John rather expects Mycroft to materialize out of thin air in their living room, but when he finally gets himself out of Sherlock's bed and pulls yesterday's clothes back on, he finds the living room empty. As is the kitchen, bathroom, and, when he goes upstairs to check, his own bedroom. Sherlock must have vanished in one of Mycroft's ubiquitous black cars, then. Christ, I don't think he was even wearing shoes.

So John putters. He has a quick shower, pulls on a clean button-down and trousers, makes himself some tea, relents and makes himself a more substantial breakfast, then spends the next two hours poking fruitlessly at his blog and browsing the internet for anything Sherlock might deem interesting. He's just going through the motions, though - it's hard to think with Sherlock gone. Which is food for thought all in itself.

Sherlock gets back just before noon. He's still barefoot, in sweatpants and a t-shirt, and his attire is completely at odds with the expression on his face. It's the first time John's seen him really and truly look like the old Sherlock, before the kidnapping, and even though it's one of his more annoyingly superior facial expressions, John is relieved to know that he's still in there. He's really healing.

John puts aside his laptop. He stands - not even a hint of tremor in his leg now, thank goodness - and strides right up to Sherlock so they're toe-to-toe in the middle of the living room floor. Sherlock eyes him suspiciously, thrown off-balance - John isn't doing what he expected, then? Good.

"Bedroom. Now." John has had two hours to think about this, about what to do next, and he has come to the conclusion that if he wants Sherlock to be honest with him, he needs to be honest with Sherlock. Yes, he was coddling him, a bit, but that's not what either of them want. If Sherlock wants John to be dominant, to take what he wants and fuck the consequences, John is more than happy to oblige.

Sherlock blinks, frowns. Opens his mouth to argue-

"No." The word snaps off John's tongue. "No arguments, no deductions, no complaints. I want you naked and flat on your back on your bed by the time I count to thirty."

"John, I-"

"One."

Sherlock's mouth snaps shut.

"Two."

The detective pauses only a fraction longer, than practically sprints for his room. John finishes the count right where he is, facing the opposite wall of the living room, then goes to see how Sherlock has done.

Very well, it seems. He's nude, his clothes tossed in a messy pile near the closet door. John's brain automatically starts to catalogue his injuries, again, comparing healing rates and color variation and visual texture, but he consciously stops that train of thought as soon as he realizes he's doing it. This isn't about that, it's about Sherlock and trust and - if all goes according to plan - damn good sex. For both of them.

"I have rules." He always does, and especially for a time like this. Sherlock may not be like anyone else he's ever slept with, but that's even more reason to enforce rules now, before Sherlock has the chance to change John's mind. "They're non-negotiable, and if you can't agree to them, we can't do this."

Sherlock nods, raising an eyebrow in invitation to continue.

"Right. First rule is you absolutely must tell me if I'm doing something you don't like. At the time I'm doing it. Even if you think it would be easier to fake it, even if you think I'll be disappointed. Understood?"

Sherlock nods again.

"Second rule is we use condoms for anything penetrative. We may be able to skip it someday, but it's kind of a thing for me and I'm probably going to insist on it long past when you feel we don't need them anymore. Deal with it."

Sherlock clears his throat. "We may need to-"

"I brought some of mine down - they're in the top drawer of your bedside table. As is the lube."

Sherlock swallows hard, but doesn't argue.

"Third rule is this: we're going to talk afterward. Every time, at least at first. I already know you don't mind cuddling, but I figured it was important to put that out there. I won't take it well if you jump out of bed after sex with me and immediately start fiddling with experiments or harassing Lestrade or blowing up our flat. I probably wouldn't say anything normally, but we're being honest with each other and I can honestly tell you that missing out on the afterglow would seriously piss me off in the long run."

"I . . . okay." Sherlock hauls himself up to his elbows, chest propped up slightly above the mattress. "You really want to do this? You don't . . . it's not out of pity, right?"

"Not pity."

"Can I add one?"

John dips his chin fractionally, conceding.

"The first rule - it should go both ways. You promise to tell me if I'm doing something wrong, too." He looks down, then forces his eyes back up to meet John's. "Or if I'm sub-optimal. I don't . . . the idea of an actual relationship is new to me. As such, my experience in this area is limited to not really caring about ensuring enough mutual satisfaction to provoke repeated encounters."

So a uniquely Sherlockian way of saying "I'm worried I'm bad in bed." It's not what John had expected, but it fits. "That's reasonable," he says aloud. "So we're both agreed on the rules?"

Sherlock - even naked and sprawled backwards on the bed - manages to roll his eyes in a thoroughly Sherlock-like manner. "Are we not past that yet? Yes, obviously. Now get your clothes off and come have sex with me."

If Sherlock weren't displaying all that pale skin, if he weren't lying there relaxed and gorgeous and available, John probably wouldn't have been able to hold in his laugh. As it is, his arousal seems to be superseding everything else. He closes in on his naked flatmate, drawing near enough to the bed to grab Sherlock's bare ankles and tug him downward on the duvet a few inches. The movement startles Sherlock out of his burgeoning smirk.

"I'll strip when I'm good and ready - when you're panting for it," John promises. "Right now I'm going to roll you over and climb on top of you and introduce you to what you're in for." He slides a hand up along Sherlock's calf, to his thigh, and presses upwards. "Flip."

Sherlock rolls over with a grunt and twists so he can watch back over his shoulder.

So John very deliberately presents a good view as he slides himself onto the bed, kneeling over Sherlock's ankles, and leans down to lick the thin skin covering the backs of Sherlock's knees. That elicits a twitch, a little shuffle of movement, and he swats Sherlock's backside lightly.

"None of that - this is me taking charge. Watch, but don't squirm." He runs a palm up and over Sherlock's thigh, where the muscle joins the gluteus maximus, tracing a finger diagonally down the gentle crease. It makes Sherlock twitch again - ticklish, then. An unexpected but delightful finding. John flattens himself over Sherlock's legs and follows the trail with his tongue. He doesn't break eye contact, keeps his head upright so Sherlock can watch and catalogue and deduce, and even from this angle he can see Sherlock's pupils are large and over-bright.

"Shall I tell you what you're seeing?" he asks quietly, punctuating his question with a gentle nibble on the fleshiest part of Sherlock's arse. It earns him a quick indrawn breath and a tiny nod. "I'll point out a few of the signs this isn't pity sex. Since you're probably not going to be in peak deducing form." He nibbles again and allows his fingers to slip downward, spearing through the crisp hair dusting Sherlock's thighs. "Your first hint is how reverently I'm touching you right now. Does this feel medical to you? Clinical?"

Sherlock wordlessly shakes his head in a tiny "no."

"That's because it's not." He reverses direction, tracing light curves back and forth along Sherlock's skin, high enough to almost-but-not-quite brush his perineum and then backing away. He can still feel the raised bumps of the short parallel slashes on the inside of Sherlock's thighs, scars he may always carry-

No. He shoves the thought away and lets his fingers drift higher so they're grazing the tender skin of Sherlock's bollocks. "You may be new to relationships," he says aloud, "but I'm new to this. I've never touched another man this way, and I don't want to. I have you and you're mine and I don't give a shit whether that makes me sound like a possessive caveman or not." He closes his hand around Sherlock's scrotum and kneads gently, relishing the ripple of tension it elicits in Sherlock's muscles. "There's a lot I want to learn about you, Sherlock. With you. Only you. And I intend to use as much time as it takes to learn it all."

Sherlock moans softly, his eyelids drifting closed.

With Sherlock face-down, there's only so much John can reach - the lower half of his bollocks, maybe, but even there he can't really see what he's doing. John gives Sherlock's arse one last lingering caress and moves his hand to Sherlock's hip. "Roll back over."

Sherlock complies silently. It takes a moment for John to untangle himself from Sherlock's long legs, but then he's sitting flat on Sherlock's thighs and he can run his hands all the way from Sherlock's hips to his nipples in one smooth stroke and Sherlock is drawing in a long, strangled breath and watching him through half-lidded eyes. Maybe not actually "panting for it," but close enough. It seems as good a time as any to discard his own clothing - his pants are definitely too tight now - so John wriggles his arse down more firmly over Sherlock's legs and starts unbuttoning his shirt. He's slow, methodical, working every tiny button through the hole in order, but the delay only seems to be focusing Sherlock's interest even more sharply on the growing sliver of bare skin peeking through underneath.

"I expect that - over time - you won't even need me to take off my clothes," he says in as close to an unaffected tone as he can muster with Sherlock's eyes on him like that. "You'll be able to watch me typing or making tea or pottering around the flat and you'll know exactly what I'd look like if I were naked. You'll have memorized the way my muscles move, the way my posture changes when I'm tired, even the way my scar stretches if I shift my shoulder wrong. You'll be able to have me naked in that bloody amazing mind of yours anytime you like - just you, nobody else. You're the only one brilliant and observant enough to do that. I do love that about you, you know - I'm pretty sure your deduction skills have always turned me on, a bit, even before I was willing to admit that's what it was."

Sherlock swallows hard, eyes never leaving John. "I already do. Don't. Need you to." He takes a deep breath and starts, again, deliberately: "I already do have a mental representation of what you look like nude, so I don't actually require you to take off your clothes in order for me to read your posture or your physiological reaction." His mouth twists into a hint of a wry grin, tempered somewhat by the desperation radiating off the rest of him. "I do want to keep adding data, though."

"Bloody berk." John slides the button-down off his shoulders and lets it fall to the floor, then launches himself forward to land flat on Sherlock (gently, catching his weight on his elbows first) and presses a sloppy kiss to his mouth. "I see I need to show you your second hint. Not pity. Here." He grabs Sherlock's hand and slides it palm-in down the front of his trousers so Sherlock can feel the length of his arousal through his pants. The sensation makes them both gasp.

"Second clue. This is for you. Just you."

Sherlock squeezes gently, and John throws his head back so fast he sees stars.

"Christ! No, wait, just -" He has to pause, gulp down air, and he can feel his cock swell under the warmth of Sherlock's palm. "Don't move. Just feel what you do to me."

Sherlock's nearly gasping, too, which helps - it's nice to know they're both in the same boat. John lowers himself back down for another kiss, this time longer and sweeter and without being told, he knows this is new for the detective. They've kissed plenty before, of course, but this particular variant of kissing-in-bed-as-a-leisurely-prelude-to-something-more is a first for them and therefore almost certainly a first for Sherlock. John lets the kiss morph into something else, lets his lips drift down to Sherlock's jaw and then to his ear and neck and collarbone and suddenly it's something different, something hotter and more desperate and Sherlock is groaning beneath him and John is hard, so rock-hard, and Sherlock can of course feel everything and is cataloguing it somewhere in his mind palace to save for later. Even just the thought that there will be a later makes John's cock twitch again.

"I can feel you," Sherlock whispers, awe in his voice. "I can actually feel you move-"

"Shut up," John growls against his neck, and sucks an open-mouthed bruise into his skin over his carotid. The urge to coddle his flatmate is completely gone now; all that's left is the absolutely bloody need to see him come apart, to be the one who made it happen. Judging from the way Sherlock's entire body tenses and quivers at the sensation, Sherlock wants it just as much as John does.

"I'm going to take off the rest of my clothes now," he growls in Sherlock's ear, and nips at his earlobe for good measure. "Unless you want to do it for me."

"God, yes, let me, please-" Sherlock's eyes are closed, his hand involuntarily spasms around John's cock, dragging a groan from both of them. John lifts his hips a bit, just an inch or two, but it's enough for Sherlock's fingers to suddenly be working at the button and the zipper and then he's dragging the fabric as far down John's thighs as he can reach and both hands are back on John, one wrapped around his shaft and the other curled around his bollocks and it's almost too much. John jerks back with a breathless exclamation.

"Not yet," he chokes out at the sight of the hurt in Sherlock's eyes. "Not - not like that."

"I want to taste you."

John nearly comes right there, imagining Sherlock's warm, wet mouth enclosing his cock, that mop of dark hair buried between his legs-

"Later," he forces himself to say. "Next time. Right now I just want to be inside you. Want to fill you up."

Sherlock's eyes go comically wide. John steals another hot lick at his neck as he reaches over him for a condom and the lube-

"Wait."

The word takes a moment to filter through the haze of neurotransmitters flooding John's brain, long enough for John to have the bottle in his hand and be opening the cap one-handed when it finally hits him and he stills. Sherlock is still looking up at him, suddenly unsure-

"Honesty is good," John murmurs. "Tell me. Too much?"

"I . . ." Sherlock is rubbing his sternum, suddenly looking nervous.

"Would it be better the other way around? I'd be just as happy to have you inside me." John keeps his gaze locked on Sherlock's, praying the truth of his words is showing through. "Both are fine. Or we can avoid that altogether and do something else to get off." He drops his head and presses a deliberate kiss to Sherlock's lips. "I just want to do this together."

"Together," Sherlock repeats, a touch automatically. He closes his eyes and swallows. "Yes, I . . . you're not angry?"

John drops his head and grinds his hips forward, slowly and deliberately, pressing his erection into Sherlock's palm. "This feel angry to you?" he growls against Sherlock's neck. "All I am is bloody turned on, right now. Want to come, want to see you come apart and have that be my tipping point. Want it any way you'll let me. Please let me, Sherlock. I've wanted you too bloody long to put this off any longer."

"Oh." The sound is half moan. "John. Please. I want-"

John nibbles the soft point just below Sherlock's right ear. "Tell me," he breathes.

"I want to be inside you?" The statement lilts up at the end, a question wrapped in a request, but John is already ripping open the condom and reaching for Sherlock's cock and then Sherlock can't speak at all as John rolls it slowly down and follows with a palmful of lube, massaging it over his burning-hot length. So hard, so warm, so beautiful.

He eventually has to pull away from Sherlock, but only far enough to flop on his back on the bed next to him and wriggle the rest of the way out of his pants and trousers so they're both gloriously nude and panting. Sherlock takes several moments to come back to himself, to open his eyes and take it in, but John grabs his hand and smears excess lube over his forefinger and then he seems to suddenly get it. He sits up enough to actually look, to take in the sight of John naked with his feet drawn up adjacent to his thighs and his knees in the air and his arse ready and waiting.

"Do it," John urges, punctuating his demand with a little wriggle of his hips. He's hard, so hard, and Sherlock's eyes on him only make him harder, but now there's something underneath that feeling - an emptiness, a wanting, the need for Sherlock to be inside him, to revel in that closeness. It's not something John's ever felt before, and he idly wonders whether this is how women feel during sex. He pushes the thought away. No women, not now. Just Sherlock and those bright eyes and that slick finger tracing down from his bollocks over his perineum and circling and oh.

Sherlock's fingertip feels odd inside him. This isn't something John's ever experimented with before, never even considered it, although in the last few days he's done some preliminary research into the mechanics of anal sex just for . . . well, he's been hopeful, maybe? The dry, safety-warning-laden online instructionals have nothing on the actual experience of Sherlock's finger gently probing, sliding in a bit further, reaching-

"Fuck!"

Sherlock's expression brightens at that, and he repeats the motion. Academically John knows it's his prostate, knows this is the whole point of anal penetration, but all he can manage is an open-mouthed groan and a needy spasm around his flatmate's finger. It feels so amazing, lights him up entirely from the inside. Sherlock's hand withdraws and John is ready to follow it with his hips, eager for more, but then there are two slick fingers up his arse and Sherlock is scissoring them apart, together, twisting and prodding and John can't hold in his amazement and it all comes out in one colorful waterfall of profanity he doesn't mean but can't withhold.

"I can't wait," he pants, twisting himself up off the bed, throwing himself down on top of Sherlock and knocking him flat to the mattress. "You feel so bloody amazing . . ." He claims Sherlock's mouth in a punishing kiss, not caring if he's bruising Sherlock's lips or leaving marks behind. The angles don't work this way, John's too short, he'll have to break away before they do anything else, but he knows they both need that moment of desperate connection-

Sherlock is almost completely breathless now, his hands roaming desperately over John's back, long fingers splayed across any skin they can reach, grasping and squeezing and massaging and fuck, it hits John with astounding clarity that they're actually doing this. This isn't an across-the-room wank, this isn't an orgasm-assisted therapy session, this is an honest-to-goodness fuck with Sherlock and neither of them know what they're doing, but it's going to be bloody amazing and at this point John can no more stop their momentum than he can fly.

It's easier than he expects to get himself lined up, kneeling over Sherlock's hips, the warm tip of Sherlock's cock probing at his arse in a way that sends shivers throughout his whole body. Sherlock's eyes are wide, taking in everything, but there's no way he's coherent enough to analyze it. Not yet. John reaches down to steady himself, guiding his own body down over Sherlock's, and they both suck in a breath as Sherlock's cock breaches him.

"Oh . . ." Sherlock sucks in a breath and bites his lip, hard enough to draw a tiny bead of blood. John stares at that single drop as he shifts lower, a micrometer at a time, cataloguing the changes in sensation. Full. So full, so glorious, especially with Sherlock making that face, the same expression he gets when he's on a case and laser-focused on chasing that one stray realization which will tie everything together-

Ages - centuries - later, he realizes he's bottomed out, has sunk as far as possible on Sherlock's cock, can feel his bollocks pressed against Sherlock's skin. John pauses, lets them both acclimate to the feeling. When he finally shifts, just a bit, he feels the jolt all the way to his toes. It's good, bloody amazing, even. He does it again, lifting up fractionally and settling himself again, letting his weight press Sherlock's hips into the mattress.

"Good?" His voice is not his own - gravelly and breathless at the same time. It seems to rouse Sherlock, though, dragging him from wherever his mind had gone and throwing him back into the here and now. Sherlock licks his lips and groans.

"Good - do that again. Please, just-"

John does it again, the little rise and fall, then he gathers enough of his wits back to start really moving. Sherlock is a pale tumble of body language beneath him - half-lidded eyes, head thrown back, long neck exposed, panting as if they'd just run for miles. Hands grasping at nothing and everything, clenching on thin air and on John's knees and thighs with equal forethought, which is to say absolutely none at all. Abdominal muscles tense and quivering, hips stuttering upward as much as possible with John's calves bracketing them and John's weight pressing him down. Gorgeous.

The abdominal movements required to riding Sherlock are absolutely nothing like those necessary for sex with a woman. Some part of John's brain notices the difference, catalogues it for later reference - Sherlock is wearing off on me. It's inevitable, he supposes, and adds a slight forward nudge as he settles all the way down and holyfuckinghell-

"Think that was your prostate," Sherlock says quietly. John groans and tries to repeat the motion as closely as possible. And yes, there it is again, the electric current coursing through his entire body, dragging a ragged gasp out of his lungs which echoes in the room around them. Sherlock punctuates the next nudge with a twitch of his hips, seating himself even deeper, and that one snaps John's tenuous hold on the situation entirely.

He's riding him. Some part of him knows he should be checking in, should be monitoring to make sure Sherlock is feeling the same way, but it doesn't matter now. Nothing matters except hitting that magic spot again and again, working his body up and down Sherlock's cock, slick and hard and full and then Sherlock's tentative hand settles over John's cock and John grabs it, fucks himself with it, curling his fingers around his flatmate's and pressing Sherlock's grip into his skin. It's dry, doesn't move as well as it would if they'd lubed them both, but Sherlock gets his thumb over the head and slicks some precome down over the frenulum and his cock hits that one amazing spot particularly well and John is coming, so sudden, so hard, arse clenching around the thick intrusion as his body locks up and he chokes off a shout and shivers his way through his orgasm. Dimly he's aware of Sherlock's body going stiff beneath his, hips stuttering upward desperately, but then he's flopping down boneless over Sherlock's chest and listening to the roar of Sherlock's heartbeat under the scars and it's probably the closest thing to a religious experience John has ever had.

They lie like that for several minutes, just absorbing each other's touch, John's come trapped between their two bodies. When they finally do draw apart it's a touch awkward. Neither of them has experience with this, with how to withdraw Sherlock's softened cock from John's arse and tie off the condom and clean off their stomachs and how are they supposed to act now?

Sherlock solves the problem by rolling a bit to his side, toppling John off him and pulling him down to the mattress. He seems perfectly content for them both to lie there in a tangle of limbs and mingled breath, their foreheads touching, the entirety of the sexual act hanging between them.

"Thank you," Sherlock says quietly.

It's unexpected. Sherlock rarely thanks anyone for anything - but then, John's mental image of Sherlock has been thoroughly shattered by the events of the last twenty-four hours, anyway. Clearly Sherlock-the-sexual-being needs its own place alongside Sherlock-the-genius and Sherlock-the-consulting-detective and Sherlock-who-can't-remember-the-bloody-milk. A whole person, not a caricature of one. John snuggles closer, presses a gentle kiss to Sherlock's lips. "You're amazing and I love you."