A/N: Another Anon requested, "You delectable writer, you... May I perhaps request... something along the lines of Camping Johnlock smut? teeheehehehehehehe..." and I thought, "WHY THE FUCK NOT! WHOO!" so here it is. XD

Sherlock tosses a duffel bag onto John's lap. The doctor is jarred from his reading of the paper, and he stares down at the offending object for a long enough moment to sigh heavily before rolling his eyes and looking up at his flatmate.

"Are we going somewhere?"

"Yes. Stakeout in the wooded area of a park, looking for someone who's been on a string of rapes, preying on night-joggers of both sexes. They may or may not strike tonight or the rest of this week, but the chances are good if we camp there until we catch the perp. So pack a bag for at least five days' worth of clothing and supplies. Meet you outside when you're done; we start tonight," Sherlock instructs firmly.

John sighs again and shakes his head as he stands up, tosses his paper aside, and grabs the bag. "Yeah, yeah; I hear ya…"

XXX

It's on the third night of Nothing At All Suspicious Occurring, as John has come to call it out of boredom, that Sherlock huffs and plops down into their camping tent (hidden well in the bushes and trees of the park; no one has seen them during any of these nights, and they have a permit from Lestrade saying they can camp here if anyone questions them) and groans out loud.

"I thought for sure he would make an attempt! But it's too late for any of even the latest joggers, now, and a good three or four hours before the earliest ones. Bugger," Sherlock says, and he doesn't often swear, but when he does, it's usually because he is exhausted and truly annoyed.

"Well, we may as well get some sleep, then, for a couple hours at least," John remarks with a yawn.

"Yes, I suppose we could do that," and Sherlock hums before adding, "But I'm not very tired."

"Liar. You sound completely wiped. Why don't you close your eyes for a bit? I'll keep watch."

"You would fall asleep; I know you, John," Sherlock sighs. "No, we need to stay awake until dawn again, as we have been doing. We can sleep in the day at home, like before, and reset the tent again tomorrow."

"And how do you propose we stay awake? I'm bloody exhausted, Sherlock. No energy left."

Sherlock snorts a chuckle. "And yet you offered to keep watch for me."

"I would've!" John contradicts childishly. "The possibility of danger would have kept me up. But now…"

"I've an idea," Sherlock murmurs, stealing glances up at where John sits. He props himself onto his elbows and gives John a once-over with his eyes. "Have sex with me."

It takes John a long moment to comprehend if what he just heard was honestly what he had just thought he heard. And Sherlock's gaze doesn't waver and John has blinked, stared, and blinked again about six times in a row, John opens his mouth. "…And what, exactly, is that going to do?"

"Sex can drain energy, it's true, but only if you do it a certain way. Otherwise it can prolong energy because of all the chemicals being released in the brain during it. It can temporarily heighten one's senses as well, making a person keenly aware of something they're feeling or seeing or hearing. It's common sense, John, really."

"…Common sense. Right." And John shakes his head. "Why on Earth would I even want to have sex with you, even for the sake of giving myself some energy to stay awake or refreshen my senses, if that even works like you say it does?"

"It does work, for one," Sherlock retorts, "Because there is always the buzz and thrill of new touches and sensations and chemistry. For two, does it honestly matter at this point if you and I have sex? People already assume so. We're close friends, so it shouldn't ruin anything between us, at least not on my end, since I don't care about sex the way you do. So what should it matter? It will be just one more experiment to add to the list."

"Yes, but—" John starts to protest, and oddly enough, the only reason he can come up with for saying no is, "I'm not gay."

"And I don't identify with any sort of sexuality or label, and that doesn't hinder me," Sherlock remarks, "So what is the point in arguing further? You won't even have to do much, if you don't like. I'm sure I can provide enough stimulation to produce the desired effect."

John blinks again. Okay, now this is just strange. But nothing with Sherlock is ever normal, so why did he think something like this would be?

Sighing, John complies. "Yeah, all right. Whatever. I trust you, and I guess that's enough to get through this." Because there is so attraction, no arousal from the thought of another man touching him, but the touches themselves will probably trigger things — human contact and warmth and all that — and he does trust Sherlock and they are friends, like he said, so it isn't too uncomfortable. Even if the timing is off and the reasoning is even more off.

John shrugs out of his shirt and lies down atop his sleeping bag (his army-issue roll-out cot, complete with army colors and tiny patch of the British flag on it), peering questioningly but otherwise indifferently up at his flatmate.

Sherlock, out of courtesy, removes his own shirt and moves to kneel on all fours above John, hovering over him almost casually, and God, this is so weird, but John definitely feels more awake with each passing second, so there is some truth to all this, because he's paying attention to what Sherlock will do next, and there is some sort of reaction in his heart rate when Sherlock runs a hand down along John's chest.

John inhales sharply and his eyes flicker between Sherlock's hand and Sherlock's face, watching the way Sherlock's hair hangs over his forehead and falls around his face, and watches the way Sherlock's face belies nothing but impassiveness. Except his mouth twitches when he touches John's bullet wound scar, and both their pupils are dilated in the sheer darkness of the night, but John could have sworn Sherlock's pupils shifted larger for a fleeting second. He could have imagined that, though.

Sherlock traces John's skin, every shape of bone and muscle, feeling the texture of his chest hair and nipples, and particularly pays attention to John's scar, and idly, John wonders if Sherlock has a fetish for irregular things like old flesh wounds. But the thought passes quickly as he realizes what these touches, as seemingly introspective as they are, are doing to him.

John's breathing picks up as he feels the blood rushing to pool and heat in his groin, and he closes his eyes in what he hope looks collected and natural and not too aroused at all. Because he's not— not enjoying this the way most people would think he is, honest. He's just… letting those chemicals keep him awake and energized like Sherlock said they would. He's letting those fumes fuel him. It's nothing, really. Nothing.

But then Sherlock shifts and John opens his eyes a crack. But Sherlock is too close to see correctly, and his mouth is on John's neck, and John's eyes are shocked into full openness as he blinks up at the dim outlines of the tent roof and he can smell bark and moss and dew and leaves and dirt, but he can only feel heat and slickness and skin and he's suddenly arcing up into Sherlock's body, a moan slipping out.

Sherlock doesn't comment on the soft noise, and instead continues touching and mouthing various parts of John's exposed flesh, once again noting how Sherlock pays special attention to John's scar, and okay, if there isn't a kink or fetish there, John doesn't know what to think.

John had kept his arms and hands at his side this entire time, but now he reaches up and tugs and rakes one through Sherlock's hair, and uses the other to feel the sinew under the warm skin of Sherlock's back. It's taunt and shifting and there is cooling as the night air continually touches the skin. And John can feel Sherlock's ribs and spine and shoulder blades, all as angular as his damn cheekbones and nose and pointed chin, and it's a mystery to John why this interests him.

It's when Sherlock shifts again, pressing his weight down on John and lying algined to John in a way that their legs overlap in a pattern, John-Sherlock-John-Sherlock, hips off-center, chests crushing and also off-center, their arms coming around one another's shoulders, that John feels evidence of Sherlock's own erection, and that's a mystery to John, too, because either Sherlock was lying about his disinterest in sexual activities, or Sherlock's body cannot control itself as well as Sherlock thought, because stimulation is stimulation.

But even so, despite which probability it is, John is intrigued and maybe just a little interested in kissing Sherlock just to get a feeling for the mood and the act, and because he wonders if it isn't what he's supposed to do anyway.

So John draws Sherlock's face up with his hands and their partially opened mouths meet, and John finds that Sherlock's taste is addicting in the most uncommon of ways, so he indulges for a bit in that, feeling Sherlock's fingers tangled and scratching through John's grey-blond hair.

And then John's hips begin to grind without his consent, but he realizes it's because they are reacting to the way Sherlock's own pelvis is gyrating, so John goes with it, feeling the occasional brush of their lengths through their trousers, and it's a bit simple and dirty like teenagers in a car, rutting with established rhythm and aiming to come in their pants, but John takes when he can get, and Sherlock did say that the sex has to be done in the least energy-consuming way.

Sherlock's hand worms its way down to John's clothed erection and adds to the friction of their bumping by palming and gripping along the shaft. John stifles a gasp and a moan into Sherlock's mouth, which is still somewhat connected to John's own, if suckling on his bottom lip and breathing into his mouth while only their bottom lips touch count as connection.

Oddly enough (or perhaps not as oddly, considering the how often John has sex as opposed to how often Sherlock does), Sherlock reaches his orgasm first, stilling and shuddering and holding John tightly to himself as he hides his face between John's chin and collarbone.

And John loses it then, because Sherlock groans John's name shy and low under his breath as he pants during the aftershocks, and John feels something trigger inside of him because of that.

So he takes Sherlock by the waist and rolls them over, half onto Sherlock's sleeping back and one of each of their feet falling out of the bottom, partially-open front flap of their tent, John's toes touching the forest floor. He thrusts his hips downward, grinding hard and fast against Sherlock's softening erection and sharp hip bones.

Sherlock groans and clenches his thighs around John's hips and lets him ride it out until he comes, and when John does, it's all a flash of heat and electricity and he's never felt more alive, his heart a rapid thunder-drum in his ears.

Breathing heavily, John rolls back to his original spot and blinks up at nothing, listening distantly to Sherlock's own panting. And yes, okay, he did like that and wouldn't mind doing it again in the future, going further, perhaps; and, of course, only if Sherlock let him.

"I'll… start a campfire," Sherlock breathes, sitting up, trembling slightly, his voice calm but his face saying the opposite. They won't even be noticed if they have a campfire, and again, the permit says they can have a small one, so John nods and swallows and mutters that that would be great; preferable, even.

What happens in the tent stays in the tent, John thinks for a moment, and then he recalls Harry watching that American film Brokeback Mountain, and he just smacks himself in the forehead and doesn't respond when Sherlock asks if John intends to stay up, now, because obviously there will be no getting to sleep with how wired his brain is at the moment.