He doesn't know how to explain it. He hates not knowing how to explain things. But it isn't about sex; not really. It is, of course, in its own way. John wants sex, and he never wants John to want for anything. He's always game even when he isn't. But sometimes on some nights, nights such as this one, he doesn't really want sex.
He just wants John.
Warm-soft-rigid John, John-angles and curves fitting seamlessly against his own valleys and cracks, filling him up, erasing the scars. His nostrils brimming with musk and cedar and Afghan sun, skin burning with the heat of him, ears ringing with grunts and reverent curses and god yes Sherlock love. The racing of his mind, the endless observations-bedside lamp forty-watt bulb will burn out in approximately seventy-nine days; six hundred thread count Egyptian cotton bed sheets have not been changed in thirty-five days; Mrs Hudson baking currant scones using sucralose-based sweetener Mrs Turner's diabetes out of control once again-muzzled and soothed to a dull buzz, then nothing.
He never knew nothing could feel so good.
But most of all, it is the antithesis of emptiness. He isn't full; full is a poor synonym. If this is 'full', then the ocean is 'deep' and he is merely 'intelligent'. Small words have no place Here. Here is-brimming, abounding, glutted-imperforate. Plenary. Absolute. Ouroboros and salvation and home.
It isn't about sex.
He could find sex anywhere if sex was what he wanted. He's self-aware enough to know he is objectively attractive or, at the very least, unique enough in countenance to garner an inexplicable appeal among certain groups. He can flirt and charm and seduce if he so desires, but he doesn't. There would be no true pleasure in that. There would be no trust. Why sully the transport for a brief moment of carnal dalliance? He's never wanted that before, and now, he knows, he never will. This is better. John is better. The answer to a question he had never bothered to ask.
He never resists and he never complains. He simply allows his legs to part, his hips to rise, the hot intrusion and dull ache to pour into his every crevice, barometric pressure constricting his chest, veins, arteries, his heart racing as his reptilian hindbrain begs him to flee. He never will. Wraps his arms and legs tight around John's small torso, face pressing into John's flushed throat, voice throaty and low as he slurs yes yes please don't John, the hoarse reply of alright it's alright I'm here I'm here I'm here.
He never has to explain, and John no longer asks.
One tearful night-long ago, it seems, though perhaps not so long-after too many hours at the pub with Lestrade, still reeling with loss and uncertainty, he'd asked then. His face pressing sharp against Sherlock's belly, cheeks damp, tenor breaking.
I can't tell if this is what you want.
I know.
We can stop-
No.
Please, love-
John.
I don't want to hurt you!
You won't.
He never will.
It isn't about the sex: it's about John. And he can't explain it, so he won't. Not even to himself.
AN: For those of you interested, the song I got stuck on this weekend is 'Collapsing Stars' by The Mountain Goats off their LP 'Come, Come to the Sunset Tree'. This fic doesn't really have anything to do with the song except possibly in terms of its rhythm, but I will take literally any opportunity to recommend The Mountain Goats to people, so here it is:
watch?v=R3bR_lOyBe0