I would like to thank my fantastic Beta, umqradenied, for her great job editing the story and allowing me, at last, to publish a story in English. Any mistakes you could find in the fic are, of course, only my fault.

I got up early that day, as always, and when I went downstairs my flatmate was already there. I wrinkled my nose as I said:

"Good morning, Sherlock."

Because, although in his pyjamas and dressing gown, he was already bent over the kitchen table, preparing sample plates of… was it soil? The microscope was right in the middle of the table, ready to be used, so I resigned myself to have my breakfast in the sitting room.

"Just coffee for me, thank you" whispered Sherlock, as a nice way of saying 'good morning' to me.

I started to make tea and toast for me, and coffee for Sherlock. We'd been caseless for some days now, so in fact I should had been feeling lucky to find him entertained so early in the morning. The other option was an irritable, whining and impossible Sherlock, thus some little experiments in the kitchen were not something to complain about, right?

"I presume there are no new cases in the blog or in the news… " I tried to chat while waiting for the water to boil.

The only answer was a grunt. Then he straightened up and flew from the kitchen.

I put the cups, my toast, butter and jam on a tray and followed him to the sitting room. Sherlock was sitting in his armchair, consulting two huge books at the same time. Some of his old case files laid in complete disarray around him on the floor. I sighed loudly as I set the tray on one of the side tables (the emptier one).

"I'm fine, thank you for your interest, by the way" I said "Although I had a bad time last night, trying to sleep. My room is too hot in the summer, even with the window open…"

I took his cup of coffee with all the care I could and brought it to him; but when I was approaching him, Sherlock decided to return to the kitchen. I was left standing there, with a hot coffee in my hand, counting to ten in order to keep calm and not say anything about how awfully annoying flatmates can get. I turned back and walked to the kitchen with the damned coffee.

He was weighing something on the scales and writing the results in a notebook. I handed him the coffee, feeling like a puppet, coming and going on Sherlock's whims. And then suddenly, he looked up and moved swiftly, turning again in the direction of the sitting room. Unfortunately, my hand with the hot cup of coffee was right where he wanted to be and obviously, there wasn't room for both at the same time, was there? So the cup of coffee flew from my hand and landed with a graceful fall, without shattering, onto the table. The contents of said hot cup of coffee landed less gracefully, onto my trousers. Have I mentioned it was hot, damned hot coffee? Just below boiling point coffee?

I sensed Sherlock's hands holding my arms under my screams and piercing pain.

"John! But… God, what were you doing? Take them off, you must take your trousers off, they are burning you!"

I saw the logic in Sherlock's words, and I wanted to get the pain, subsiding fast, and the hot, soaked fabric, as far from myself as possible. I worked the belt and took off my trousers, inspecting the sore, red skin of my poor thighs. They would need cream for burns; I always have some in the medical kit, just in case. I ran to the bathroom and started to apply the cream, soothing the burning sensation, thank God.

Raising my head, I saw Sherlock standing in the doorway, staring at me with a curious look in his eyes.

"What?" I asked curtly.

"That's… an interesting view"

I followed the direction of his eyes, and I felt my cheeks burning in a snap: he was glaring, with the intensity that he reserved for crime scenes, at my underwear. I didn't even remember that I was wearing those pants. They were red, white trimmed. I usually wear patterned shorts, comfortable and definitely not close-fitting, and that was the kind of underwear that Sherlock had seen me wearing until that moment. These pants were… well, of course, a flash of colour, to begin with. Harry had bought them for me last Christmas, and laughingly told me that if I wore them on New Year's Eve, I would be lucky in the bedroom for the rest of the year. I'd laughed at this, but I wore them on said night. And I can't complain about the outcome.

"OK, stop staring at me, would you?"

"I haven't seen them before, I bet you have taken special care to keep them well hidden. Are these…"Sherlock looked at the floor, and I am quite sure that he was a bit flushed himself "Are these your 'sex pants'?"

"What? Look, Sherlock, this is not something I'd like to discuss with my flatmate, thank you very much!"

He looked at me again, still a little embarrassed. I walked past him, returning to the sitting room and my cold breakfast.

"Come on, John, I know you are the kind of man who has 'sex pants'…"

He followed me and sat in his armchair, watching me as I had my tea.

"Oh, excuse me, I will make you another cup of coffee when I finish my breakfast, if you don't mind waiting."

"Not at all, thank you."

"And what do you possibly know about 'sex pants' or any other thing related, if you never date and you don't watch that kind of films"

Sherlock looked offended now. He frowned and raised one side of his mouth, in a grimace I have only seen him use dealing with two people. One tooth shone under his lips, and the disdain and hatred on his face made it clear to me who was he thinking of.

"Oh!" He exclaimed at last. "So you believed all that nonsense that Moriarty said about me being a 'virgin'" He almost spat that last word.

He stood up and began to pace the room, fast, his hands intertwined behind, and still moving his fingers spastically. I wished I had managed to remain silent, I never thought he would be so upset by my words.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock!" I was so confused that I really didn't know what to say. "I… I wasn't thinking about his words, I promise… Well, not consciously! But… well, you aren't interested in sex, as far as I know" Sherlock only grunted as an answer, and kept pacing the room. "Was he… was he right?"

I had never dared to ask him that. He didn't answer at the moment, but the pace started to slow and, minutes later, he let himself fall again in his armchair. I took this as a good moment to go back to the kitchen and prepare more coffee. He decided to answer when I was still in the kitchen, but I heard him the same.

"I had a girlfriend, when I was at University."

"Really?"

I couldn't imagine Sherlock going out with a girl, hard as I tried. But I couldn't imagine Sherlock at Uni either, if I had to be honest. Perhaps the problem was my lack of imagination, then.

When he didn't continue, I asked:

"And how long did it last?"

"I… I can't remember, less than six months, I think. She asked me a lot of dull things that I didn't want to do, like hanging around with her friends, or dressing the way she liked, or going to the cinema… But, and this is the point" and then he glared at me "The sex was alright. Really alright! She was happy with it, and I was happy with it, the only thing that made me unhappy at the time was the amount of boring, useless things that I had to do to keep her happy and obtain the sex."

At that point, he was beaming, satisfied of being right, as usual. I handed him a new cup of hot coffee, with very, very careful movements. I sat again in my chair, setting my laptop over my naked thighs and opening it.

"But, Sherlock, this is OK, of course, but it was a long time ago… What did you do after that girlfriend?"

He looked at me slightly lost.

"What did I do about what? I left Uni, I worked for my brother for a couple of years, then I left him and concentrated on studying crimes… "

"No, no, I wasn't talking about your career, Sherlock… Did you try to go out with other girls?"

He frowned again, but this time he only seemed to consider what the answer would be.

"No… I preferred to focus on my work, on my research. That girlfriend was more than enough for me. The rest of interesting women I have met looked demanding as well"

"Have you tried men?"

I promise this was a matter-of-fact question, I was only curious. And I always thought that, physically, Sherlock looked perhaps more gay than straight, not that I was any expert in judging the matter.

"No" He answered. "I have thought about it, men seem easier to satisfy and not so time consuming, but… I don't usually find them physically attractive."

Mmmm… He has a point there, I thought, finding myself agreeing with Sherlock for once. But it was funnier teasing him.

"So… technically you are almost a virgin, Sherlock!"

"Oh, stop scoffing me! Unless…" He stared at me again. I had my laptop over my pants now, but his glare made me feel as if the computer was invisible and he was again watching my red pants and the shape of my bulge in them. "Unless you want to help me."

"Help you?" I embraced my laptop, feeling exposed and naked.

"Yes, help me!" His voice rose with enthusiasm now "You are my best friend, the best I've ever had, and you are also my flatmate, my colleague… I won't ever have in any other man the confidence I have in you! Hence, it has to be with you!" Then, he lowered his voice again, and in a whisper added, "John… I know all about your experience with women, but… have you ever been with a man?"

I shook my head, scared of this turn of conversation. He smiled, slow and smug, and said:

"There you are! You are also a 'virgin'!"

I opened my mouth to protest, but Sherlock was shedding his dressing gown and his pyjama shirt, and in truth, I didn't know what to say. He dropped both items to the floor and approached my armchair, smiling mischievously.

"Now we are in the same state of semi-nudity… You don't need to feel ashamed anymore…"

He kept approaching until he was touching my knees. I tried to protest again, but I only managed to gulp. Sherlock took my laptop and pulled it. I held it tighter, opposed to the idea of letting it go: after all, it was another protective layer between Sherlock and me. My friend leaned over me, with his head almost touching mine, and with a dark, surrounding voice that I had never heard him use, he whispered:

"Are you sure you don't feel like trying?"

He took advantage of my atonishment to tear off the laptop from my hands and set it on the side table. He approached even closer, with his legs straddling mine. His flat, warm chest was only centimetres from my eyes. My mouth was suddenly very dry. I ran my tongue over my lips to wet them. Sherlock's eyes followed the movement, fascinated. He placed his hands on my waist and his eyes descended to my chest.

"You are still wearing too many clothes," grunted he. "I'm not wearing anything on top …"

He started to pull up my t-shirt. I still was in a state of shock, unwilling to cooperate in helping him to undress me, but without realizing, my own hands betrayed me and went to settle over my friend pectorals. I looked at them, unable to believe that they had passed to the enemy. His chest burned under my hands, and I couldn't help my fingers tracing an invented path by his ribs, his abdomen, and up again, by his sides towards his sternum, his collar bone, his nipples… I noticed, with fascination, his rapid heartbeats and placed a flat hand over his heart to feel them better. Sherlock grunted again.

"Are you going to help me or not?"

He sat up, breaking away from me, and this time I took off my t-shirt myself and dropped it to the floor. Sherlock looked at me with a smile. He put his index fingers inside the waistband of his pyjama bottoms, and his smile grew wider and naughtier. He lowered his waistband only a centimetre. He giggled, and I realized that I had been holding my breath, expectant. I felt again the skin on my cheeks hot and tight, blushing. He lowered his waistband a couple of centimetres more. His bush of pubic hair came up over the fabric. I couldn't take my eyes off it.

"John…"

I looked up to his face, and when I looked down again, his waistband was on his thighs. My mouth was so dry that my tongue seemed to have turned into sandpaper. I wet my lips again, with my eyes fixed on his half erect penis, a sight that shouldn't look so attractive to me ("And since when do you like penises, John?" I wondered), but in that moment, it seemed to send signals to mine. The size looked larger than normal, and I wondered how it would be fully erect. I felt like touching it.

As always, Sherlock was a step ahead: stepping out of his bottoms, he approached me again, with the same provocative smile on his face, placed a hand on my chest and kissed my lips. He straddled me once again, but this time I grabbed both sides of his face and pulled him to me, opening his lips with my tongue and forcing him to sit on my legs. I explored the inside of his mouth, caressed his gums and his tongue, turning the kiss deeper every moment. Before I could think of stopping for a moment to breath, I felt Sherlock's fingers groping my member over the pants. I almost choked. My penis which was already significantly hard, and at his touch, even through the cotton, seemed to vibrate. As a punishment for the surprise, I bit his lower lip, wanting to remove that satisfied smile from his face. Sherlock moaned, surprised.

In that moment I made a decision: if I had to do something crazy, and apparently my body had decided on it's on accord, then I was doing it my way. I was fed up of feeling bossed around by Sherlock. For once, we were in MY area, where I was the experienced one, so Sherlock's leadership was coming to an end in that very moment.

"Sherlock, stand up a moment", I said. "If we are doing this, you will have to allow me to lead. All right?"

I thought that perhaps his ego would resent, but my friend surprised me again with that mischievous smile.

"I thought you would never ask…" answered he.

He rose and, first time since I met him, stayed quiet, waiting for instructions.

"Lay on the sofa" I instructed, without wasting time.

I had the feeling that, if I stopped to think, I would realize that I was making the most risky decision of my whole life, and I would run away. And I by no means wanted to flee and lose that, not now that I had Sherlock, fully naked, laying on the sofa, a leg extended and the other slightly bend, an arm over the back of the couch and the other supporting his weight on his elbow. And to think that I had never considered Sherlock in that way. If I had, I thought while I drew near him, eyeing him from top to bottom, I would have slipped in his bedroom the very first night I stayed in Baker Street. Now I couldn't help but wonder of my good luck. I was impressed by his self-confidence, even in that moment, with my stare so fixed over his body, and Sherlock was still smiling as a naughty little boy, displaying his body with impudence. If nobody had look at my body with desire in fifteen years, I would have asked for a room with the lights off. But not him, of course, the great Sherlock Holmes, so confident in his intellect, seemingly was also confident of how pleasing to the eye were his long limbs and his lean, muscular torso.

I sighed and knelt between his legs. I lay over him, careful not to crush him, keeping our bodies in close contact, and I kissed him again. Sherlock kissed me back with such intensity that when I realized, he was struggling to set himself on top of me. Oh no, no way! I took his wrists and held them down both sides of his head, one with each of my hands. He laughed, satisfied and a bit annoyed. I bit his neck, just below the ear. He let out a gasp that made me keep on biting him, softer, on his Adam's apple, his collarbone and his earlobe. The sounds he made seemed to connect directly to my penis, sending electric signals and making it throb. I continued kissing his neck and down his chest, going round it with my lips. Suddenly, I craved nothing but exploring all of his body; I wanted to know it centimetre by centimetre. His skin was smooth and warm, and the fact that instead of finding soft tender hills, I met hard planes and soft muscles, rather than disappoint me, it delighted me. I have arrived in the New World, I needed to draw a map of the whole territory, explore, go over it. I visited all the nooks of his skin, all his hollows and his folds and his shadows.

I left his middle for the last, but the moment I was fearing and desiring arrived: the caresses and kisses should lead to something else, right? The penis pointing at my face clearly thought so. Sherlock's eyes looked me, expectant. So I approached it and took the tip between my lips. I made the same movements with my lips and tongue that I made when I kissed. It was just a try, of course, I didn't have a clear idea of what I was supposed to do, but when I looked up to observe Sherlock's reaction, I went breathless: he was looking at me with bright eyes, dilated pupils, blushed cheeks and lower lip snagged between his teeth. My heart started to beat hard, and I thought that I wanted to do that every day, just to see him with that expression on his face again. My attention came back to his penis. This time I took it by the base with one hand, moving it firmly, and let my tongue explore the rest of it, savouring its texture and the way my saliva was making it slippery. Without releasing the base, I put it again in my mouth, as deep as I could, and I began to move up and down while I stroked it with my tongue. Sherlock reciprocated by moaning up there. I kept on tasting him a few minutes more, but my blood pounded in my head and I needed more.

I sat up and Sherlock looked at me, questioningly, saying nothing.

"Can you turn around?" I asked him, a bit embarrassed.

He did it at once, positioning himself kneeling, with his chest leaning over his elbows. There it was, clearly visible, my goal. Hesitant, I stroked his buttocks (round, hard), I squeezed and bit them slightly, and focused on his small hole. Really small. I touched it with my tongue, and it seemed to vibrate in answer. I licked around it, enjoying Sherlock's reaction, who arched his back and seemed to have an spasm over his right leg. Finally, I put my tongue inside, and I had to hold Sherlock tightly by his waist to keep him still. I used my lips and my tongue, sucking, kissing and giving it little taps, and I checked, pleased, that it was beginning to dilate. I put one of my fingers in my mouth and covered it generously with saliva. Then, a bit hesitant, I inserted it. I held my breath, noticing Sherlock's internal muscles, so warm around my skin. My erection burned, reminding me that it was it the one that should be right inside there. I moved my finger in circles inside his anus. Sherlock arched, breathing heavy and fast. He looked at me, with his head resting on the sofa's arm, and I thought that I had never seen anyone so desirable. I stroked his hair with my free hand, and then his cheekbones, his chin. In that moment, looking at me pleadingly, he seemed so fragile, so vulnerable to me that it took my breath away. I leaned to kiss him, while I kept on moving my finger inside him. Then I returned behind him and tried with two fingers. They entered without problem. I thrusted them as much as I could, and once inside, I got in and out and expanded my fingers inside him. It was more new territory to explore, so I took the chance.

"John, I can't anymore… Stop playing!"

My member agreed with Sherlock. I took my fingers from his hole, and I checked that it was dilated, but I wasn't sure enough that my penis would fit there. On the previous times that I'd had anal sex with a girl, my member was well lubricated thanks to the vaginal fluids. It was a little detail that has to be corrected. I wrote down on my mental shopping list - a good lubricant. But, since I had never used it, I weighed up in my head the contents of our bathroom, looking for a substitute. When it came to my mind, I hurried for it: a month ago, after a case in the country, Sherlock arrived home sunburned, and I bought him a moisturising cream at the chemist. It had a milky touch, if I remembered well, and in those moments of necessity it looked perfect to me. It didn't take me more than thirty seconds finding it in the bathroom and coming back to Sherlock, but when I returned, my friend was already sitting on the sofa, frowning.

"Did you think I had fled?" I asked him, surprised, and I showed him the white bottle. "I was looking for this".

"What's that, what do you want this for, now?" He interrogated, annoyed. But the answer came to him at once, and he whispered: "Oh. Of course".

He opened his legs, still seated, smiling again.

"How do you want me?"

I hesitated.

"Well… I think it will be easier… Let's see… Kneel on the sofa, lean over the back of the sofa."

"Wait! Before that, I want to see what you have hid from me all this time".

I was surprised. What could I be hiding from him? Then I followed his glance and I realized that I was still wearing the ridiculous red pants. Sherlock extended his hands to my hips and pulled them slowly down. I recorded in my mind the look on his face. I have never thought the desire could transform him in such a beautiful creature. If the "every day" Sherlock could be irritating, sometimes childish; and other times imposing, in the middle of inquiries, elegant, even graceful, Sherlock in the midst of a moment of passion was a Hermes by Praxiteles.

Distracted as I was, I let him completely pull down my pants. I lifted one foot and then the other, and Sherlock seized the red pants and threw them away, into the air. I gasped when I saw that they went straight toward the open window, but luckily they caught on the upper corner of the window frame. I was about to fetch them when Sherlock embraced me.

"Leave them: as you said before, there isn't a breath of wind."

I melted in his embrace, stroking his back, his biceps and lowering my hands towards his buttocks, where I held myself with desperation. Sherlock parted from me with bright eyes and turned around, and placed himself on his knees in the sofa, with his bum upright towards me, leaning over the back of the sofa, looking at me from there, without smiling, with his red lips half open and breathing hard again.

I took the bottle of cream and I poured a good squirt of it into my hand. I spread it well down my painful erection, who was pleased at being paid attention finally, and I reassured it that, from that moment on, I was going to treat it really well. My erection jumped a little with joy, and I poured more cream into my hand to spread it also in Sherlock's warm orifice, who moaned again when I touched him. My hands where trembling with arousal. I took my friend by his waist, with both hands, and I breathed deeply, trying to relax. Wasn't I the 'expert'? I couldn't be left looking like a schoolboy now, trembling like a leaf for his first shag. Sherlock deserved all my ability, all my skill and all my ardour. If I disappointed him, I would never forgive myself. I still didn't know what crazy fate had allowed me the access to his intimacy, but I would do anything to keep it.

I guided my member with one hand to his opening, and I push lightly. It slipped out.

"Ouch!" complained Sherlock.

"Sorry, sorry… I'm not used to this cream."

With trembling hands once again, I took my erection, I pumped it twice, quickly, in order to regain one hundred percent hardness, and I guided it again to Sherlock's entrance. This time I held it with my hand while I introduced the entire head. I felt Sherlock holding his breath. I pulled out again, very slowly.

"Breath out now… and inhale again" I advised him, re-entering while I spoke.

Without letting go of my hand (I didn't want more accidents), I began to thrust, with really slow movements, entering each time barely a little more, until that, after fifteen deliciously calm waves, I was fully inside his body. I took him by his hips and repressed the urge to drilling into him, hard, and demand my pleasure. Instead, I rested my dizzy head on his shoulder, kissing and biting him softly. Sherlock tilted his head to kiss my mouth.

"Is it alright?" I asked, without stopping my movements, pulling out almost completely every time, still taking my time with every movement.

In reply, he trapped my lower lip between his, nibbling it. I moaned and quickened my pace. Sherlock groaned and muttered:

"Now it is… Harder... More!"

I took it as an invitation, and I did what my body was crying aloud for. I dug my fingers into his hips, started to pound harder, until I hit the maximum depth every time, replacing the initial waves with a storm of rapid deep bumps, changing the angle, struggling to gain depth, biting his nape and shoulders, finally hooking one arm around his waist, possessive, and moving my hips in circles without moving my member out of him. The wrath of knowing that it was the most inside of Sherlock that I could be, that I couldn't pass from there, assailed me, and my eyes filled suddenly with tears. I wished, in those moments, that I could own him completely, that I could be fully inside him, be him for an instant.

But now, it was Sherlock who was trembling in my arms, and I could do nothing but provide him as much pleasure as possible. I lowered the hand on his waist to his member, erect and wet, and I pumped it a couple of times until it exploded in my hand. I concentrated on my movements and my own pleasure, without releasing him. Sherlock only let go a strangled cry that died on his lips, but I started to moan uncontrollably, pressing my body against his, grasping his member with one hand and his hip with the other, my lips pressed to his shoulder. The pleasure flooded over me like if someone had opened the doors of a dam and all the water would run over me. When I regained control, I realized that I'd continued grabbing Sherlock hard, and his now semi-flaccid penis wouldn't appreciate my enthusiasm. I stroked my fingertips over the marks I had left in his hips. I stepped aside to allow Sherlock turn, which he did, letting himself go, barely sitting on the sofa, still with ragged breath. He smiled at me, satisfied, and stretched out a hand to bring me closer in a kiss. I sat by his side, with the same satisfied smile on my face, I bet, and I kissed him on the corner of the mouth, stroking his sweaty curls with one hand. He kissed me again, hooking an arm around my waist, and then he opened his eyes wide. I broke away from his kiss.

"What's the matter, Sherlock?"

"It seems that there was a bit of a breeze, after all…"

I turned towards the window: the upper frame lacked a touch of colour, the red touch of my pants, which were hanging there a moment before. Panic-stricken, I got up and I rushed to examine the street. Where did my red pants go? Had they gone flying down the street?

But my glance crossed with Mrs. Hudson's, who was leaning out of her window, just below ours. She turned upwards, saw me, and shook in her hand a piece of clothing. Red.

"Boys, it's raining pants!" she shouted, half laughing. I noticed Sherlock's presence joining me at the window. "Sherlock! Are they yours?"

My friend burst into laughter, with a bubbly laugh.

"No, Mrs. Hudson, I regret to say they are John's!"

I felt a blush creeping up my hair's root, matching my damned pants. Mrs. Hudson looked utterly surprised, as if she hadn't expected such mischief from me, and right away put on an annoyed face and exclaimed:

"Well, you will have to come downstairs to fetch them, John, I'm very busy right now stirring the stew, I don't want it to burn!"

And she disappeared inside her flat, taking the red pants with her. I dashed to put on my trousers, without underwear, and my t-shirt. Sherlock kept on laughing, as if seeing me making a fool of myself was the funniest thing in the world. Annoyed, I snapped at him:

"You, you are going to go downstairs to Mrs. Hudson's with me. I'm not going there alone!"

I picked up his pyjamas from the floor and I dropped them in his lap. Sherlock stopped laughing, cocked his head and looked at me again with that mischievous smile.

"And what would I gain in exchange if I go with you?"

Without even thinking, I leaned and kissed him passionately. When I parted from his lips, I mumbled:

"This, if you are OK with it."

Sherlock smiled, pleased.

"Bargain accepted!"

And he sat up to put his clothes on quickly.