A/N: Heed warnings + enjoy.

Word Count: 2,200+ - it's a long'un.

Paring(s): John/Sherlock, brief mentions of Mycroft liking boys.

Warning(s): filed under Things I Write on My iPhone at Three In the Morning, sex, wanking, nudity, general inappropriate behavior, and language, I guess. Don't know how this would be offensive, but it also discusses porn, romance novels, and cross dressing. Also, Sherlock is an idiot.

In Which Sherlock's Penis is Functional

It wasn't just physical attraction. It wasn't just hormones. Sherlock liked John as a person, liked him for his personality and his good nature and his endless patience and his courageousness and his loyalty.

This was not to say that Sherlock wasn't attracted to John on a base level. He was. Oh, God, he was.

Thus was why Sherlock found himself standing in the wake of a slightly ajar bedroom door, staring and choking and getting hard in places that (and he admits this without shame) he hasn't been in months. Sherlock knows that what he's doing is Not Good, and that John would slug him if he knew he was watching him change. And he'd probably do more than that if he knew that, as John shimmied his jeans off, Sherlock's hand was sliding into his own pants, not even really thinking as he did it. And John would probably strangle him (bad, sorta hot) if he knew he had to muffle a moan when John's boxers follow the pants, and maybe move out (worse, broken heart ineffable) if he knew the dorky, weirdly cute way John kicked the underwear off from around his ankles made Sherlock more than a little tempted to be hell with wanking and just go in there and -

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock muffled a yelp, promptly throwing himself down the stairs in a wild, irrational attempt at escape. "I wasn't!" he announced mid-tumble, "I'm innocent, John, I've been framed! Don't move out!"

But John hadn't seen him and, still buck naked, he peeked out the door with a quirked eyebrow to find Sherlock in a stupor at the bottom of the stairs, curled in a ball on the floor with a rather obvious cover pillow on his crotch. John shook his head. "I don't know what the hell, Sherly-"

Despite conditions, Sherlock called out in protest. "Jaawwnn, we discussed that nickname!"

"-but if you're going to walk around the house with an erection for no good reason, please use your own laptop to take care of it, okay? The idea of you using the same porn I do I'd kinda unnerving."

Sherlock, unsure whether to be relieved or not, grimaced. "Ah, right," he said, slowly. "Totally unnerving." Then, after a moment, "Your porn is boring." It was - it was surprisingly kink-free and vanilla, although the folder with the lesbians was an interesting development, if not a bit of a disappointment.

John rolled his eyes. "You clearly don't get it," he said, "but ok. I was yelling for you - "

"Oh."

"-because I'm probably going to do laundry soon, so of you have anything that's not dry clean only and..." Sherlock zoned out here; John figured he was simply bored; Sherlock figured John didn't know he could see the clear outline of his ass from this angle.

John, clearly deciding he didn't understand Sherlock and never would, strolled back into his room, this time shutting the door behind him and not catching the groan and a thump as Sherlock collapsed against the floor.

This was a problem.

.

.

Solution #1: stop being attracted to John.

This first solution had seemed, to Sherlock, the simplest. He'd just go through his mind palace and delete every feeling of attraction he had; it would be hard work, he knew, but if he could delete his Aunt Leona every year after the Holiday dinners, he could do this.

Except that he couldn't. He found that the things he labeled as Attractive About John was almost a complete overlap with what he'd labeled as Everything About John. Forgetting about him altogether, he thought, would defeat the purpose even if he had been able to. Which he wouldn't have been - every memory, as it turns out, had a million extra copies.

That is, Sherlock cared about John. Incessantly. Which led to the second solution.

.

.

Solution #2: confess feelings to John

Sherlock spent a lot of time on this one, plotted it out in his head and scripted it based on a guilty summer spent reading Mycroft's not-so-secret romance novel stash (most of which, Sherlock realized with a grimace, had probably been used as a sort of semi-intelligent word-porn) and the well of unfamiliar feelings he personally harbored for the doctor.

John had been just sitting there in the kitchen, making tea and whistling to himself, and Sherlock figured, why save for tomorrow what I should do today? And he had marched bravely into the kitchen, greeting a bit too loudly, "John! I need to talk to you."

John smiled warmly and turned to him mid-sip of tea. "Dare I ask?"

Sherlock got as far as, "John," and a brief, very serious meeting of eyes before he pivoted on his heel and sped out of the room in a cloud of silent curses, blushing more profusely than he thought he was capable. Emotions, speeches, romance - no. Not Sherlock. What had be been thinking? And those damn eyes, John's stupid eyes, straight into the soul... There would have to be a third plan.

John stood bewilderedly in the wake of the abrupt flee, staring after him for a moment before returning to his morning routine. What a moron, he thought, and smiled fondly into his tea.

.

.

Solution #3: seduce John with body

This worked.

Sherlock knew this for several reasons. One, he'd used the methods before, on men and women alike. (Even, at one point, a very straight man - he was a very good cross dresser, believe it or not. But that was a different story entirely.) Sherlock had few inhibitions about his body and, from what he could tell, John wasn't entirely against the idea of being with a man. He just didn't know which man.

Sherlock once again felt smug, this time stepping out of the shower, which he'd been sure to put on quite the heat. He took only a moment to muss his hair to an attractive manner and shimmy the towel low on his lips before turning to the door.

Which was, to Sherlock's shock, already opening. John looked mutually surprised, a faint blush rising in his cheeks. Which would have been just as well for Sherlock, too, had John not been wearing nothing but a very snug pair of boxer briefs and clearly been just back from working out, a light sheen of sweat on his forehead and a slightly heavier breath.

"Uh," said John, after a pause. "Can I use the shower?"

"."

John found himself in the wake of a slammed bathroom door in a rush, blinking and blushing and thoroughly confused.

Sherlock, once again blushing profusely and quite grateful for the looseness of towels, cursed under his breath. He'd miscalculated - that it was Different with John. Seducing was quite a bit harder when you're attracted to the person, it seemed.

Sherlock frowned.

.

.

Solution #4: become thoroughly depressed

Sherlock flopped onto the couch, resigned to his fate. He would be alone forever, he knew - John was the only one, he had to be; Sherlock was attracted to one in a million people (he had met 2, and that alone was very lucky), and in all likelihood, that would make John the only person Sherlock would ever be find that he could love.

Love. Fuck love. Love was stupid. John Shmawn, he had his work, damn it, Love could kiss Sherlock's sweet ass.

Sherlock's sweet ass that was never, ever getting any ever.

Groaning, Sherlock flipped over to lay face first on the couch. He didn't care, even, that he was wearing only that bath robe. He could wear it forever now. He wouldn't even need to shower. There was no one to impress any longer. He could start smoking again. He could do coke. Or not, both things were reckless. But he could watch crap tele. Get off on gay romance novels and replace all the main men with John in his listless fantasies. He could eat everything and get fat and die and it would be glorious. Fuck love.

Solution #5: fuck love; get fat and die

Pushing himself off of the couch Sherlock trudged off towards the kitchen, rifling through the contents with almost tangible discontent radiating off of him. John hadn't lied - there really wasn't anything edible in the fridge. After a while Sherlock settled for a half carton of only slightly questionable ice cream and shuffled back towards the living room. What to watch first on crap tele, he wondered vaguely. Perhaps he'd watch something about astronomy, just for the irony; or-

There was a Noise.

It wasn't just any noise. It was a Noise with noticeable capitals, the kind that piqued Sherlock's interest far more than he cared for. A strange Noise, almost...

Another Noise. Almost definitely that now, a Noise. Not just a Noise per se but a moan, quiet and muffled but not enough to escape Sherlock's keen ears. A Noise that was a Moan, and Sherlock was well aware that it was a bit Not Good to be overhearing, much less pursuing, very least enjoying the delightful images that came into his mind while he did the first two Not Good things.

But Sherlock deemed himself fucked either way and tracked the noise. When he came closer to the Noise it turned out it was not just a Noise but several different Noises, plural, and they were being stung up into noisy words. And in a very specific voice, clearly doing very specific things to itself. John's voice, creeping through the closed door of John's bedroom.

"Mmm, oh, oh, God... Nnnn... Yes.."

Sherlock flushed without wanting to and his lust was quickly suppressed by a distinct wave of shame. Because watching John change initially on accident was one thing, but creeping in on a mastrubation session, that went part Not Good into-

"O-Oh, Jesu... Sherlock! Oh, God..."

Sherlock froze. First thought: John had seen him. But of course he hadn't, the door was closed. Second thought: John was

"Sh-Shit, Sherlock, ah..."

Sherlock dropped the ice cream. Blood rushed to his cheeks. And to other places.

"Oh, f-fuck, please..." There was a quite obvious creak of mattress from John's side of the wall. "Oh, god, yea-yeah, Sh.."

And that was the end of the line. Sherlock spun, still blushing profusely but no longer caring, and kicked the door down. Ignoring the startled "whatthefuck!" from John Sherlock tore off the bathrobe, turned to John, and announced, "Well, you said please."

John, understandably, flipped a shit. "Were you listening! Oh my god!" John groaned, grabbing for blankets to pull over himself. "I am so sor- Sherlock!" John barely had time to scoot backwards before Sherlock came tumbling onto the bed after him, landing gracelessly before him, one hand flying out to capture John's wrist.

"Yes," Sherlock said, voice deep and rasping. "I was listening."

John's face was dark with blush. "O-Oh, I'm-"

"It was really, really sexually appealing and I intend to hear it again."

John didn't have time to voice protest before Sherlock was rather on top of him, descending with a hungry kiss and feely hands clutching at John's stomach. John kissed back largely by accident, not completely sure whether he was still fantasizing or not and, if not, should he be screaming with pleasure or fear?
As if to answer the question Sherlock broke the kiss with a smile. "Im afraid there's nothing to be done, John," he said with fake , tinkling remorse. "You've expressed your interest, I've been infatuated with you since The Pool at least, and we're both naked. You can't argue with that logic."

It took John only a second of more rough kissing and the sliding and grinding if naked skin to decide that, no, he really couldn't.

.

.

Final Solution: sex first, dialogue later

"Damn, Sherlock. You were. That was. Yes."

"Romantic and classy."

"I'm still not sure I'm not fantasizing."

"My ass hurts."

"Oh, now I am." ... "My back is going to have fingernail scratches from now until the end of time."

"I have a hickey on my neck. Be glad I have a scarf, John, Molly would have a heart attack."

"...Damn. I just. I."

"Rendered speechless?"

"I thought you were, like, asexual."

"And?"

"And you're... Gay? Bi?"

"Ugh. Labeling. Honestly, John, so dull. I'll have you know my ass is your alone; I have n-"

"You were a virgin?"

"You're surprised."

"Uh, yeah! You were like... And we didn't even..."

"I like it rough." ... "Apparently."

"...So what now? Am I your-"

"We are the same, John. Please, no labels. I'm not going to sleep with anyone else, I'm going to want to have sex with you and touch you a lot, and if you touch any of those dreadful women again I'll cut your dick off."

"Ow..."

"But I refuse to use boyfriend." ... "It's weird." ... "And juvenile."

"...Can I just call you, I don't know. Mine? "

"..."

"Sherlock, blush more often. It's cute."

"Shut up."

"Can I kiss you in public?"

"What?"

"Or at least hold your hand? I mean, we practically do that sometimes anyway, and people already assume..."

"John, have you ever been told you're kind of-"

"Adorable? Loving? Sweet?"

"-a show off?"

"Wanker."

"I think you're mistaking me with you, John. I do think I recall-"

"I caught you last week, Sherlock, with the porn thing."

"Oh, John, no. I was watching you change."

"Oh." ... "I'm kinda weirdly flattered."

"Aroused, too, I hope. No case today."

"Oh." ... "Yes, excellent, come here. Let's just cuddle a minute, ok? Seriously, get your hand away from my penis."

"Mmhmm, fine." ... "What were we discussing?"

"I don't remember. Move your face, your cheekbones are going to dent my neck." ... "Oh, right. I'm holding your hand whether you like it or not."

"Ah, yes. That."

"..."

"Good."

A/N: And that's where the story left off, because I wrote this at one in the morning on a school night and I can't remember where the dialogue was going at all and then I died the end.

I like reviews, especially at one in the morning.