Nick: Heya, I've been writing. Here's a little sample of what I've been doing. Hope you like it. John explores aspects of Sherlock's sexuality...sort of.

Disclaimer: I'm not that crazy. I'm only this crazy. That? That's all them.

Rating: M...sexuality, kink/fetish, autoerotic asphyxiation

It all started on a case which had absolutely nothing to do with asphyxiation. The murder was fairly simple—if one could describe murder that way. In fact, I wasn't too sure why Sherlock had decided to investigate in the first place. Even I figured out it was the uncle about an hour in. Sherlock didn't listen to me, of course, had to make sure himself. On his way out, he tossed on a ratty overcoat that I'd never seen before and told me not to wait up. I flipped on the Telly and waited for him.

He didn't come back until it was more morning than night. I'd fallen asleep in my armchair with the TV on, but I woke abruptly when he slammed the flat door shut behind him. Against the darkness in the room, Sherlock looked stark white—whiter than usual. I blinked a few times to clear the sleep from my eyes. "Sherlock?"

"Told you not to wait up," he said quietly, breathily.

As Sherlock often reminded me, I wasn't good at analyzing people. I couldn't see all of the little nuances that defined a person down to their toilet habits, the way he could. Tonight, though, I noticed his shaking hands and his searching eyes…and the bruises on his neck. "What happened?" I demanded.

"You were right," he replied absently, "It was the uncle."

"I know, I already phoned Lestrade, what? Five hours ago."

While I spoke, Sherlock pulled his scarf off of his shoulder and tossed the overcoat to the ground. He stripped off the rest of his clothing on his way to his bedroom. I got a nice, clear view of his pale arse before that door slammed too. I'll admit, it was a bit more of Sherlock than I wanted to see this time of night. However, I couldn't quite get past the oddness of this encounter to be annoyed. Sherlock was Sherlock, and not much that he did could surprise me anymore. But this…

I got up, stretching out a kink in my neck and shoulder. It's what I get for sleeping in that chair, I suppose. "Sherlock?" I called as I approached his door. "You alright?"

There was no response at first, just some frantic shuffling, syncopated by things hitting walls and the door. "Go to bed, John," he said.

Just because he'd told me not to, I was tempted to stay up for the rest of the night. Curiosity kept me in place, as well. I had my hand on his door knob, ready to turn it and go in when something heavy and hard slammed against the other side of the door. My heart leapt into my throat, and I figured it was probably better to just leave him be and get some sleep.

The morning after that strange occurrence, Sherlock was abnormally excited, hyper even—I might even go so far as to call him…bubbly. He looked high, even, but I had hidden his stash somewhere he wouldn't find it so I knew it wasn't that. For three days, he was bouncing off of the walls, taking in tedious case after tedious case for something to do instead of just sitting in the flat and being bored. There was also this sort of glow around him—it faded as the days went by, but it was definitely a glow. In a week, he was back to normal, so I just let it go as a freakish anomaly. Those happened a lot around Sherlock Holmes.

Quickly, he got bored again. He stayed on the couch for days on end in his robe and ate whenever he was too lightheaded to think. It was nothing new. He used my computer more and more, of course he never asked first. He didn't bother to erase the search history when he was done; I suppose he didn't care if I saw it, but… Choking. Strangulation. Hypoxyphilia. Autoerotic asphyxiation…

I remembered the bruises I saw forming on his neck that night. I'm a medical man, so I notice these things—plus the fact that he wore his scarf indoors to cover them up for days. I don't have to be Sherlock Holmes to figure out what was going on, but I admit it surprised me. Sexual asphyxiation came up more often in a medical career than one would think—even in the army. It has a certain physiology, a science to it that I'd come to understand after saving a few too many people from themselves.

Thinking about that abstractly was one thing, but I couldn't quite put it in the same sentence as Sherlock Holmes. The man proved on several occasions to be the very definition of asexual. He'd never had a relationship, never even hinted a need for physical contact in any way. He didn't even touch people, with the exception of Mrs. Hudson. The one time he touched me—he had grabbed my head and demanded that I remember—it was so shocking I almost checked his vitals.

I came home one night with groceries—milk, beans, tea—and while I was locking up the front door, I heard something odd coming from our flat. Sherlock was yelling. And someone was yelling back. I couldn't make out what was being said. Then, a door slammed and a man came down the stairs shoving something in his satchel. He was blonde and his shirt was open—and the thing that he was tucking away looked vaguely like a noose. When he saw me standing there, he hid the bag behind him and had the gall to smile at me.

"Who the hell are you?" I snapped.

He immediately stepped back, on the defensive with a frown on his face. I had offended him, but he'd yelled at my roommate, so I couldn't really care about his feelings. "Who the hell are you?"

I put the grocery bag on the table by the door. "I live here," I replied calmly. "Does he pay you? How much?"

For a moment he looked confused, like I had made an unfounded accusation. I didn't have to be Sherlock Holmes to tell he was a prostitute. "Fifty quid a visit." The idea of Sherlock paying a rent boy was one thing, but this guy implied that it was a regular occurrence. "You his boyfriend or something?"

I didn't want to grace that with a response, but…I pulled my gun from behind my back. Since I'd come to know Sherlock so well, I kept my gun with me more often. "Don't come back here again," I said with a smile, "no matter how much he pays you. If I ever see you here again, I'll shoot you." Something must have been wrong with me to threaten him like that, but it still felt right.

"Yeah right," he scoffed. "You're insane."

"No, I have a gun, it's loaded and you are now trespassing. And by the change in your voice, you're scared of me."

When I got upstairs, Sherlock was in his room. However, the fight he must have had was all over the living room. I started to put things away, but there wasn't enough room for milk in the fridge with the bag of tongues on the top shelf. Half of our books made their way off of the bookshelf, so I put them back. I picked up the skull and placed it on the mantel. I had to sweep up a few shattered teacups. As I was throwing them away, I glanced down the hall and noticed Sherlock's door open.

Before I really knew what I was doing, I was down the hall pushing the door open. "Sherlock, you alright? You left your door—oh…"

He stood at the foot of his bed, fully clothed with his scarf pulled tight around his throat. When he saw me, he yanked it loose. "You should have knocked," he insisted, looking away. "I see you met Rory. I guess I won't see him again anytime soon."

"The door was open, so I…just checking in." I felt a bit awkward, standing in his doorway like this. "I bought milk."

"Good, thanks."

A few moments passed; he wasn't looking at me and I was staring at him. His neck was red; his hands wrung his scarf continuously. Sherlock Holmes didn't get nervous, he didn't get embarrassed, and he definitely didn't admit that he had no idea. For once in his life, he wasn't sure. His confidence that served as a protective blanket was missing. There was something undeniably raw about him right at that moment. He stood stiffly, and I could just barely see a pinkish tint on his face peeking out from the dangling curls of black hair.

I realized then, why I'd been so desperate to get that prostitute out of here—why I had threatened him. That man—Rory—he wasn't allowed to touch Sherlock. I couldn't just let Sherlock allow that to happen. Sherlock Holmes, my flatmate, would barely shake hands if he couldn't avoid it. He rarely touched me, so he wasn't allowed to go around touching other people.

"What?" he said at length.

I stepped into the room finally, closing the door behind me. "You shouldn't do that," but that wasn't what I had meant to say. "By yourself, I mean." Better… "It's dangerous, you could die."

"Thank you, Mycroft. I don't need a lecture."

"No, I think you do." I grabbed that damn scarf and yanked it away so he wouldn't have the excuse to stare at his hands as if he was interested. "I am your friend, Sherlock. Your friend. Why couldn't you come to me with this? Why can't you just tell me something like this? Just tell me."

"What do you want me to tell you?" His voice had dropped to that dangerous, enraged low. "What? 'Heya, John, I get a hard on when someone tries to kill me!'" He spun away, all dramatic flair that was typical of Sherlock Holmes. This time, without the flowing coat and self-assured waltz in the other direction. He pressed his hands down to the surface of his chest of drawers.

"No," I said, coming up behind him. "No, that's not how it is and you know it. I'm a doctor, damn it. I know…I know why it feels good." He scoffed and pushed himself up from the bureau, making to go around me. I grabbed his arm and pulled him back. "Listen to me!"

"This is why I didn't tell you in the first place. I don't need a bloody intervention!"

He was yelling in my face, on the defensive like a cornered mouse. I sighed and took a few steps back. "That's not—I'm not going to tell you to stop." His glare lessened slightly, and I took a pause to let that sink in.

"You're not?"

"No, and if you'd just listen to me…" which was the most ridiculous thing I'd said right then because Sherlock always listened. "I don't care how you get off—in fact, I'm glad you do because now I know you're human. Just, don't be stupid about it. Don't do this by yourself, that's how you accidentally kill yourself. And that little fuck, what's his name? I'm sure he knows what he's doing, doesn't he? That's why it worked out so well tonight, right?"

At least Sherlock had the decency to look like he was ashamed of himself when I said that. He looked away.

"You're an idiot," I snapped.

Sherlock lifted his hand and ran his fingers thoughtfully over the fading bruises on his neck. "Okay, John," he said, deep baritone. "I don't have to stop, but I can't do it myself. I can't hire anyone to do it to me. Then what?"

"Just ask me."

A few expressions crossed over his face. He looked at me like he was analyzing; it was the way he looked at dismembered limbs and blood spray patterns and crime scenes. His entire attention was set on me, eyes ghosting over me and I knew he could see everything. I felt reassured because he would see that I wasn't lying. His too-blue eyes pierced me and I knew I could get addicted to this feeling.

"Alright…" he whispered.

It was agreement, but he stepped toward me in request. My heart fluttered, and I felt a rush of excitement. Sherlock probably saw it written all over my face, but I still did my best to remain outwardly calm. I wanted to do this for him because for some reason he needed this. Most of all, though, I wanted to touch him.

"Sit down, Sherlock," I said.

He hesitated just long enough to find the bed, and perched on the edge of the mattress. The image struck me as incredibly hot—Sherlock Holmes on a bed because I'd told him to. I felt very tall standing in front of him. He tilted his head back to look at me, baring the white plain of his throat to me. Our eyes met; I kept that connection and nudged his legs apart with my knee. There I was, standing between his thighs looking down into the frozen depths of his cool, blue eyes.

I put my hand on his neck, dug by fingertips into his carotid artery. On his last full breath, he hissed my name. I started counting when he stopped breathing. One… He reached up and gripped my wrist—not struggling just holding on. Two… His eyelids fluttered, but he kept looking at me. Three… I felt the muscles contract beneath my palm, saw his chest spasm as it tried to expand. Four…Five…Six… When his eyes rolled back into his head, I let up the pressure. He took in a sharp inhale and gripped the sleeve of my jumper.

"Don't stop!" he gasped, voice hoarse and airy.

While he was still wheezing, I pushed him back, planted my knee on the bed and pinned him down by his throat. He made a strangled noise before I cut off his air again. His face was flushed, his body convulsed under me—it was like the hottest sex I never had. I held a little bit longer this time, trying to count but distracted by the expression on my flatmate's face. It was ecstatic and mindless. Seeing him like this—eyes closed, mouth slack—I got an urge I'd never had before. I acted on it without thought.

It's a bit odd to kiss someone who isn't breathing. Almost like he's dead, but he was still warm. I took my hand away just a few seconds before he would lose consciousness, and continued to kiss him. His body shuddered beneath me, legs flailing, hands shaking where he'd grasped my sweater tightly. He didn't kiss back, and when it ended, I noticed that he was pretty out of it anyway. I don't know if he came, or if he even really had an orgasm. Whatever happened had been some kind of climax, though. He had a stupid, half-smile on his lips and though his chest heaved to make up for lost breaths, he looked like he'd just conquered the world.

He didn't come down for weeks. Bubbly, I tell you. Fucking bubbly.