"No! I bloody am not confessing!" an irritated woman, sitting in a common interrogation room with bad lighting and a typical 'mirror' on the wall, shouts at two men – one doctor and one detective. "And you both can suck my cock!"
The doctor's brows fly up instantly and he pouts.
However, the detective's face reminds cold and stringent as always and he says: "I beg your pardon?"
"Or to each other if you'd have the need," she spats with annoyance and waves her hand in the air, "I don't really care."
"Well," the detective slightly lifts up an eyebrow and leans forward, his forearms placed on the table, voice deep and slow, and his lips marked by a little smirk of victory "I was just giving you a chance – I know you did it. And you should know, Miss Moore" he leans even closer towards her, "that I'd much prefer to suck his than yours."
The woman merely opens her mouth – there are no words suddenly, only hatred in her narrowed eyes, which she pierces the detective with as two police men are leading her out of the room in handcuffs thereafter.
"What," a stiff voice comes out of the doctor's mouth as he looks at his friend with a raised forefinger, "was that?"
"...Well, if you're referring to that little comment of mine (?)" the tall man makes a half guess and waits if his friend's facial expression would confirm he hit the right note. He did. So he continues: "I think it's quite understandable. She obviously hasn't got a penis so it would be really hard and pretty pointless to try to su–"
"There are people behind that glass," the doctor states, barly moving his lips, trying to make his voice to sound unperturbed.
"There are none."
"Huh?"
The detective makes a few steps forward, and stopping his proud, tall self right in front of the short doctor, he taps on the glass. "This," he explains, "is just a mirror, John. And you are the living proof of how excellently it does its job."
The doctor opens his mouth, but lets out nothing than a frustrated sigh.
"And I'm surprised," the detective continues with gaze fixed upon his friend, "that you're acting like this about what I've said." He arches his perfectly straight back to put his even more perfect lips near to the short man's ear, "After all, it wouldn't be the first time."
"Hm," the doctor sneers, knowing his cheeks have turned red, trying to ignore it, and looks up sarcastically from under his brows. "Go after them – they need you to sign the statement."
"Yes," the tall man nods and crosses to the door. "John?" he turns before leaving.
"Mm?" the doctor cocks his head.
But his lean friend does not say anything. He just swiftly puts his long, skinny middle finger into his mouth and rubs the inside of his cheek, creating a 'ponk' sound as the finger goes out again.
"Push off!" the short man raises his voice and then, when the detective vanishes at once, does one of his many facepalms. Then he rests his forehead against the chilling glass of the just-a-mirror and a faint, bitter smile appears on his lips. "God, I was so much drunk..."
They do not talk about it (well, if we pass the events above) and John really tries not to think about it likewise. But it is something so astounding that it could hardly be forgotten just that simple. He, John Watson, the ladies man, has had... an oral sex... with his flatmate. He has had an oral sex with Sherlock Holmes. And Sherlock was the one on his knees.
The doctor inhales sharply.
It happened only once and only because he was fairly drunk, and the detective was just so... persuasive (there is just something incredibly strong in his personality that makes it very hard not to comply with his demands).
'...I want to try it, nothing more...' he was saying to him. '...I cannot imagine doing this with some dull guy I just met in a bar...' His voice was low and firm, his bearing haughty and aloof as usual, his shirt tight as hell... '...this experiment requires someone I trust...' The pair of those sharp eyes in which every colour had found its place was focused on John, rotting him to the spot, making the refusal of their owner's wish utterly impossible. '...and since you are my best friend...'
Only once!
But still...
Moreover there's the fact he's been drunk and therefore John remembers hardly a few things. Even those words are unclear and blurry as the rest of his memory (every now and then he nearly wasn't sure if Sherlock actually said something of it).
The short man's clenched fist hit the wall next to his head. "Shit!" he hisses to the mirror against which he's still leaning his forehead. "Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!"
"John, would you stop swearing, and go with me?"
The doctor does not even have to turn his head to recognize who has addressed him – that sonorous voice is just unmistakable.
"Yeah, sure," he mumbles and follows the tall owner of the very deep baritone, his eyes fixed on the detective's back, covered with long, black, billowing coat, as he's walking fast in front of him...
They are on the street now, getting into a cab Sherlock has waved.
The whole ride John manages not to look or even glance at his flatmate (he would probably not survive the sight of that extremely bow shaped lips, considering the very unwanted ideas, which aren't exactly chaste, now messing with his mind), who is scrutinizing the reflection of his averted face every once in a while in the car window – but the short man doesn't fortunately noticed.
And after a while, filled by this strange mood, they reach home.
. . .
"Okay," John tels himself as Sherlock's holding the door for him, "this has to be quick."
He passes the detective, avoiding his gaze, and goes up the stairs – fast, directly to his own room.
Into the living room he comes after a quite long time and obviously just because he's hungry.
. . .
After the doctor polishes off something eatable that he has fished out of the heap of plastic bags containing eyeballs or thumbs or something he would rather not like to know and of Petri dishes filled with milk and happy bacteria, he takes his laptop and seats himself with it in his armchair, giving no attention to his flatmate (despite his mind is full of him)...
"John, you... um... are you... okay?" the detective forms an iffy, fitful question as he is not used to ask such things, because he has never met much people (or even any) which he would care about, towards his flatmate who's apparently a different case for him.
"...Hm? What?" the flatmate mumbles with unfocused tone.
The detective, not moving from his spot (he is sitting at a table, dawdling with some not-so-useful-or-important experiment), fixes his eyes on a laboratory baker with an uncoloured, fuming liquid in it. He lifts it up into the air and states: "You are staring at the blank screen for exactly thirty eight minutes and," he makes a little pause and glances at the clock on his phone, "sixteen seconds."
The short, fair-haired man sniffs and snaps the laptop shut. "What is that terrible smell?"
"Acidum formicum – a solution of course."
"Hmm," John utters sarcastically as if it is something he's interested in. "And what use does have a solution of formic acid in our flat?"
"Because of varroatosis," replies the thin man, giving his all concentration to the liquid.
"Varro-what?"
"A disease of honeybees caused by a certain parasitic mite."
"Ah."
It seems that John has no more interest (even the faked one) in Sherlock's current action, and the scientist has no need to explain any further; he just takes a glass test tube and carefully starts to pour the liquid into it.
"...And how–?"
"Blass it!" the detective exclaims as a tinny drop of the acid burns one of his slender fingers due to the unexpected distraction of the short man's voice and as the test tube subsequently falls down, cracking against the table .
The doctor jolts in his seat and sharply turns his head to see his flatmate how he's examining his left hand's forefinger with a painful face. "You're okay?" he inquires.
"God damn it, John!" the thin man gives him a sharp glare. "Look what you've – Nah! Now it's all for nothing!" he growls and stands up to get something to clean the spilled solution up with.
"And why it has to be my fault?!" the short man calls angrily after him.
"Because it is your fault!"
"Sherlock," the thin man's flatmate says in a low, steady voice, "I haven't done anything that–"
"You have no idea what all you have done!" the detective shouts and his lips trembles imperceptibly. He feels his chest contracting painfully. The inhaled air seems to be stuck in his lungs and for a fleeting moment he can't breathe. And he knows it's all because the hidden meaning of his words which he's aware of while John's not. And that is driving him nearly crazy.
"Fine," the doctor utters stiffly and grabs his laptop. "I'll be in my room if you'd need me," he informs and walks off.
Sherlock watches him with pressed lips and a scowl. "...Everything is your fault," he says quietly, though he is aware John cannot hear him by now.
. . .
"I'll never understand this. Why he went to her? He could have had a marvellous life. He could accomplish great things," the detective mutters, standing beside the couch where John is sitting, watching some old movie about some fictional earl who gave up everything to only be with his true love (some lovely maid naturally), despite the high society would spurn him and he won't be able to engage with policy any longer.
"Well, you know," John says and gets up to his feet, switching the telly off, "that's just love."
"Eh, love," the thin man replied in disgust, "the most terrible disease that can strike man's mind."
"Sherlock," the doctor shakes his head with an incredulous smile. "Love is not a disease. It will not cause you any damage," he demurs. "It... it..." The doctor is trying to figure out and say something wise that would finally explain his flatmate what an amazing, natural thing love is, "Ha! –" he's got it "– 'Love it will not betray you, dismay or enslave you, it will set you free'."
"Ah, Shakespeare –" there is no sign of grasp or agreement in the tone of the detective's voice "– And you like to be set free on a regular basis, I presume," he half-scoffs and looks at his flatmate; "It is the only explanation of so many girlfriends of yours. Have you got any idea of how many it was since we've moved together?"
"Yes, I have. And I know what you mean, but you understand it in a wrong way. There is one – one true love. And you have to find it. The reason of me having not 'so many' girlfriends is because I'm still looking for it."
"That's very poetic, really," the detective fully-scoffs and then, after a moment of silence, he adds: "Do you ever think about that the true reason why you've got so many girlfriends is because–"
"Because I'm in fact attracted to men and I try to hide it by such a disrespectful way as going out with every woman I happen to meet? Oh please, Sherlock, even you?"
"I'm not saying this."
"No, of course you're not – only the whole of London." (...) "And just for the record," he looks straight at the detective, his tone not exactly pleasant, "it doesn't seem to me you try to disprove it in any way."
Sherlock is silence.
"So maybe," the doctor goes on, "I should finally give you all a proper reason, don't you think?"
The detective's face is slightly puzzled now – he really did not get that.
"Behold," John says with a wry smile upon his face: "the genius." Then he makes a few steps towards Sherlock, and rising up on his toes he cupps the thin man's face and for a fleeting moment presses their lips together.
"Well," he says when pulles away, "I'm not feeling less heterosexual then before. (...) And now if you'll excuse me," he steps away, "I need a drink." And sizing his jacket, the short man leaves hastily even before he puts it on.
The detective stands there, the inner brows furrowed a bit. Two times he blinks slowly. He clenches his fists as well as his jaw and then looses both.
He takes his violin and begins to play.
It is a restless, uneasy song.
. . .
It's four in the morning and Sherlock, naturally, is still awake. But this time the case that's bugging him and keeping the sleep away from him has nothing to do with crime whatsoever.
He sits there, in the living room, in his armchair, in the dark – disconcerted.
The doctor has not come back yet.
The thin man's wondering if he even will come back.
Then suddenly he hears footsteps.
That's him.
"John (?)"
"Yeah," a hardly sober voice comes from the hallway and after it the even more hardly-sober doctor, collapsing immediately onto the sofa, "that's me."
Sherlock switches on a lamp to see better at the man who has been in his mind for the last eight hours and sits back into his seat.
. . .
"Have you ever drink vodka with pear juice?" the doctor asks, turning his head to his flatmate and – not really waiting for an answer – he continues: "It's a terrible thing really. And it appeared you need a lot of vodka to override that sweet, sticky aftertaste of the juice... Ugh," he shudders with disgust. Then his face suddenly changes and he seems to be lost in thought for a moment. Then he lowers his brows and glances at Sherlock who's still sitting somehow motionless in his armchair: "Wait. Have you... ever drink?"
"No. Not in a way you mean."
"Hm," a brief smile tugs at the doctor's left mouth corner, "why am I not surprised? Just look at you... Look at your brain. At your mind. At your fantastic powers. And yet," all of a sudden John's tone goes quite bitter, "you do know nothing about life." Fixing his eyes on the floor, he pauses and then, with completely changed voice, he looks up, almost laughing: "For God's sake you're still a virgin! Doesn't it irk you...?" He frowns in a lack of understanding as he meets Sherlock's eyes: "Don't you want it?"
The detective is gazing into those blue irises of his flatmate which's colour does not seem to be so bright and unalloyed in this moment. "...Then have sex with me," he says in a tone as if asking someone to hand him a salt.
"Eh?" John's eyes pop at that but on the instant, he bursts out laughing. "Did – did I just hear you saying the word sex in connection of having it?" His amused smile forms into a grin, "Really?"
"Yes."
"Well," the doctor says with surprisingly firm and sober voice, "the answer is no. (...) No, I will not... Heh, it's all pretty unbelievable, you know?"
Sherlock's silence – his face emotionless.
"Have you even kissed someone yet?" John looks at him. He does not count that little affair as Sherlock-kissing-someone, because, in fact, he is the one who has kissed him (well, if you could call that a kiss). "Because, honestly, I can't imagine you putting your tongue into someone else's mouth. And the thought of you putting your..." he lets that sentence unfinished and grins drunkenly over that idea. "Kiss someone first," he says at last in an unyielding tone of voice, "and then talk to me," and considers the whole matter closed forever.
The detective's facial expression becomes even colder as he rises to his feet and goes directly to the sofa where his flatmate is lounging around.
John freezes under the silver eyes which are now piercing him with the sharpest gaze. Sherlock does not utter a word and smoothly, in a very impressive, dominant way (way in which he does almost everything), bends down to kiss the rest of John's sottish smile off his lips.
"Shall we talk now?" he asks with steady voice as he draws back.
John, wordless, blinks several times, completely taken aback by the detective's action. His jaw moves as he touches his lips by tongue from inside his mouth, trying to recognize that strange taste.
"John, shall we–?" Sherlock starts, but can not finish, because his mouth is suddenly full of John's tongue.
For the briefest moment his heart stops beating. However, his surprise does not last for long and the fast-learning detective puts himself generously into the kiss.
The doctor places his hands on the scruff of Sherlock's neck and pulls him closer – very nearly onto himself.
The thin man, kneeling on the sofa with one leg and leaning the other against it, puts his right hand on the backrest to make his position more stable, and breaks the kiss. "I thought," he says a bit breathless, "that you've said–"
"Nah!" the doctor growls, "Doesn't matter. Right now I'm not saying anything. And I'm quite sure it's all because I'm hammer drunk – again (I have to stop with that). That's also the main reason why should we do it now if ever; with luck I won't remember it next day." He looks at his flatmate with raised eyebrows: "This is probably your very only chance."
Sherlock meets John's eyes. "It is, isn't it?"
"Yep," the short man gives him a nod. "And you should better hurry before I change my mind."
"Well then..." says the detective and looms over John, putting his hand to the doctor's side, laying him back into the sofa with another kiss.
None of them has closed their eyes. They watch each other as their tongues are merging into one another, twisting and turning endlessly.
John strokes Sherlock's nape and teases his tongue with the tip of his own, dipping and thrusting against it in a merciless parody of sex.
And the detective likes it – he likes it very much (yes, there is that nasty taste of pear and vodka, but it somehow melts away after a while and everything that leaves is John).
As a matter of fact, all this is quite new to him – to his mind. His thoughts are running in mad circles and he's almost not able to class his mental notes into the right folders. But surprisingly he somehow knows what he should or even is supposed to do.
Well, it is not that astonishing, because it's simply an instinct; you know what to do when it comes to it – even someone like Sherlock Holmes, because (trust it or not) he's also only a human...
Still kissing his flatmate he slowly slides his hand across John's side into his lap and caresses the half hardened cock over the fabric of the short man's trousers.
"Nh," John utters and his eyelids flickers over that sensation as he curves upwards into Sherlock's palm, yet does not shut them.
The detective smirks for himself and continues rubbing.
John overcomes the need of closing his eyes and tossing his head back to only enjoy Sherlock's touch, and concentrates all his powers to another need. He grabs the thin man's shirt at the waist and yanks it out from his trousers.
Sherlock understands and straightens up (he's now something like sitting astride on John who is pinned to the sofa by his weight) so he can take the shirt off and throw it on the floor. As soon as he does it he leans down again and presses his lips to John's once more.
The short man has not even enough time to feast his eyes on his flatmate's physique (which is quite shame, because we all know there's a lot to look at). Therefore he begins to admire it by his both hands: with the right one he caresses Sherlock's back and with the left one he glides over his flatmate's chest, down to the only button on his trousers.
The doctor opens it swiftly just like the fly under it and with eagerness, which could be perhaps attributed to his intoxication, he slides one hand right into the detective's pants.
An unclear 'ah' escapes Sherlock's parted lips and he slightly trembles under John's touch.
"See?" the doctor's face is decorated with a smug smile as he puts his mouth to Sherlock's ear and with teeth slightly grazes his earlobe, whispering: "This is how you do it."
Sherlock buries his head in John's shoulder and presses his crutch against the doctor's palm, then thrusts forward – a little experiment of his. The resulting sensation is fantastic. He's almost sure he could come of this if he would repeat it twelve times or so.
"...I'm glad you're having fun," says John and looks up at his flatmate, who has now pulled back. "But you should do something about my trousers."
The thin man is so disconcerted by his previous action that he only gives his flatmate a questioning look.
John reaches out his hand to take a handful of Sherlock's hair, pulling him so close that he can – without stretching his neck not a bit – growl into the detective's ear: "Take that bloody thing off."
Sherlock's disenchantment seems gone at the very moment and he immediately gives his attention to John. He puts his hands on his flatmate's thighs and lifts him up a little to help him in moving the trousers down to his knees. Then he pulls them even lower to John's ankles, where the doctor kicks them off.
Sherlock smiles at the sight of John's full pants and caresses his thigh as he leans forward to kiss him before he could say anything more...
The thin man goes up with his hand, over his flatmate's hip, to his t-shirt, then under it, across his belly, feeling the muscles flexing under his fingertips, to his chest, and there he circles John's nipple by his thumb."
"Mmh," the short man mumbles and licks his lip, then bites it when Sherlock suddenly lowers all his body and rocks against him. And in that moment John, at last, fully recognizes how much he wants to have a shag with someone – anyone. He desperately grabs at Sherlock's arse and forces him to do that movement again.
"Ah," the detective gasps as their hips cling together once more – he's been not expecting that.
"Take off your trousers," says John and kisses him on the neck. He tastes the saltiness of the delicate, sensitive skin and bites it just in the right place, exacting an aroused moan from Sherlock, "And your pants too."
There is no hesitation at the detective's side and he does exactly as he is told. Meanwhile the doctor manages to take off his own pants and pull the t-shirt off over his head, leaving it to its fate.
And so, there they are: two naked men – one heterosexual (but not so straight), and one virgin (but not for long).
John lifts himself a bit up and leans on his elbows. Then he reaches out a hand and closes his fingers tightly around Sherlock's completely hardened cock, giving it a smooth, intense stroke.
The detective opens his mouth and gasps slightly. "John," he says when the doctor repeats his action. "John, stop."
But the short man has not. He's too much fascinated by the sounds the thin man is making to stop the moves which happen to be the cause of it.
"Nnh," Sherlock clenches his jaw and seizes John's wrist. "Stop it."
The doctor stops unwillingly and asks if he may know why.
"Because this – this is something I should do to you," Sherlock explains. "Not otherwise."
Both John's eyebrows fly up at that and his mouth corners start twitching. He presses his lips tightly together to not erupt into laughter and after a long moment he manages to say: "I – sorry, I... I didn't know that you had a... system," he grins.
"I do in fact," Sherlock confirms with steady voice, totally unaware of what could have possibly given rise to John's amusement.
"Oh," the doctor wonders affectedly and continues with mellifluous voice: "And when it comes to the point where you put this," he gently crosses Sherlock's member with three fingers and then points them at a certain place of his body, "in here?"
"Soon," answers the detective. But then he frowns: "The only problem is that we don't have any–"
"Use your saliva."
At that remark Sherlock titles his head to one side and looks straight into John's eyes: "That's not... such a bad idea."
"I know," agrees the short man. "You should finally confess that sometimes I have them."
"Chm," Sherlock smirks and licks his two fingers, "maybe when you're drunk..."
. . .
"Nnnh!" the doctor whines.
"Sorry. Is - is it that unpleasant?"
"Mhm," he gives him a painful nod. "Do – something... about it."
The thin man lowers his brows as he tries to think of something he could possibly do. Then, after a short moment really, he gets it. Body always gives preference to a pain that is greater, he thinks and forthwith sinks his teeth roughly into John's good shoulder.
The doctor yells: "Sherlock! Bloody hell! You–!" but then he realizes he's not feeling any other pain than the one in his shoulder and shuts his mouth at once.
Sherlock smiles: "Better?"
"...Yeah," the short man mumbles quietly.
"Good. Shall I... try to move then?"
"I... I think yes," the short man breathes.
Sherlock makes the first move.
John tightly shuts his eyes. "Mmmh," he yowls in an undertone and clenches his jaw.
"Don't worry," the detective tries to comfort him, his voice still sounding firm despite he's not perfectly sure about his words. "It... it will pass."
"Ha – I hope so."
And it does – exactly as the detective did promise.
. . .
The pain is gone and all that's left are smooth, slow motions – careful.
They do not kiss or touch or (heavens forbid!) talk.
John has his arms put alongside his body and Sherlock's hands are placed on the sofa, one on each side of John's head.
They are just... breathing.
Yes, it is strange, but not in such a bad way, though.
The doctor closes his eyes and stretching out his neck he presses his crown into the soft couch. He relaxes and begins to relish the warmness of the thin man's body.
Then, all of a sudden, he feels Sherlock has lowered himself so their groins are now pressed far much together, and shortly afterwards there are hot lips on his neck. His heart rate shots up and a horrible thought that Sherlock could somehow feel it (as his mouth is stuck to John's carotid artery) flashes through his mind. However, it's surprisingly such a good feeling that the short man hasn't done anything to stop it, no, he does just the opposite. Instead of pushing his flatmate away he lets him continue, and giving up the fight with his sober (straight) self John raises one arm and runs his fingers trough the thin man's hair.
There is a brief, barely non-existent hesitation at Sherlock's side as John does that – like he can't believe it. But it's really only for the shortest millisecond and when it is all gone he adjusts the pace a bit, going deeper, faster, making the sensation more intense.
A little gasp that the doctor does not truly manage to halt escapes his lips and tickles Sherlock's ear. He leans his brow against John's and also shuts his eyes.
The tips of their noses are touching, their hips moving identically, and just the tiniest possible space between their parted lips is filled with hot puffs of breath that are crushing into one another.
"Nnh..." the short man moans excitedly as his flatmate seizes his tight and makes the trusts harder. He squeezes his hand onto himself, and biting his bottom lip, whines slightly over the pleasure from hasty strokes.
Sherlock presses his forehead into the sofa next to John's head and quickens even more.
After a while, there is a deep, dark groan, repressed by the doctor's shoulder as the tall man puts his mouth to it (it wouldn't be appropriate to let out such a noise at the top of one's voice). And that is, ladies and gentlemen, the moment when Mr. Sherlock Holmes, the virgin, has – for the first time of his life – been sent over the edge with someone else's assistance. And his best friend, the 'three continent' man – pinned under the body of another man by all its weight (which is John's for-the-first-time-in-his-life) – follows him in no time, as quietly as he can.
. . .
Sherlock lifts up carefully and gets of the sofa. He takes a blanket from John's armchair and covers the short man with it, giving him a quick, tiny, barely visible smile, though his eyes has not rested upon him even for a fleeting moment. Then he seizes a dressing gown that is lied innocently over his seat as if it's waiting there, puts it on and without a word goes to his bedroom.
. . .
The very next morning John wakes up exactly as the thin man has left him.
He's halfway covered with the blanket, evidently naked under it.
He has a terrible headache.
Rubbing his temples, he manages to sit up.
God, it hurts so damn much!
His belly feels somehow sticky.
'John,' his name sounds in his head and a sign of Sherlock with closed eyes and ruffled hair flashes through his mind.
The doctor's eyes widen and a chilling shiver goes down his spine.
"Oh, shit," he freezes "What have I done?"