John's going to be forty this year. Please, whatever you do, absolutely do not tell him.

Because if anyone tells John he's at the very tail end of thirty-nine, that he's got a touch of grey at his temples, if anyone lets the man know that he's way-the-hell too old to giggle, well, John just may stop doing it.

And Sherlock's pretty sure that'd kill him.

Because John's giggle? It really is a giggle. It's not a laugh. Doesn't resemble a chuckle. And can you even define chortle? Neither can Sherlock. No, when he's gone half-boneless with relief, when he's happy, when he's just damn well come in your eye, John Watson really does this one breathy, beautiful, wheezy little thing: He giggles.

"Oh god Sherlock that's—" Listing a little to the left, doubled-over with his forehead pressed to his lover's shoulder, John giggled, panted, and tried to reach the toilet paper all at the same time.

"—I mean—" more giggling "—no seriously, who does that? Who—" questing fingers finally snagged the paper, which brought on a new batch of giggling "—who has sex in the loo, with his socks on and—" the good doctor made a bad job of tidying himself, "—and, and—" and then John just gave up and giggled himself boneless to the floor, long tail of his button-down tucked under him.

And there, amidst his discarded trousers and pants John Watson quietly finished the necessary business of giggling his heart rate back to normal and his breath steady.

Meanwhile Sherlock sat on the lid of the toilet, black-brown hair sticking up funny because John had used it to hold himself up, ginger beard wiry and still unshaved and as he sat there, drowning willingly in the sound of that laugh, he pushed at the bulge between his thighs with the palm of his hand and he said, "Tell me, tell me, tell me," so softly even he barely heard it.

Finally the good doctor got hold of himself in slow degrees, saw that hand cupping and pulling, and finally he heard those whispered words.

It's been three months. Only three since John and Sherlock became lovers. But it might as well be three years or thirty because already—or maybe always—they can do this: detect the tiny pause, see the quick quirk of a lip, smell on one another want and need and, most of all, they can speak by leaving words unspoken.

Tell me what you want me to do John. What's next? I'm not quite sure because it's still early here you know, in this relationship—which I still don't even believe I'm having, frankly—and anyway I kind of can't seem to decide whether to be arrogant or self-conscious—especially as regards sex—so if you'd just step in now and again and boss the fuck out of me I'd really, really appreciate it, John. Love, Sherlock.

Yes, that's pretty much what Sherlock said without saying much of anything.

John? He's a surgeon and ex-Army medic. You can't be either without a healthy self-regard. So, taking control? No problem, piece of cake, glad to do it. How would he do it now? Also easy as pie. He'd get Sherlock's self-regard to come out and play.

"Well love, I'm going to make you come despite yourself."

For a moment nothing much happened. Then good god you'd think John Watson had just offered his lover a locked room mystery, two dead bodies, and a small pony based off the absolute joy that cleared the clouds from those grey eyes.

"Oh John…" Sherlock's grin was suddenly vulpine. "Really?"

Here's something you need to know about Sherlock I'm-a-Genius Holmes. The great detective? Well, he's been practicing sexual self-denial since his very first hard-on. He's got abstention down to a fucking art. Hell, he can resist the lure of sexual stimulation better than a career monk (he knows this for fact) so he can certainly withstand anything, anything Dr. John H. Watson can dream up.

"Oh John, I'd really like to see you try."

With a disarmingly innocent smile John tucked away the last of his mirth, got to his knees and crawled on over to Sherlock. He looked up at his sweetheart, those dark blue eyes utterly without guile, Sherlock looked down at him, and then, without ceremony, John bent over and shoved his face—bam—right between Sherlock's legs.

"Ohmygod." Instantly there was a happy dance in happy town and without his consent Sherlock's body slid down, his hips canted up, and his cock decided to see how quickly it could get really, really hard.

The answer turned out to be fucking very.

Sherlock was just about to start a sweet little "John, John, John," litany when John, John, John put his hands on Sherlock's knees and pulled that hot, breathy, bitey mouth away.

Heart beating so hard he was actually swaying, Sherlock blinked down at his lover and grunted. John grinned up at him. "Oh…did you want me to keep doing that?"

Sherlock leaned toward John a little and blinked. Hard. Lucky first salvo, that blink said, and also I've outlasted much greater provocation than that, John Watson, so if that's all you've—

"Ohdeargod."

Sitting bolt upright now, both hands clamped over John's as the smaller man stroked him through his trousers, Sherlock could not believe it could feel so good to just rub himself against the palm of—

John tugged his hand from the clutching cage of his lover's long fingers and Sherlock actually stuttered.

"N-n-nooo," Sherlock murmured and John knew the lanky lunatic was talking to himself, brain having a quick confab with body, body promising it'd do better, both agreeing they were bigger men than this and really, if the diminutive doctor thought he had the upper ha—

"Oh g-g-g-god."

John. His hand. Moving there. Again.

Only after he'd clutched John's biceps with crabbed fingers, only after he'd pressed his forehead to John's and sort of whined, did Sherlock realize what he'd done and only then, casually as he could, did he sit up and get control of himself.

Fine. Fine. Sherlock would concede that John was really quite good at this but that didn't mea—

"Godhavemercy…oh…god…oh…god," John's hand. John's amazing hand, sort of wrapped around his cock through his trousers, stroking, stroking.

Sherlock closed his eyes, tipped his head back, and spread those legs with the flexibility of a damned acrobat.

Who was about to miss the net.

Because John's hand was bloody well gone again, the warmth of his body against Sherlock's legs was gone and when Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, he discovered his voice—and perhaps his mind—was pretty well gone, too.

And that was when Sherlock Sometimes-Surprisingly-Stupid Holmes finally realized the glaringly obvious. When you actually want to crawl on top of a small, delicious-smelling, mostly-naked, giggle-prone someone and let him do you until your eyes roll up in your head, it was a lot, lot harder to, you know, maintain your sexual cool.

John pressed his hand between Sherlock's shaking thighs again, then stopped moving.

"Shall I finish this?"

"Oh god yes."

"I have…terms."

"Yes."

"Just yes?"

"Yes."

"But you haven't heard my—"

"Yes, yes, yes, yes, John. Yes. Yes." To show his degree of commitment Sherlock clutched John's hand and sort of rubbed it against himself. Vigorously.

John grinned and his smile was not vulpine. It should have been. "Fine. Fine. Good. The terms are really very simple."

"Yes, good."

"One question for every stroke."

"Good. Yes. Yes."

"Of the blade."

"What?"

"You heard me. We're here to shave you, aren't we?"

Frankly, Sherlock had completely forgotten about that.

"So. I'll ask you anything I like and—"

"Yes. Okay."

John giggled. "—and you can ask me anything you like."

"Right. Good. Fine. Yes. Let's go."

"Patience my love. So. I'll ask you anything, you can ask me anything and then…"

John bowed between Sherlock's legs, rubbed his face soft-hard against the bulge there, whispered, "…then I'll do anything you want for as long as you want any where you want." Swiping his hot tongue across his lover's clothed cock, John murmured, "Twice."

Sherlock's hands fluttered to the back of John's head. It's been three months. Only three. Since they became a couple, they have, yes, done each other in every room of the flat and nearly every day—twice on Sundays—but there's only so much ground you can cover in twelve weeks. There is, however, no limit to what you can imagine.

"A-anything?"

The soft drag of teeth. "Yes."

"No matter how—" A tender nip. An answering groan. "—indecent?"

John took a deep breath, breathed it out hot against him. "Oh god yes."

So right. Good. Fine. Fine. Still we have a man with an unshaved ginger beard. Why? I have no clue. This story is taking its own sweet time and who am I to argue if own-sweet-time translates into sexual titillation? But enough is enough. So help me there will be a consulting detective orgasm next chapter even if I have to go into that loo and make it damn well happen myself. Now, if you'll excuse me, that remark has suddenly created an urgent need for me to visit my happy place. Good day.