Chapter Three

They arrived back at Baker Street to discover that Mrs Hudson had somehow found time to make a chicken chasseur as well as look after a fairly demanding infant. Of course, she always made enough for two, so John had agreed to stay and eat while Rosie – who had already been fed dinner – dozed in her car seat. He suspected that Sherlock needed the company, needed something to distract himself from Molly's absence and the fact that he had no active cases (he had become even more choosy, John noticed, since he and Molly got together, clearly placing more value on his free time, and rarely picking up anything less than a seven).

Sherlock had retreated to his desk to check through the latest case requests that had come through, leaving John to update his own blog (he knew he'd be too tired to do it once he'd got Rosie into bed), but John noticed that Sherlock wasn't doing much typing. Most of the time, his fingers were steepled under his chin, staring somewhere between the screen and a point on the far wall.

It was late, definitely time to get Rosie home (Sherlock had helpfully informed him that it was not healthy or safe for a baby to be kept in their car seat for an excessive period).

"Right, I'm off, mate," he said, zipping his own laptop into its case. "See you in the morning?"

"Mmm," Sherlock replied, not moving his gaze from whatever it was fixed on.

John packed his laptop into his rucksack, along with all the bits and pieces of Rosie's that had managed to be strewn across the living room in the past couple of hours. It was only when he moved to put on his jacket that Sherlock spoke again.

"John, when you earlier asked how 'things' were going with Molly and I, were you talking about physical intimacy?"

John scratched his head, knocked off course by the surprising question.

"Er, yes. Yes, I was. But don't worry about it, Sherlock, it's none of my business."

"Why did you want to know?"

John considered this for a second.

"I wasn't trying to get information from you," he said. "Just…wanted to check that you're both alright. It's a big thing, that's all."

Sherlock nodded, seemingly considering this information.

"Yes, it is, isn't it?"

"But it's all good?"

Sherlock's brow furrowed, as though he was wrestling internally with his thoughts. It was then that John realised that Sherlock had probably been building up to this conversation for the past couple of hours.

"Molly and I…we haven't…got there yet," he said. "That is to say that we haven't yet…consummated our relationship…in that way."

John took in this information, careful to arrange his facial expression as neutrally as possible and to try to adopt a measured tone – he knew that Sherlock was reaching out to him in a way that was almost unprecedented, and one false move could make him clam up for good.

"Okay," he began. "Well, that's fine. I guess it's only been a few weeks. Don't worry about it."

"No…"

"Are you worried about it?" John ventured.

Sherlock pursed his lips, frowning again. John noted that he didn't immediately deny it.

"At the commencement of our relationship, Molly and I agreed that we wouldn't be excessively hasty. After all, ours was not an affiliation that begun in a normal fashion – rather, it followed not only a long period of friendship, but also more recent events that were traumatic for both of us, and which needed time to overcome."

"That's sensible," John replied, nodding.

"I believe that Molly felt I needed time to process everything that happened – both recently with my sister and with my family and with Victor in the decades preceding. That although we both acknowledge our feelings for each other, she wanted to ensure that this wasn't all…too much too soon for me. And it's important to me, too, that Molly doesn't feel any obligation, any urgency to take things forward before she is ready."

"Sounds like you're both putting each other's feelings first, which is good," John said.

"Mmm," Sherlock replied. "That was the intention, but now…"

"You're worried Molly still isn't ready?"

Sherlock gave him a look, the one that regularly told him that he had the wrong end of the stick – again.

"No, I'm worried that she is. Our…interactions…the increased initiation of physical contact, the nature of that contact…it has led me to certain deductions."

"So, she's ready…but you're not?" John offered, treading carefully.

Sherlock blinked rapidly, staring down at the desk rather than making eye contact of any sort.

"I find myself thinking of nothing else," he replied, sighing. "Every bloody second of the day. It's exhausting, thinking about it, about Molly, all of the time!"

John let out a chuckle.

"Welcome to everyday life for the average heterosexual male, my friend!" he said, earning a dark look in return from Sherlock who, he knew, detested being considered average in any aspect of his life. "But thinking about it doesn't necessarily mean you're actually ready for it."

Sherlock sighed.

"It's not my readiness that concerns me," he said. "I love Molly and I'm more than ready to show her. And it's not what you think, John – I do have some experience in this area."

"This area?" John replied, trying to conceal his amusement at Sherlock's apparent defence of his manhood.

"The act itself," Sherlock replied. "Coitus."

John gave a short laugh.

"Quick piece of advice, mate – don't call it that. Might kill the mood."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, as though being forced to deal with a particularly slow-witted child.

"But I am…acutely aware that my experience is…limited," he continued, quietly. "And, I tend to think, not…usual."

Something in his tone made John know immediately that Sherlock was referring to The Woman without wishing to actually utter her name. Yep, from what he'd seen of Irene Adler's website, 'usual' wasn't one of her specialities.

"It leaves me feeling…ill-prepared for what's ahead," Sherlock concluded, a shyness creeping into the tenor of his voice. He stood up and started to slowly pace the room, his hands in the pockets of his dressing gown.

"I always thought that sex was just a selfish act borne out of a primitive impulse, divorced from all intellectual thought or deeply-felt emotion," he continued. "But then I…I fell in love with Molly, and now I realise how it important it is to me – how vital - that she finds it…good…enjoyable."

John once again felt he was walking on a balance-beam, aware that he needed to contain his confusion at the sudden role he had been handed as Sherlock Holmes' sex therapist. He knew that one day, far in the future, he would have to have an awkward conversation with Rosie about healthy relationships, so perhaps he could view this as unexpected early practice.

"Listen…the fact that you care about that is a start," he began. "But you know the first time might not be amazing, right? It takes time to get to know each other in that way, to learn what each other likes – but that's the fun part."

"Hmm…"

Sherlock flicked his gaze up to him, his pacing slowing.

"Remember Sarah?" John asked.

Sherlock squinted, clearly trying to dredge up a memory he had long since deleted.

"Worked in a bookshop?"

"Doctor – we nearly got her killed in that disused rail tunnel, how can you not remember that?" John continued. "Well anyway, the first time she and I...you know…I fell backwards out of bed at a critical moment and landed right on my coccyx. Bloody hell, that hurt."

Sherlock snorted with laughter, despite himself.

"And the first night Mary and I, erm, took things to the bedroom, she got a really bad cramp in her ankle and ended up hopping around the room until it passed."

Sherlock was still smiling, his mood now seemingly lighter.

"But you know what?" John continued. "That stuff doesn't matter, mate. Mary and I ended up laughing hysterically about that, and it didn't do us any harm – in fact, it probably helped, took the pressure off a bit."

"So…you're advising that either Molly or I undergo some kind of injury or humiliation as part of foreplay?"

"No, of course not, you dope! What I'm saying is don't build it up too much in your mind. Don't put that pressure on yourself – or on the occasion. Yes, it's a big thing, a significant thing, but it's also just a beginning, isn't it? It's the start of something you're going to be doing together for a very long time. At the risk of sounding a bit creepy, I'm really happy for you both– excited even."

"You're right, John, that does sound a little creepy," Sherlock replied. "But thank you for your reassuring words."

"Any time," John said, stuffing his hands into his jacket pockets. "Although I will kill you if you tell anyone about the falling out of bed thing."

"Too late, I already texted Molly," Sherlock replied, with a wicked smile.

"What? How?!" John demanded.

His friend removed his hand from his dressing gown pocket, revealing his phone – the man had taught himself to blind-text! He wasn't completely sure how he was going to face Molly the next time he saw her – but he would remember this the next time Sherlock sought his advice on something.

"I've got to get Rosie home," John said, taking a few steps towards his sleeping daughter. "But look, the best piece of advice I can give you is to talk to Molly. Talk to her and keep talking to her. Tell her how you're feeling, tell her you're anxious – she will take care of you. Like she always has."

Sherlock was wearing his default expression of scepticism, but John could see that it was softening. He grabbed the handle of the car seat and made his way towards the door.

"Remember, Sherlock – whatever weight and significance you might put on it, it's also supposed to be fun. Keep that in mind and you'll be fine."

He saw Sherlock give the tiniest of nods in response, digesting the information.

"Oh, and you should wear the purple shirt," John added, before closing the door. "I've seen how Molly looks at you in that thing."