Disclaimer: I wrote this story with no intention of plagiarising the writers of the BBC 'Sherlock' series, or any previous Sherlock Holmes stories/adaptations.

Author's Notes: They're ba-aack! I can only apologise that it's taken so long to publish this, hopefully it'll be worth the wait!
Thanks to everyone who subscribed and asked for more chapters. I've decided to start a completely new story, rather than just add to the first – because I'm awkward like that! Also because we're moving on, hopefully to whole new heights of Sherlock/John goodness. And because they have a new case to solve!
As always, I'm grateful for any feedback…and requests, ideas…something new for me to take on board! I've already got something in the pipeline that you might enjoy…

…

Files:: Personal Documents:: Protected:: Dr John Watson: Private Journal

New Entry:

When all that business with Moriarty had started to feel like someone's idea of a sick joke – not real any more, not even worth mentioning – we got a new case.
Sherlock's been so much more attentive, since we were taken hostage. Since Jim's warning.
I'd like to think that he cares, genuinely, anyway – but I think he was basically just worried that I might've gone off the idea of us and didn't want things to cool between us before we'd had full sex. After all, he hasn't shown any signs of trying to read this journal again. Not once. If he really wants to know how I'm feeling, and is too uncertain to ask me, all he has to do is read. I changed my password again – but that'll only put him off for about twenty seconds.
He seemed perfectly OK with being relaxed for a few weeks, sort of acting like a couple in the way we spent pretty much all of our time together, in the flat, and started to time things around each other's habits – meal times, bedtimes…other stuff…
And then, when we'd been without a case for almost a month, he found an experiment to occupy his mind with.

"John…"

I looked up from the Guardian I was reading – he was laid full-length across the sofa, staring at the ceiling, hands pressed together under his chin.

"Yeah?"

"I really think it's about time we talked about fourth base."

I dropped my paper. "Bloody hell…"

It's all I could think of to say.

"What?"

"Well, you don't beat around the bush, do you? For Christ's sake!" I think I was so shocked by the outburst because we'd only been watching TV and eating takeaway half an hour before.

His eyes slid to look at me, but he didn't move. He frowned at the sight of me – I think all the colour had drained from my face.

"No, I don't. Not exactly a well-kept secret." He shrugged his mouth. "I didn't think you'd mind. We've done everything else except full penetration. It's been months. I thought you might want to try it."

"Sherlock – you – you can't –" I floundered.

"Well – I can." He gave me a slightly patronising look that annoyed me even more. "Just because you balk at the thought of talking about sex before eleven pm, doesn't mean that the rest of the world does. Hear me out: I have some excellent suggestions."

I rubbed my face with my palms and turned fully to face him. Looked like I had no choice in the matter, then. What else is new?

"Go on then, let's hear them. I'm all ears."

He sat up, leant forward onto his elbows in a way that showed just how eager he was about the whole thing. My knees felt suddenly numb, my bravado faltered – was I really ready for this conversation?
Me and Sherlock have gotten close to full sex a couple of times, but I think we both felt too inexperienced to take control of the situation, and we were both too horny to put too much thought into our actions. Knowing Sherlock, he'd done some kind of research – 'in a perfunctory way' – so that he could be fully informed when he finally decided to discuss it with me.

"Well, to begin with: I think you should be the one who penetrates me, the first time."

His eyes were locked almost fiercely onto mine. I definitely shuddered.

"Jesus, Sherlock..." I rubbed my face again. A thousand questions ran through my mind at once, but I decided to ask just one: "How did you decide that?" I was almost morbidly curious.

He smiled widely. Looked like I'd asked the right question.

"I think it would be good for you."

I made a scoffing noise. "Now you sound like the doctor here."

"Well yes, I suppose so. My prescription would certainly suit your symptoms: an inferiority complex, doubts about the legitimacy of our relationship..."

I blinked slowly a few times. Letting the words sink in; shock often takes a while to settle. Then I spluttered out my protest, "I'm not even going to start asking where the hell you got that diagnosis from – what I think you need to know, first off, is that I really don't think I'm ready for –"

"Oh, yes – you are," Sherlock said brightly, nodding at me like the Churchill dog. "If anything, you are far more qualified than me to take on the role of 'top', being the only one who has lost his virginity." For some reason, I blushed – even though I lost my virginity when I was seventeen, and was therefore far past the point of finding sex daunting or embarrassing – or so you would think. "All you have to do, in this situation, is apply your prior knowledge to a slightly different…configuration."

I shook my head and laughed, mainly because this whole conversation was so awkward – for me at least. "You make it sound so bloody simple. You do realise that having full sex with a man, for me, will be much more than just a 'slightly different configuration', don't you?"

"You're forgetting, John. I don't have any prior expectations. You could fuck it up completely – so to speak – and it wouldn't bother me in the slightest."

"Now – that can't be true." I narrowed my eyes at him.

"Well, I don't know. I've got no point of reference. Would I preferit if 'sparks flew' and the 'earth moved'? Maybe." I found myself wanting to laugh at his invisible air-quoting. He sounds so much like a batty professor at times, it's unreal. "But a failed attempt would be equally as useful for me, to chalk up as experience."

"Fucking hell…"

"Problem?"

I bit my lip, closed my eyes and counted to five. "Am I your guinea-pig, Sherlock? Your - sexual guinea-pig?" I folded my arms protectively; my face was stony.

"Hm." Sherlock nodded. He couldn't keep the smile from his face. "I was right. Definite inferiority complex."
I started to get up to leave, but Sherlock stood up too; stopped me with his arm as I blustered past him. He grabbed both my arms by the elbows and moved me to face him, his breath close to my skin.
"You're panicking. Quite the reaction I expected. Didn't think this would be easy for you, but –" he sighed, "I was under the impression that you did want to fuck me, at some stage."

My stomach lurched slightly – with anticipation, with nerves, I don't know – and I felt that familiar dull ache between my legs. He was right. There had been times when we'd been together and I'd felt my body making decisions for me that I never even knew I wanted to make – but at the last minute my brain had taken over and shouted at me: 'Stop! Oh my God stop, what the hell are you doing?' I just couldn't imagine what taking Sherlock would be like, what it would feel like. But even then, as he was standing over me and I knew how much he wanted it, I couldn't deny that I wanted it too.
I looked up at him, felt my attention slipping to his mouth, remembering what it felt like to kiss it, to taste it.

"I do." My voice barely scratched out.

"Sometimes, John – and you're a military man, you should know this – it's prudent to take a risk in the knowledge that life will most certainly change after it, perhaps not in the way you expected but in the way it was always bound to change, because it is a risk you were always inevitably going to take." His hand slipped to the front of my shirt, and toyed with the first button.

I leaned into him, let him kiss me carefully on the mouth and then laughed gently against his chest, "You know, talking clever bullshit doesn't let you escape from the fact that it is actually bullshit."

Sherlock smiled and chuckled softly, "I'll take that as your consent."

…

We hurried up to Sherlock's room – well, Sherlock hurried, I was dragged helplessly behind. Since the incident with the mildew, I've not moved back into my own room, even though Mrs H has had it cleaned and re-decorated from top to bottom. I gave her back the camp-bed she'd loaned to me (totally unused, but she doesn't know that), and moved my stuff back in there, but I still sleep in Sherlock's bed every night and he's never asked me to stop. As far as we're both concerned, it's a convenient arrangement. He even got Mrs H to put curtains up the other day, once I'd finally worked up the courage to admit that the bare windows made me feel a tiny bit like an exhibitionist.
We laid fully-clothed on the bed and just re-acquainted ourselves with each other – kissing slowly, sharing the warmth of our tongues, letting our hands explore each other lazily. Sherlock was patient with me, didn't try to rush me in any way. He licked slowly over my throat while he gradually peeled away my clothes, and I wound my fingers in his thick black hair, sliding my other hand down his back and kneading carefully at his lean muscle. When I was left in just my boxers I did the same for him, and we pressed our cool bodies against each other, getting used to the feeling of skin-on-skin.

I breathed him in, let the scent of him stir things inside me that always seem to bubble under the surface when he's near me. I kissed Sherlock almost hungrily, while his hand moved between my legs and stroked me agonisingly slowly through the fabric of my underwear, stretching out every tiny reaction in my body. I was gasping against his collarbone when he finally moved away, taking hold of one of my hands and guiding me to his own erection. I traced it carefully with my fingertips, enjoying the hot bursts of air from his lungs as he struggled to contain his reaction.

"John," he swallowed deeply, "Hnn…I…I'm…" His eyes snapped open, and he looked suddenly so alert that I wondered if I'd somehow managed to help him solve some case I didn't even know about.

My hand moved less quickly; I thought he might want a pause to recover.

"What? What is it?" I asked softly.

Sherlock smiled, leaned towards me and pressed his gorgeous mouth against my jaw to whisper in my ear. "Ready…" he rasped, and I struggled to recognise his voice.

"Oh. Oh…OK." I bit my bottom lip. Still wasn't totally sure that I was ready.

"We can take things…" he kissed below my jaw, "as slowly…" he kissed my Adam's apple, "as you like…" he kissed me on the lips, in a way that communicated a dozen emotions to me that I couldn't even start to name, and my brain turned into a whirlpool, making me forget everything.

We were kissing like it was going out of style. The heat from Sherlock's lips and tongue was enough to make my eyes water with lust, and I was still coherent enough to realise that my body was starting to make decisions for me, led mainly by my insistent hard-on. I could feel my hands moving down to Sherlock's hips, grasping them at either side, and was totally powerless to stop them. Still kissing him feverishly, I was guiding his hips towards mine, timing a thrust perfectly so that our erections made a blood-melting friction. Sherlock groaned against my lips at the sensation, grabbed the back of my head with both hands and dragged his body up against mine, making himself shudder so deeply that I wondered how close he was to…'throwing in the game', before it had even started.

I broke the kiss, slowly, and manoeuvred one of my legs over his body, so that I was straddling Sherlock's knees. Seeing him prone, underneath me, made me sort of dizzy with power, and I imagined taking him roughly, giving him no time to prepare, hurling any thoughts about his virginity and our inexperience out of the window.
Instead, I asked him (almost too-politely) to take off his underwear, and let him wait for me to do the same. When we'd both caught our breath, it was easier for me to think things through.

Not taking my eyes from Sherlock's (which were wide, as if he was surprised, or rapt – I couldn't tell), I slid my palms gently up his body on either side of his hips, feeling the warmth of his pale skin and the hard lines of his muscles. Sherlock inhaled slowly and bit his lip; I smiled hazily back at him and judged that he wasn't having second thoughts – so far. My eyes slid to his thighs and I stroked them gently, applying a bit more pressure with my thumbs against his inner thighs so that he started to spread his legs slightly. I knew I would start to lose it again if I watched his face, so I concentrated on massaging the tops of his thighs, just letting the movements of his body tell me whether I was on the right track or not. His groans were quite a good indication, too – quiet at first, hardly anything more than gasps, but as the pressure of my fingers increased, the gasps turned to moans, the moans to incoherent mumbling, the mumbling to repeated pleas to 'Hurry up – Oh God hurry up – John Watson, if you don't do something soon I'm going to…'

I started to position myself closer to him, and by the time I was close enough to press my cock against him my hands were raising his hips off the bed, resting on his buttocks, feeling the warm, pliable skin under my fingertips. Sherlock let his head fall back, his breathing shallow as I rubbed myself gently against the swell of his arse, biting back my moans of pleasure as the heat started to build in my groin.
This was going a lot better than I expected. I thought the whole thing would freak me out completely, but everything seemed so right, so logical, so…easy. Sherlock had been right – there really wasn't any better direction for our relationship to take. The trust was there: we'd established that a while back. The lust was self-evident. Our self-confidence…well, that sort of thing only comes with practise.

I stopped long enough to choke out a few words, "Is – is this – ok?"

Sherlock nodded weakly, his head heavy. He reached one long arm out and tapped his fingertips on the bedside table. I followed the noise with lust-blurred vision and saw a bottle of lube. When had he bought that? Crafty bugger; clearly planning ahead, assuming he'd get me to this point, before I'd even considered the idea. I croaked at him to pass it over.
Spilling the liquid over the both of us in the least messy way possible wasn't all that easy. I slicked it over my cock in a pretty unstylish way, and hesitated to put any on Sherlock. If I'm honest, I had no idea if I was doing it right. But the way Sherlock reacted to my hands on him reassured me – a bit. When my fingers slipped carefully inside him for the first time, he tightened around me, his muscles tensing – but his whole body squirmed almost completely off the bed, and his cock jerked in a way that brought me embarrassingly close to laughing with delight, like a boy with a highly-inappropriate new toy to play with.

I thrust my slick fingers inside him for a while, getting used to the rhythm that he liked, trying to find the angle he liked best. I'd read something about a man's 'G-spot' in a gay magazine (which someone had left unsurreptitiously lying around a few days before) – the prostate, which, if I could find it, seemed to be the Holy Grail of anal sex. Unfortunately, probing around Sherlock for a few minutes didn't yield any results; but I figured there'd be plenty of time, later. He seemed to be enjoying my movements anyway: biting the back of his hand in that way that reminds me there is still a side of him that isn't indestructible. His moans, too, were getting louder, as he watched me, seemingly fascinated by the effect this was having on him. His curiosity made my body ache with pleasure; to know that I could make him react like this, in a way that nobody else could, and probably ever will.

I felt those strange words on the tip of my tongue, again, longing to burst out of me as I leant my body up to kiss him deeply on the lips – but I pushed them back. Not the time. And I don't believe it's true.

"Now, John," Sherlock growled, his breath humid on my face, jellifying my insides. "It's time. Are you ready?"

I gritted my jaw, tried to smile, nodded. It was time. I hoped so hard to be good. That he would enjoy it. But this was no time for anxiety. This was the battlefield…of sorts. A challenge to be faced, and overcome.

My hand was perfectly steady as I guided myself inside Sherlock. For once, I was glad for that odd quirk.
He was hot and tight – oh God so tight – around me, taking me in perfectly so that I hardly had to hesitate. I managed to plunge almost down to the hilt in one go, and only dared to open my eyes when I heard Sherlock sigh and felt his stomach muscles shift underneath me.

The rapture on his face was almost unbearable. I took a deep, frantic thrust at the sight of it, fighting not to get lost in the sensation and spill over the edge too quickly.

Then: disaster. At ease troops…cease all manoeuvres.

Sherlock's mobile buzzed – a text. I froze.

'Don't answer it don't answer it FOR FUCK'S SAKE don't you even…'

Too late.

He gave me a strange look that I took as 'apologetic' but it seemed wrong and unwelcome on Sherlock's face. Then his hands were on my chest and I knew I had to pull out of him. I felt so fucking humiliated but I couldn't even bring myself to storm out of the room; just sat back on my heels and watched, blank-faced and gormless, as Sherlock leant over to retrieve the mobile from the bedside table. A voice laughed childishly in my head when I noticed that he winced as he moved – aching already, by the looks of it. 'Ha ha! Good. Bastard.' I felt guilty almost straight away – didn't really want to see him in pain, but I was hurting in an altogether different way.

"It's from Lestrade."

'Whoop-de-fucking-do. Let's throw him a party!' My mouth was clamped shut, but inside I was ranting like a madman.

Sherlock wasn't even looking at me; thumbs clicking over the phone's keypad as he typed a hasty reply. He talked to me as he typed.

"We're going to have a visitor tomorrow – twelve o'clock. Young woman by the name of Anna Parks. Says he can't give us any more details because he hasn't met her – she contacted him this morning and asked to be put in touch with his finest detective. When he found out the details of the case, he put her straight on to me."

He smiled smugly at his phone screen, oblivious to my steely silence. When he finally looked up at me, it seemed he was going to ignore it completely.

"I'll have to do some research tomorrow before she arrives – the case originates from overseas and I'm not entirely up-to-date on my knowledge. That means I'll need you to watch out for her coming. Could ask Mrs Hudson, but she's more than a little absent-minded – you're OK with it." It wasn't even a question.

"Hmm. Yes, Sherlock, I'm fine with it." I answered anyway.

"Good…" He still wasn't really paying me any attention; finished sending his text and then looked at me in his usual calculating way. Maybe he'd finally sensed the atmosphere – I don't know.

I shook my head, re-found the use of my legs and managed to walk to the bathroom, to tidy myself up. Sherlock was waiting at the door when I'd finished, and I avoided his eye, just making room for him to walk past me.
When he'd showered, I moved over to my usual side of the bed, flopping onto my back and glaring at the ceiling, my arms rigid by my sides, fists clenched.
He paused briefly to look at me and then laid down next to me, mirroring my position, with his hands clasped across his chest, fingers drumming idly.

"John," he started to ask, and I almost prayed that he wouldn't finish the sentence, "Usual shower-after-sex etiquette indicates that the moment's passed. Do you definitely not want to…?"

"No. No I bloody-well don't. Goodnight, Sherlock," I huffed, jerking my body round so that I had my back to him, forgetting to pull the duvet over me in the heat of my frustration. And that's how we went to bed that night.

…

I remember shivering in the night, but was still too stubborn to change position. At some point, Sherlock had laid his dressing gown over me, but I was too pissed off in the morning to appreciate the gesture, and threw it roughly against the headboard as I marched downstairs.
I decided, almost as soon as I'd woken up to find Sherlock had already gone to the living room, that I wasn't going to talk to him. I know – it's childish. But I was feeling pretty self-indulgent. He'd disappointed me, in more ways than one – but most of all, he'd hurt my pride. I've always known that to him, 'the work' is everything – but over this? Over us? It hurt – fucking hurt. I'd started to believe that I was an inextricable part of his 'work'. Stupid. Idiot John.

I made another stubborn – and equally childish – decision, as I made my way to the living room. Sherlock had asked me to look out for Anna Parks while he did his research. She was coming at twelve. It was only ten am. But damn it, I was going to stand looking out of that bloody window, waiting for her, for the next two hours, not talking to him, just to prove a point. And he could fucking stick that in a text to DI Lestrade.

As I marched stiffly into the room, I noticed Sherlock in the kitchen from the corner of my eye, sitting at the table, hunched over something which must've required all his attention. Heard the crunching of toast and the tapping of keys: surfing the net and eating at the same time. Typical – and then he'll ask to use my laptop when his is all smeared with food.
Except…hang on…
His laptop was still on the desk; where he'd left it the night before. Which meant…
I wheeled round, ready to rant and rave at him about respecting personal property. The words were almost out of my mouth before I remembered my 'silent protest' plan, and bit them back. But my hackles had definitely raised. My mood didn't show any sign of improving.

I gritted my teeth, shoved my hands in my jeans pockets, and walked purposefully over to the window. Peeling back the curtain, I scanned the view of Baker St. below, seeing nothing out of the ordinary (as far as I could tell) – the usual passing buzz of traffic and pedestrians. The thought suddenly occurred to me that, even when this mysterious and intriguing Anna Parks did show up, I wouldn't have a cat in hell's chance of recognising her. I'd have to wait until she came right up to our front door, to know it was definitely her. That really didn't seem to give Sherlock all that much time to 'prepare' (whatever it was he was planning to do).

"Morning John."

I almost turned. I'd been distracted already; getting wrapped up in the case before it had even started, like Sherlock probably knew I would. He was trying to talk me round while my mind was occupied. 'Not happening sunshine.'
I ignored him.
Heard the sound of the chair squeaking – had Sherlock turned to look at me? Hardly likely.

There was a sigh from his side of the room, though. I smiled to myself, pretended to peer even more determinedly out of the window.

"In case it's not blatantly obvious to you – seemingly not, your demeanour has confirmed that – I feel I should clarify that I, too, was disappointed that Lestrade texted me in the middle of…things."

'Not a word, don't say a word…'

"And I also feel the need to affirm to you that, at no stage, was I having second thoughts in the duration of time between my penetration and the text from Lestrade."

I battled to stay silent, desperately trying to blank out his voice. But the precise, mathematical terms that he was using to describe what happened made me reel slightly.
He wasn't shutting up. Loves the sound of his own voice, that one.

"I realise now, that you will have taken the fact that I answered the text in the middle of fucking to mean that the fucking was of little importance to me – less importance, at least, than the prospect of a new case.
I can verify that this isn't true. I place you at just as paramount an importance as my cases.
It's just that…well…I've never had to choose between the two, before. Faced with the decision, I went with the option that was most familiar to me."

I heard the chair squeak again. He'd turned back – obviously figuring he'd won the debate (pretty one-sided debate, if you ask me. Which he never does).

He was typing, again, as he carried on talking, "I hope you will agree that it was the rational thing to do, that it was an act of impulse and nothing more. After all, I am, in essence, a rational, impulsive, being." From the tone of his voice, I'm guessing he felt very satisfied with his explanation.

I was too confused and irritated and just plain tied in knots by it all, so I thought it best not to answer.
…Especially because Sherlock's explanation did make sense, which was terribly damaging to my ego. I'd started to hope I was more important to him than his cases…not just as. Bloody buffoon Watson.

Sherlock was typing and crunching away again, and I didn't move or speak – which in my mind meant that the discussion was over. I forced everything out of my head, feeling my doubt and concern trickle away like water through a sieve, and concentrated all my energy on the street scene outside.
It was a beautiful day. Bright, fresh, slightly cool – typical British weather, and God how it makes me want to run. I used to love running, in my army days. Route marches and mile hikes in full kit – dirt, dust, wind that could sting the eyes – really worked up a sweat, but the adrenaline rush – amazing. Not much else like it.
Except being on a case. Being with him.
I started to feel a little bit sick, tried to focus on something, anything outside that could distract me for long enough…

For some reason, I thought the sky had clouded over. Didn't even notice the six-ish foot body that had suddenly loomed into my peripheral vision.

Sherlock slid around in front of me as I stared down into the street – I couldn't tell if he was blocking my eye-line on purpose or not. Either way my concentration was broken, and I couldn't help focusing on the closeness of his body and mine – like a veil had fallen in front of me. I didn't look up at his face deliberately, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of a chance to steal a quick kiss, as he likes to do quite a lot when he knows it's an inappropriate time. Then I peered around his left shoulder, trying again to keep watch of the street below. He huffed loudly, his whole upper body moving with the effort of it, and then crouched in front of me so that his head was level with my ribcage. I didn't look down – nope, wasn't going to encourage him – but then his hands started working at the buttons of my shirt and it embarrasses me to say that I sort of lost my cool. The no-talking thing went totally down the pan.

"Sherlock – Sherlock get off." He didn't get off. Buttons were undone to my navel now. "For fuck's sake, I'm trying to do what you asked me to here! Give it a rest!" I grabbed hold of his wrists and tried to wrestle him off me – I say tried; he might be a slim bloke but he's quite a good match for me in spite of all my training.

He looked up at me disappointedly when I finally managed to prise his fingers off of my shirt, his eyes big and strangely bright.

"I know I asked you to do it, John, but I think you're being a little obstinate. In fact I actually think that you're taking what I said at literal face value rather than being sensible because you want to punish me for what happened yesterday. I already told you: if Lestrade hadn't texted me, I would have ensured that you had an immensely satisfying orgasm."

"Sherlock!" There was some shocked laughter in the way I yelled at him.

"I know you don't like me to talk about sex in such frank terms." I could have hit him; he had such a smug grin on his face. "It may as well be an act, as far as I'm concerned – a show of propriety, because I've known you be quite vocal about what you'd like to do me, on occasion, and what you want me to do to you…"

"It's different…then. No one talks about that kind of stuff except when they're…" My weak argument trailed off. "And anyway, that's not even the issue. I just don't understand why you can't ignore your phone when you're…doing stuff…like most other normal people!"

"John…"

"What?"

"Oh, I don't know – 'Stuff'. Stuff? Can't you be more eloquent? Just say what you really mean. I'll ease you into it –" His hands moved down to my bare stomach; his fingers started to trace circles, "just say something about what you like me to do with my tongue, or where you like my hands to be…"

And there was me thinking he was going to resent me implying that he wasn't 'normal'.

"I – I – no! Sherlock! Don't do that! Don't turn this around and make it about my faults! You want to know why I'm pissed off with you – that's why! I'd appreciate being a bit more of a priority at those kinds of moments, and not just a distraction!"

"Well, stop whining and let me prove it to you…" His voice had that seductive purr to it that always manages to force whatever thoughts are in my head straight out through my ears.

The cold air as Sherlock yanked down my trousers was the first indicator of how hard I was – it hit my hot flesh and made my hair stand on end. His soft mouth was around the tip of my cock before I could say another word, and whatever I was going to say tumbled out of my mouth in a strangled moan. He sucked me hard and deliberately, so that I didn't have any time to relax between each wave of pleasure that engulfed me, so that I couldn't even think straight. He was loud and wet on purpose, and the sounds of his lips and tongue were the only noises in the room. Except me – but I didn't even know what I was doing. I couldn't feel my legs, no idea where my hands were. The only thing I was aware of was Sherlock – no, Sherlock's mouth and what it was doing to me.

I came within minutes, swift and hot and messily, but Sherlock didn't seem to mind. Didn't complain, anyway. I couldn't open my eyes for what seemed like an hour afterwards, my body stuck in a strange, rapturous pose until my muscles finally relaxed and I remembered that I sort of had to breathe to live.
Then I opened one heavy eyelid, looked at Sherlock. He was on his feet, dusting down his trouser legs. When he sensed my movement and flicked his eyes to mine, he looked thoroughly pleased with himself. Grinning like the sodding Cheshire Cat. Then he tilted his head and raised his eyebrows at me, as if he was waiting for…God, I don't know…gratitude?
I frowned at him. Zipped up my trousers and folded my arms. His face instantly changed; like I'd slapped him.

"Oh what now? Surely you can't find anything else to complain about?"

I sighed. My head was swimming. "You have no idea how intimidating you can be at times, do you?"

Sherlock huffed loudly and flapped his arms; I could tell he was going to have one of his tantrums. "I give up. You want to orgasm, you don't want to orgasm…" He stared at me carefully, and then ran his hands messily through his hair, like he always does when he's frustrated about something. "I don't know – honestly – what am I supposed to do? I really don't have time for these mood swings, you know. There are many other things I –"

He started to turn away but I pulled him round by the shoulder, dragged his body against mine and kissed him slowly on the mouth. Pulling away, I looked up at his bewildered face, his eyebrow cocked and his eyes reading me carefully as if he'd missed something important.

"What–?"

"Not complaining. Just observing." I gave him a small smile. "Intimidating's fine. I can work with intimidating." I put my hands on his waist. "And you're amazing. That was amazing – not that your self-esteem needs any more of a boost."

"I knew it." Sherlock's smile was triumphant. "Sherlock Holmes: excellent at blowjobs." He nearly skipped into the kitchen.

I laughed at his back and then jogged upstairs to get cleaned up. The texting…issue…could wait, for now. I let him have his little victory, and saved my side of the argument for another time. Besides, it was almost half eleven.

When I came back into the living room, there was a woman I'd never met before sitting in my favourite armchair.

Till later,

Yours,

Dr. John Watson