John lay in Sherlock's bed, panting hard while his mind raced. How had this happened? Here he was, naked in his flatmate's bed, feeling so completely- absolutely, completely- satisfied and very confused.

He hadn't even known he was attracted to Sherlock until just an hour ago, yet here they were, still sweaty because bloody hell, he had just fucked Sherlock and it had been amazing.

Now that the heat of the moment had come and gone, John didn't know what to do. Should he say something? Surely he should say something, because while that had been the best sex of his life, it had also been the most unexpected. How had this happened, he wondered again. He really should say something. Anything.

"Tea?" he heard himself ask.

"Yes, John, thank you," Sherlock replied with a voice John hadn't heard before. It was somewhere in between his normal commanding baritone and the softer, pleading cries John had just heard while he on his knees between Sherlock's long legs. It had been a hell of a turn on to hear Sherlock saying "Please, John, please, please," actually begging for John to stop teasing him and suck him off already.

John started into the kitchen to put the kettle on. He wondered briefly if he should put on his pants but dismissed the notion. 'Why bother? He's seen all of me now anyway.'

While the kettle heated he tidied up a bit. It was a habit, more to keep his hands busy than anything else, and he knew it was futile as long as Sherlock was still using the kitchen as a laboratory. He could do nothing to clear his head, still spinning and full of jumbled thoughts about Sherlock, his mate, Sherlock, the man in the next room who had just moaned his name, Sherlock, the cleverest arsehole in the world, and what the hell did the word 'love' really mean anyway?

Tea made, John returned to where the detective lay in bed, still naked and leaning against the headboard, and silently handed him a mug. He sat down, feet on the floor with his back to Sherlock, suddenly (irrationally, he thought,) embarrassed to be nude. He thought he'd seen Sherlock's hungry eyes rove over his body as he handed him the mug, down his chest to his stomach, but he couldn't be sure. Perhaps he'd imagined it. Perhaps he'd imagined this whole thing.

"Not exactly how I'd thought you'd be in bed," Sherlock rumbled. His voice- back to normal now- finally pulled John out of his own head and into the here and now. He turned to look at his friend.

"Oh?" was all he could manage at first. Then, as the sentence rolled through his brain again, "Have you- um, have you been fantasizing about me then?"

"Yes, I always thought I'd be the one taking charge of the situation when it came." John rolled his eyes, noting that Sherlock had said when, not if. "Your way is much better," Sherlock continued, and John could practically hear the manic grin in his voice.

"Um, Sherlock-" John started, but was cut off.

"Of course, if you'd like, next time we can do things a bit differently. Although you being the one in control was incredibly-"

"Next time?" John interrupted.

"Yes, John next time, that is what I said," said Sherlock, sitting all the way up. He moved just a few inches closer, and this time John knew for certain he was not mistaken. The look Sherlock was giving him now was hungry, positively lustfull.

"How do you know that I would want a next time?" John asked. Quietly, in his head, he asked 'But I do, don't I? Or do I?'

Sherlock laughed. He moved until he was right behind John, one leg on either side of his hips, and John could feel the detective's returning erection hardening against his back.

Sherlock's lips moved to his neck and kissed, then ghosted up to his ear. "Because," he whispered, "you haven't stopped smiling." John realized he was right.

Just like always.

Damn.