I waited for him to speak. I'd suspected this, of course; he'd said as much, in the cafe that night, and he'd never shown the slightest hint of sexual desire. Not a bit. And while he understood other people's sexuality — he always knew who was sleeping with whom, always, uncannily precise about it, too — he'd never exhibited even the remotest interest in partaking. Drugs? Certainly. Alcohol? Always. Other vices? Sure. But never sex.

So I wasn't surprised, not really. And I can't say I hadn't wondered what that meant for me. I'm…well, let's leave it at, I enjoy sex quite a bit. With men, with women, with my hand and a good thought. It's all fine for me; I'm not a picky man most of the time, about anything, and a good orgasm is a good orgasm regardless of who's doing the fucking. Anyway. As I said, I'd considered it, come to no conclusion other than that Sherlock wasn't interested in sex and I wasn't going to push it. Nor was I going to actively seek out someone else, at least until I knew what he wanted me to do. Figured that was fairest to both of us if I kept it in my trousers and in my head, until he wanted to talk about it.

"So." He opened his mouth, snapped it shut. Repeated the action a couple of times, like an engine coughing before properly starting up. "That…um. Thing. What you said. That's kind of you, really. But I am aware of your," a pause, his face stayed carefully blank, "proclivities, and I know you'll desire sexual intimacy at some point. So. I understand if. You, er. Feel I'm obliged to, that is, feel you have earned…"

I barked out a laugh. "Oh, god. No. I—" a deep breath, looked up at the ceiling as if the perfect answer was written there. Looked back at him, his fragile, terrified thoughts bubbling under the mask of blankness he always wore. "You are the biggest prat I know. You're so ridiculous. I love you," caught a breath in my throat. "Fuck it, no worries, I do, all right? I love you."

A pause, no movement.

"I've saved your life before. A few times. Ruined my shoulder again knocking you into the pool not even half a year ago. And I've been honest with you from the moment we met, and I pay the bills and keep you fed and let you talk things through at me even though I don't understand a single bleeding word of it." I huffed, so tired of sitting up, my shoulder starting to twinge at me. "Do you trust me, Sherlock?"

Another pause. A tiny, near-invisible jerking of the head. A nod.

I leaned close, bracing myself on the good arm, my face right in his. We were close enough to kiss. "Then what the fuck have I done to make you think I'd do anything you don't want me to do?"

His eyes flickered back and forth, looking at mine. It wasn't fear anymore. I wasn't sure what the emotion in his face would be called.

I leaned away, slowly. Laid back down beside him, hissing at the pain in my shoulder. He turned his head to look at me across the pillow. I smiled, a tight little grin. "Now that we've talked about you, I'm going to be a bit selfish for a moment." The corners of his mouth turned up slightly. "I would love to have you tell me, in exact terms, what you are and are not comfortable with."

His face fell. "So you can decide what—"

"No, dammit, Sherlock," I interrupted. "So I don't do anything you're not all right with. So I know your boundaries. Good god, man, I'm in love with you, I don't want to hurt you, even by accident."

He looked at me again, his face open and hungry; I've only rarely seen it that way when he's not on a case. It's a look that means, on one hand, he's excited and anxious, and on another hand, it means he feels like there's danger all around him, and he's picking his way through it like a minefield.