It wasn't the poshest sex shop in London, nor was it the seediest. What it was, however, was out of walking distance from Baker Street, and rather convenient to the clinic. John had a nice balance in his bank account right now - a consequence of combining a client with more money than sense and a consulting detective flatmate who had vaguely handed John the wad of cash and said "take this" - and the extra money was burning a hole in his pocket. Perhaps sex toys weren't the most responsible use of the funds, but they were certainly better than letting Sherlock waste everything on newt spleens or pickled armadillo eyes or whatever else he was experimenting on at the moment.

There were a bewildering array of products available for sale. All were on neat wooden shelves and had neat little price stickers in the corners and were in neatly labeled sections like "ANAL PLAY" and "BONDAGE" and "VIBRATORS & DILDOS." Even the shopkeeper - a perky twenty-year-old with pink hair and a cheerful smile - was reasonably clean and groomed and somehow made John feel a bit less strange about browsing for sex toys in person instead of online.

His eye stopped on the display labeled ANAL PLAY. God, how long had it been? John liked to think of his tastes as reasonably varied, but now that he really thought about it, sex had become boring as hell. No matter how many dates he went on, how many women he pulled, sex never really seemed to progress past "missionary position under the covers with the lights off." Chat her up, go back to her place (always hers, never 221B, not with Sherlock lurking), maybe have a snog on the sofa, and then half an hour of muted fumbling in bed. John prided himself on always ensuring his partners were enjoying themselves, but somewhere along the way it left him just getting his rocks off in the same damn pattern every time. He might as well be jerking off in the shower.

And how long had it been since he'd been with a bloke? Christ, longer than he wanted to count. Not since he went into the army, and that was a depressingly long time ago. (When had he gotten so thoroughly old?) Maybe that's what he needed, more than a butt plug - hit a gay bar, pull a fit-looking bloke half his age, get himself a furtive blow job in some sketchy loo -

Fuck. He was definitely too old for this.

The bell over the door chimed loudly, announcing another customer. And somehow, he just knew.

"John! Excellent."

Of all the places John would have preferred not to run into Sherlock, a sex shop would probably have to be pretty high on the list. There was no pretending now, though, so he forced a tiny smile of greeting and tried to pretend he wasn't suddenly nursing a headache.

"Come on, I need your help," Sherlock said loudly. Just as well the store was empty except for the two of them and the pink-haired clerk.

Christ. "What - could you please not yell at me by name in places like this, Sherlock? Never mind; I'm headed home. I don't even want to know how you tracked me down."

"Wait." Sherlock crossed over to him and tugged at his arm. "I don't know what I'm looking for here - I need you to help me find it."

John rolled his eyes, not caring if the clerk could see. "Please tell me this is for a case."

"No, just for me."

"Then how do you expect I would know what you want? Lotta options here, Sherlock."

"That's why I need your advice. You've done this before."

"It's my first time inside this shop."

"No, not this store." Sherlock's eyebrows drew together. "You've had sex."

John froze. "You've never -"

"No."

John finally actually looked at his flatmate. "Then why are you here?" he asked.

"Why do you think?" Sherlock let go of his arm to gesticulate while he talked. "I'm thirty-two, John. And I've never had sex. Never been interested, really. But sex fits into so many motivations for so many cases, and it's high time I conducted my own experiments."

John had questions - a lot of questions - but standing in the middle of a sex toy shop with a curious shopkeeper looking on was probably not the right place for them. "What are you looking for, then?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I'll just browse with you. What were you looking for?"

Yeah, no. "Sorry, mate, this is a bit beyond the bounds of friendship." Even with you. John waved one hand in the direction of the cashier. "Ask her - it's her job."

"But John-"

"I'm going home, Sherlock. Stay or come with me; it's up you you. We can argue there just as well as here."

Sherlock's expression turned mutinous, a sure sign he was building up to a strop. "Fine," he grumbled. "I'll just have to buy one of everything."

John was already headed for the door. He rolled his eyes again, this time for the clerk's benefit, but didn't stop moving. "You do whatever you want," he called over his shoulder. "See you at home."