Sex with Sherlock was a challenge.
As you know, he was always observing everything and sex made no exception for him. The light, of course had to be on, so he could still observe what was happening – in those flickering eyes I could clearly see how he was making trillions of mental notes every single second of our foreplay. But I was not complaining, in fact I really was enjoying it, for this was the only time when he actually did shut up... and that was just amazing.
Each time it was a little or more different. Sometimes it looked like he was testing himself, how far he could get, what all he could do... and every time and then he tested me – I think he experimented. Actually it was all more like an experiment at the beginning, but as time went by and as he had gained enough knowledge, it gradually started to develop into a very pleasant matter.
I think it was helping him to clear his mind. Once there was a pretty difficult case (even for Sherlock) and that time we had the most perfect sex (one of the many that followed), during which I almost lost my senses. He needed to switch off and I was the one who could make this possible, someone who could provide relief to the overstrained brain of his. And after that he cracked it with such a grace and nonchalance as always.
Thanks that I'd been receiving were simple: smile, dinner, non-poisoned coffee, a nice violin solo, or – when he was really grateful (which means I could barely move) – I found a bottle of fresh milk in our fridge.
But still, after all of this, I felt like I was doing something bad, something that just could not be practicable without one of us, being in love with the other – you know they say when two people have agreed on only having sex, in most cases one of them wants more, but as he knows that the other does not, he just settle for it – and I started to fear that I am the one (for we all know that Sherlock is a bit emotionally stunted so it is more likely me).
Why did I fear? Well... had you met Sherlock? The distinct guy? The look-at-me-I-am-brilliant-and-everyone-else-is-idi ot-even-my-only-friend-John man? I had. And trust me that sometimes I felt an urgent need to bash him up, till he shuts that (splendorous) mouth, and leave him there with his stupid violin forever. It was not easy for me. I was convinced, due to all the time when he was showing that glorious behaviour of his, that Sherlock Holmes was not capable, or made, to have a healthy relationship with someone. Sex? Obviously, yes. But love? No, I don't think so.
. . .
"I can help," said John with steady voice and snuggled up to Sherlock – who was now wearing only a pyjama top, doing something very pleasurable with his hand under the cover (but obviously the things weren't moving exactly the way he wanted them) – from behind, wrapping his arms around the thin waist. "Do you want me to?" a gentle whisper tickled Sherlock's ear and the answer was naturally: "Yes."
That was everything John wanted to hear. He opened his legs so he could fully clamp his body to Sherlock's back (like spooning in a sitting position) and took his cock with left hand, giving it a long gentle stroke from the top to its base. "Mmm," Sherlock bent his head back and leaned it on John's shoulder.
"See?" smiled John, "you're too hasty," and gave him another stroke. "Take it slowly – you've got plenty of time." Sherlock closed his eyes, stupefied by pleasure that John was giving him. Another two strokes – more pressure now. He opened his mouth and let out a tiny gasp. John continued: "Your body will like it and you'll start to feel it's nearly enough for you to cum," he put his right hand under Sherlock's t-shirt, caressing the skin which was yearning for his touch. "But then you'll realize you want more..."
"Ahh," Sherlock breathed out with muffled voice as John circled his nipple with thumb, and buried his head even deeper in John's shoulder, arching his back (tensing up that beautiful body).
John knew what Sherlock wanted and that he wanted to be the one who'll give it to him. He took a deep breath (inhaling Sherlock's smell, trying not to pounce at him and fuck that beautiful creature, which was now so vulnerable) and made the strokes quicker (and harder).
Another gasp escaped Sherlock's lips, and as he was still moaning and bucking slightly upwards, John was sure that he's close to his limit.
"Shh," he said in a whisper and put the right hand on Sherlock's mouth, "You're making too much noise."
"Then..." said Sherlock, "I shall stop..." and with the tip of his tongue started to lick John's middle finger, sucking it firmly (even a bit of teeth), showing John what all he might possibly do with his mouth – to him.
John groaned and with one thrust he pressed his crotch to Sherlock's arse: "Fuck, Sherlock, you're good..."
And you are hard, wanted to add Sherlock, but his mouth was already full. And even if it wasn't, still there was the arousing touch of John's hands and those fantastic strokes which were now having the most words-taking pace.
"John," the mouth was free now, "I..."
"Already?" he wondered and with complacent smile gave Sherlock an intense stroke.
"You'd be too if... ah..." Sherlock bit his lower lip, "if... if..." but he wasn't capable to finish the sentence, for John didn't let him do that; there was only a groan full of delight, deep from Sherlock's self (and then a box of tissues which made their work).
"Thanks," Sherlock breathed and turned back at John.
"It was my pleasure."
"No," he protested, "It was rather my pleasure than yours. But I will set it right..." and tilted his head forward to kiss John, laying him slowly down on the bed.
"You seriously thought I'd let you leave with this?" Sherlock slid his hand into John's lap.
"Ha, so..." John started, but a certain touch of delicate fingers suddenly shut him up, "so you've..." he tried again, "ah...!" But Sherlock probably wasn't even thinking about letting him speak, and with other hand he started to stroke John's thigh, then went slowly up, under the t-shirt, still kissing his neck, ruffling his fair hair, relishing every little inch of John's body. "Noticed..." he uttered at last with quivering voice. Sherlock unstuck his lips from John's neck and gave him the typical smirk: "Of course. How couldn't I?" Then he went down, leaving a burning trail on John's skin, caused by his tongue and hot breath, until he was exactly where he wanted to be.
"Sherlock, you... don't have to–"
"I want," was everything he said before bending down his head and with one smooth motion swallowing all John's length. "Ah!" John gasped and without knowing he run his fingers through Sherlock's hair, clutching it at the nape.
"Ow," Sherlock immediately stopped to suck John's cock, "that's too tightly."
As soon as he said it John loosened his grip and petted him: "Sorry."
Now Sherlock was fondling it by his tongue – the lips of his were absolutely divine – kissing and licking the soft skin, tasting the small drops which were rolling down from its head, making John to moan and curve his spine, sink his head into the pillow... Oh this was just amazing.
"Tell me," mumbled Sherlock, for his mouth wasn't entirely empty, "am I doing it right?" Maybe he's not good in self-gratification, but blow job was certainly his long suit (and so was asking John questions of any kind in the most inconvenient time).
"Yes... God... yes."
"Good," Sherlock smiled, and the tiny hint of conceit in his voice let John know it was not a dream. He seized John's arse and lift it up a little, so John could rest his legs on Sherlock's shoulders and Sherlock had a perfect angle to finish completely his job. He knew that John won't last for long, but something in the back of his mind was telling him this way's too simple – Sherlock wanted more (and the proof was directly in his crotch).
He pulled his head back, which gave rise to a disgruntled moan from John as he suddenly lost Sherlock's lips. He opened his eyes and met Sherlock's: "What happened?" This could still turn into the most embarrassing moment of John's life.
Sherlock did not answer. He slowly bent forward, stretching John's leg (the other he laid down while ago) so much that it almost hurt, whispering into his ear: "May I...?" and with those words he ran his fingers over John's hole.
"I..." said John, voice almost inaudible, "suppose so."
A quick click of cap and in no time skilful fingers covered in lubricant, opening John gently and with pleasant caution – Sherlock was exceedingly and surprisingly careful when it comes to John (in contrast with his typical behaviour to other people).
With first finger John trembled slightly, for he was not used to this sensation. And Sherlock probably knew it's only because of that; he did not stop to make sure if John's alright – he obviously was. Or maybe he didn't know that. Maybe it was of no interest to him. Maybe he cared just about what he wanted. Maybe... But I don't think so – as far as John's concerned.
There were three fingers in now. John licked his lips and craned his neck forward Sherlock: "Kiss me."
Silver eyes pierced him: "Is that a command, John?"
"Yes."
A foxy smile appeared on Sherlock's face: "Then I shall obey," and he pressed his lips to John's with such avidity that John almost had forgotten how to breathe. He moaned into Sherlock's mouth and when they separated he let out a single word, shrouded in hot breath: "Please..."
Sherlock – of course – knew very well what John was demanding, and he wanted it too (as soon as possible), but still... "John," he said with voice that was like a strange mixture of composure and repressed lust, "you have to be sure about this; once I'll be inside of you I won't be able to stop myself. This is – you are something... completely different from... all the things that–"
"Sherlock," John reprimanded him, "you talk too much."
"...Are you sure then?"
He put his hand on Sherlock's nape and pulled him closer, whispering sharply into his very ear: "If you won't fuck me right now I swear to God I'll suffocate you by my leg."
Sherlock clicked his tongue: "That would be a great loss, don't you think?"
Instead of answer John wrapped the thin neck with his leg, clenching it between his calf and thigh (it wasn't unbearable, but firm enough to show Sherlock he's not someone who he could mess with); "Yes, of course. World needs an egoist bastard like you. (...) And now," he said in urgent and put his leg down, exposing his bare body, "if your majesty would be so kind...!"
Sherlock smirked (but his eyes remained tender) and stroked John's thigh: "Well then..." and carefully pressed himself into John.
Everything seemed alright. Sherlock tried a first move – slow but intense. John gasped and tossed his head backwards: "More (!)"
Sherlock bent over, his hair tickling John's cheek, and moved again. And again. And again.
The pace was pleasant and John nearly couldn't believe it was actually happening. He buried his hand in Sherlock's messy curls: "Amazing," he breathed and caressed Sherlock's back.
"Ah," Sherlock sagged under John's touch and quickened, making the thrusts distinct and deeper.
He seized John's thigh and draw him closer, their bodies merging into one, their fingers interlocked, and they both gasping and moaning for more from the other.
John closed his eyes once again and let himself be carried away by the pleasure. This was something what he craved for. This gave him the feeling he's alive and – after a long time – not alone. But it wasn't only the sex what made him feel like this. Mainly it was that fantastic human being above him – it was Sherlock.
For him, for Sherlock, and especially for his brain this was something totally sui generis. In his mind there were only a few thoughts now (that was the most astounding thing), flitting around, and the bulk of them about John – the man who did nothing more then changed his life.
"Uh... John," he mumbled and tightened the grip of his fingers, which were threaded through John's, "I'm close."
"Yes," John gasped, "me too..." and with tender passion he kissed Sherlock like he never did. It was soft and rough at the same time, burning lips extinguished only by the others, tongues titillating and soothing mutually, and everything were speaking for the two of them – for what they felt.
Sherlock bit John's lip and comforted it with a gentle kiss, this way he finished the long moment without oxygen. Then he made a few more thrusts. With each his breath was heavier and his vision blinder. Once again he bent down his head to kiss John, and then gradually reached his climax. And John, who was completely submitting to Sherlock in this moment, happily followed him...
They were lying side by side, panting with satisfaction, both aware of what just happened. Today Sherlock made a lot of mental notes and one of them was certainly how much he needed John and that he'll never ever give this unrivalled man up.
He drew his breath with a shrill intake and breathed out placidly: "As you've said, John – amazing."
. . .
And then, one day he simply pulverized all my beliefs:
"John," he came out from the kitchen, and with the urgency in his voice, he stopped me from sitting down, "I think I love you."
"What?" I must have misheard.
"It is the most convenient explanation of the facts."
"What... facts?" I breathed out, feeling like my lungs are going to explode.
"You know: elevated heart rate, dilated pupils, the way I look at you (I was honestly surprised when once I saw myself in the mirror with that odd expression of face), the complete happiness when you make me laugh, then the feel of strange shivers running down my spine when you touch my shoulder, and I think I don't even have to speak about sex, for–"
"Sherlock," I stopped him from continuing before he would say something even more impossible, "we both know that... that you are not capable to..." I was not sure if I may say it to him just like that, but then I thought he's Sherlock and basically more machine then human, so I went on: "you simply can't have this feeling. You are you. You don't understand it and–"
"And yet I think I do..." He slowly approached me and closed the distance between us.
A steady gaze fell down on me: "May I try something?"
"If you mean you want to kiss me..." the voice of his was killing me, and the thought that right in front of me, under that stupidly tight shirt, is a warm body of a man who's mind is so cold, that it could hardly find a place for me, was driving me mad, but I managed to stay calm (more or less) and boldly return the look, "then no."
Sherlock slightly jerked his head like he did not understand my answer: "Why not?" he asked me gravely with a deep voice.
"Because, unlike you," I give up (for God's sake he's basically genius – he has to know or at least have an idea of what I feel for him), "I do know very well what l feel. And if you are not certain, then it could be really hard for me, Sherlock."
His eyes softened and the tone of his voice was suddenly quite different: "John," he laid his palm against my cheek, "I am certain." Then it was once again the same old quick-witted Sherlock with that roguish smirk upon his face: "I just wanted to be polite and ask you before I do this," and then he carefully – oh, so carefully – kissed me.