~WARNING: EXPLICIT SLASH~

~If you just want the het, skip to chapter 3~

Boredom. It suffocated him. Experiments without a case - boring. Playing without a puzzle to solve - boring. Telly - dear god, how boring. Books, books, books - his mind ached. How John could read the paper so contently was - boring.
"John! Find me a case! I need a case," he almost begged.

John browsed the paper.
"The euro crisis?"
"A case, not idiotics!"
"Body found on a camping site?"

"John," he groaned, "you're not even trying. Why won't you even try? Please!"
He fell on the sofa and turned his face to the wall moping. Nearly a week without a case.

And John constantly present, well, either him or Mrs. Hudson, so he couldn't stimulate his mind with illicit substances, nor licit for that matter. He probably wouldn't anyway, but if he were alone, at least resisting the temptation would provide an activity of some sort.

Resisting another kind of temptation than the one he was currently, constantly, endlessly, fighting. He would not think about. He simply would not.

Of course he would. John. He relaxed at the mere thought. Yes, he had the possibility of looking at the real live John, but that always made John nervous. He wasn't his usual self, when being watched closely. He started to behave instead of being. Besides the calm reading of the paper at a time like this infuriated Sherlock. He would rather think.

The starting point had been determined. It was when he had grabbed John's head in his hands, whirled him around and demanded him to remember the ciphers. At that moment he had, in a brief flash, wanted to kiss John and regretted the gloves between them. It had been a passing glimpse into another reality, a remarkable wish. A dream he had filed for a later, more thorough, examination.

It had been a while before he had revisited the memory. He had avoided it rather purposely, locked it away at the end of a long, rarely frequented corridor with others like it - splurges of feeling distracting him. John helped him work and he had work. There was no need to add anything into the equation.

There it stayed, buried in the corner of his mind palace. With a distinct warmth seeping through, a light lingering from under the door. Hidden, but resisting oblivion. Until arrived that rainy Thursday afternoon, when he could no longer defy the pull, and had opened the door.

The force of what was inside had made him gasp. John. He had never felt anything like it. He had never known of anything like it. He had not been able to deduce its existence.

But he had been right in his avoidance, because nowadays the thought plagued him between cases. Even worse, on cases. In fact, whenever he let his mind slip even the tiniest bit, John took over. The way he smiled, that slight tilt of his head when he tried to think, how he scolded him for his manners, the sound he made when they sat down for dinner after a gruelling case. The small, satisfied sigh. Everything about him crowded Sherlock's mind if he gave it the smallest opening. The door couldn't be pushed shut again. What was inside didn't fit behind it anymore.

At first that had been enough. He had thought about John and been relatively content. The thoughts disturbed him, but they were at least presentations of reality: things that had happened or were happening. But then, as if by themselves, the thoughts had started to go further, to make demands, wishes, to dream, to hope for things. They had started to find ways to make John smile; they fantasised about pulling John into a kiss at the most inconvenient moments, the tilted neck practically inviting it; they waited anxiously, nervously for praise from John; they spent hours wondering what kind of noises John would be making if he… Simply put: the thoughts were completely out of his control.

Which resulted, once again, in an erection. If he had learned to control his penis at the hormonal throes of puberty, shouldn't it be scientifically impossible for him to be so at its mercy at well over thirty. Apparently not. He made one final, serious effort to stop, to command his cock to its comfortable, undemanding, flaccid state. He knew very well it was too late. A hard-on meant he had lost, he had been taken over.

There were two of him now. The one he had always been: the rational, controlled, intelligent; the one with the right questions, the correct answers and the unerring solutions. And now there was the new one. The one who had emerged slyly from the corner of the closed room without the old him noticing: the sentimental fool, crippled by romance with an almost painful physical need for John.

The new one took no orders from the old one, laughed at its face more like it. He had tried to control it, to rein it in, to slaughter it even, but it bounced back all carefree, happy, darn daffodils, roses and fields in bloom. There was no stopping this infatuated pillock that had awoken in him.

The old one had had to give in, to make room for it. To accept there were now two of them inhabiting this mind. When the old one had managed this long very well without the constant interruptions of the new one. The old one was busy, it had things to do, places to be. There was work to be done. The old one had a purpose. The new one wanted to just lie down, dream languidly of John and, blast it, masturbate.

Well, no, not masturbate. That was only a substitute. It wanted to fuck John, be fucked by John. (The fuck was the old one slapping the new one. The new one was all about making love to John, touching him, kissing him, hearing all the noises he could make, seeing all the looks he could give, hearing all the praise there was to give. The old one was saying, if we have to do this, let's do it hard, fast, howling.)

The battle in him raged on. Unsure of the right steps to take (because the old one, who could have found the correct course of action was constantly sabotaged by the new one), touching himself was the farthest he had gone in trying to accommodate the new one. That was humiliating enough, his body commanding his mind. Worse, if things didn't change pretty soon, he would have to lock himself in the bathroom permanently.

But dear god, was masturbation boring. It was like scratching an itch - a momentary relief that did nothing to the actual cause. Repeat until insane.

And why, why, why, didn't even the irritation, the anger at himself, do nothing to the now almost painfully throbbing erection. It wasn't like he could march to the bathroom like this, his cock proudly guiding him. That would surely make John pull a face worth seeing. He laughed out loud miserably.

"Something funny?"

Sherlock looked over his shoulder best he could, pushing his hips against the wall.
"No, no. You just… read your paper."
Talking relieved the tension a bit. It brought him back to reality.

"On second thought, John, could you tell me all about the euro crisis?"

"Seriously?"

"Yes, very seriously, please. The more serious the better."
John shrugged his shoulders and off he went. Sherlock focused, demanded the details and sooner than expected he was able to sit up and felt no need to excuse himself anymore.

"Thank you, John. How enlightening."

"Didn't think you'd be interested."

"I most definitely am not."

John gave him that punch-in-the-face-look. It was charming.

"Glad to be able to help then."

Things could not continue like this. Obviously the matter wasn't going to solve itself. He would not subject himself to one more pathetic little wank, nor to a discussion about politics in its stead. There would have to be another way. He picked up the violin, tuned it. Chose something he had recently composed himself.

There were two solutions. He could leave, escape into the night, forge a new life somewhere else as someone else. Without John. But the thought made him nauseous, a knot tightened in his stomach. All in all, as matters stood, it was doubtful he would be able to do anything but ache for John from a distance. He did not want to live without John. That was the simple truth now commanding his existence - it would not be living without John by his side.

The other solution was much more tempting, but also more dangerous. So many things could go wrong. It was not terrain he was familiar with and a careless step could cause permanent damage to them both. He could give in to his urge, he could give himself to John. His body for John. He could claim John as his own. He could study John, analyse him - the amounts of data he could collect. The thought made him shiver. He slipped up a key. John didn't notice.

But would it be enough? If he gave in to these demands of his body, would he be satisfied or would the new one demand more and more until loving John would be his only purpose in life? It was frightening, more so, when he could distinctly hear the new one shouting: "Yes, yes, loving John is your only purpose in life - what else could you possibly need?" Would the old one be strong enough to protect its needs? To protect the work?

Then again, the old one had John at its side. John respected his work. Admired him for it. John would not let him forget the work. If he burned these urges, satisfied them, hopefully often, he would in all likelihood be able to work better, focus better. For the new one was physical, it wanted carnal contact. Giving into its demands might clear it out of his mind altogether, leave the old one be. He could just fuck John and be done with it rather than be forced to think about it endlessly.

Mind made up he put the instrument down.
"John, I would like to have sex with you."

John dropped his book and jaw. He looked shocked, surprised, not sure he'd heard right. But also trying to hold off a flicker of a smile.
"Wh-what?"

"That's right. I would like to have sex with you."

"I… I'm… I don't know what to say… I'm… flattered… I…" John stuttered.

"Too blunt? Maybe you're right. There are the conveniences of courting that are usually waltzed through before propositioning. I just thought you'd know me better than to expect them."

John made an effort to collect himself.
"Stop, stop, stop right there. I need a minute."

Sherlock waited.

"Okay." John cleared his throat. "Okay. I was not expecting courting, but then I wasn't expecting the proposition either. You want to have sex with me?"

"Yes. How many times do you need that repeated? I want to have sex with you. Make love as in shag, screw, hump, bang, fuck-"

"Okay, okay. Got it, thanks. It's just… it's a bit sudden."

Sherlock snorted.
"Don't be ridiculous. It's been a long time coming. I've seen the looks you give me, the passing touches. You even put on your date shirt when we go out for dinner!"

"I… noticed that, did you?"

"Of course. The colour doesn't suit you, by the way. It makes you look pasty."

"Pasty?"

"You've spared me from the cologne at least. Those things have a use-by date as well you know."

"I smell... bad?"

It was aggravating how John always had a hard time focusing on the relevant.
"My bedroom or yours? The floor here might be uncomfortable, especially for a first time, though I have ideas for later."

"Wait a minute, Sherlock."

"My bed does have a better mattress. And nicer sheets."

"Sherlock. Shut up!"

John had grabbed his arms, held them firmly, looked at him, in his eyes, his face in a frown. And that meant… kissing? Probably. How? What was he supposed to do exactly? He leaned his head in closer to John until their faces were at level with each other. Something in John's look had changed. It was definitely going to be kissing now. He placed his lips on John's. He had no idea what to do next. John did. He traced his hand up to the nape of Sherlock's neck to pull him in. Instead of just pressing their lips together, he aligned his own over Sherlock's to softly tuck them.

"Relax, Sherlock," John whispered into his mouth.

He stopped puckering his lips, let them get comfortable, let them follow the movement of John's lips and then, a bit nervously at first, he let them respond.

It was like playing, one note following the other in harmony, the sweet composition of their kiss. He quivered.
John pulled back.
"Now, can we sit down and talk about this."

Talking? Just when he was having his first kiss! John looked determined.
"Fine."

They settled on the sofa.

"What do you want to talk about?"

"You want to have sex with me?" Then remembering the list, John quickly continued: "I mean, yes, we've established that. I just… want to be sure you know what you're doing. Because it can be a… big thing… to have sex with someone."

"I am the one wanting sex for the first time, I do know the size of it."

"So, you really have never had sex?" Unnecessary question after that kiss, really.

"No."

"And… this is the first time you even… want to?"

"Yes."

"With me?"

"Yes. You. Only you. Never anyone but you."

It sounded a lot more like a complaint than a compliment. But damn if it wasn't the most beautiful thing anyone had ever said to John.

"Is that all? Can we now, please, get on with it?"

Honestly, yes, they could.
"Your bedroom then," John agreed.

"No, let me," John stopped Sherlock, who had already taken off his dressing gown. John slipped off his own sweater, threw it on the floor and took Sherlock's hand, placed it on his bare chest. Very gently Sherlock moved his hand, feeling his way. The pale curly hairs caressing his palm, the fast beating of John's heart right there, right under his touch, the nipples hardening as he passed them, John in tiny shivers. He was transfixed. He hardly noticed that John was easing his pyjama top off him. Without thinking he kissed John's neck. Carefully at first, then more confidently, then hungry. There it was - the first sound he'd played out of John. An aroused little wheeze. He stood back amazed.

John smiled at him. That too was new, a playful, teasing, eager smile. Not one of affirmation, but of expectation. John kissed him. John wanted him. He put his arms around John, held him tight. Their mouths no longer needed guiding, they knew what to do as their lips and tongues danced against each other. He pushed himself hard against John and felt him push back. The outline of John's cock against his thigh. For a second he thought he would come right there and then.

John had on jeans whereas Sherlock's pyjama bottoms hardly restrained him. To ease John's discomfort he swiftly opened his belt and unbuttoned his trousers, pushed them lower to help John shake them off. And then he touched him. Felt John hard in his hand. There was the second sound, similar to the first one but louder with relief at being touched.

John pulled down his pyjamas quickly and pushed him onto the bed getting on top of him, their naked bodies now touching completely. Their cocks demanding they get closer.

Christ. One: he had never gathered this much data in one moment, every part of his skin delivering sensations to his brain. What his cock felt was indescribable. He didn't even try to process it. Two: he now fully understood the necessity of shouting for biblical characters during sex. This was as close to heaven anyone ever got.

He rocked himself against John, his own body surprising him as his hips knew precisely what to do. John kissed his neck, his chest, his teeth nibbling his shoulder. His hands wandered along John's back, feeling his muscles, his buttocks firm as he pressed himself against Sherlock. John's lips on his. John all over him.

Suddenly a fierce wave hit Sherlock, snatched him away, carried him with it. All was quiet. Time stopped. His back arched. He shook. His lips formed John's name, but not a syllable came out. He closed his eyes. Let his body fall, fall, wash upon the shore. It was glorious. A gust of wind blowing through his mind palace, emptying it completely. He couldn't move, couldn't think, he had found peace. He was free.

"You alright there?"
He could hear the smile in John's voice, not really worried, proud, more like it. John kissed his temple. He made a sound, any sound, for he could not yet form words.

He came slowly to. John next to him. John's fingers softly tracing his skin. He felt the wet smear on his stomach. He had had sex. He had had sex with John. It was not boring. It was extremely interesting. Worth his time. Worth the time of the old one as well. He would need to catalogue and organize everything. Right now he felt light-headed, unable to think clearly. Another first.

He was so overwhelmed, so focused only in himself, that it took too long for him to realise how massively he had cocked up. In the worst way possible. He sprang up to lean on his elbow and turned to John blushing in embarrassment. He was mortified, hardly daring to look at John.
"What about you?" he mumbled.

"Don't worry about me. Best I've ever had."
John caressed his face smiling. He did look happy.

"But I want to… " He wasn't sure. He should have planned this better. But having come to a conclusion he had proceeded to execution without wasting any more time.

John chuckled.
"Trust me, I'm loving this. Seeing you happy and spent, having been the one, who did that to you, that's more than enough for now. The way you came, that was… Like I said, I've never had better. You're amazing. You're… gorgeous. Your cock… Christ, the things I'm going to do to you…"
He kissed Sherlock on the lips, felt himself grow harder. They had all night.

They must have heard the door bell, but didn't process it until they heard the step creak. The second one. If you wanted to come up quietly, you needed to step on the right corner.

"No. Shit, Sherlock," John grunted.
Being the one more experienced, he was out of bed and clothed before Sherlock, who still seemed to be out of it, moving in slow motion. John didn't have time to check the mirror, but he did make it to the kitchen before Lestrade entered the living room.

"Hello there," Lestrade greeted, "is the man with the mind around?"

John combed his hair with his hand. If he didn't look like he'd just had sex, then he would never look like he just had sex.

"Whoa, sorry, did I interrupt something?"

"Er, no, quite… er… no."
Convincing.
"What is it, Lestrade?"

Sherlock, who had been barely conscious thirty seconds ago, was perfectly dressed, combed and looked like he had been reading a scientific journal.

"Nothing… just a murder," he waved it aside, "but what's with John? Who is she? Where is she?"

Sherlock looked at John and grinned.
"Yes, John, do tell us all about her."

"What? No, there's… what are you talking about?"

Sherlock laughed, enjoying this a bit too much for John's liking.

"Please, you're in the company of two detectives, not that Lestrade often earns the title, but you're too obvious. You look precisely like a man, who has just, about thirty seconds ago, abandoned a satisfied lover in post-coital bliss in a hurry to meet… Lestrade, of all people. Tut, tut, John. She deserves better."
The two were smirking to each other knowingly. John shook his head.
"So, murder?" he tried to engage Lestrade.

"Ha, you're not getting away with it so easily. Is she still here?" Lestrade pointed upstairs.

"There's no one here but me and Sherlock."

"Pity… would like to meet the lady. Seems to have given you a good ride," Lestrade said a touch enviously.

Sherlock was giggling, John blushing.
"Can we go and see dead bodies now, please?" John pleaded.

"Alright, alright, follow me, gentlemen," Lestrade led the way, John and Sherlock following.

Sherlock fondled John's neck and whispered:
"Sorry, couldn't resist."

The touch, the closeness of his lips sent a trickle of heat that settled in John's groin.

"Next time, though, you stay in bed."