When John trudged up the stairs to his flat at the godforsaken hour of five o'clock in the morning, Sherlock was conspicuously absent.
Unfortunately for John, or maybe luckily for the man, his insane flatmate was like a constant firework, blazing and burning a bit too bright and dangerous for its own good, especially for the people around him.
But when he was gone, and John hated to admit it, the flat seemed a bit less warm, and a lot less inviting. It was a lot easier to plop down on 'his chair' and watch some crap telly knowing Sherlock was about to blow himself to bits in the kitchen or better still, calmly poisoning his bloodstream with nicotine on the couch.
John decided he would wait an hour, then text the man. After all, Sherlock was just his flatmate, and didn't have to alert John to his whereabouts at every single moment of the goddamn day.
He punched the pillow.
***
After a very old Doctor Who, the BBC morning news, and three cups of tea later, Sherlock bounded up the stairs. John very deliberately glanced at him once, then looked away and muttered, 'Hello."
Sherlock went into the kitchen.
John sighed and shifted around in the armchair. He picked up the remote and switched the channel to a programme about the oldest man in the world, who was, apparently, 115 and still a virgin.
John heard a very loud clattering from the kitchen. He put the telly on mute.
"Sherlock? You alright?"
There was a crash. "Yes, yes, fine." He sounded annoyed. For the umpteenth time, John muttered something like 'get killed then see if I care', and pursed his lips.
He was bored. So very bored. He started to imagine what Sherlock went through in his "bad times." Of course, John didn't feel the urge to get up and shoot the bloody wall, but he wasn't
a high-functioning sociopath. Fortunately for him.
Sherlock came back into the room, and dithered by the desk. John heard papers shuffling, but resolutely did not ask what the other man was doing. He kept his eyes glued to the screen as Mr. Zambula- something rambled on about Ghandi and cat litter in broken English.
In the corner of his eye, Sherlock flopped- no, lowered himself gracefully, John was quite certain Sherlock could never flop- onto the couch. He was silent for exactly five and a half seconds.
"What are you watching?" Sherlock's voice was petulant.
John cleared his throat before responding. "Programme about the oldest man in the world," he said, still not looking at his flatmate.
John saw Sherlock shift somewhat on the couch. He didn't respond.
John decided to do some well-earned Sherlock Digging, as he called it. Sometimes, when he was very, very careful, and Sherlock was bored, he would open up about his life. It wasn't easy, extracting such golden nuggets of knowledge out of the nebulous cavern of Sherlock's brain, but if John was cautious, he could get some quite good stuff.
"He's 115," he began. "And a virgin."
John thought he heard a yawn.
He tried again. "Isn't that funny?" He listened for an answer.
Nothing.
John tried the direct approach. "Are you a virgin?"
No answer. John looked over to see if Sherlock was sleeping, and found Sherlock looking at him.
Well, damn. So much for subtlety.
John flushed and looked back to the telly, giving up. He tried to focus on the show, when he heard Sherlock's voice.
"No."
John looked back sharply. Sherlock was gazing at the ceiling like it was the most goddamn interesting thing on the whole planet.
"No?" John stared at him, then tried to make a joke. "Who'd you convince to have sex with you?"
Sherlock's lips tightened in a tiny frown, and John felt bad immediately.
"I mean, erm, that's good. Good." He tried to squash totally irrelevant and baseless feeling of jealousy. It probably wasn't even jealousy, more of a big brother type anger at whoever stole Sherlock's- well, he was not thinking about that. Emphasis on the not.
John kept his voice casual. "So, anyone I know, then?" He switched idly between channels, trying to project a nonchalant manner, and pressing the button on the remote so hard it refused to rise back up again.
"Yes, in fact." Sherlock sounded bored.
John was decidedly not.
"Oh." John held out for a few seconds, then, cursing, gave in. "Who was it?"
Sherlock sighed, and put what was probably a nicotine patch in his pale forearm. "Lestrade."
In the middle of taking a gulp of his neglected tea, now cold, John choked. He coughed for a few moments, pondering in the back of his head how very suspicious and very not normal this all looked, at least from Sherlock's point of view. He grimaced and took another sip of the cold liquid to sooth his throat. Once he deemed himself fully in control of his vocal chords, he asked, "When did that happen?"
"Five years ago," the other man replied lazily.
John thought this over. He was absurdly glad it wasn't within the time period he and Sherlock were living together, for some reason. John resolutely swore to shut his bloody mouth for the rest of the show. He would not speak unless Sherlock addressed him directly. Not. Emphasis on the not.
"Was it good, then?" John blushed beet red the moment the words were out of his mouth. Goddamn bloody fucking bollocks. He decided he was fully and completely incapable of self-control. In reality, he was probably mentally incapacitated, and thus had no fault for whatever lunatic things came out of his mouth. He thought about this for a while, trying to will his face into its normal color. Actually, he was thinking so hard he almost missed Sherlock's reply.
"It wasn't rape, if that's what you mean."
John looked over and saw Sherlock staring at him, looking annoyed.
"No, I wasn't- I mean, of course it wasn't-"
John fell silent, trying to find the right words. "I just meant, " he began slowly, "was it a good experience? For you, I mean." He blushed as soon as he stopped talking.
Sherlock, still regarding him with those reptilian eyes (which were definitely not beautiful), said, "No." He rolled back onto his back and reached for another nicotine patch. "Sex is an altogether unpleasant activity. I have almost no idea why ordinary people find it such an infinite source of amusement."
John had really no idea what to say to that. He considered his words. "Well." He looked at the ceiling. "Um. It can be-" he chose his adjective carefully, "- quite entertaining. Sometimes."
He looked back over at Sherlock. The man had his eyes closed, but John knew he wasn't asleep.
But John decided to end the conversation while they were both firmly ensconced in their platonic roles. No sense in making things awkward.
As he turned off the telly and stretched silently, Sherlock spoke again.
"Prove it."
"What?" John could have sworn he misheard. But Sherlock was staring at him again, with that look in his eyes.
Sherlock never repeated himself. Instead, he swung his legs down and sat up, gazing at John with a strangely determined look, like the one he had given John earlier. It was brave, but John could see the fear underneath that Sherlock could usually hide so well with arrogance and insults. He was struck with a crazy desire to reassure his friend that everything was going to be alright.
And then Sherlock opened his mouth again.
"You claim sex is enjoyable. I know it's the opposite. For this experiment to succeed, you need data. You need to prove that it is enjoyable."
John became aware that his mouth was gaping open like a fish, and closed it. "Sherlock, do you want-" he reddened a little, but continued. "Do you want to have sex- with me?" His ears went red as his voice cracked down the last word.
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "No, John. I want to have sex with the skull, it would be so much easier."
John looked very puzzled.
"Of course with you. For God's sake, you can be very slow sometimes."
The smaller man brushed off the insult with well-practiced ease, replying, "I don't think that would be a good idea." The words almost hurt to say, but he forced them out anyways. This was just Sherlock being bored, wanting to be entertained, he reminded himself.
Sherlock frowned, but his blank mask slid back on almost instantly. "Why not?"
"Because!" John sputtered indignantly. "It would ruin everything! Sherlock, sex isn't some game."
"Please. It's a simple carnal act, John. I probably wouldn't even get hard."
John shook his head hard, closing his eyes. You have to treat him like a toddler, he told himself firmly. Don't give him everything he wants.
Sherlock must have sensed John's withdrawal, and he tried a different approach. "How about a kiss, then?" His voice was disconcertingly casual as he looked up at John.
John closed his open mouth for the second time. "Will it stop you from talking about-" he gestured vaguely, "-all this?"
Sherlock frowned again. "Yes. Fine. Kiss me." He moved over impatiently on the couch.
John's brain was moving a mile a minute. On one hand, this was an insanely awful, horrendous, calamitous- he ran out of adjectives- thing to do.
On the other hand, Sherlock wanted him to kiss him. On the mouth.
For science, John reminded himself sternly. It's an experiment.
The doctor sighed and gingerly planted himself on the couch. Sherlock was looking at him, and the eyes that had seemed so gray and cold and ignorable from the armchair were practically dancing less than a foot away from his own. John glanced surreptitiously at Sherlock's mouth, then blushed and looked away.
Sherlock made an impatient sound in the back of his throat that sounded suspiciously like a groan. John felt a familiar twitch in his nether regions, and swore again. He was absolutely not going to get a hard-on. No. Emphasis on the not.
"John."
Jolted, the army doctor looked back to Sherlock, who was even closer than before. He felt Sherlock's breath on his face, warm and feeling a whole lot too bloody nice to be healthy.
John swallowed. Sherlock had that goddamn look again, like he was on precariously thin ice and wasn't sure which direction was safe. John's last sane thought was that Sherlock had realized that look rendered John mentally unstable and was using it against him, before he leaned forward the few inches that separated them and pressed his lips to his friend's.