Sherlock's body moves without his conscious permission - one minute he's kneeling on the floor just inside the doorway to the bathroom, the next minute he's staring dazedly at his own bed from somewhere in the vicinity of his dresser. John's inside the loo, pissing away both the tea and the accumulated nocturnal contents of his bladder, and somehow the splashing of urine into the bowl grounds Sherlock back into himself.
He said it's not pity. Sherlock wants so desperately to believe him, wants to re-frame the notion of their relationship to center on John caring for him and loving him and not John-the-doctor or John-I'm-not-gay-we're-just-flatmates-no-really. He certainly pissed like a normal person, woke up with morning breath more often than not, grumbled about going to work (or used to, when he still had a job) and had verbal arguments with chip-and-pin machines and occasionally the people on the telly. He got angry and exasperated and tired and prickly, sometimes all at once and often all directed at Sherlock. He wasn't setting himself up to be a guardian angel, he was just . . . John.
Sherlock is still standing awkwardly in his own bedroom when John is done in the loo (washes his hands for the full thirty seconds, medical habit, does it every time he goes in the bathroom to so much as scratch himself, no reason to believe he's stalling) and comes back out into the hallway. He blinks once, then stretches up to press a single kiss on Sherlock's lips and brushes past him to flop heavily onto the bed.
"Your move," he says over his shoulder. Casual tone, as if he were commenting on the color of Sherlock's shirt or the likelihood of rain. Not turned on, then, but going along with it for Sherlock's sake.
Sherlock fixes his gaze on the floorboards, suddenly nervous. "You don't have to, you know." It hurts to say it, hurts to acknowledge, but he owes John at least this much. "I mean, you can't help it if you're not gay, and I don't expect you to pretend just for me." He claps his mouth shut, not at all sure he wants to hear John's relieved sigh-
"You're an idiot, you know that?" John rolls over onto his back, shucks his t-shirt and pajama pants, and props himself up on his elbows so he can look Sherlock full in the face. "You do all that hocus-pocus deducing whatnot, and you don't observe things. Like the fact that I really, truly do want this." He tilts his pelvis upward, an offering and sacrifice all in one. He's not fully hard, but not entirely flaccid either. "Now I have an empty bladder and I've had my morning tea and I can focus all my attention on you. What exactly do you want to do to me? Because I'm willing."
"But you're not-"
"Fuck it all to hell, Sherlock," John snaps, exasperated. "Would it help if I said it? Fine. I'm gay now. At least, I'm having some extremely gay fantasies involving gagging you with my cock so you'll stop dithering over how not gay I am." He closes his mouth abruptly, catching his lip between his teeth so hard it makes him wince. "Shit," he says in a much quieter voice. "Sorry, didn't mean to-"
"Don't apologize." Sherlock forces himself to cross the remaining floorboards and come to stand next to the bed, across from John. Within touching range, if John were so inclined. But John doesn't move, just lies there and watches with those limpid brown eyes, so Sherlock gathers his courage (it takes a surprising amount) and places a hand flat on the divot of John's sternum. The skin is warm, the light dusting of blond hair springy under Sherlock's fingertips. He glides his fingers upward a few inches, cataloguing the feel of how the hair curls around them, and tries to quiet the maelstrom of anxiety and worry in his brain. John couldn't want this. He couldn't possibly want someone inexperienced and prone to breakdowns and the wrong gender to boot-
"You stopped."
Sherlock glances up at John's face, the words startling him out of the downward spiral of self-consciousness.
"It's fine," John prods, glancing down meaningfully at Sherlock's hand on his chest. "Don't stop."
Sherlock is still inexplicably frozen, so John nudges upwards under his touch, which also has the effect of shifting his bare hip against Sherlock's clothed one. It's a casual brush, tangential, but it's enough to refocus Sherlock's attention downward to John's groin. And the obvious proof that no, he's really not making this all up.
"What-" Sherlock breaks off, swallows, the word scratchy on his tongue. "What do you want me to do?"
John's eyes are on his face. "Touch me the way you want to. You think too much, you know that?"
It earns him a speaking glance, a reflexive reaction to the phrase built over many repetitions between the two of them, but Sherlock starts gliding his hand over skin again. He looks at, but doesn't touch, the pinkish-white mass of scar tissue radiating outward from John's shoulder. The skin is puckered slightly, a textured blossom of permanent evidence superimposed on the smooth expanse of his deltoid and trapezius. A few tendrils sneak down to snake across his pectoral and bicep, just pale white lines, nothing visible around a t-shirt. He wonders what the back looks like, if it's as bad as the front.
"Want me on my side?" John asks quietly. He tilts his head toward his injured shoulder. "You've seen it before, in passing, but you're curious."
Sherlock nods silently.
John rolls so he's curled slightly on his side, facing away from Sherlock. "Was the bath the first time you'd really seen it up close? I know I don't walk around half-dressed as often as you do."
If only. Sherlock huffs, a barely-audible puff of breath. "Sometimes you sleep without your shirt on. When it's warm out."
John turns and regards him curiously. "You've watched me while I sleep, before you . . . okay, that really ought to be creepier than it actually is. I think you're rubbing off on me. Although I'm not really surprised."
Sherlock feels a sudden pang of doubt - should I be apologizing? - but then John twitches his shoulder and rolls it forward so Sherlock gets a better view of the exit wound. It's much like the front side, pale and angry-looking, but much larger. Shot at an angle, then, entering just under the distal end of the clavicle but most likely shattering the scapula on its way through. He's starting to get a better understanding of how traumatic John's recovery process must have been, how extensive and exhausting and yes, it makes sense that John would feel starved for adventure after that, he must have been laid up for several months before being allowed to do practically anything. In one smooth instinctive move, Sherlock ducks and presses a close-mouthed kiss on the direct center of the scar.
John jumps a bit, tensing, but relaxes again almost as quickly. "Mmmm," he breathes.
"Too sensitive?"
"Yes, but's the good kind." John rolls forward a bit further. "Do you want to keep going?"
Do I? Sherlock is feeling out of his depth, not at all used to this level of proximity with his lovers. Well, "lovers" being an inadequate term - "practical fucks," perhaps? Convenient but rushed blow jobs in between classes at uni, drug-fuelled hedonistic binges in run-down flats in the days before Mycroft and Lestrade forced him clean. Never anything that allowed time for things like casual exploration of each other's scars.
"It's up to you," John says softly, the patience shining through in his voice. Whatever Sherlock wants, John will do. Whatever Sherlock doesn't want, John will forego without complaint. It's too much.
So Sherlock turns the question back on him. "What do you want me to do next?"
John turns, uncurling like a fern leaf, trying to visually assess Sherlock's expression. "I want you to be comfortable with me."
"What makes you think I'm not?"
John doesn't answer.
How could he not see? Sherlock leans over him, letting his clothed stomach graze John's naked hip, and wraps his fingers around John's erection. It's still a bit soft, but it's warm and twitches languidly under his hand. John's breathing alters a fraction, the rhythm changing, then it evens out again and John settles more onto his back.
"Is this good?" Sherlock hates not knowing, but admitting his ignorance is better than getting it wrong, or worse, assuming and then having John need to tell him to stop. John's autonomic nervous system is functioning well, at least - his erection is getting firmer with each stroke, jutting out from his body enough to counter gravity even though John is almost fully on his back now. John curls his own hand over Sherlock's clothed knee, the easiest part of him to reach.
"It feels good," John says quietly. "I trust you."
Sherlock eyes John's penis. Cock. Dick. Prick. Pecker. So many euphemisms for one piece of anatomy. This close, he can see how it differs from his own - not just the nest of much lighter hair behind it, but also in color and overall proportion. The head appears and disappears from view as Sherlock slides his hand up and down the shaft - not tightly, not without lube, but enough to slip the loose skin forward and back a bit and see the bluish raised veins just underneath the surface. Dry, the skin is so soft it almost feels fuzzy.
I'm stalling. He knows it, hates to acknowledge that it's true, doesn't even fully understand why. He's not afraid, is he? This is John - this penis is not a weapon. It has the potential, but no more than John's hands or teeth or feet or elbows. It's just skin and muscle and biology and if Sherlock wants to touch it, taste it, do things with it, there's nothing wrong with that. Not as long as John wants it too.
Before he can change his mind, Sherlock leans forward and nuzzles his noise into John's pubic hair. The tip of John's penis lies against his cheek, and it takes only a tiny correction in angle for Sherlock to sneak his tongue from between his lips and taste it. It's been a long time - years - since he's done this, and he's never before actually cared whether he was doing it right. Now, this time, it's suddenly imperative.
"John." He licks again, more firmly this time. It's ridiculous to be shy about this - he's got his face buried in his flatmate's groin, for Christ's sake. And he's never shy. He despises "shy" and John is moaning faintly and he's hard and his fingers tense a tiny bit over Sherlock's patella and this is nothing, no big thing at all, John wants it and it's good and he's happy to let Sherlock take the lead-
Wait. It's a terrible time for his brain to suddenly jump into deduction mode, but Sherlock can't help it. John is lying passively beneath him, eyeing him dispassionately with those brown eyes, perfectly content to barely participate in this round of sex other than allowing himself to be present. That's not what Sherlock wants, not what he wants at all, and suddenly it seems more important to resolve that than it is to get a more thorough taste of John's anatomy.
"Tell me," Sherlock says, his head still in place to ghost his breath over John's sensitive skin. "Tell me what you want me to do."
John brings his head up from the pillow, frowning slightly. "Anything, Sherlock. Do anything you want."
Still not an answer. "What do you want?"
John licks his lips, glances over to the left. Hesitates before replying. "I want you to do whatever you like with me. Just like we talked about. Touch me, taste me, fuck me if you want to. I want you to."
"I want you to tell me."
"I just did!" John props himself up on one elbow, eyebrows drawn together in frustration. "You wanted to touch me, so I'm saying touch me. I'm giving permission. None of what we did before was because I didn't want you, Sherlock. None of it. I don't know how else I can prove that to you."
Sherlock sits up, needing the space, needing to wrap his head around everything. "You're telling the truth," he says flatly. "You really just want me to lead."
"Yes!"
"Fuck." He spits out the word, as if the sour taste suddenly on his tongue were actually real. "This is intolerable - that's not you."
John scrambles to a sitting position also, shifting his naked hips backward to put a few more feet between them. It's obvious they're past the sexual part of the encounter and into the post-sex serious relationship talk, despite next-to-no sexual contact actually having occurred. John doesn't look upset, just resigned. "I don't understand," he says quietly. He sounds also resigned to that, to never understanding, and Sherlock suppresses a tendril of frustration. "Of course it's me; who else would it be?"
"You're not like that," Sherlock clarifies. "Passive. Submissive. I've seen you flirt with women - you're always the dominant one." John opens his mouth to object, but Sherlock talks over him. "No, I understand it's not in a whips-and-chains way, but they're attracted to you because of your assertiveness and your confidence. I don't need to have observed you in bed before to deduce that you've never in your life been the partner to lie back and just let it happen." He snorts. "No, when you're having sex you enjoy, you're initiating it."
John's face shutters. "You don't believe I was enjoying this?" He gestures angrily to his still-erect penis. "Kind of difficult to miss, don't you think?"
"Biology. An anatomical response brought about by direct stimulation."
"Damn it, Sherlock, I don't know what you want!"
"I want you!" Sherlock snaps back, louder than he intends, but he feels no remorse for it. "I want you to actually fucking tell me what to do. I want you to assume. You say you trust me, but you don't. You think the only way we can do this is if you hide behind a wall of indifference."
"I'm not fucking indifferent," John grinds out. "I'm pissed, at the moment."
"You're hiding," Sherlock corrects. "If you actually trusted me, you'd stop lying to me about what you want and you'd just do it. And you'd trust that I'd say something if I wanted you to stop. But you don't, so you pretend this is what you want and you refuse to offer any guidance or opinions whatsoever and that way it's not about trust at all, it's just a pity fuck. Again." He slides backwards off the edge of the bed, so he can stand. It lets him look down his nose at John, which he doesn't normally do but suddenly feels the need for, needs to have that distance. "I refuse to be pitied. And I refuse to just go through the motions with you." He turns around - momentarily missing the swirl of his coat, one of his favorite indulgences while on a crime scene - and stalks toward the door.
"Wait!" John shifts his weight, tenses. "Where are you going?"
"To call Mycroft," Sherlock answers without turning around. "You may want to get dressed; I'm sure he's eager to talk to me."