Author's Note: Today is my fifth anniversary with the John to my Sherlock (or Sherlock to my John...haven't quite decided that one yet)! Can't imagine a better way to celebrate than by posting my writing, since this never would have happened without him. He's my editor, my greatest supporter, and my best friend. Thank you, dear, for not judging me for all the gay porn.

John turned towards the bath, ignoring the involuntary twinge of disapproval his nerves shot him at severing contact with Sherlock. Sometimes he swore his body hated him. Perhaps it had never quite forgiven him for getting shot.

Placing a hand on the side of the gaping tub to steady himself, he reached for the nozzle. Just before rotating it, he said, "But, even if I'm naked, we're not doing anything sexual until my questions are answered." The rush of water muffled the growl of disapproval behind him and John smirked. Any opportunity to exert some power over Sherlock was one he would eagerly take, rare as those chances were.

When John rose upright his back pressed up against Sherlock's hard chest, the man having strategically inserted himself close behind him. He shivered at the warm breath against his ear, but didn't turn to face him.

"Wouldn't you prefer to multitask?" Soft lips were pressed to his neck and John had the disconcerting notion that Sherlock might be stealthily taking his pulse by mouth to gauge his reaction. It certainly wasn't beyond the realm of possibility, especially since he knew Sherlock placed so much stock in physical signs of attraction. He tried willing his heartbeat to slow, as silly as the effort was, and was inevitably unsuccessful.

"N-no. I'd rather focus on one or the other."

Fingertips, with the most delicate of pressure, skirted down his sides, blazing trails of sensation in their wake. They settled on the curve of his hips and took hold of his belt. Sherlock dragged him closer.

"You're certain?" he whispered, mouth moving against John's skin with the words. "Then clearly you cannot deny which option is superior." With a rallying breath, John grabbed Sherlock's hands where they were inching dangerously close to his groin, and pushed them away.

"You can't just seduce me into getting your way," he declared, crossing his arms and turning to face the detective. Sherlock, who was still very close, glared down at him with eyebrows pulled together.

"Why not?"

John closed his eyes and took a deep breath through his nose. He really should have seen that coming.

"Because it's not fair. It makes us unequal."

"How?"

"Because I want to ask my questions and you want to fool around, and fooling around keeps me from having enough blood in my brain to ask my questions properly."

"Ah. I see."

"You…do?"

"You're looking for a form of reciprocity."

John watched Sherlock's eyes carefully, trying to find any indication of deceit.

"Yes."

"You want a give and take."

"Yes! Exactly." John smiled broadly.

"We'll play a game, then."

John groaned and slapped his palm against his forehead.

"This isn't a game, Sherlock. This is important."

"And…? We've had plenty of important conversations because of games."

Reluctant though he was, John had to concede the point. It seemed that, ever since the Last Drop, the set rules of a conversation game allowed them to talk in ways they never would have otherwise. The guise of competition acted as a kind of safety net for honesty. They weren't confessing feelings, they were just playing. While John realized how bizarre the whole arrangement was, he supposed it wouldn't serve to question it. If something worked on Sherlock he wasn't about to toss it away.

"What are the terms?" he sighed, pulling away to busy himself with bath amenities. Might as well commit to the whole bath farce if they were really doing this. Rolling up his coat sleeve, he swilled the water around, tested the temperature, and mixed in the salts. Unfortunately, the feel of hot water reinforced the reality of what they were about to do. With a hard swallow he clamped down on the nervousness that started to swell at the thought. Though they'd come by each other's hands twice now, everything still felt new and intimidating. It was no secret that Sherlock affected him rather…severely. It was hard to feel confident with such a lack of control, not to mention a debilitating lack of experience.

In his peripheral he watched Sherlock shrug out of his suit jacket and lean against the marble sink counter, familiar look of concentration sharpening his pale eyes. When he started to speak, John flicked the moisture from his hand and sat on the edge of the tub, facing him.

"Once we're in the bath, and naked-that is non-negotiable—you may ask a question. If I answer it, I'm allowed to perform one act of sexual contact with you, the intimacy of which to be determined by the intimacy of the question. If I choose not to answer it, you may ask another question and I cannot touch you for a turn."

John cleared his throat and thought about his words carefully before speaking.

"Let me get this straight. You want to…be rewarded for answering my questions by touching me?"

"Yes. Problem?"

"Wouldn't you rather be rewarded by being touched?"

"No."

John frowned, trying to work out the reasoning behind Sherlock's proposition. Did Sherlock not like it when John touched him? Was he bad at it? Come to think of it, Sherlock had only let John pleasure him once, using his own hand in the train while John was incapacitated post-orgasm. The colour drained from his face as embarrassment set in. Oh God, he thought. I'm shit at hand-jobs.

"As usual, you are jumping to conclusions without sufficient data," Sherlock scolded, drawing back John's focus. Sherlock stared at him as if he were the most endearingly transparent individual on the face of the earth. "While you are undoubtedly inexperienced, your natural proclivity for care-giving makes you a capable partner and a swift learner. Not to mention the fact that you derive more satisfaction from bestowing pleasure than receiving it, a rare and invaluable trait. No, the reasons I have for wanting to touch you rather than be touched are more strategic. You said yourself that your focus suffers from sexual contact. I would be foolish not to take advantage of that weakness."

"Does that mean you don't want me to touch you either because if I did, you would lose focus too?" John hazarded, looking up at Sherlock through his eyelashes.

"Of course not."

John's gaze narrowed. He cleared his throat.

"I thought you said I was good."

"You are. But no one is that good."

A flare of competitiveness surged through John instantly, his eyes lighting up at the challenge. Where just moments before was self-consciousness for his sexual deficiencies was now aggressive determination to prove himself.

"Fine, Sherlock, I accept the terms, but with one alteration."

That spark of interest that John so loved inducing in his best friend could not be more evident in Sherlock's expression.

"Yes?"

John turned off the bath faucet, the tub now almost full, stood, and began removing his coat. Steam slithered up from the surface of the bath water, rendering the room warm and windows foggy. It seemed oddly quiet without the white noise of rushing water, but John still managed to keep his resolve from faltering. He approached Sherlock where he leaned against the counter with slow steps, letting his coat fall to the floor tiles before working on the buttons of his cardigan. He kept his eyes locked with Sherlock's, unflinching, and did not speak until he stood between Sherlock's legs.

"If you refuse to answer, in addition to asking another question, I get to touch you. You still can't touch me though."

The corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched in what could either be amusement or disapproval. John did not have to ability to tell. He took hold of John's hips again and drew him closer. With John gripped between the clench of Sherlock's thighs, clever fingers took over unbuttoning the cardigan.

"Your strategy is to arouse me into answering your more personal queries," Sherlock stated before pushing the cardigan from John's shoulders until it pooled at their feet. "Regrettably, it will not work. You of all people should know how difficult my focus is to break."

"On the contrary, I don't want to break your focus," John said, mustering every last drop of his confidence and leaning forward until his lips grazed the curve of Sherlock's ear, "I want to command it."

For the first time in any of their encounters, and without the influence of fever, Sherlock quivered. John grinned triumphantly against pale skin, taking hold of Sherlock's tight, expensive shirt and freeing it from his trousers.

"Cold?" he asked snidely, finding the bare skin of Sherlock's lower back and caressing. It was warm, impossibly smooth.

"It was just a twitch," Sherlock snapped, though the breathy quality of his voice betrayed him, or at least John liked to think so. "I thought you didn't want to mix sex with your interrogation. 'One or the other,' you said."

"As long as I get the information I want, I'm fine with negotiating."

"You—" but Sherlock was interrupted by a loud knock on the main door to their suite. They both froze instantly.

"Must be our bags," John sighed, the mood stomped down in an instant. And he was on such a roll, too. "I'll get it since I look less debauched."

Sherlock bristled, flinching away and crossing his arms.

"Your delusional lack of self-awareness staggers me. I've never been 'debauched' in my life. You, on the other hand, look—"

"Yes, yes, fine, fine. Then I'll get the door because I'm less likely to torture the bellboy. Why don't you just…uh…continue what we started…or something."

John fled before his blush became too evident, striding across the suite. He wrenched open the main door, hardly bothering to conceal his irritation at being interrupted.

"Yes?"

"Your luggage, sir," offered the bellboy cheerfully. He was young, gangly, speckled with acne, and far too happy for his own good. With a smile, he wheeled in a gold and red luggage cart. "Are you pleased with your room?"

"Sure," John replied dismissively, scrambling to grab their duffles as quickly as possible.

"Let me get those for you."

"No, it's fine," John sneered. His wallet was in his coat pocket in the bathroom, so the kid had no hope of scoring a tip. No point wasting his energy.

"Oh, I'm sorry, sir, I didn't mean to—"

"Really, it's fine! I'm just…busy with—"

"John!" a deep, disembodied voice called form the bathroom. "I'm naked and wet! Don't you dare let me get bored or the no-murder deal is off!"

The bellboy's eyes bulged so wide John wondered if the kid's pimples might pop from shock. John pinched the bridge of his nose and released a long-suffering sigh.

"…that," he finished.

With a few incoherent stutters the bellboy stumbled as fast as he could from their room, door shutting with a resounding click behind him.

"Damnit, Sherlock!" John shouted, stomping back to the bathroom with his fists clenched. He kicked open the door, savouring the thud it made against the wall, before striding to the tub. "You did that on purpose!"

Unfortunately, the fight drained from immediately when he laid eyes on his flatmate. Sherlock was, as he'd affirmed a few moments before, very naked and very wet. He lounged against one side of the tub, which had the contours of a seat, with his arms resting back against the bath's edge. John could see all of him through the clear lens of the water, with this slim hips and white skin and tuft of faint hair at his groin. His cheeks were flushed from the heat, his hair moist at the nape. John gulped, the sound loud in the echoing bathroom, and tried to find his traitorous composure.

"You've seen me bare before," Sherlock said quietly, thoughtfully. "And you've never looked like that." His eyes were soft, almost mesmerized, as they scanned over John's face.

"It's different now," John heard his voice crack without his permission.

"How?"

"I-I don't know. It feels…the more I touch you…I don't know. But there was always something."

Despite John's indecipherable ramblings, Sherlock didn't mock him as he would have expected. Rather, he looked unsure, even a bit stumped. He shook away the expression quickly though, replacing it with his usual dismissive facade.

"Are you coming in or not?" he drawled, grimacing at John's remaining clothing as though it had personally affronted him.

"Right. Yeah." John pulled his red shirt from his trousers and began twiddling with the buttons, his fingers not nearly as confident as they had been before the bellboy intrusion. "How's the water?" he asked awkwardly, trying to divert the attention away from his pathetic undressing.

"Satisfactory."

"And, uh, where should I sit?"

"Opposite of me for now, though I would recommend removing the rest of your clothing first."

"Yes, thank you, genius, I know. And what do you mean 'for now'?" John dropped his shirt to the floor, reaching for the fastenings of his trousers. When the expected snarky quip did not come, John's hands froze and he glanced at his friend.

Sherlock's piercing gaze was locked on his shoulder, at the gnarled flesh of his scar, with a kind of intensity John had only seen directed at a particularly perplexing corpse. John's whole body tensed instantly and he fought with every ounce of bravery he had not to turn away and pull his shirt back on. He'd been dreading this moment for a while, fearing when Sherlock got his first full look at John's scar and began analyzing. He didn't want Sherlock seeing how he'd been hit from behind, how the bullet had burst into a dozen shards before it exited his body. How the surgery had been rushed and slapdash and dirty. How infection nearly killed him. Vulnerability like he hadn't known in a long time washed over him.

"I was surprised when you didn't say anything in the train," he mumbled, eyes focusing on a floor tile. There would be no point in trying to hide now, he supposed.

"I've seen it before. We live together."

Sherlock's tone caught John off-guard. It was calm, unconcerned to the point of being soothing.

"You looked…fascinated, though. Like I was some corpse."

"It is fascinating."

John closed his eyes. He knew it. He knew Sherlock would see the scar like some kind of case, objectifying him.

"You are fascinating."

John startled, meeting Sherlock's gaze with incredulous eyes.

"Really?"

"Yes. Now take off your trousers and get in here before the water cools. Unless you're avoiding the game because you know you'll lose…"

A smile tugged at the corner of John's lips, all vulnerability and fear plucked from him in an instant. You are fascinating. The words darted through his mind, bringing him back to himself. It might have been the best compliment he'd ever received.

"How does one win this game, exactly?" he asked playfully, dropping his trousers to the floor and stepping out of them.

"By not achieving orgasm first, obviously."

John paused, thumbs hooked under the band of his pants.

"You're kidding."

"John, honestly, we'll discuss this once you get in. I'm getting impatient."

"You're always impatient."

"John!"

"Fine, fine." John took a deep breath, pushed his pants off, and hopped in the tub in one swift motion, settling across from Sherlock before he could lose his nerve. The water was perfect. Hot, but not enough to scald, and emitting a lovely sent of lavender and sandalwood from the salts. The side of his right leg was flush with Sherlock's beneath the water, feet folded over each other against Sherlock's hip. The curved side of the tub supported his back wonderfully, and he found himself instantly comfortable, relaxed. He turned his head to look out the steam-flushed windows beside them, just making out the staggering view of the sea. He could get used to this.

"A bath was a good idea," John hummed, resting his hand on Sherlock's calf and holding.

"One of your few."

"Oi!"

"Now, I'll ask you not to touch me until we begin." Sherlock twitched his leg, indicating John's hold there. John reluctantly pulled his hand away. For a moment he'd almost forgotten that Sherlock had some explaining to do, and that they were going to play some ridiculous game to it out of him.

"But that touch wasn't sexual…"

"Any part of the body can become an erogenous zone if given proper stimulation," Sherlock explained smugly, as though John was some kind of coy maiden who'd never given an orgasm in his life while Sherlock was a bona fide sex god. John's hackles rose instantly.

"Have you ever even touched someone affectionately without sex involved?" John snapped, the words coming out so biting and suggestive that he couldn't believe they'd come from his own mouth. Sherlock's eyes widened, his body going slightly rigid beside him. The look of surprise was reigned in quickly though, his gaze narrowing and growing sharp, predatory.

"Is that your first question?" Sherlock asked, voice low, almost a growl.

While John felt a bit guilty for the way the subject came about, it was something he'd been pondering for a while. He'd never been with someone who approached sex the way Sherlock did, like it was a means to an end (and that end was not necessarily orgasm). In fact, hadn't every time they'd fooled around been for the purpose of Sherlock proving to John that integrating sex into their friendship was a preferable idea? He really didn't get the sense they'd done it for pure desire yet, or to simply be closer. Sherlock himself had said sex was merely something he'd practiced to gather data for the work.

I have never been with someone who could be identified as more than an acquaintance.

Those words from Sherlock's notepad, which John had read so many times in the secret dark of his room, flashed in his mind. What did that mean for their relationship? How could Sherlock understand what John wanted from sex, which he saw as more than just a tool, with such a complete lack of relationship experience? And how did Victor fit into this? He'd said, under oath, that he'd never had a friend before John, yet here was this extremely familiar (infuriatingly handsome) man calling Sherlock 'old friend' and looking at him like he'd seen every part of him before.

No, guilt or not, this was the only way he was going to get the explanations he needed and bloody well deserved.

"Yes. It is. Now, answer, or let me touch you."

Author's Note: woohooo first real cliff-hanger of The First Trip! You didn't think I'd stop doing those, did you? You know how much I love to torture you. It's an affectionate kind of a torture. A "I've strapped the love of your life to a bomb because I adore you" kind of torture.

Next chapter we get into the first conversation game of the first trip and the last of the first and last trilogy. Phew. Say that ten times fast. Ima need a few "red leather, yellow leather"s before I try it myself...