A/N: This is a translation of a beautiful fic by Treggie Di. I'm just a translater, and my native language is russian, so if you see some grammar fails, or speech errors - let me know, my only beta is Google Translate.

And review, please - I will translate your thoughts and words to the author. Feedback is highly appreciated! =)

Birds and bees. Pestles and stamens. So, who was supposed to have this talk with Sherlock? Was it mysterious Mummy, who continues to invite Sherlock to dinner, but never calls, never visits, and always operates through Mycroft?
Unlikely.
Or was it Mr. Holmes, who is not even mentioned by both of the brothers?
Extremely doubtful.
Mycroft?
John frowns. Now matter how much Mycroft cares, his job is more like checking all the Sherlock's potential partners for sexually transmitted diseases, not to simply explain what is what.
It's not that Sherlock doesn't know about sex. He probably studied it...theoretically. He's possibly read different studies. Maybe he can even write a thesis on the subject of coitus.
Sherlock. The one, who instead of "ass", childishly says "backside".
Sherlock, who uses the riding crop only on dead bodies.
The Virgin Sherlock.
Huh. Birds and bees. Pestles and stamens.
Pestles and pestles. That is fine too, nowdays.
Yeah.
Sherlock comes into the kitchen, and rises an eyebrow.
- John? I remember, about an hour ago, you promised me tea.
- I got back from work only ten minutes ago.
- So what's about tea?
- Make it yourself, - grumbles John, washing the cups. Boiling the kettle. Adding milk.
He must take care of Sherlock. God knows why, but it's him, who must keep doing it. Taking care of scampish Sherlock, who forgets to eat, doesn't know about the Solar system, and...
Never slept with anyone.
John feels responsibility. He must talk with Sherlock; birds and bees, it shouldn't be too hard.
John decides that tea is enough for now.

It is all because of Irene Adler. Even when John had met her the first time, he felt she will bring nothing but trouble. Naked woman, completely naked! It's worth considering who is more sociopathic of these two - Sherlock, who appeared in nothing but a sheet in a palace, or this lady, attacking men whith a whip.
Huh. Sherlock and the sheet. This is, without a doubt, a sucker punch. "In the sofa's right corner - striking tandem Sherlock&Sheet, in the left corner - John Watson! Fight! And immediately - K.O.! Ten! Nine! Eight..."
"Are you wearing any pants?", - said John back then. He should not have said it. He sholdn't have even let himself think in this direction. The sight of Sherlock, shaggy and scowling, wrapped in a sheet in the middle of royal glory, replaced all the smaller fantasies from John's head (including the one about an ashtray).
"No", - Sherlock answered.
"Three...Two...One. John Watson defeated!"
John Watson had been defeated a long time ago. But it became harder lately. At first the sheet. Then naked Adler, hitting on Sherlock. And Sherlock himself - frozen, not knowing where to put his hands. He was not comfortable, and John sensed it right away. Sensed it really strong, and interfered immediately.
"Would you like to wear something?"
Adler, obviously did not. Spoiled woman. Cruel. And stupid, on top of all.
"Are you jealous?" - she asked once. And added: "You're a great couple."
Very stupid woman, indeed.

- John.
- Mm-hm.
- John.
- Yes, Sherlock?
- John.
Sigh. Be patient. Close laptop.
- I'm attentively listening to you.
- But not looking.
- What?
- You're listening, but not looking. Tell me, is it comfortable to talk with someone, without looking at them?
Clench teeth.
- You do it all the time.
Sherlock lays on the sofa, his impossibly long legs stretched. He watches the ceiling thoughtfully. John prefers a floor. Not so tiring for his neck.
- You've always looked at me, when I called before, - says Sherlock. He sounds casually. Too indifferent. - And now you're answering without taking your eyes off the screen. Or the wall. Or the carpet.
- Don't know. I didn't notice, - says John tensely. He gets up, comes to the sofa, and looks straight down at Sherlock. - Better now?
- Yes, - Sherlock answers quietly.
Calm down, heart. Just calm down.
- So, what did you want? - who will win in a calmness game? Oh, John knows, without a doubt. He is never able to keep calm. Not with Sherlock. He became disgustingly emotional, though he thought that the war burnt that out of him. But no way! A couple of months living with Sherlock, and John shouts at the chip-and-pin machine, shouts at the laptop, shouts when he lost again in Angry Birds, shouts at Sherlock.
Shouts at Sherlock.
Maybe his endurance is nothing. But he has enough self-control not to...not to lean...lower...lips to lips...like this...lightly part them, letting his tongue to touch Sherlock's upper lip...feel his taste, slightly bitter, like tea...
- John.
Jon exhales sharply, trying to get back to reality.
- John. My bow.
- Your bow, - John repeates obediently, and reddens.- Yeah. I'll look for it. Although, what the hell, Sherlock? I'm not your bloody housekeeper! Find it yourself! Try to remember where you stuck it last time!
Damn. It is not possible to get redder anymore.
- John.
Turn around. Stride across the room. This bloody bow should be somwhere! Ah, there it is. On the window. Yeah, where else should it be?
- John.
- Now what?
- You're strange.
John closes his eyes.