John

Ludicrous. It was simply ludicrous. He should have seen it coming. He had, in a way, but things had been nicely calm (warning sign number one) and he had just wanted to enjoy it for a little while. Even though they were between cases, Sherlock had been quiet and contemplative, spending long hours on the sofa, thinking so hard that he was practically grinding his teeth. John had noted the hard set of his jaw and the palpable tension in Sherlock's long, lean body, but any queries he'd made had been quickly shot down. Rather than take offence, John had simply left him to it. He'd learned there was no sense in trying to barge in on Sherlock's process. When it was time for him to know, he would know.

He had to keep reminding Mycroft of this fact. The elder Holmes had also noted Sherlock's unusual between-case behaviour and he would not stand for it much longer. John had already been spirited away twice by the ever-mysterious Anthea so Mycroft could question him about the goings-on at Baker Street. The fact that Sherlock hadn't even bothered deducing that John had taken these "trips" was all the more concerning.

Yet when he was home, Sherlock usually managed to rouse himself from his ruminations and he was present and attentive. Almost overly so. John felt the force of his flatmate's gaze as they shared a meal (he was eating, at least, that was something, and he'd been sleeping when John had come home from work that evening) or as he puttered about the kitchen. Speaking of which, the kitchen had been alarmingly free of terrifying and stomach-churning experiments. No new body parts had materialized in the fridge, though the bag of thumbs was doing odd things in the crisper. John worried it was on the verge of forming its own system of government, but didn't want to bother Sherlock about it when there were clearly bigger issues at hand.

Tonight he'd done the shopping, come home, and found Sherlock napping on the sofa and the image had been quite endearing. The way Sherlock was forced to fold up his coltish legs in order for the sofa to accommodate his towering frame. The ridges of his spine were clearly visible through his shirt and John had almost been overcome by the urge to map it with his fingers before covering Sherlock with a blanket. He'd been having more thoughts like those lately and hadn't quite known what to do with them. The incidents with Irene Adler had been eye-opening, to say the least. To see another person affect Sherlock so profoundly had bothered him a little and he'd chastised himself for feeling petty and jealous and arrogant enough to think that he was somehow special. He was just an ordinary bloke, after all, and Sherlock's continued fascination with him was the biggest mystery of all, though according to Sherlock it was the least mysterious thing in the world. And besides, he had no claim over the man. He could be interested in whomever he wished, just as John was doing his best to get on with it in the dating world.

But the thought that someone like Irene existed — someone who could upset their delicate ecosystem in such a way. It made him think about what exactly he was doing at Baker Street.

And apparently Sherlock had been thinking along the same lines.

Sherlock had been very quiet at tea, not even reading the paper or checking his phone every two minutes. He'd eaten his food with a grim determination.

"Enjoying your last meal?" John had tried for a light joke.

Sherlock glared sharply at him. "Hmmm?"

"Last meal. Meaning you look like you're about to be marched off to … oh, never mind …"

"Hmmm."

John had done the washing-up, as usual, and then had gone to his room for a short nap as he was knackered after a particularly vexing day at work. About an hour later he'd been roused by the creak of footsteps on the stairs and a light knock at the door. "John?"

Sherlock. Sherlock never visited his room. It was an unspoken agreement between them that their rooms were more or less Baker Street colonies. They flew under the flag, but were to be considered separate dominions.

That's when things became ludicrous. Sherlock had opened the door and stood stiffly in the doorway, clearing his throat and scratching the back of his neck — god, was he actually nervous? — before shoving his hands in his pockets. And then he spoke.

He spoke for a long time. And in the end what it boiled down to was a proposition. Sherlock "I'm married to my work" Holmes was sexually frustrated and wanted John to help him with it so his work would not suffer any further. And no one else — only John would do. Which was meant to be flattering and it was, but also deeply troubling. And apparently this would serve John's interests, as well.

"I know this might be new to you in many ways," Sherlock had said in his closing statement. "But I assure you that it will be a most mutually beneficial arrangement. And perhaps we can conduct a short experiment to ensure that the chemistry is sound, though I have already deduced that it will be."

"Chemistry?" John repeated dully, still trying to take in all his flatmate had said. I need to shag you or my life's work will be ruined.

"Yes, of course. Actual contact is the most efficient way to judge physical compatibility."

"Yes, of course, yes," John repeated. "Um, all right, then. What, you want me to snog you, is that it?"

"I think that's an ideal litmus test, so to speak. I shall give you some time to think about my proposition and I will return in fifteen minutes for your decision."

John had nodded, still flabbergasted. "Yes, yes. All right. Fifteen minutes."

Sherlock had nodded back, then turned to leave, but then he paused in the doorway and his face softened. Something in his eyes went soft, too, and John felt it all the way to his knees.

"John?"

"Yes, Sherlock."

"I don't mean to corner you. If this is something you really don't want to pursue, then I will find another way to bring the Work back to its usual impeccable standard. I am a genius, after all."

John had smiled, just a little, and this reaction made Sherlock's eyes shine all the more.

"I … I need you to want this as much as I do," said Sherlock. "Or at least something resembling that. If you don't, then I can't pursue it, either."

John had nodded. "All right, Sherlock. See you in fifteen minutes."

"Yes, right." He'd pressed his lips together and taken his hands out of his pockets before leaving. John caught only a quick glimpse before his flatmate left his range of vision, but he was certain that Sherlock's hands had been shaking. The stairs creaked as his friend went back downstairs.

John made his decision before the last step squeaked under Sherlock's weight.

He made his decision, then took the fifteen minutes to think about how and why he'd made it so quickly. It was his gut that had guided him. But his brain was screaming at him that this was ludicrous.

Well, it was. Absolutely. But he finally had to acknowledge his attraction to Sherlock, no matter how confusing it was. John had had some experience with men. Medical school. The army. Where close proximity and the bonds of friendship had crossed some lines. He had enjoyed it and didn't regret it, but it wasn't something he'd ever thought to actively pursue. It wasn't like how he'd observed things while growing up with Harry, how she'd just known for almost all her life that she preferred those of her own sex. John had mainly identified as straight, but he'd learned along the way that there were always exceptions to any rule.

Sherlock was exceptional in every way possible. And besides, for a long time he hadn't thought of Sherlock as a man or a woman or anything except Sherlock. He was unique. He was unlike anyone John had ever known. He would go as far to boldly state that Sherlock Holmes was unlike anyone else in the entire world. He was special. Beautifully so. And it amazed him constantly that so few others truly saw it.

Not to mention that when he wasn't driving John absolutely barmy, he was incredibly attractive, was occasionally able to be charming, and they had formed a deep, indescribable bond quickly and effortlessly. Something which, as he was reminded by virtually everyone around them, was unheard of with Holmes. It had gotten to the point where John had felt twinges of jealousy when he suspected someone else was drawing close in that way.

Sherlock hadn't asked very much of John at all. Sure, yes, there were the constant requests for milk and biscuits and "Come to this place with me, forget about sleeping for the next three days, and, by the way, we might die in a hail of bullets," but that was different than this.

All those things, Sherlock could do on his own. He'd done them long before he'd met John and should they come to part ways, god forbid, he would do them after. But this was the only thing Sherlock had asked of John that he was unable to do himself. This wasn't about having a good wank to relieve tension. Sherlock wanted John. All of him. And he was entirely dependent on John to fulfil this request and that was strangely moving to the doctor. Not to mention the very foreign and heady feeling of being desired so completely. No one had ever wanted him that much before. He at least owed his flatmate a chance to test his theory.

When Sherlock returned, he appeared more collected than before. He opened his mouth to ask John for his decision, but John interrupted him by smiling softly and patting the spot next to him on the bed, indicating that Sherlock should join him. He was nearly blinded by Sherlock's smile as the other man eagerly clambered onto the bed with a charming, almost puppy-like lack of grace. He settled next to John, lying on his side to face the doctor.

"So," John said, a little awkwardly. "You've never —"

"No."

"Not even —"

"No."

"But you know —"

Sherlock nodded impatiently, letting out a huff of breath. "Honestly, John. I know about 'the birds and the bees.' I'm not entirely clueless about how this works. I've just never …"

"Field tested."

"Precisely."

"You need to let me guide this. I need that. Will you let me do that?"

"Yes."

"Really?"

Sherlock smirked very slightly and blinked slowly, the Sherlockian version of bedroom eyes and the effect was transfixing. "I am at your mercy, doctor."

Oh god.

"Right. Well, let's give it a go, then …" Well, that was suave, Johnny boy. Good one. Christ, you're hopeless. Is it any wonder you aren't exactly slaying the ladies?

Shrugging off such negative thoughts, John leaned in and brushed his fingertips over the smooth, pale length of Sherlock's neck before wrapping his fingers around the nape, cradling the back of Sherlock's head in his palm, the other man's hair softly tickling his skin in an unexpectedly pleasurable way. Well, maybe it wasn't that unexpected. If John was honest with himself, he would admit that more than a few times he'd caught himself wanting to stroke his hand over Sherlock's dark, glossy curls.

Sherlock's expression was calm and placid and clearly he was staying still and quiet only out of courtesy to John's sense of comfort. Even though John was fully clothed, he felt naked and utterly exposed because he was certain he was giving off a thousand clues to his friend already. His pulse rate had quickened and he knew his pupils must be dilated and his breath was coming faster. And of course he knew that Sherlock was noting, cataloguing, and analyzing all of these symptoms as they occurred.

All right, best get to it, then, he thought ruefully. Everything would change after this moment. Maybe Sherlock was able to delete information from his so-called "hard drive," but John had no such ability and what he was about to know could not be unknown. In addition to the fact that this was to be Sherlock's first real kiss and John didn't want to be a disappointment.

He leaned in even more and slowly and tentatively pressed his lips to Sherlock's, fitting Sherlock's upper lip slightly between his own. Sherlock remained still for a beat and John swore he could hear the clickwhirrrbuzz of the experience being computed before a resulting response was concluded and Sherlock's lips pursed slightly to return the kiss, almost mimicking John's movement. He tasted like peppermint. He brushed his teeth beforehand just in case. Can't decide if that's arrogant or adorable. Glad I didn't pick up a curry for supper.

John adjusted the angle of his head and kissed Sherlock again, applying more pressure this time. Soft. Sherlock's mouth was so soft and pliant under his own, which was an interesting contrast for a man who was made up of hard angles and sharp thoughts. But then again, John had witnessed more than a few glimpses of the softness underneath the hard shell and being able to have a physical experience with it was very enjoyable. Though he could feel a slight tension there, meaning Sherlock was still thinking more than feeling. The normal run of things for him, but that wasn't quite the point of this so-called experiment, was it?

He shifted again, embracing Sherlock's full lower lip between his own, sucking it very gently and then teasing it with the tip of his tongue. Sherlock jumped in his embrace just a fraction — he clearly hadn't been expecting that kind of contact and John always felt a thrill when he could surprise his friend. It was such an incredibly rare occasion …

Not one to shy away from something new, he felt the tip of Sherlock's tongue hesitantly tasting him and John took the opportunity to coax his mouth open a little more and then … oh. He dreamily shifted into autopilot because now it was easy — all warm and wet and soft and delicious. He teased Sherlock's tongue, tasted and nibbled at his lips, and took the kiss farther and deeper, claiming Sherlock's mouth again and again. It was glorious.

And then he heard a very small sound that pulled him back. Oh god, I'm snogging him senseless and I don't even know if he's enjoying it. Pay attention, you git. This isn't all about you.

The sound was a tiny whimper, surely not a voluntary sound because Sherlock Holmes certainly did not intentionally whimper (unless he was trying to wheedle his way onto someone's property). John stroked his fingers over Sherlock's neck again and was astonished to feel the other man's pulse racing under his touch. Sensing John's slight distraction, the next noise Sherlock made was one of mild annoyance and he pushed in closer, demanding that the kiss be resumed at its previous pace.

Well, case closed. He likes this. I wonder what else he likes?

Sherlock was pulling closer, his long fingers twisting into John's jumper as if reaching for something, but not knowing exactly what he wanted. John broke the kiss and Sherlock gasped, his eyes flying open and he was dumbstruck, his lips (just oh-so-slightly swollen and wet and, frankly, gorgeous — John took a mental picture of Sherlock with a well-kissed mouth) moving in silence until he finally forced a word out, his tone steeped in indignation: "John!"

John smiled and leaned in to kiss Sherlock's neck, alternating between gentle teasing and sucking — he had a sudden urge to mark Sherlock, to mar that pristine, pale flesh. Sherlock shuddered and his fit of pique faded. "… oh."

A kiss on the mouth. That's all it was supposed to be, but John was getting hungrier. He wanted more. And Sherlock so far seemed willing to go along with it. Yes, Sherlock had been the one to make the proposition, but the fact remained that he was inexperienced and unused to these feelings and John didn't want to overwhelm him. For someone who valued control and clarity of thought above all, the fogginess of sexual arousal and the oblivion of climax could be somewhat frightening. It was like a drug, and not the kind that Sherlock had a taste for. John's instinct to protect Sherlock certainly wasn't new, but the feel of taking the lead definitely was.

Still lavishing attention on Sherlock's neck, John reached down and gently pried Sherlock's fingers from their iron grip on his jumper, holding that hand for a moment, then raising it so he could press a tender kiss to the palm, but quickly returning to kiss Sherlock's lips again when the other man started to make breathless comments regarding the number of nerve endings to be found in a square centimetre of the human palm. With Sherlock's arm out of the way, John was free to reach down and carefully pluck open the first couple of buttons on Sherlock's shirt. He then paused for a moment, waiting to see if he would be rebuffed, but Sherlock made an impatient go on, then! noise and continued kissing John languorously, like a cat indulging in a saucer of cream. The hand removed from the jumper found a new place to settle — in John's hair, his spidery fingers petting the sandy blond strands and spanning his skull. For a split second John recalled the skull on the mantel and the thought was more than a little disturbing, so he put it aside and focused on opening the other man's shirt. Not much of a challenge at all, considering how tight-fitting Sherlock liked his shirts — the groaning buttons popped happily through their holes, letting the fabric part. And by then Sherlock was giving him something of a scalp massage with those marvellous fingers and oh, that was rather lovely.

John finally eased open the final button, allowing the shirt to fall completely open. He wanted to look. He'd wanted to look since the day at the palace when Mycroft, fed up with Sherlock's refusal to wear anything but a bedsheet that made him look like an imperious Roman emperor, stepped on the hem as Sherlock attempted to storm out and found himself nearly naked if not for his quick reflexes, catching the end of the sheet to cover himself before properly flashing all present company. John had stared at his back as Sherlock had a very quiet and collected angry meltdown at the gall of his older brother. John had watched the tight set of his stance and the beautiful symmetry of his shoulder blades and the lean muscles working under alabaster skin and it finally occurred to John what an utterly exquisite creature Sherlock was — in every sense of the word. He had been startled by the thought, immediately filing it away for later.

Yes, he wanted to look, but was still deeply engaged in a passionate kiss with Sherlock, who had picked up the practice with unsurprising speed and ability and he was making little hungry sounds in the back of his throat that were decidedly un-Sherlock-like and John wanted to hear more of them, so he laid his hand on Sherlock's chest, fingertips grazing over sharp clavicles, then moving down. He'd half expected it to feel like touching a marble statue: cold and smooth, but no, quite the opposite. Sherlock quivered at the touch and John just felt warmth. Warmth and the finest dusting of hair tickling his palm and he stroked Sherlock's chest so slowly and let his hand settle over the other man's heart, which was thumping ferociously. John smiled into the kiss. So warm. So human. So alive. He almost wanted anyone who'd ever called his friend a robot/alien/freak to experience Sherlock this way.

Or maybe not. No. The opposite, in fact. He wanted this to be his and his alone. Another startling thought. But a powerful one.

He felt even softer skin under his palm — a nipple, already beginning to harden from the contact. John surrounded it with his thumb and forefinger and pinched it gently at the same time softly biting Sherlock's full lower lip between his teeth and was rewarded with a quiet, gasping cry of pleasure. John smiled and kissed Sherlock tenderly before pushing the other man fully onto his back. Sherlock tried to look up, but John nudged his head under Sherlock's chin, effectively forcing his head back onto the pillow as he kissed down the length of his throat.

"Is this all right?" John murmured between kisses, making his way down to Sherlock's bared chest.

A barely audible reply. "Yes."

"I'll stop at any time if you want me to. Just say the word. All right?"

A whisper with a sharp edge of need. "Yes."

John finally got a good look and was stirred by the sight of Sherlock's exposed torso that seemed to go on for miles. He gently kissed the other man's sternum and his hand followed, stroking and feeling as his mouth explored. Sherlock's breath was coming in short, urgent gasps and when John closed his lips around a nipple and sucked, he felt Sherlock arch up, almost bucking against him with a little cry, followed by a moan as John played with the other, teasing and flicking it into hardness.

Sherlock's fingers clutched at the blanket and he whimpered softly. "John …"

John continued his exploration, tracing the paths of muscle and bone with the tip of his tongue, finally circling Sherlock's bellybutton and following the fine, pale length of hair that disappeared into his trousers. John briefly rested his cheek against Sherlock's firm belly and looked. He could see Sherlock's shape outlined in the tight trousers and no doubt it was getting a bit uncomfortable for him.

He looked up at Sherlock, his hand hovering over the button on his trousers. "Do you want me to …"

"Please." A single-syllable word stretched out to three.

He popped the button and lowered the zip, instructing Sherlock to lift his hips so John could slide his trousers down and off, followed by his pants.

The word came back to him again. Glorious. Sherlock lay naked, save for the rumpled shirt still hanging open. His cock lay full and heavy against his stomach. He was gorgeous.

Sherlock lifted his head, looking up at John with the most vulnerable look John had ever seen. He was seeking approval. He smiled and touched Sherlock's cheek tenderly. "You are so beautiful. You are exquisite."

Reassured, Sherlock let his head fall back. "So are you," he murmured softly.

"Me? I haven't even taken a stitch off yet."

"No," Sherlock said, shaking his head, closing his eyes with a little sigh. "You just are."

Normally John would interject with a self-deprecating joke, but he knew enough that this was not the time and it was not often that Sherlock offered up compliments of that calibre.

He stroked a hand over Sherlock's slender, pale thighs, then nudged them apart to tease the even silkier skin on the inside. His other hand hovered over Sherlock's waist. It was a bit unreal. This beautiful man, completely untouched by any hand except his own.

He traced a fingertip lightly up Sherlock's length and then finally wrapped his fingers around it, holding it possessively. And he wants no other touch except mine. How many people get to have that?

Sherlock let out a shuddery groan when taken in hand. John began to stroke him slowly, lightly at first, just learning the feel of him. Sherlock's eyes opened and his breathing was shaky. John took his hand away long enough to spit in it for some lubrication and set back to stroking him again, more firmly this time, teasing the pad of his thumb over the tip. Sherlock moaned, his hips pushing up hungrily into John's grip. He was so hard, so very aroused. He's not going to last long at all. Probably a blessing in this case.

As that thought finished forming itself, Sherlock's breathing grew distressed, on the verge of hyperventilation, and he propped up clumsily on his elbows, looking at John, his eyes wild and unfocused.

"John …" he choked out the word, unable to articulate any further. John wasn't a terribly tech-savvy person, but if Sherlock's brain was a computer, then his motherboard was on the verge of frying. He wasn't used to feeling this much. He wasn't used to not being able to think with perfect logic and clarity. He was drowning.

"Sherlock." John's voice was calm and steady. It was the voice he often used when his patients became overwrought. He placed his free hand on Sherlock's chest, petting him soothingly, keeping a firm grip on his cock, but ceasing the stroking for a the moment. "Sherlock, listen to my voice. It's okay."

Sherlock inhaled a noisy breath through his nose. "John …" he said again, his voice almost a whine.

John finished the unspoken sentence, "No, I do understand Sherlock. It's all right. You need to trust me. Just feel what you're feeling. You know this is just temporary. I will look after you. Do you understand?"

Sherlock nodded, collapsing back onto the pillow with a reluctant whimper.

John resumed stroking him and continued speaking if only so Sherlock could hear his voice and latch onto the sound. "You're bloody gorgeous right now, you know. I had no idea you were hiding this monster in your trousers. Good god, man. You're going to give me a complex."

He smiled when he heard a very faint chuckle. Appealing to Sherlock's ego never failed in any situation. His breathing began to even out a little and once again his hips started to roll up easily into John's grasp, a shuddery moan escaping him when John used his thumb to stroke slick precome over the head of his cock.

"That's good," John murmured. "You're leaking. You like my hand on your cock, don't you? You've wanted it for a while now."

He was answered with a shaky moan of assent.

John smiled. He was surprisingly turned on by this. He'd never seen Sherlock this way — so submissive and, well, just letting John have his way for once. Funny how this is what it took to get him to turn over the controls. Of course, that would probably start to change once Sherlock had a bit more experience and wanted to prove he was the best and … John caught himself wondering when the next time would be. If there is a next time. I guess I'm hoping there's one. Fancy that.

Sherlock was half-whimpering, half-growling, digging his fingers into the blanket, hips pushing roughly up as John stroked him hard.

"You're close aren't you? So close." John's voice was velvety smooth. "I'm going to taste you now. And then I'm going to finish you off. And I want you to feel every second of it. And if you dare delete this from your hard drive, I will find a way to make you sorry."

In spite of Sherlock's state, John half-expected a joke of some kind. Some smart-arse comment at least, but Sherlock murmured a single word in response:

"Never."

John cupped Sherlock's testicles in his free hand. They were hot and tight, yet so soft. John fondled them in his hand simply to hear Sherlock sigh and to feel the shiver of pleasure reverberate through his body and then he lowered his head and let Sherlock slide deep into his mouth.

Sherlock gasped like a man surfacing after several minutes underwater and he moaned John's name desperately, pleading for deliverance.

John was good to his word. Two long pulls with his mouth and a swipe of his tongue over the tip and Sherlock came apart, the seizing up of his muscles giving John just enough warning to pull off and pump Sherlock through his orgasm. He wasn't averse to swallowing, but he wanted to watch. To see Sherlock's head flung back in ecstasy, his mouth formed into a perfect O of astonishment, usually only reserved for when he made a major, case-cracking revelation. To hear the deep groans that started deep in his chest and bounced off the walls of the small bedroom.

To watch him shoot hard over his stomach and chest, the glistening spunk sliding over his milky-white skin in an obscene and beautiful tableau. When he was finally spent, John released him and reached for a tissue on the bedside table, wiping his own hand off and laying down next to Sherlock again. As an afterthought, though, he swiped his pinky finger over Sherlock's stomach and licked it clean. Just a taste. Not bad at all, actually.

Sherlock's head turned slowly at the touch and his gaze focused in time to see John tasting his semen. He opened his mouth to comment, but the words were still not at his disposal and he just settled for making a helpless face and murmuring John's name.

John chuckled softly and reached over to affectionately push sweat-dampened curls off Sherlock's forehead. "I rather like you like this. Finally found a way to make you shut up for a little while."

Sherlock scowled, but the hard line of his mouth went liquid when John kissed him. John kissed him for a long time, deep and slow, cradling Sherlock's cheek tenderly in his hand.

When the kiss finally broke, Sherlock's wits had mostly returned. He blinked and looked down at himself. "Christ, did I do that?"

"No, I had a good wank all over you while you were in la-la land," John said cheerfully.

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. "Are you this charming to all your bedmates?"

"Contrary to what the porno movies would have us believe, many women aren't really that keen to be covered in a man's come. Shocking, that." John grabbed another tissue and began to gently swab the mess off Sherlock's torso. "It's a good look on you, though, I rather enjoy the sight of you looking so thoroughly debauched."

Sherlock chuckled very softly. "Is that so?"

"Truer words have never been spoken."

"A more hackneyed phrase has never been employed."

"Ah, see? Your acerbic wit is already up and running again. I'd say at about a 6."

Sherlock looked aghast. "A 6? That was at least an 8. To be at a 6 I'd have to be in a coma."

"You practically were a few minutes ago."

"Yes, well," Sherlock softened a bit and rolled to his side to face John, resting his head in the crook of his elbow, "that was … quite extraordinary."

"That's not what people usually say."

"Oh, hush."

John smirked. "You feel better now?"

"Quite. Is this how the rest of you live all the time? Being constantly driven by this urge?"

"If we weren't, the planet would be severely underpopulated."

"You say that like it's a bad thing," Sherlock muttered.

John reached over and absently stroked Sherlock's hair. "Well, I reckon as long as you were still on it, I'd be all right."

Sherlock nodded, meeting John's gaze, and then looking down, his cheeks pinking just very slightly, but John didn't dare draw attention to it. "And maybe a bit of population padding to allow for murders."

"Yes, we can't forget the murders," John nodded his head in mock solemnity.

"Is it bad etiquette to excuse oneself to use the bathroom after a sexual encounter?"

"Depends. Are you planning to go fetal in the shower and cry?"

"No."

"Vomit?"

"No."

"Run away and never come back?"

"John, you're being preposterous. And where on earth would I go? All my work is here."

John waved his hand dismissively. "Go, then. You have my blessing."

Sherlock looked at John oddly, then decided to dismiss his flatmate's gibbering as exactly that. Gibbering. He paused, pressed a kiss to John's forehead, then sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed, standing up gingerly, only wobbling slightly as he exited the room, naked save for black dress socks and the now extremely rumpled shirt hanging haphazardly off one narrow shoulder.

"You need to watch more films!" John called out.

"I have! Deleted! All of them. Rubbish. And stop ogling my bum!" Sherlock called back in reply before shutting the bathroom door.

"Says the one who started all this," John muttered to himself. "Ludicrous, what we're doing. Simply ludicrous."