Author's Note: This is my first foray into Sherlock fandom, and my first attempt at slash and a threesome so please be kind. Warnings for consensual polyamory, please don't read if you don't like that kind of thing. Reviews gladly welcomed and PMs promptly responded to. Enjoy! (Oh, I own nothing but the smutty plot, such as it is, and the words that come out of the character's mouths.)

Gahh! Forgot to mention that this was totally inspired by jennoftheglenn's brilliant "John's Interludes for Three." Go. Read. Now! (After, ahem, reading this first...)

Part One: Johnlock

It starts with an accidentally overheard wank session and escalates quickly from there.

Sherlock Holmes is the first to admit that he is out of his depth when it comes to most forms of social interaction, except where it pertains directly to a case – and even then he has come to rely heavily on his few friends and colleagues to assist him when even his keen mind is baffled by the emotional aspects.

He used to have one friend; now he counts himself as having two close ones – John Watson and Molly Hooper – and two not quite as close friends, his landlady, Martha Hudson, and DI Greg Lestrade. Even though the man tried to arrest him for a crime he didn't commit, even though that action was part of the chain that ultimately lead to Sherlock having to fake his own death (with the invaluable assistance of Molly Hooper), he is still counted as a friend. Because one thing Sherlock Holmes does not do is hold a grudge.

Well, except for his brother Mycroft, but family grudges are completely different.

He has been back from his two-year exile for nearly six months, has seen his reputation restored, been briefly a celebrity again, and has once more been able to sink back into relative (and much preferred) obscurity as some other new scandal captures the public attention.

He knows he will never be able to fully return to the life Moriarty disrupted, but he is satisfied with the way things are.

More or less.

One major change has occurred in his psyche since he jumped off the roof of St. Bart's: he is no longer as contemptuous of sentiment as he once was.

He still regards it as a weakness; after all, if he hadn't had feelings for Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson and John Watson, he never would have found himself in the position of having to fake his death in the first place.

On the other hand, it is sentiment that has saved him as well, since if Molly Hooper hadn't loved him so completely and unconditionally (in spite of years of him trying his best to push her away, to prove to her that he was unworthy of her love and loyalty) he would never have had someone to assist him, and his fake suicide might have ended up being real.

All in all, he decides to consider it a wash. Sentiment is a weakness, yes, but he has discovered that it can also be a strength.

However, it has also placed him into his current dilemma.

When he first met John Watson, on that memorable night where they became involved in the case his blogger has called "A Study In Pink," he told him he considered himself married to his work. At the time, he'd mistakenly believed John was attempting to initiate some sort of romantic or at least sexual relationship with him.

Since then he has come to understand that John is firmly heterosexual, always has been, and that it was simply courtesy and an attempt to learn more about his potential flat mate that prompted his questions regarding Sherlock's relationship status. An embarrassing error, but Sherlock freely admits that such things – not just girlfriends – are not his area.

Now, however, when he has tentatively come to the conclusion that he would like to initiate a sexual relationship with Molly Hooper, he has made an interesting – and completely accidental – discovery, all because he needed tooth floss.

John is in the shower when Sherlock bounds up the stairs, intending to simply duck into the other man's lav and snag the tooth floss from where it habitually rests on the edge of the sink. As he eases open the unlocked door, he hears John's voice from the shower and realizes that he is masturbating.

This is nothing unusual; when John is in between girlfriends he is a rather enthusiastic wanker, highly vocal and unrestrained from what Sherlock has ascertained through several unintended overhearings, generally deep in the night when John could reasonably expect to have complete privacy. The first time was when Sherlock was supposed to be out at a rather tedious diplomatic dinner at his brother Mycroft's behest, investigating the possibility that the diplomat in question was selling state secrets to the Russians (he was). Sherlock had determined his culpability early on, texted the proof to his brother and excused himself before dessert was served.

When he'd returned home, it was to discover that he needed the tooth floss to remove some stubborn remnants of the overdone pork he'd eaten only for the sake of his cover, had none of his own and run up the stairs to borrow John's.

The other man had neglected to completely shut his bedroom door, and Sherlock was treated to the sounds of his enthusiastic groans and swears and a litany of women's names that made it clear exactly what activity the other man was treating himself to.

Sherlock had never and never would allow himself to be pigeonholed sexually. He'd long subsumed his physical passions (aside from the occasional need to relieve himself by the same method John was currently employing, although much more quietly) in the work, ignoring them to the point where many thought they simply didn't exist – John included.

That first overheard masturbation session had, however, stirred something long dormant in him, and he'd hastily backed down the stairs before he was tempted to continue listening long enough to develop an erection and find himself in need of similar relief.

He'd filed John's activities away, but hadn't deleted the memory, and hadn't bothered exploring why that was. Nor had he deleted the additional six other masturbatory occasions he'd accidentally overheard whilst in the process of borrowing something from John's washroom (he was constantly finding himself running out of shampoo or conditioner or soap and John had apparently decided it was best to just keep extras on hand since Sherlock was going to "borrow" them no matter how much he protested). He didn't try to understand why he kept those memories filed away instead of deleting them, either.

Until now, three years later, when he finds himself in a similar position, overhearing the other man's groans and moans and muttered swears, the slap of skin on skin as his hand works his shaft, all to the accompaniment of the shower – and finds himself rooted to the floor when he distinctly hears his own name being uttered.

Well. This is…unexpected. John has always been straight as a die, always has been (not even experimental sessions in school or at uni or in the army), so what has caused this change?

He mulls it over as he continues to listen, knowing he should leave but too intrigued (and, although he is loathe to admit it, aroused) by what he is overhearing to do so. He tentatively concludes that during his absence, which he knows John felt keenly, that he'd mourned his friend's supposed death a great deal more than Sherlock believed – and that, at some point during that absence, John's feelings for him must have altered to include physical desire.

He feels his arousal increasing at that realization, and finally makes his way out of the washroom (carefully returning the tooth floss to its exact location once he pulls out a long enough strand to take care of his inconvenient problem), backing out and softly closing the door.

Once on the other side, he leans on the door for a long moment, continuing to listen as John reaches his climax, hoarsely calling out Sherlock's name as he does so (God, Sherlock, fuck, yeah, so good, Sherlock...).

This alters a great deal. Unless, of course, it is simply a one-off, an experiment on John's part. Or perhaps it is only something he would feel comfortable with fantasizing about rather than allowing such intimacies outside of the privacy of his own mind.

In any case, Sherlock has inadvertently invaded that privacy and concludes that there is nothing he can do about it except leave John to his shower.

This would present no problem but for two things: the memory refuses to remain in the room he has reserved for all things sexual in his mind palace; and his change in perception toward Molly Hooper.

Since allowing himself to recognize that there he does have some use for sentiment, to consider the possibility of allowing himself to once again indulge in sexual relations (contrary to what Jim Moriarty believed, Sherlock is not and has not been a virgin since his first year at uni), he has only considered a monogamous relationship with Molly Hooper. She loves him, she wants him, and, more importantly, she seems to understand his emotional limitations.

The question is, would she be willing to share him with John if John is, indeed, willing to explore an alternate sexuality to what he has always wanted in the past?

Because he himself is certainly not averse to the possibilities opening up before him.

He will have to conduct further research before any conclusions can be reached. He will start with John, he decides as he moves silently down the stairs and enters his bedroom.

oOo

When John emerges from the shower he is feeling the usual mix of guilt and pleasure and shame and physical satisfaction and emotional turmoil he always does these days after wanking off to the fantasy of Sherlock Holmes sucking his dick. He's not gay, he's never been gay, never had stirrings of any kind even during a prostate exam – of which he's undergone exactly five – yet ever since Sherlock's supposed suicide and miraculous return, he's found himself entertaining thoughts and ideas that have never even invaded his sleeping mind in the past.

It is incredibly disturbing; for the first time in his adult life, he feels uncomfortable in his own skin, as if some invading force has taken over his subconscious and inserted desires there he never would have entertained on his own.

His worries that he is undergoing some late-in-life conversion to homosexuality are relieved when he covertly views some gay porn and finds himself completely and utterly uninterested in it as anything other than instructional – so those were the positions possible, hmm, he'd have thought only "doggie style" would work, interesting…but as for becoming aroused by the men themselves? Nothing. Not so much as a single stirring in his dick.

However, picturing himself and Sherlock in some of those poses…he is harder than he's ever been in his life, or at least that's how it feels.

To make it even more confusing, he still wants to have sex with women – any woman at this point, he thinks, since he's been in a mostly self-inflicted dry spell since Sherlock's disappearance and reappearance. In fact, the only woman not old enough to be his mother he's spent any time with lately has been Molly Hooper.

He was a bit out of sorts with her once her part in Sherlock's fake suicide was revealed (only to him, Mrs. Hudson and DI Lestrade, since she could be liable for breaking any number of laws if the world at large was to discover the part she played), but that has passed. He has gone from resentment and outrage to grudging acceptance and even admiration for her ability to keep her mouth shut when she knew how much Sherlock's friends were hurting, to complete understanding at how difficult and painful it has been for her. Almost as painful as if Sherlock had actually offed himself, truth be told, since she bore a great deal of guilt as well as the heaviness of keeping such a secret to herself.

He's always admired her rather gruesome skill set, the way she remains so cheerful even when cutting open a corpse, how well she's always handled herself in spite of the constant disappointment of Sherlock never noticing that she is a willing female who wants him and loves him and would do anything for him. She kept it together at that horrible Christmas party – the first and last one he ever gave – when Sherlock ripped her to shreds without ever meaning to, oblivious to her feelings until it was almost too late to salvage her regard for him.

The way he'd apologized – actually, sincerely apologized, a first in John's book – and kissed her on the cheek had gone a long toward his redemption. If Irene fucking Adler and her moaning text tone hadn't interrupted, who knew how things might have progressed? Sherlock recognizing that Molly actually had feelings and that he'd hurt them – and had been hurting them for a very long time – had been a huge step, progress being made toward becoming more human. But Irene Adler and her games had derailed any progress that might have been made, leaving Molly Hooper back where she'd always been, or at least, back where John had always believed her to be: on the periphery, in Sherlock's orbit but unnoticed except when he needed something from her, to be given insincere flattery and smiles in exchange for her assistance.

She'd since assured John that that hadn't been the case when Sherlock had sought out her help during the Moriarty business. He'd told her she counted and that he'd always trusted her, then turned around and actually proved himself to sincerely mean those words. Unfortunately the circumstances then had been even worse than during the Adler case and so things between the two of them had only progressed, to John's knowledge, as far as friendship, in spite of Molly's obvious longing for more.

While Sherlock was "dead" he'd even toyed with the idea of asking Molly out, letting himself get drunk enough to proposition her and see if they could work off some of their grief together. Although he quickly gave up on that idea as pointless since it was clear Molly was never going to get over his best friend, dead or alive, he'd still entertained quite a few fantasies in which she featured quite heavily.

Still does, truth be told. Almost as many fantasies as Sherlock himself now occupies in his mind. He'd even had a few where the three of them…but that will never happen. Molly has no interest in him as anything other than a friend, and Sherlock, although a bit more open to sentiment than he had been before his fall from the roof, is still the same sexless androgyne he'd been before.

Still The Virgin, probably forever The Virgin, just as Mycroft would always be The Iceman. And if things keep on like this, he'll always be the fucking Confirmed Bachelor when all he'd wanted for years was to find the right woman and settle into married life, maybe have a few kids and a house in the suburbs.

Well. That might be a bit disingenuous of him, especially since he knows what an adrenaline junkie he really is. It certainly spices up his fantasy life when he pictures himself – with either Sherlock or Molly or both – falling into bed together after some life-threatening situation has been overcome.

Molly frequently needs rescuing in his favorite fantasies, requiring that he untie her from a bed or chair and ending with her grateful mouth on his dick…

He is half hard by the time he enters the sitting room, discreetly adjusting his jeans as he does so…

…and coming to a shocked stop in the doorway as he is greeted with the sight of Sherlock Holmes, completely naked, sitting cross-legged on the couch with John's laptop the only thing covering him.

oOo

Sherlock had listened carefully as John made his way down the stairs, staging himself so that he could see the results of his little experiment quite clearly from the corner of his eye whilst appearing to be fully engrossed in the computer screen before him. John had paused half-way down as if he'd forgotten something and intended to return to his en suite, but after nearly twenty seconds of silence had resumed his journey to the main floor of the shared flat.

Whatever the reason, he dismisses that slight pause from his mind, concentrating on the experiment at hand. When he hears John enter the room and then immediately stop, sucking in his breath in a startled hiss, he keeps his lips from quirking up in a satisfied smile, instead scowling fiercely at the screen and punching in a rapid series of keystrokes meant only to convince John that he is concentrating so hard on what he is doing that he is unaware of the other man's entrance into the room.

He hears a distinct swallowing sound as John remains where he's stopped, obviously unsure how to proceed with this unexpected sight. Yes, Sherlock has wandered round the flat clad in nothing but his boxers or a sheet from his bed, but he has never deliberately flaunted his nudity this way. It is…rather freeing, to allow himself to be so deliberately provocative while pretending to be simply unselfconscious, and it is certainly alluring to feel John's eyes on him as he pretends to remain unaware of his friend's presence.

From the corner of his eye he has a clear view of John's midsection and groin, and what is clearly an erection grows visibly larger as John makes a strangled sound and turns and bolts up the stairs. "For God's sake, Sherlock, put some fucking clothes on!" he calls out as he races back up to his room. "I'm not coming back down until you're fucking decent!"

The sound of his door slamming brings a very satisfied smiled to Sherlock's face. Experiment successful. John is, indeed, sexually interested in him.

He jumps up from the couch, closing the laptop and depositing it on the coffee table as he quietly makes his way upstairs.

None of the interior doors of the flat lock, so he is able to ease John's door open after listening carefully for a moment. There is nothing wrong with continuing to gather data, even when the conclusion seems inevitable.

He hears John groaning, the bed springs give a slight squeak, and then he hears what he has been hoping to hear: the sound of his own name, followed by a spate of curse words...and then, interestingly enough...the sound of Molly Hooper's name.

He eases the door open wide enough to edge into the room. John's eyes are screwed shut as he lies back on his bed, legs dangling over the side. One hand is firmly grasping his cock – a lovely shade of red at the moment and a bit larger than Sherlock had estimated, mmmm – and the other cups his balls as he moans out Sherlock's name again.

It is too much for Sherlock to resist. He strides noiselessly to the bedside, his own erection bobbing as he walks. He strokes himself as he watches John – naked only from the waist down, shirt and jumper rucked up around his armpits – then drops to his knees between the other man's legs.

"Why don't you let me help you with that, John?" he asks, deliberately lowering his voice to a deeper register.

Then he pushes John's hands away, leans forward, and takes his friend's cock into his mouth, sucking hard and snapping his eyes shut at the sheer pleasure of the moment.

oOo

John's eyes snap open as he hears Sherlock's voice; what the fuck is he doing...

A deep groan escapes him as he feels Sherlock's mouth slip over the head of his dick, sucking and licking. He has shoved John's hands away, and he is momentarily too stunned to react.

When he does react, it isn't the way his mind insists he should. He does not shout or stand up or shove Sherlock away from between his legs.

He groans again and sits up, burying his hands in the other man's hair. "Christ, Sherlock, yeah, just like that, God, suck harder, please..."

And he does. For once in his life Sherlock bloody Holmes actually – and quite enthusiastically – takes direction from John Watson. He is a bloody miracle, those plump lips stretched out around John's girth, his head leaning forward as he takes John's entire length into his mouth and throat and...oh GOD...licks John's testicles, one at a time, massaging them with his tongue and it's so good, so fucking good, the best he's ever had, no blow job was ever like this, the only thing that could make this moment even more perfect would be if a woman – preferably Molly Hooper – was riding his face with her cunt...

He comes with a shout, a jumble of swears and Sherlock's name and even, he realizes after the fact, Molly's name.

Sherlock swallows his cum and kisses the tip of John's cock as he allows it to slide out of his mouth when John starts coming down from his orgasmic high.

"Yes, John, you're not gay," he says before his friend can do more than open his mouth on the obvious protests. "However, it is possible to make a single exception for the right person, as we've just demonstrated."

John stares at him, clearly flustered, clearly wrestling with his perception of himself juxtaposed against the rather intense orgasm he's just experienced at the hands – and mouth – of another man. His closest friend.

"Christ," he finally mutters, collapsing back on the bed, one arm over his eyes. "Yeah, I'm not gay. I don't have sex with men."

He then does something remarkable. He looks at Sherlock, who has risen to his feet, and pats the bed next to him. "Lie down," he grumbles. Sherlock does so, cautiously, not sure if he is about to be lectured or throttled for taking matters into his own hands – er, mouth.

"You heard me, in the shower," John says.

Sherlock nods cautiously. John removes his arm from his eyes and turns on his side to study his friend's face. He reaches out and traces a line from Sherlock's ear to his chin with one finger. "I don't have sex with men," he repeats, softer this time, and Sherlock nods, expecting to be told this was a one-off and it will never happen again...

...when John once again surprises him. He sighs and traces Sherlock's lower lip with his thumb. "I only have sex with one man. You," he says, a slight grin curving his lips.

Sherlock returns the expression and reaches out to trace the same line down John's cheek and chin. He gets the reference; of course he does.

I have only one friend. You.

Only now he has two friends. And when he explains his plans to John, how he intends to bring Molly Hooper into this new relationship – for his own sake as well as John's, not, he reassures the other man, merely because he knows John will be much more comfortable if there is at least one person in bed with a vagina and breasts – his words are greeted with a smile.

And a kiss, his first kiss from John Watson, John Watson's first kiss with another man.

As their tongues touch, John's bashful, Sherlock's eager, he feels John's hand stroking down his side, to his abdomen, and is hard-pressed to restrain his glee. He had anticipated that John would not be ready to reciprocate this first go-round, no matter if he accepted this change between them or not, but John once said "it's all good" and meant it, so it really should be no surprise that he's eager to explore this new aspect of his sexuality.

His hand fists itself around Sherlock's cock, and the consulting detective doesn't bother to restrain his groan of pleasure. He knows it won't take long, especially since John continues kissing him, nipping at Sherlock's throat when they need to breathe, licking the sweat from his neck while Sherlock reaches around and runs his hands over John's arse. He is fit and compact and God he wants to slide his fingers up the other man's hole but restrains himself.

Next time. Because, oh God, yes, there will be a next time, but this time is perfect, bloody perfect, John's hands are both on his cock now, one cupping his balls, the other stroking stroking stroking until Sherlock comes with a shout as John nips his throat and sucks on it and there will be more sex and Molly and it will. Be. Perfect.