It was strange, to John, how very little the routine of their days had changed considering how radically their nocturnal activities had altered. The next day, Sherlock went about his business like always. He ignored texts from his brother, passed off paperwork from the case they'd just completed to John, and made a general bother of himself striding about the flat.

John was trying to write up the case for the blog, but kept getting distracted by Sherlock flitting around. He was wearing nothing but pants and his dressing gown, moving agitatedly between the microscopes on the kitchen table. Obviously the experiment he was working on wasn't going well. He muttered something - likely disparaging - under his breath and tossed a tray holding what looked like a human ear aside.

It wasn't until he began rummaging in the refrigerator for more body parts that John made up his mind. He rose quietly - not that he needed to; Sherlock in a snit wouldn't hear a bomb go off next door let alone someone on the stairs - and went to fetch the bottle of lube from his nightstand.

He wasn't particularly horny. No moreso than he always seemed to be around Sherlock these days, at least. For a man his age, once a day was pretty damn good, and he didn't feel the need to push that, except that he wondered how far this new arrangement with Sherlock went.

With the exception of the week before when he'd been trying to seduce Sherlock purposely, they hadn't really done anything unusual out of the bedroom. It was as if they'd partitioned off that aspect of their relationship. Yes, there were a few other things that had changed between them, but not really anything that reflected a significant sexual relationship.

He was well aware that Sherlock might push him away. Might give him a resounding no and sigh in exasperation. That was his right and John would absolutely respect that. Still, there was a chance that Sherlock would welcome the unusual timing. That he would be more than willing for sex to spill out into other times of their lives.

Hopeful but prepared for rejection, John entered the kitchen. Sherlock had returned whatever tub of indiscernible goo he'd just pulled out back to the fridge, muttering about coagulation.

"Really, we should just rent the basement flat from Mrs. Hudson so that I have room for an industrial refrigerator. The inconvenience of this is getting ridiculous."

"Be nice to not have guts next to the bangers, too," John agreed sagely. Sherlock nodded, gesturing with his hands.

"There would be more room for your- oh!" He stopped, dropping his hands and studying John curiously. "Hello," he greeted, surprised to see John in the kitchen. Had they been talking? He couldn't remember.

"Hi," John returned with a smile. This happened a lot, actually. Sherlock barely noticing when he came or went. Once his mind got to whirring, very little could faze it. Still, it was a good sign that he'd acknowledged John so readily. "I was just thinking about some… exercise."

"We've had a great deal of physical activity the last week, John. I thought you'd be ready for a well earned rest. If you're worried about your waistline, I can assure you that-"

John chuckled. "No, I'm not worried I'm getting fat. I meant something different. Maybe something that could be diverting for both of us." He stepped closer, bring his body a scant inch away from Sherlock's.

"I don't follow. Explain," Sherlock demanded, his head cocked to the side. Really, it shouldn't be so disarming that Sherlock was utterly oblivious. Anyone else would have picked up on John's innuendo a mile away. Oh, it would drive Sherlock mad if he knew that. John smirked a little.

"I was thinking about bending you over that chair, if you'd let me."

"Whyever would you- Oh." Sherlock's swift inhale of breath told John that he'd finally caught on. Which was good, because his next step had been paraphrasing Sherlock's own words from that fateful first night. My cock, your arse. "Well, I-" He stopped, coloring slightly. "Really?"

"Unless you'd rather not." John kept his voice carefully light. He didn't want Sherlock to feel pressured.

"I'm just… surprised. We are past your refractory period, but usually you aren't specifically looking for release for another-" he checked his watch, "eight and a quarter hours, at least."

John shrugged, a slight smile still tugging his lips. Sherlock studied him, assessing, weighing options, coming to conclusions. His chest rose and fell fractionally faster. For one asinine moment, he felt like one of Pavlov's dogs, salivating in programmed reaction. Ridiculous. Even still, his cock twitched inside his pants.

This was new. New was exciting. Exhilarating. Especially with John. No, they hadn't had sex during the day like this before - excepting the odd blow job, which Sherlock didn't count - but surely it wasn't all that unusual. Sex wasn't some sin that needed to be committed under the cover of darkness. There was no reason that John shouldn't get release any time day or night.

In reply, he took off his dressing gown and draped it over the table. It only took him two steps to reach the back of John's chair, the grey striped blanket hanging over its back. "This chair?" he inquired. John swallowed, as if Sherlock's acquiescence had surprised him, then nodded. He paused a beat, then followed Sherlock to the chair. Sherlock hadn't turned, so John's front pressed lightly against his back. Both of their heart rates had increased, and Sherlock was sure that the heat radiating off of John's skin was matched by his own. "Shall I just-" he stopped talking, demonstrating by bending slightly and bracing his hands on the back of the chair. The soft fabric of the blanket bunched under his hands.

Sherlock expected John to push his pants down and start preparing his body right away. Instead, John began kissing down Sherlock's back. He pressed his lips to every vertebra, lingering at the base of his spine. He must have been kneeling, though Sherlock couldn't see him, because the stubble of his cheek rasped against Sherlock's lower back while his hands traced lazy circles up the inside of Sherlock's thighs.

Already, Sherlock found himself covered in a light sheen of perspiration. His hair wasn't even dry from his shower that morning, but Sherlock knew he would need another before the day was through. His cock twitched again. John's hands drew higher and higher until they reached the waistband of his pants and began tugging them down. His lips followed their path for a moment, then he leaned back and urged Sherlock's feet up one at a time to slip the pants totally free.

When John's hands returned, this time one of them rested on Sherlock's back, pressing down gently. Sherlock complied, lowering his torso - his arse rising by extension. John's other hand nudged his legs further apart, leaving him open and vulnerable. Any moment, he expected to feel the press of John's fingers, slick and cool-

"Fuck!" The epithet was torn from Sherlock as John's tongue pressed against him. The fingers he'd anticipated were instead gripping Sherlock's hips, holding him in place. John's tongue traced the exposed opening of him, circling softly and then slipping inside. Sherlock went rigid and fought not to curse again. This was… he was… Nothing came to mind that could complete the thought. He was blissfully, frighteningly blank. It felt good. It felt incredible. Having John lapping softly at the most delicate, sensitive spot on his body- it was more than his brain could compute.

The licks continued, quickly followed by open mouthed, wet kisses, then another thrust of his tongue through tight muscle. Sherlock groaned, his cock now fully hard and twitching eagerly. Half of him hoped that John would reach around and grab it, stroke it in time with the thrusts of his tongue, but the other half of him was terrified of how intense that would feel. Too much. Far too much.

Instead of letting the indecision drive him mad, Sherlock surrendered to the sensation. He let his head fall forward, hanging limply between his arms. He wasn't sure he ever wanted this feeling to end, but suddenly he was gripped by the overwhelming desire to feel something much larger thrusting into him. He wanted John's cock. Wanted John to fuck him, now, bent over the chair wantonly.

"John," he whispered huskily, pressing his hips back for more even while hoping John would stand and give him something different. "John, fuck me."

It was John's turn to moan in arousal. No, he would never tire of hearing Sherlock say those words. He rose after one final, deep thrust with his tongue, then opened the lube bottle and spread the slickness over his cock. "Are you ready for me, Sherlock?"

"Yes," Sherlock returned emphatically. "Now."

"Christ I love hearing you like this. Knowing you want me." He lined himself up and began to slowly press forward. Sherlock's body was already so attuned from John's rimming that the tip of his cock slipped in quickly. They both hissed, pleasure and heat and intensity gripping them. Slowly, John moved his hips forward until he was buried as deep as he could go. His cock throbbed, engulfed in pleasure and eager for more. He drew back and thrust forward again. Sherlock's body accepted him, clenching around him intoxicatingly. "Do you want me to touch your cock, Sherlock?" John asked, thrusting again.

Sherlock tried to catch his breath and think. He wasn't sure what he wanted. His cock was hard and aching, begging for attention, but with how worked up Sherlock already was, he wasn't sure he would be able to handle it. Already, it was almost too much. He shook his head finally, regretting that he couldn't enjoy this the way John did. The way someone normal would.

"Good," John breathed harshly, bucking his hips hard enough to rock Sherlock forward. Good? That was not John's usual reaction. "I want to do something different," he added, forcing out the words between thrusts. "I want to fuck you hard and fast until I come. I want it to make you hard and hot and desperate for release. And then I want to turn you around, drop to my knees, and make you come in my mouth."

The words alone made Sherlock nearly buckle. He moaned, helpless against the rush of desire and pleasure that engulfed him. His hands fisted in the blanket, clutching it like a lifeline.

"Will you let me do that, love? Will you let me suck your cock while your arse is still throbbing from me pounding it?" The slam of his hips had become rapid and erratic. John was already close. Was the idea of this turning him on, as well? Sherlock opened his mouth, moaning aloud and not bothering to try and stifle it.

"Y-yes," he rasped. He wanted that. God, he wanted that. It sounded so fucking perfect that he didn't think he'd ever needed anything more than he needed that. John's fingers threaded through his hair, then clenched into a fist and pulled his head back sharply. Sherlock cried out, his spine arching and the angle of John's thrusts becoming deeper. The tip of John's cock slammed against his prostate, making him jerk and nearly bite his tongue against the pleasure of it. Just like that, John was coming, pulsing inside of him as his release flooded Sherlock. He'd barely rode out his orgasm before he yanked his hips away, leaving Sherlock clenching desperately and shocked by the void.

John gripped Sherlock's arms tightly, spun him around, then dropped to his knees. In less than a second, his lips were wrapped around Sherlock's cock. It was unlike anything Sherlock had ever felt. He was already so close to the edge, spurred on by all of John's actions. John rubbed his tongue against the underside of his cock, then sucked hard. Unbidden, Sherlock's hands rose up and threaded through John's hair. He looked down, needing to see his cock disappearing into John's mouth, needing to burn the image into his brain. It wasn't John's mouth that enraptured him, though. It was his eyes, wide open and pupils dilated. Those steady brown eyes which had become as much home to him as Baker Street.

"Fuck, John!" Then he was there, tripping over the precipice he hadn't been sure he would ever cross this way. The juxtaposition of his throbbing arse and the wet suction on his cock was just enough to drive him into oblivion without looking back. He came hard, bucking his hips and curling his toes into the carpet just for the extra traction.

It wasn't until John coughed and sputtered that Sherlock realized he'd been rather brutally fucking the man's throat as he came. John had never even given a male oral sex before. What a terrible introduction. "Fuck," he repeated roughly. "I'm sorry." He tried to pull away, but John had caught his breath and gave him another suck. It sent a final bolt of pleasure through Sherlock. He gasped, squirming away this time on his own account. John finally released him and sat back on his heels, wiping his chin with a smile.

"Well that went even better than I hoped for."

Sherlock scoffed, then held out his hand to help John up. They made their way, half staggering half stumbling, to the couch. John collapsed gratefully on to it, but Sherlock had barely sat when he shot back up. "Just a moment." He disappeared into the bathroom, leaving John chuckling behind him, then reappeared again and sprawled out across John's lap. John began carding his hand through Sherlock's hair absently.

"So. That was a success, I'd say."

"That's one way of putting it," Sherlock agreed.

"You enjoyed it? All of it?"

"I did."

"None of it was too much? Uncomfortable?"

"It was… intense. But not overly so."

"Then this is something you'd want to do again?" John sounded so eager that sherlock had to chuckle.

"Well I'm certainly not opposed, but I didn't think you would be so keen considering how much abuse your throat took at the end."

"That part was a bit rough, I'll admit, but Christ Sherlock, I'd let you choke me with your cock if it made you come like that."

"That's rather magnanimous of you," Sherlock observed, somewhat sourly. He didn't like the idea of choking John with his cock. He didn't like the idea of John choking at all. "Are you really so eager to make me orgasm?"

"Yes," John said emphatically.

"Why?" Sherlock still couldn't wrap his head around it. Why did it matter so much? Why couldn't John just continue to take his pleasure without fretting about Sherlock's?

"I like making you feel good. I want to bring you pleasure."

"But you don't need to. I haven't asked you for it."

"If you didn't need to, would you still want to keep having sex with me?"

"What?" Sherlock sat up, confusion written across his face. He hated feeling at a loss. He was so used to being fifteen steps ahead of everyone that it unnerved him to have no idea what John would say next.

John sighed, running a hand over his face as he struggled to find the right words. "Sherlock, I… These last months have been incredible. You've been incredible. And I don't just mean the sex. Doing this, with you, made me realize things that I had been blind to before. This isn't just about sex for me. Not any more. I'm- I care about you. This… this isn't just a convenience for me. I mean, it is, of course it's convenient, but there's more to it than that.

What I'm trying to say is that even without the sex, I'd stay. You don't have to let me fuck you to keep me here, with just you. I'm… committed to you, without any physical demands. I wouldn't want to have sex with anyone else at this point. Do you understand what I'm saying? You don't have to have sex with me to keep me to yourself. I'm yours, no sacrifices necessary."

"But you still want…" Sherlock gestured towards John's lap, too gobsmacked to articulate any further.

"Of course I do. Yes, I want that. Being with you is better than anything I've ever experienced. But I'm not going anywhere, even if I'm not getting that. So you don't need to do this just for me any more. I'm here, I'm staying, I'm not looking for anyone else. Sex or no."

"Eventually- eventually you would change your mind. It would build up until-"

"No. No it wouldn't. I don't want to be celibate, Sherlock, but I want you more. I'd work through it."

"But… why? You don't have to. I've already offered this."

"Because what you want, wanting you to want me, needing you to do these things with me because you desire them physically, is more important to me than just getting off. I'm not saying we have to stop. I'm saying that if you don't want to do this anymore, then we can stop. Nothing has to change with the rest of this. I'll still be here."

"You'd truly commit yourself to me alone, even if I chose never to have sex with you again?"

"I already have, Sherlock." John shrugged a little, his face a strange mix of affectionate and wistful. "The rest is up to you."

Sherlock just stared at him. It was nearly impossible for him to comprehend what John was offering. He wouldn't get involved with anyone else, would dedicate himself wholly to Sherlock alone, even if they didn't have sex? John was willing to give up sex entirely for him? It didn't make sense. Why would John tell him such a thing? Why take the risk that Sherlock would take him up on the offer, when he could have continued on as they had been before?

He thought back to what they'd been discussing before this strange turn of events. He'd been asking John why he was so driven to give Sherlock release. Why he wanted it so much. It wasn't necessary. He didn't get anything out of it, aside, perhaps, from the simple satisfaction of seeing Sherlock's pleasure.

Suddenly, it began to make sense. He understood why John wanted to give him that relief, even though he didn't need to. Because now, knowing that John could be his without sex, Sherlock still wanted to give it to him. Not just because they'd discovered that Sherlock could get physical satisfaction from the act - though that was an incredible bonus - but because he wanted John to get that pleasure of his own. He wanted to make John happy, even if it was at his own expense.

It was only by very happy coincidence, and a lot of groundwork laid by John, that Sherlock was beginning to see it wouldn't be any expense to him at all. He smiled, chest tight with emotion that he had no desire to fight. Instead, he crossed the space between them. Ignoring their size difference, he crawled into John's lap and wrapped his arms around John's neck.

"Sherlock?" John looked up at him, hopeful but confused. Sherlock kissed him. Lightly at first, slow and sweet, but then deeper until neither of them could catch their breath. Until Sherlock was rocking against him and wondering just what, exactly, his own refractory period was.

"Does this mean-" John asked, breaking the kiss and panting, "-that you've decided not to stop having sex with me?"

"You mean before we've reached the final lesson? My, Doctor Watson, don't you know me at all? I never do anything in half measures." He smirked, kissed John again, and got up to fetch the lube.