hard as John’s, deliciously long and lean like the rest of him, and as John curves his palm around it, presses, the sound that comes out Sherlock, from deep in his chest, is like he’s been stabbed. Like it’s been startled out of him. Even the shadows can’t disguise the flash of heat that blooms over Sherlock’s gorgeous cheekbones.

And that’s what John wants to see. Sherlock letting go. Arousal hot enough to overtake that brilliant brain. The only problem is, he’s turning himself on as much as Sherlock. He’s not sure how much longer he can control himself. How much longer he can keep from just pouncing. From ravaging Sherlock, right there on the floor in front of the fire.

He wants to shove Sherlock backwards. Tear his trousers open and just swallow him down. See what kind of sounds he can draw out of Sherlock with his lips and his tongue.

It feels like his heartbeat is in his cock. "Christ," he murmurs. "What you're doing to me..."

He wants to shove Sherlock’s hand down to his cock. Rub against those elegant fingers just to ease the throbbing. Instead, he moves it slowly. Giving Sherlock plenty of advance warning of where his hand is going. He guides Sherlock’s hand to his erection. Holds it there a moment before letting go. “Feel how hard you’ve made me.”

Sherlock hesitates for a moment, hand held taut and flat, and then his hand closes around John. Curls instinctively to fit the curve of his cock and slides from tip to base, just like John did to him.

John lets himself go. He hisses, “Oh, yes,’ and rocks into Sherlock’s hand.

And Sherlock mirrors him. He drops his head back, shivering morphing into an all over body shudder. His hand closes down over John, and he groans.

It’s the sexiest thing John’s ever heard. It’s the sexiest thing he’s ever seen. Sherlock Holmes, kneeling. Limned in firelight. Throat exposed, chest flushed and heaving. The hand that’s still trapped in his shirt cuff is at his side, and John would bet it’s clutched into a fist.

“Oh, yes,” John murmurs. “That’s what I want to see. You letting go. Feeling instead of thinking.”

It’s the wrong thing to say.

Sherlock’s eyes pop open, and he straightens up. His sharp gaze locks on John’s face, and he pulls his hand away. “You’re doing this on purpose,” he says, tone full of accusation and annoyance. “Talking to me that way. Saying those things.”

John sighs. Blows out a frustrated breath. He reaches down and catches Sherlock’s trapped hand and draws it up to his knees. Works at getting the button on the cuff undone. “Well, yeah. It's called seduction. You’re not supposed to be thinking and cataloguing while you have sex. You’re supposed to be experiencing it.”

He frees Sherlock’s hand and strokes his wrist gently. Searches for the pulse point. “You’re supposed to be feeling.” He puts such emphasis on the word that his teeth bite down his lip on the ‘f’ sound.

Sherlock tilts his head. “Sentiment?” he quizzes.

John sighs again. “It doesn’t have to be sentiment. It can just be physical. I want you to let go and just enjoy the physical sensations. Just feel. Enjoy.”

“Ah.” Sherlock considers it. “All right.” And he puts his hand back on John’s erection.

John can’t help but shiver. And smile. How silly of him to have thought, even for a moment, that it was going to be easy to sweep Sherlock away on a tide of desire. But then, if he’s honest, has he stuck with Sherlock all this time because things were easy? Wouldn't it be boring if it was?

“Better,” John praises. He cups Sherlock’s hand, rocks it on himself. Has to stop to gasp. It’s kind of kinky, in a mechanical, nasty way, to be basically masturbating himself with Sherlock's hand. But hot and so damned good at the same time. Christ, he could come like this, too. Like a teenager, in his pants, just from rubbing himself against Sherlock's palm. It would be easy to take his own advice and just let go...

But he moves Sherlock’s hand away. “But if we’re going to do this, we’re going to do it right. And that means no deducing.”

Sherlock barely stops himself from rolling his eyes. Instead, he edges forward a bit, settling more comfortably. He puts his hands back on John’s knees, and he purses his lips and blows out a breath.

John stares.

It’s what amounts to a pout, and he can’t help but wonder if Sherlock’s done it deliberately. It’s very pretty, and it’s not something John ever factored into his fantasies. He’s imagined shock on Sherlock’s face. And surprise. Pleasure. Denial (before it was swept away on a tide of desire.) Even a bit of fear, again, swept away.

But that mouth, bowed in a pout... Lips parted, rounded. That’s how Sherlock’s mouth will look, wrapped around his cock.

Before he can even consider it, he puts his finger up to Sherlock’s mouth. Slips it past his lips and strokes the tip of Sherlock’s tongue. “Jesus, your mouth is perfect. I can’t wait to feel it on my cock.”

And that was the right thing to say.

Sherlock draws in a sharp breath, and he blinks.

And even in the dim light, John can see that one moment his eyes are the mixed green/blue/gold that’s so unique, and the next, they’re dark, pupils swallowing all but the barest hint of colour.

Sherlock surges into him, reaching for him.

But this time, there’s no clash of lips and teeth. Sherlock grips John’s face and tilts his head and covers his mouth with his own.

And the kiss is everything John just showed him. And more. Hot and perfect and amazing.

For a minute, it’s weird. Déjà vu-ish, as Sherlock mimics exactly what John did to him. A kiss on the corner of his mouth, his eyes, his jaw. He even copies with a slow, sensual lick on John’s cheekbone. But then he veers off the script and tips John’s head further back. Sucks at his throat, tastes his jaw. Claims John's mouth roughly and sucks at his bottom lip and bites him.

No tender nips there. John's sure he's going to have teeth marks on his lip. And it's...breathtaking. He feels like the fire has suddenly flared up, sending a rush of heat flowing through the room, across his body. He can hear it, crackling and hissing. The sound is outside, but inside, too, in his veins. He groans.

Sherlock pushes one hand up under the edge of his jumper and slides the other back down across his cock. The hand on his ribs is cool and tentative. The one across his zip is rough and sure. It squeezes down. Hard.

And it’s John’s turn to shudder and melt. He arches into Sherlock's touch, wanting to get closer. Wanting more.

Sherlock pulls back abruptly, leaving him gasping. Sherlock gives him a smug smile. “Bed, yes?”

John, still reeling, clears his throat. Maybe Sherlock deducing and cataloguing isn’t such a bad thing after all. Not if this is going to be the result.

“Bed,” John agrees, hoarse but definite. “Yes.”

And Sherlock rises gracefully to his feet, steps back, and holds out his hand.

*****

John wakes, disoriented and thirsty. Morning sun is shining, bright and cheery, through the window, and he throws his arm over his eyes to shut out the blinding light. It must be...half nine, at least. Maybe later.

He can’t remember the last time he slept this late. Even on a day when he’s not scheduled at the clinic, there’s usually Sherlock, waking him to demand the use of his mobile, or to rush him off on a case, or with the alarm clock of violin music. And—

Oh.

Sherlock.

He drops his arm down onto the bed and searches. Finds the space beside him empty and cold.

Cool air feathers down his back as he sits up and searches the room. But there’s no one there.

He’s in Sherlock’s bed. Alone. And naked.

Scent and memory flood him at the same time. The smell of Sherlock, the smell of them. Sex. Them. Together.

His cock twitches at the images that flood through his mind. Vivid and technicolored and better than any fantasy.

He drops back down on the bed and rolls his head on the pillow. Amazing.

Sex with Sherlock had been nothing like he’d imagined...and everything he'd imagined.

John had anticipated the joy of showing Sherlock what he could feel, of showing him what his body could do, of what could be done to his body. John just hadn't understood the heady power of it, the way the wild wash of Sherlock's response would sweep him up, too. His fantasies had been pale and meek, compared to reality. To the way Sherlock felt, moving against him. Under him. The way Sherlock had sounded, groaning, whispering words John had never imagined coming out of that perfect mouth, rasping John’s name in that ragged velvet voice.

His fantasies hadn’t prepared him for Sherlock’s enthusiasm, his fiery excitement, his responsiveness, his inventiveness. Sherlock had even begged. John shivers at the memory. Sherlock pleading breathlessly, arching up into him, begging for John to make him come. 'Now, John, please. Now'! And John had underestimated what it would be like to be the object of all that intensity and focus, because when John had teased Sherlock, reminding him that he'd said, ‘I don’t beg’, Sherlock had rolled over, pinned John to the bed, and used all that John had showed him to make John beg, gladly and enthusiastically, in return.

John shivers again at the memory, smiling a bit, because, damn!, Sherlock is a quick study. But a shiver and a couple of slow, lazy twitches are all his body can manage at the moment.

He’s sated and tender and sticky, even though he remembers, finally, after they were both wrung out and limp with exhaustion, getting up and washing before taking a flannel back to the bed to tenderly clean Sherlock, who despite being almost comatose, hummed with appreciation at the aftercare. So why is he still sticky?

And, oh, yes, now John remembers. Waking sometime in the wee hours of the morning to Sherlock stroking his body with his long, elegant fingers. Pressing his long, elegant cock insistently against John’s hip. Sherlock’s breathy whisper, ‘Is this all right’?, as he stroked John to hardness, too.

He’d shoved the duvet away to watch Sherlock’s hands, grown in confidence and knowledge, moving on his skin. There was just enough moonlight pouring through the window to colour their bodies silvery blue. Just enough light for him to see and make him catch his breath as he pressed his erection against Sherlock’s, as he guided Sherlock's hand to grip them both so he could pleasure them both with those amazing fingers.

And that’s why he’s a bit tender. Probably should have stopped for a little lube instead of depending solely on the slip and slide of flesh and foreskin. But it had been so sexy, so captivating, watching Sherlock deduce how to grip them together, how to tug and pull and stroke until his rhythm was perfect, and they were both breathing hard and heavy into each other’s faces. Lips and tongues meeting for brief kisses before one or the other pulled back to stare at Sherlock’s hand moving on them. And finally, watching each other as they came in turn. Sherlock first, then John, both of them spilling over Sherlock’s fingers. The gasps and moans of pleasure.

It still has the power to make him breathless, and his cock twitches at the remembered sound of Sherlock’s ‘Oh, oh, oh... Oh, god, John!’ as he came. At the surprised (still) expression on his face as John had followed him into orgasm. Sherlock’s face had been tired but luminous and pleased with himself. He’d lifted his messy hand to his mouth and tasted, just a delicate touch of his tongue, like he was trying some gourmet delicacy at a fancy restaurant rather than licking semen off his knuckles. And he’d smiled, even more pleased, and said, “I taste like both of us.” After that, John had been too tired to do much more than swipe at his belly with a corner of the sheet. There hadn’t been much semen, anyway. Not after, what?, two earlier orgasms for him and three for Sherlock.

Waking sticky is a small price to pay for such a memory. He grins at the ceiling and stretches, joints popping and ill-used muscles complaining. He hasn’t done anything like that since he was in his twenties.

And then his grin fades as he remembers why he hasn’t done anything like that since he was young and stupid. Because friendships are lost over things like this. People become awkward and distant.

He thinks of his virgin fetish and how it felt to be the one to introduce Sherlock to all those things. Oral sex. Anal sex. Affection and closeness. How to touch and how to feel. How to give pleasure, and even more, how to receive it. To see Sherlock’s expressions of trepidation and uncertainty turn to disbelief, then delight and ecstasy. To see that intense focus pay off in dividends of smug confidence.

But now John has satisfied his fetish. No more ‘What ifs...’ No more ‘What would Sherlock do...?’ And Sherlock’s got his wish. He’s not a virgin anymore. And they both have to face the morning after.

The fact that Sherlock is up and gone says a lot about how this will probably go.

John lingers, stretching again and trying to burrow down into the pillow that smells of Sherlock. To close his eyes and sleep for just a while longer. But his dread won’t let him. The quiver in his hollowed out gut won’t let him.

He gets up and looks for his clothes, but can find only his jeans, crumpled by the door. He vaguely remembers that he was wearing most of his clothing when he came through the door. He lost his jumper somewhere in the hallway in between breathless kisses and falling into the wall as Sherlock grabbed his arse. But the rest of his clothing should be here somewhere.

It’s the clothes he wore on the drive home yesterday, which won't be fresh, so he gives up the search and goes to the bathroom nude. Silly, anyway, to be worried about being seen without clothing considering all that they’ve done to each other in the last few hours. He showers, brushes his teeth. Goes up to his room for clean clothes. And then spends several minutes standing in the doorway, looking down the stairs, breathing. Just breathing. Trying to convince himself to go down. To face...whatever it is he’ll have to face.

It’s ridiculous, he knows. He’s faced mortars and gunfire and war, people he’s never even seen bent on killing him for the sake of politics and philosophy and religion. Killers and psychopaths, and just yesterday, a massive, red-eyed hound. He’s had plenty of morning-after experiences, even a couple with complete strangers whose names he couldn’t remember. But he isn’t sure how to face one odd, sarcastic flatmate after a night of stunning sex.

But...it’s par for the course. It’s Sherlock. No matter how often he’s a dick, no matter how often John thinks of smothering him in his sleep with a pillow, Sherlock’s friendship is important to him. Maybe the most important of his life. And he doesn’t want to lose it. Not even for a night of amazing, stupendous sex.

And he has to figure out how to act so that he won’t lose it. He has to be ready for whatever his mercurial flatmate throws at him.

Will Sherlock act like nothing happened? Will he be silent and withdrawn, curled up on the sofa with his back to the room? Will he be in a snit, blaming John? Or wild-eyed and manic? Will he be flitting around, humming like a heroine in a novel?

This last, nonsensical, ridiculous image makes John smile. ‘As if’, he thinks, and it’s enough to get him moving. To make him determined, if not brave.

He pauses in the doorway to the living room. He’s half hoping, in the back of his mind, that Sherlock has gone out. He's not exactly wishing for a grisly murder. (That would be awful). But a case would be good, something simple but time consuming, even another hound from hell. Anything that would give him an excuse to put this off for a while longer would be good.

But Sherlock is there. Standing at the window, looking out. He’s barefoot, wearing only a pair of pyjama pants that must be only half tied, because they’re hanging like they’d slide off if he twitched. He has his violin in one hand and the bow in the other, and they’re dangling from his long fingers, hanging at his sides as precariously as the cotton pyjamas are clinging to his slender hips. His hair is curling about his neck and ears, still damp from a shower.

And John wants, with a sudden, sharp bolt of desire, to put his hand, just so, on the sharp jut of Sherlock’s hipbone. To press his lips to the equally sharp jut of shoulder blade. To slide his other hand around and flatten it on Sherlock’s chest. Feel the in and out of his breath, the steady bass thump of his heartbeat. Sherlock’s skin will be cool and clean and soft, and John wants to taste it, to warm it.

But what will Sherlock do if he does that? Will he lean back into John’s arms? Will he drop his head back and turn his face for a kiss? Or will he tense and pull away? Will his face go blank as he gives out some version of ‘I consider myself married to my work’?

As if he can read John’s thoughts in the bright morning air, Sherlock turns, just the barest twist of his long torso, muscles rippling across his bare back, and looks over his shoulder. For a moment, the same trepidation and uncertainty that John is feeling is mirrored on Sherlock’s face. But then his incredible mouth lifts at the corners with just the hint of a shy smile.

And with just that tiny smile, John knows everything is fine between them. Better than fine. Because, this time, that ‘I want’ doesn’t have to be a fantasy any more, does it?

John toes off his shoes and pads barefoot across the room, giving Sherlock plenty of time to move away if he wants. But Sherlock doesn’t move, and John lays his hand on Sherlock’s hip, just so. Kisses the jut of scapula just the way he imagined, and then presses his cheek to Sherlock’s spine. And he sighs. Because he was right. About almost everything. Sherlock’s skin is soft and clean and cool. It smells sweetly of soap and warmly, uniquely, of Sherlock. And, maybe, just a little bit, still of them. And Sherlock does slump back, the sharp, angular contours of his body moulding to fit against him.

But Sherlock doesn’t lean his head back. He turns it and plants a snuffling kiss high on the side of John’s head. And he murmurs, “Good morning.” He reaches back with the hand holding the violin and loops his long arm around John’s waist, drawing him in even closer.

Morning, mint toothpaste breath feathers downs the side of John’s face and into his lungs. The violin bumps against his arse and the strings vibrate a discordant, sibilant protest at being stroked across corduroy.

John smiles, and all the tension, all the worry, drains out of him. Because it all feels fine. It feels wonderful. And he wonders... What if he caught Sherlock’s wrists and guided his hands up—

And John stops himself and laughs at his own foolishness, his own blindness, his lips muffled against Sherlock’s bare shoulder. How could he have not seen?

“What?” Sherlock whispers.

John kisses his shoulder and pitches his voice low. “I was just wondering...if I did this...” He gives the string of Sherlock’s pyjamas a little jerk. The string slips through his fingers, and the cotton whispers against Sherlock’s skin as it slides to the floor and pools around his feet. “And then this...” John leans back just far enough to strip his t-shirt over his head. He doesn’t bother unbuttoning and unzipping. He just sucks his belly in and shoves his cords down his hips, shimmies slightly to make them puddle down, shoves them aside. “And this...” He plasters himself against Sherlock’s cool, nude body, feeling as much as hearing Sherlock's soft exclamation. “...whether you would do this.” He loops his fingers around Sherlock’s wrists and guides his hands, with bow and violin, into position. And then he puts one hand, just so, across Sherlock’s flat belly and the other across his chest and waits.

He feels the quiver that runs the length of Sherlock’s back. The quick intake of breath. He can see only the barest reflection of Sherlock’s face in the window, not enough to see whether his pupils dilate, but enough to see that his face flushes warm and pink and that his tongue darts out to moisten his lips.

Sherlock meets his gaze in the window for just a moment, and his eyes are wide and glittering. Then he shifts his feet, just enough to widen his stance, and he lifts his elbow to position the bow on the strings.

As the first tone vibrates from the violin, a sound like a moan whispered on the wind, John closes his eyes and rests his forehead against Sherlock’s back. And he smiles and sends Mycroft a silent apology for all the times he’s taken his name in vain.

Because it may be Mycroft’s fault that the idea started up in his head. But it’s never been a virgin fetish, has it? It’s a Sherlock Holmes fetish.

And that’s just fine.

###