Exploring Sexuality

A/N: This is a sort of short filler-ish type chapter, because the next chapter is going to be pretty long (if it plays out in on paper like it is in my head…)

To the Guest that says they're fighting their own war and I helped them- I'm so glad you're winning. Hang in there, love xxx

Ch. 16

When they got back to the flat, Sherlock pulled John into his room, shutting the door behind him. "So far you talking has been wonderful, really, it helps, but I can't just listen now; I need to do something," Sherlock complained, quickly pacing back and forth across the room.

"Me?" John asked a bit amusedly, watching Sherlock. He had yet to take his coat off, so it looked even more theatrically dramatic.

Sherlock stopped though and looked at John with his 'You're brilliant!' face. "That's it," he said, crossing over to John and pushing his coat over the shorter man's shoulders before working on the buttons of his shirt.

John laughed, if a bit nervously. "Yeah, okay," he chuckled, unravelling Sherlock's scarf. "You too, then."

But Sherlock smacked his hands away. "No, not tonight," he said, slowly pushing John's shirt over his shoulders as well, where it joined his coat on the floor.

Furrowing his eyebrows in mild confusion, John held Sherlock's hands still, looking up at him. "Talk to me. I can't read your mind, Sherlock."

Sherlock scoffed, rolling his eyes as he turned John around and pushed him gently towards the bed. "Not sex tonight, I need to do something with my head," he explained vaguely, hanging his own coat over the back of a chair. "Mapping."

John smiled a little and nodded his understanding. 'Mapping' referred to Sherlock's obsession with memorizing ever line of John's body. "How do you want me?" he asked, sitting cross-legged in the middle of Sherlock's bed.

The detective looked up at him and smiled at the innuendo, suppressing the urge to roll his eyes. "Like that is perfect." Sherlock joined John on the bed, sitting in front of him, still fully dressed. He closed his eyes, and his hands briefly cupped John's cheeks before tracing every detail of his face. The curve of his lips as he smiled. The line of his nose. The crinkles at the corners of his eyes.

Slowly, Sherlock made his way down to John's shoulders, across and around the scar on his shoulder. Tracing a line where his dog tags rested when Sherlock himself wasn't wearing them.

As Sherlock mapped him, John watched bemusedly. He found the request oddly endearing and enjoyed watching the other as he 'worked.' By now, he could trace down to John's belly button completely from memory. He knew not only how John looked and felt, but how he moved and breathed.

John's right hand rested contently on Sherlock's knee, tapping a steady rhythm, like a heartbeat. The only sounds for a long while were that of their breathing and the traffic outside.

When Sherlock reached John's hips he stopped and opened his eyes, meeting John's. "How did you win your war?" he asked randomly.

"I fancied you," John replied after little thought, shrugging. "That's a pretty clear sign I'm not as straight of a bloke as I thought, don't you think?"

Sherlock nodded, still staring intently at John. He was used to it by now. "How do I win mine?" he whispered.

John stared back at Sherlock, surprised by the quietness of his voice. "You stop chasing drug cartels alone," he said after a minute, brushing his forefinger lightly across the inside of Sherlock's wrist. "And you learn to think positively of yourself. Ignore or delete anything negative," he added quietly.

Sherlock stiffened when John touched his wrist, but slowly relaxed again, he eyes having not left the other's face. Then he nodded. He didn't say anything, but he tapped John's knee twice before standing and unbuttoning his shirt, stripping down to his boxers.

John did the same, collecting their clothes and throwing them in the hamper. Sherlock hadn't moved, and John wrapped his arms around the taller man from behind. He pressed a kiss to Sherlock's shoulder blade, the nape of his neck. "All of you," John, murmured, tracing the waistband of Sherlock's boxers. Seventeen seconds until he nodded, and John pulled them down, leaving a sparse trail of kisses down his spine. Then he took a step back and dropped his own pants, watching Sherlock's back. John gently turned Sherlock around and unabashedly looked him over. When his eyes returned to Sherlock's face, a faint blush tinted the other's cheeks. "You are beautiful," he said slowly and evenly before kissing Sherlock soundly.

Sherlock pulled John close, wanting to feel his heat, not wanting a millimeter of space between them. He didn't understand why he felt that way around John sometimes, but when he did feel it, he could never fight it. And it terrified him.

"I wasn't chasing them," Sherlock panted when they broke apart. "I was just looking for them at that point."

"Irrelevant," John replied, kissing his collar bone.

Sherlock's breath left him in a small puff. "Very relevant."

John smiled and rolled his eyes good naturedly, pushing Sherlock toward the bed. "Of course it is," he mumbled, crawling under the cold sheet and pulling Sherlock close to him. Sherlock pulled him back just as close. "Do try to get some more sleep tonight, love. I'm sure it will be a long day tomorrow."

A noncommittal noise escaped Sherlock's lips as he nuzzled up against John. Love you, he tapped against John's chest.

"I love you too," John whispered. Sherlock didn't say it often, and then almost never first. "Good night."

"'Night," Sherlock mumbled back.