Exploring Sexuality

A/N: So I've realized that when I say "Hopefully I'll get it up during the week," I'm being way to optimistic, because I never end up getting it done during the week. So, sorry this is so late; hope you enjoy it anyway!

Ch. 21

Their nice night in consisted of John making himself a frozen dinner and Sherlock making the bed, then playing the violin for a while. When John finished, he sat in his arm chair comfortably and listened to Sherlock, watching his bow glide over the strings. Sherlock didn't face him as he played, sometimes making things up as he went, but John liked it this way. It meant he could stare unabashedly. And he did. When the last, long note died out, Sherlock set the instrument down and pulled John up.

"Yes?" John asked quizzically, only to be pushed down on one end of the sofa.

"Your chair is too small," Sherlock complained in explanation, curling himself up on the couch with his head in John's lap.

John merely nodded and carded his fingers through Sherlock's hair, a habit he indulged in whenever the detective would let him. "That was beautiful; thank you," he murmured, because Sherlock knew he liked to listen to him play.

Sherlock leaned into John's touch, making a small noise of acknowledgment in response to the compliment.

Eventually, miraculously, Sherlock fell asleep like that, so John carefully reached over him to grab his book. He read until his eyelids grew heavy, then contemplated waking Sherlock to tell him to go to bed. If he wasn't sleeping on top of John, there would have been no question- he would have let Sherlock be. But as it was, John' shoulder wasn't going to thank him in the morning if he spent the night upright on the sofa.

So with a reluctant sigh, John put his book down on the arm of the couch and rubbed Sherlock's back until he started to wake. "Hey, love," John whispered as Sherlock let out an uncharacteristically sleepy grunt. "Come to bed with me; then you can go right back to sleep."

"Carry me," Sherlock mumbled, like a three year old, not moving from his spot in John's lap.

John sighed and rolled his eyes. "Sherlock, you are a fully grown man. I am not carrying you to bed," he protested.

Sherlock didn't even open his eyes. "You said anything."

And John sighed again, because, dammit, he had. But Sherlock would hate him for complying in the morning, and John found the idea of that rather amusing. "And this why I don't. Sit up," he said resignedly, giving in.

Slowly, Sherlock did, holding his arms out expectantly. He made a surprised noise and probably opened his eyes indignantly when John shifted and draped him over his good shoulder, standing with a small grunt.

"I'm a soldier, not your mother," John said with a triumphant smile as he carried his ridiculous flat mate to their room, carefully depositing him back on the bed.

Sherlock gave no other complaints, and hid under the sheets, wrapping himself around John when the other joined him a minute later. He was back to sleep in minutes.

With a murmur of 'I love you,' John followed shortly after.

The next morning, John woke to the soft sounds of Sherlock typing away, alternating between his laptop and mobile.

"Irene says good morning and good luck on the case. I told her dinner with you was wonderful," Sherlock informed him before he had so much as moved.

"Good morning, Irene," John mumbled, shifting up a bit and rubbing sleep from his eyes. "Good morning to you too, Mr. I'm Too Busy Sleeping Like A Normal Person To Walk Myself To Bed," he added with a grin, kissing Sherlock's cheek.

"How long did it take you to come up with that one?" Sherlock asked indifferently, continuing to type away at his laptop.

"Not sure," John teased. "How long have I been awake?"

Sherlock glared at him like he did whenever he thought he was being clever and Sherlock clearly disagreed.

John only smiled some more and leaned against him to look at what he was doing. "What is that?" he asked, looking uncomprehendingly at the page pulled up on his laptop.

"Molecular structures of some not-so-common cutting drugs that may enhance the other drugs' effects."

"What do they do?" John asked, raising an eyebrow curiously.

"Act as stimulants. They're steroids," Sherlock responded.

John paused speculatively. "You thing Eric is cutting with steroids?"

"Legal ones, too. Though not in professional sports, obviously. Modafinil or Ephedra, most likely. Maybe both."

"For sleep disorders and dieting," John filled in, calling up his medical knowledge again.

Sherlock merely nodded, lost in his own world again.

"Do you want breakfast?" John questioned, getting out of bed and not really expecting an answer, much less so an affirmative one.

But Sherlock's head snapped up, and he looked at John. "No, you can't make breakfast," he insisted, pushing his laptop away and clambering out of bed.

John's eyebrows furrowed. "And why ever not?" he asked confusedly.

"Because I'm going to make you pancakes," Sherlock replied, staring down at John like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

It took John a minute, but then it clicked. Sherlock had made him pancakes after their first time, too. It was special. "Sentiment," John said with a smile, kissing Sherlock briefly. "Thank you. Pancakes sound lovely," he added, so Sherlock wouldn't get the wrong idea and think he was being degrading. "Can I help?"

"No," Sherlock replied, heading toward the kitchen. "I want to leave when you're done, so get dressed."

"When we're done," John corrected with a roll of his eyes, nevertheless picking out something to wear. "We're going to the Yard, I take it?"

"Well, we would be going in the field, but for Mycroft," he complained, and John could hear him rummaging around for ingredients. "As it is, we're going to Donovan's house, then the Yard."

John wasn't sold on the brilliancy of that plan, but he went along with it anyway, because that's what he did. He nodded in response, forgetting that Sherlock couldn't actually see him, then figured it didn't matter. When he finished getting dressed, he walked out and leaned in the doorway to the kitchen, watching Sherlock cook with a small smile. "Why are we going to Donovan's?" he asked as Sherlock flipped their pancakes.

"So I can make sure she looks the part. It will be much easier to accomplish that at her place, with her clothes and such right there, don't you think?"

John could see the logic behind it, but he was still wary. "You- No, scratch that, I will tell her we're coming."

Sherlock made some small noise of aggravated disapproval, but didn't protest otherwise as John got out his mobile and sent a text to Sally. "She's not happy about it, but I told her we're coming anyway," he reported a couple of minutes later as Sherlock dished up breakfast. "Thank you again."

Sherlock nodded, and his fingers subconsciously curled around John's dog tags for a moment. "Thank you," he replied, emphasizing the 'you.'

John smiled back at him, though Sherlock wasn't actually looking at him anymore. "Anytime," he said sincerely.

Sherlock didn't give a response, instead starting on his one pancake. They are in a comfortable silence, Sherlock sitting with John even when he had finished.

"I'll clean," John offered, nudging Sherlock's foot with his own. "You go change."

Sherlock stood with a nod, dumping his dishes in the sink before curling his fingers around the back of John's neck and placing the most gentlest of kisses on the top of his head in a way that clearly said 'I love you.'

"I love you too," John said aloud as Sherlock walked into his room like nothing had happened. John had seen him wince slightly as he sat and stood, but he couldn't see the smile on Sherlock's face as he got dressed.

Sally glowered at them when they got there, but let them in nonetheless. "I really don't need your help, Freak," she grumbled, walking back into the bathroom from which she had clearly come.

"Best behavior, please," John whispered, squeezing Sherlock's hand before letting him follow her.

"Judging by the state of the back of your hair, I'd say you do," Sherlock replied easily leaning over her to plug her straightener back in. "But I'll fix that. Look at me a minute," he ordered.

Sally spluttered a bit indignantly at her personal space being invaded, and turned to look instead at John, who just shrugged.

"I'm helping," Sherlock told her, like she was an especially dim child. "I know the market, remember? So look at me so that I can tell you how to do your makeup."

Donovan turned to face him as if only so he could see her glare. "I'm a woman, Holmes, perfectly capable of doing my own makeup."

"You're a rookie, stressed, single mother perhaps. Your friend told you all about this place where you can buy something that makes the stress go away, so you're going to try it out. You're not a Sergeant of the Scotland Yard. You can't look like you normally do," Sherlock very nearly spat out while studying Donovan's face intently. "Put on foundation that's too light if you've got it, and black eyeliner. That's it," he decided after a minute as the straightener beeped, signaling that it was finished heating up. "Now turn around again so I can fix your hair and stop glaring at me in shock. Recite names and descriptions, or streets, or something else useful."

John, who was watching with half-concealed amusement shrugged again at Sally as she turned. "He's being good; just listen to him."

"I'm right here, John," Sherlock grumbled.

"That's a shame, really," Donovan grumbled back, crossing her arms defiantly over her chest and glaring at Sherlock's reflection in the mirror.

Sherlock looked back at her neutrally and picked up her straightener. "Talk usefully, remember?" he prompted almost politely.

So John watched as Sherlock Homes straightened Sally Donovan's hair with a ridiculously amused expression on his face as Sally recited the information she was supposed to know.

Then Sherlock's mobile let them know Irene texted him, and Donovan raised an amused eyebrow at him in the mirror.

Sherlock didn't even blink. He pulled out his mobile and tossed it to John carelessly, knowing he would catch it. "Talk to her for me," he said. "Keep going, Donovan."

John and Sally both rolled their eyes, but both also did as they were told, Sally still with a glare.

Glad dinner was wonderful. About time you two started shagging; is he any good?

John felt heat rise to his cheeks as he read the text, then smiled a bit wickedly.

Fantastic.

No initials; she'll figure out it's him. "I told her I'm great in bed," he announced casually as he hit send.

Sherlock's ears went pink in a very endearing way that John wished he could see more often, and Sally choked on the words she was saying. "At least you didn't lie to her," Sherlock replied eventually, which made Sally groan and John grin.

"Shut up. Both of you," Donovan complained. "I really don't want to know, and we're still in my place."

Sherlock and John shared a small chuckle, and Donovan groaned again when Sherlock winked at him, but they politefully left it at that.

Hello, John. Glad he's good for you.

Fantastic, I believe I said. –JW

Details…

John could hear the eye roll.

… How is he?

John hesitated and looked up at Sherlock, before deciding to go with the relative truth.

Wound up. He'll be fine once we solve this case. JW

I could suggest multiple ways to help the two of you unwind.

"You're talking about me. Stop talking about me," Sherlock said, cutting Sally off and making John look up again.

"You told me to talk to her," he replied with a shrug and a smile. "I won't delete it. You can read it on the way to the Yard."

Sherlock huffed and apparently decided that he didn't care enough to push that point.

I think we've got it sorted, thanks. –JW

If you say so… ;)

John smiled.

I do. –JW

Irene didn't respond again after that, so John listened as Sally repeated names for what must have been the second or third time until Sherlock finished her hair.

"There. Do your makeup; I'll find you something to wear," Sherlock announced, unplugging the straightener and dropping it carelessly back on the vanity.

"What the blo-" Sally started.

"Everything. Makeup," he instructed again, holding his hand out to John for his mobile.

"You're being good, remember," John reminded him as he gave it back. "So don't trash her room or anything like that."

Sherlock rolled his eyes in a way that clearly said 'Seriously, John?' and pocketed his mobile before walking down the little hall to Sally's room.

"He's insufferable; I don't know how you do it," Sally said, shaking her head as she found the makeup she was looking for. The 'Or why you'd want to' was fairly clear.

John couldn't help himself. He shrugged. "The sex is great."

"I hate you both," Sally mumbled. They could hear Sherlock rummaging through her closet and dresser. "If he trashes my stuff, I think I might kill him."

"How terribly ambitious of you," Sherlock replied, dumping a small pile of clothes on her vanity. "Get dressed. When you're done, I'm putting up your hair, then we can go."

Donovan mumbled something unintelligible, but John picked out the word bossy and a few choice others.

So Sherlock took John's hand and led him back to the little sitting room, flopping down on the couch like it was his own and pulling John with him. "I hate being good," he complained before kissing John.

"I know," John chuckled in reply when he pulled back. "But thank you for it. It's made this a thousand times easier for everyone."

"Not me."

"Fine, maybe only… ten times easier for you."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and didn't bother to give a response, but continued to hold John close to him. Until he heard Donovan open the bathroom door and he bounded up the hall again. John heard some bickering, then Sherlock's final 'There,' and they both came back out into the sitting room. John stood and Sherlock took his hand as he looked Donovan over. She was glaring at them both, but Sherlock was bouncing slightly in his way that meant 'tell me I did well.'

"Yeah, you look… Different. Yeah," John said with a nod, because he wasn't sure 'good' would be an appropriate adjective in this situation. Sally's hair was pin straight and in a loose ponytail, parts of it already falling out, purposefully. She did have lighter foundation, and the eyeliner with it made her look more drawn, tired. She was wearing a, probably old, cardigan and a pair of jeans that were verging on ill-fitting. Fake glasses rested crookedly on her nose.

She looked the part.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever. Let's go."