"John?"
"Mmm," the doctor replied, pressing closer.
"It's…"
"It's alright, Sherlock," he murmured.
"It's…" the detective sprang to his feet like a frightened cat "…not."
"It's… not? Um, well, I… I'm… sorry," John stammered, not understanding how things had already taken a wrong turn. "I… well, I thought you were – "
Sherlock sighed loudly, picking at a splinter on the windowsill. "I am."
"Ok. And I thought we – " John gestured vaguely toward the stairwell, knowing that somehow, even without seeing it, Sherlock would sense his gesture.
"We… were. Yes. It's not that."
"Ok," John's mind raced, trying to make sense of this. "So is it… I mean… is it me?"
"Yes."
Ouch. John knew he wasn't the greatest catch in the world – boring job, war trauma, cane – but he didn't think he was so unappealing as to elicit that blatant a rejection.
"No."
John looked up. Sherlock had turned toward him now, leaning back against the desk, eyes fixed firmly on the carpet.
"John, you're not… if we're to be flatmates, and potentially," the word friends flashed through his mind, but perhaps that was overreaching, "colleagues, it's best that we not… that I not be a tool for your…"
"For my?"
The last word was molasses on Sherlock's tongue, and he had to fight to get it out. "Experimentation."
Several minutes passed in silence before John's response erupted, unbidden, from his lips. It was wrong, but he couldn't help it. He laughed. A quick glance at Sherlock showed an expression of shock and offense that only made the absurd declaration funnier. Oh god, no wonder he doesn't want to shag me. Tears welled up in his eyes at the thought, and he doubled over, bracing himself on the coffee table.
"I'm – oh Sherlock – I'm so sorry," he finally managed after a few steadying breaths. "It's just that I'm a thirty-six year old medical doctor. An army veteran. Perhaps this is a bit… new… for me, sure, but I'd hardly call it 'experimentation.' You make me sound like a teenager."
Sherlock's knuckles had gone white gripping the desk behind him, and though his face had turned back toward Baker Street, he hadn't managed to replace the mask he normally wore for the rest of the world. Jaw tight, lips pressed together into an impossibly thin line, eyes blinking rapidly as if to hold back –
"Oh, Sherlock," John cooed, standing to block his flatmate's potential escape. "Listen, I am sorry. I didn't realize you'd be so sensitive about this."
"I'm not sensitive about it," he swallowed with obvious difficulty, "I simply do not think it would be a good idea."
John stepped further into his personal space, right leg falling between the detective's bent knees.
"You didn't seem to feel that way a few minutes ago. Or a few hours ago, for that matter."
Sherlock said nothing, keeping his eyes carefully averted from his doctor's gaze. John took a slight step backward. He waited until the last moment to pull away, so he was interested. He's been avoiding my eyes, so there's something he doesn't want me to see, something he knows he can't hide. He turned his body back toward mine, and didn't flinch when I came close, so he wants me to figure this out. To figure him out. But he's afraid. Maybe no one's ever figured him out before. Maybe no one's ever wanted to. Maybe no one's ever… ohhh…
"You're a virgin. In fact, if I had to guess, I'd say you've never been kissed."
Clenched jaw, heavy exhaled breath, cheeks sucked in.
"I'm right, aren't I? And you're afraid if you let me in, I'm going to use you."
Sherlock looked down at his trouser leg in confirmation.
"I killed a man for you tonight."
"You're not gay. You've made that very clear."
"When did I make that – my blog. You read my blog."
"Obviously. And I… am."
John nodded. One hand reached out, fingering a button on his friend's exceptionally tailored shirt. "I know. I've known since you first arrived at the clinic."
"How could you…" he fell silent as his eyes met John's. The doctor was smirking. I can't believe I fell for that. "Oh. Very clever."
"Thank you. But I actually wasn't lying."
Sherlock frowned. Was this how other people felt around him? No wonder I have no friends.
"That's not why you have no friends. Neither is it why you've had no lovers."
The detective shot him a withering look, not appreciating this unprecedented feeling of exposure.
"Sherlock," John sighed, drawing him back to the matter at hand, "no. I'm not gay. But gay and straight aren't the only options, I've been told."
The eye roll. "Of course they're not the only options, how provincial do you think I am? That doesn't change the crucial fact that you're – " he began an intense study of the wall over John's right shoulder, his next words enunciated with bitter precision – "not attracted to men."
How the hell would he know? Wait. "Borrow your phone." Harry. He read my texts. I'll need to start using a burner around this git.
Rubbing a weary hand across his no longer clean-shaven face, John moved toward Sherlock again, pinning his hand between their chests and leaning close enough to feel downy curls against his lips as he spoke.
"I meant what I said, Sherlock. I'm not attracted to men. I'm only attracted to one."
He couldn't tell if it was John's heartbeat or his own. All he knew was that there was a pounding against his chest, a battering ram threatening to tear down all the walls. He could feel the scrape of stubble against his temple, his cheekbone. He could feel the gentle slide of fingernails against his scalp. He could smell tea and laundry soap and gunpowder and take away.
"Alright?"
He felt the word against his lips, uncertain whether it had even been spoken aloud. His mind was hazy, as if he were underwater. It was John. John was asking for permission. Permission to take something he had never given. Permission to share something no one else had ever wanted. Permission to break down everything he had spent so many years building to protect himself.
"Yes."
Sherlock's lips were so soft, so pink and wide and tender, that John was afraid to push too hard, to ruin their utter perfection. He had never kissed a man before, had never even had the desire to do so, and yet, as they separated to take a breathe and he instinctively dropped his mouth to that lily white, bergamot-and-wool scented neck, Three Continents Watson sprang into action, dragging his teeth along a pulsing blue vein as if he'd been doing this all his life.
His whole body was being consumed by fire, and there was only one thought that would satisfy his sudden, overwhelming thirst. Unfastening that damn shirt was taking far too long, and in his haste, two buttons fell to the floor.
"John – " came the protest from above, but it was immediately transformed into desperate whimper as a particularly skilled tongue laved greedily over the long-neglected bud of Sherlock's right nipple. The only thought that permeated John's conscious mind was of his want, his need, to consume this gorgeous, complex creature before him. Nothing else mattered. Only –
"Sherlock," he panted, drawing down the black metal teeth of those sleek trousers.
Hearing his name seemed to bring the detective back to himself. "John," he interjected, his voice shaking much more than he cared to acknowledge, "you really don't have to…"
The eyes that stared up into his were dark in a way Sherlock had never thought possible. The irises had gone almost purple. He'd never seen anyone so beautiful, so tempting, so…
A hiss broke from his throat as the back of a strong hand ran firmly up the length of his embarrassingly hard cock. His eyes closed, head tilting toward the ceiling. He fought to turn off the one thought cycling rapidly through his brain: This is happening. This is happening. This is –
"JAWN!" His eyelids flew open, but he saw nothing. Something had enveloped him, warm and wet and unlike anything he had ever experienced, and despite his better judgment, he couldn't help but look down at a sight he hadn't even given himself the leeway to imagine. Fingers wrapped around him, pumping in time to the almost unbearably glorious sensation of John Watson's mouth. Sherlock's hands threaded involuntarily into military-short blond hair, grip tightening as a hum of pleasure from the man kneeling before him sent shockwaves through his entire body.
God, this man tastes delicious. Even his fucking cock is posh. John smirked momentarily before returning his focus to the task at hand: taking apart the trembling tower of consulting detective above him. He slowly squeezed Sherlock's left thigh, maintaining the pressure as he slid his hand further, further, just beneath the leg opening of those fantastically small black silk boxers. And then he had an idea.
Sherlock was already gripping his hair, panting – obviously trying to hold himself together. That will never do. The corner of his mouth twitched for a moment, pleased with himself for his own daring as he slid his right hand across the front of those undoubtedly overpriced pants, wrapping it around the long, flushed fucking fantastic length where his left hand had been moments earlier. No response. Perfect. He won't suspect anything until –
"Ahhh!" Something between an exhale and a moan tumbled from the detective's mouth as two saliva-slick fingertips stroked over his entrance, though he'd never thought of it using that term before. What is happening to me? He wondered with surprisingly little trepidation. Six hours ago, I was just –
"Jawn, JAWN!" His knees gave a few inches as he instinctively slid down to meet John's insistent pressure while that clever, brilliant man worked his way into Sherlock's body. His legs trembled, and he held tighter to John's head, afraid he would collapse before reaching climax. Climax. Oh god, I hadn't even thought about that! What should I… should I warn him? Pull him off? I don't even know what the proper etiquette is for –
"FUCK OH MY GOD JOHN!"
Found it, John thought proudly, allowing Sherlock a moment to catch his breath before going in for the kill. Rolling his tongue in rapid circles around the tip of that thick, leaking cock, he braced Sherlock's thigh with his right hand, giving a few short pumps into his eager body, then mimicking the circular motion against that wonderfully sensitive bundle of nerves. Just once or twice more and…
A scream, primal and raw and sexy as hell ripped from Sherlock's throat, while John dove forward, taking him in as deeply as he could, not wanting to lose one single drop as hot cum poured down his throat for the first – and definitely not last, if I have anything to say about it – time in his life.
Sherlock Holmes slumped forward, unable to bear his own weight, and was caught by the waiting arms of his new… um…
"We'll work out what to call it later," John whispered.
A few seconds later, footfalls raced halfway up the stairs, stopping at the middle landing.
"Sherlock? Boys? Should I be calling the police, or an ambulance?"
John chuckled. "No, Mrs. Hudson, I've got everything under control now."
"Are you certain, dear?"
"Yes. And Mrs. Hudson?" He added cheerfully, "I don't think I'll be needing that bedroom upstairs."