DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock.
Note 1: There might be some sexual triggers. Please be aware.
Note 2:Thanks again to sideris, who turned my text into something at least readable. Thanks also to hoodoo for re-reading this and bearing with me.
If you like Sherlock fanfiction, I recommend reading their works (at fanfiction dot net and archiveofourown dot org) :)
xxxxxxxOOOXOOOxxxxxxx
Sir Lancelot
xxxxxxxOOOXOOOxxxxxxx
John was annoyed. Infuriated. Pissed off.
"I see why I like you both," he shot acidly at his wife, who looked at him apologetically. "You're so very alike in not taking my opinion into account."
Mary's face showed guilt, mixed with a streak of anger. Or was it hurt? John didn't know.
"Has anyone ever considered what I want?" he exclaimed, exasperated and no longer able to control his frustration. He was tired. He was exhausted. Work had been long and arduous, he had been forced to do extra hours, it was 10 PM and the last thing he expected to find at home was a synopsis of the encounter that, apparently, Sherlock and Mary had had behind his back. He was hungry as well, or rather, had been. The fork lay still on top of the spaghetti that was probably cold by now.
Mary spoke carefully. "You don't approve of the arrangement?"
"I don't know!" he exclaimed, then looked at one of the windows and back to his wife. She was clearly upset.
"John, please. The baby."
John fixed his eyes on the window once more, in order to avoid looking at Mary. He remained silent; he didn't know what he felt, what he thought, what to say.
"I did it for your sake, John," she said quietly. "And for Sherlock's sake."
John pursed his lips. He didn't want to argue, but he was in a turmoil; so confused, so upset, words came out of his mouth with no filter at all.
"No emotional blackmail, Mary, please."
Her voice sounded hurt when she answered.
"I'm not trying to blackmail you, John, I'm trying to help."
John huffed acidly. "You can't help it, can you? You can't help trying to fix what you think is wrong, no matter the consequences." His voice came out gentler than his words, though. "You did the same back then. When I was grieving," he added, and looked at his wife. She had a sad half-smile.
"Sherlock wants to meet you tomorrow evening."
"I know," he answered, "he texted me." He was so tired he couldn't think straight.
"I love you, Mary, you know that," he said wearily, his eyes fixed on Mary's.
"I know."
"Could've fooled me."
This time, it was Mary who averted her eyes. She looked so miserable that John felt remorse, and tried to explain himself.
"I mean, I hope you're not doing this because you feel you don't deserve my full attention and love or that kind of bullshit."
Mary snorted in derision, but the effect was spoiled by the tears that began forming in her eyes. Oh, dear. John rose up, skirted the table, knelt down and hugged his wife with all his strength. He didn't say anything, he just smoothed her back and let her cry on his shoulder.
Oh, dear. What was happening here?
OOOXOOO
They had moved to their bedroom. Mary sat at one side of the bed, somewhat calmer. John was in front of her, not sure of in which leg he should put his weight on.
"Mary..." he said cautiously, "you know you can talk to me, right?"
She gave him a ghost of a smile. "Yes, John."
"Is it something I've done?"
Mary seemed to ponder on how to answer. "... not really," she finally said. "It's just..." She paused. "I... it's lonely in here." Her gaze was fixed on her hands. "I mean, I'm used to being surrounded by people... I like busy, lively human herds," she said, attempting humour. John answered her effort with a weak half-smile. "But now... I always seem to be at home... I almost never see my friends. I only get to see them when they get a few hours off from work... and you..." She fell silent.
"And me?" asked John, a bit scared of the answer.
Mary spoke somewhat reluctantly. "You... well, you're almost never home..." John felt a weight in his stomach. "... and when you are... Well, I suppose it's because you're very tired, but..."
"I'm either in front of the telly or in front of the laptop, right?" he guessed with bitterness, and Mary's silence was all the answer he needed. He sighed and rubbed his face with a hand.
He'd be lying to himself if he said he hadn't suspected something was wrong. It was obvious: Mary felt alone. It was true she had to spend a great deal of time at home because of her own health – her labour had been a complicated one – and because of the baby, and because someone had to do at least the minimum of house chores. Because the ugly truth was he spent around ten hours a day at the hospital; because, obviously, why hire more doctors if the ones at hand can do the extra work for less money?
And then when he returned home, he was so utterly exhausted he could barely wash the dishes and fall on the sofa watching TV or aimlessly browsing the Internet. Being a doctor wasn't just about finding what was wrong with a patient's body – oh, no, far from that. He had to deal with people, had to treat them understandingly, politely, even if they weren't polite and understanding in return. Most of the time he had to tug the answers out of them to have as much data about the symptoms as he could, but he had to be careful not to be rude or forceful. Dealing with people was like dealing with china, John thought; only he had the extra difficulty of having to deal with people who were in pain or scared or both – God, they thought he was some kind of magician who could find the exact source of their pain right away, and could work a miracle and heal them with a click of his fingers.
When he got home, he barely had the energy to be civil to Mary, let alone to interact properly with her. He only wanted to rest, to relax, to do the least possible effort in any sense. And when he didn't have to work at the hospital, there was little baby Sherlock to take care of – and some of the house chores, and... Oh, dear. No wonder Mary felt neglected. When was the last time they had shared some intimacy, anyway?
Mary... she used to be so lively; she was hardly a quiet house-wifey. Yet she had been forced to act like one. John sighted and sat next to her.
"I'm really sorry, dear," he said with grave honesty.
One corner of Mary's mouth twisted.
"It's hardly your fault, John. We need the money, after all. I know you're not enjoying being jailed in that hospital. You miss working with Sherlock, don't you?" She gave him a weak smile. "It was more exciting, and you had more free time, right?"
John looked down and fixed his eyes on his palms. Neither spoke for some minutes.
"Although..." she suddenly said, her brows furrowed, deep in thought. "We do have some money saved, don't we?"
He looked at her feeling unsure. Mary spoke again: "You could take a break... take time to be with the baby and help me with house chores... help Sherlock with his cases..."
Her voice was speculative, but the more John thought about it, the more tempting it became. "It's a bit risky…," he reckoned. "But... we do have some money. No, not a bad idea... I've been missing you a lot..."
"Both me and Sherlock, right?" said Mary with a sad smile.
"Well – yes..." he admitted quietly, then frowned. "But, the money... what if –?"
Mary, however, seemed to have regained part of her strength by then. "We'll manage somehow, John. People manage to survive with much less, and still be happy. We'll manage. I want us to be together. I want us to be happy. That's part of the reason why I proposed this... arrangement with Sherlock."
John was speechless. He looked at his wife with a mixture of respect, affection and concern. God, he loved that woman; she was good. Strong. Reliable and collaborative and played fair and did talk to him, sooner or later, instead of expecting him to guess how she felt. He opened his mouth to say something, closed it again, leant towards Mary and kissed her.
"All right," he said. "But if anything bothers you, anything at all... if you feel something's going wrong... tell me, okay?" Mary gave him a weak smile.
"Okay," she said, "but the same goes for you, John." He felt his heart pounding faster and he mirrored her expression.
"Of course, Mary." He hugged her tightly and kissed her lips in a chaste way, then the base of her neck, and he kissed his way up to the back of her ear.
"John?" asked Mary, cautiously. "You must be tired from work..."
He grinned. "And you must be tired of waiting, right?"
She smiled, but replied, "Well... you know I haven't been keen on sex since I gave birth..."
John sobered instantly. "Would you rather not?"
Mary pondered for a moment. "Well... to tell you the truth... I think the itch is coming back." She grinned sheepishly. "It's already been five months..."
"Is that a yes?" he said with exaggerated eagerness, and she made a short laugh.
"You needn't force yourself, you know?" she said.
John grinned. "Come on, Mary," he said playfully, "Let me." Then he became more serious and added, "And I hope you know you needn't force yourself either."
Mary kissed him tenderly and answered, "I'll tell you if it doesn't work for me."
They remained in a comfortable silence until John gave a naughty, somewhat timid half-smile and said: "So... the game is on?" Mary laughed again, a bit abashed herself.
"The game is on," she repeated.
OOOXOOO
He was being especially sweet and thoughtful. He wanted to; he wanted to take his time. Mary had been quite off sex after giving birth, and he knew it was a delicate moment for her. He was still unsure whether she'd enjoy herself as much as she used to, but they could always try.
He had almost forgotten how sexy Mary was. He usually saw her as his friend, his love, his flatmate; he did think she was beautiful, but once in bed, he remembered – she was sexy as well. He loved his wife's facial wrinkles, which accentuated her expressions. And he loved Mary's expressions when they were in bed.
He was laying on top of her, supporting his weight with an elbow. His other hand was unbuttoning her pyjama top, and each button he freed, he replaced it with a kiss. God, he had missed this. He had missed this and hadn't even been aware he had. Jesus. Mary breathed faster now; her salty skin was hot like boiling water. Her chest and her cheeks were pink, her lips rosy, as rosy as her perked nipples – God, she was gorgeous.
Slowly, he undressed Mary completely and took a moment to observe her. Her body was more or less back to the shape it had had before pregnancy; there was a caesarean section scar on her lower abdomen. Her breasts were bigger because of the breastfeeding, and there were stretch marks on her belly. He looked back at her face, and found a shadow of a doubt in her eyes. Silly woman, he thought. He reached for her lips and gave her a long kiss. When they broke apart, Mary voiced her concern.
"My body's not exactly the same it was..."
"Have you grown a third arm somewhere?" John playfully replied.
Mary grinned, took the hint, and answered, "Just above my knee. We could do lots of naughty things."
He grinned as well, replied, "Let's," and kissed her below her ear, a spot he knew she liked. He didn't know whether it was because of the dry spell, or because the accumulated stress and tension, but his body was responding with alarming eagerness. He made a trail of kisses from her neck to her breasts, and paused to look at her questioningly.
"Can I?" he asked, and Mary looked at him with uncertainty.
"I don't know", she quietly answered, "It feels weird somehow. I mean, I've become used to them being sucked by the baby..."
John hesitated a moment, then said, "Let's try with just my hands..." He gently cupped one of her breasts and gave a soft squeeze, then he caressed it cautiously. He looked at her questioningly, and found her with her eyes closed and her mouth half-opened. Suppressing a grin, he continued with his gentle caresses in both breasts, and chuckled when Mary moaned and pushed her chest towards him.
"I thought you'd be rather put off..." he remarked.
Mary opened an eye and answered, "I was at first. But my nipples seem to be more sensitive now..." And she smiled sheepishly. Damn, she was sexy. Her pose was languid, sensual, alluring – she probably wasn't even aware of the extent in which she was arousing him. John reached for one of her nipples and softly played with it; Mary shivered and inhaled heavily.
"I wish you could see yourself," said John, his eyes fixed on her expression of pleasure. "You're beautiful, Mary."
She replied with a lazy smile and caressed his back and his neck. His hands continued to pay attention to her breasts and her nipples, and Mary moaned. She found his scalp and massaged it with her fingers; John answered by giving a soft bite to one side of her neck. He loved it, he loved to feel her fingers on his hair, and involuntarily purred. He licked his way up to Mary's cheek. She smiled and kissed him languidly. She arched further into his touch, until they silently decided his clothes were in the way. John stood on his knees and took off his shirt, but when he went for his pants, she stopped him.
"Let me do it," she breathed, and climbed up John's torso while caressing and kissing him. He knew his eyes must have become as unfocused and hazed as hers. His hands rested on Mary's hair, playing with it while she explored his body. She reached for his waistband and carefully pushed it down, freeing the erection. With a mischievous smile, she pressed her cheek against it and looked up.
John closed his eyes and heard the grin in her voice when she said, "You know I like doing this."
John's voice was surprisingly husky when he answered, "Not as much as I like you doing it."
Mary huffed in amusement, took his cock in her hand, licked the top and then put it inside her mouth. Pleasure was such that John couldn't help humming; God, it had been ages since... hmm. His grip in her hair tightened and he frowned of pleasure; he hadn't realised how much he missed that very physical bliss of Mary's wet heat massaging his sensitive skin. Pleasure engulfed his cock in a liquid clasp that shot electric waves up his nerves each time she moved her tongue, her lips, her mouth. John groaned and put both his hands on her shoulders.
"Mary – "
She stopped and looked at him with her eyebrows raised, her eyes darkened with desire. He knew he was flushed.
"Mary," he with a raspy voice, "I don't want to leave you behind."
She smirked. "I do get aroused by doing this, John, you know it."
"I know," he answered with a lazy half-smile. "But I'm dangerously near. It has been ages, after all."
Mary replied with a sexy, mischievous grin. "All right, then," she said, "Lie on your back. You're tired after all, huh?"
John replied with her same flirty tone while doing what his wife had told him. "I am. But you're not doing this for poor old me, right?"
Mary giggled. "You know how much I enjoy being on top." She took some cushions and placed them against the headboard.
"Lay your back against that," she added.
John gave her a questioning look and an expectant smile, did as he had been told, and waited for her to straddle him. This was slightly new. It was true she liked being on top, and to be honest, he liked their current position as well. But it was the first time she'd put him in this particular position - half-sitting, half-lying. He looked at his wife's eager eyes while she lowered herself onto him, and his heart started beating faster. Lust had changed her expression, her eyes were half closed and unfocused; her full breasts dangled tantalisingly close to his mouth. She then rubbed her lower self against his cock, making her moan, and making him take a sharp inhalation. God, it felt awesome. She hadn't let him inside her, though – but it was awesome nonetheless; wet, soft and hot like hell. She arched her back in such a way that her perked breasts were now rubbing John's cheeks; he wouldn't have stopped himself even if he'd been able to: he took a nipple in his mouth and licked it. Mary exhaled sensually, apparently too caught up in desire to care about what Freud would say. Something primal awakened in John, and he gave a somewhat stronger thrust; she let her head fall back and started rubbing against him with renewed enthusiasm.
OOOXOOO
Mary's breathing was fast and shallow. She moaned softly each time her clitoris rubbed his erection, pleasure running through her nerves like low-intensity electric shocks. She looked down and her heart skipped a beat. John was so deft at turning her on when he decided to be charming, when lust glazed his eyes, when the focus of his determination was her body. His tongue was playing with her nipples with gentle insistence, and a pleasant tingling radiated over all of her body. Mary closed her eyes.
John. He was so kind, so easy-going, so respectful. She fell for him over and over again – his smiles of understanding, of joy, of love; his mellow dimples, his expressive eyes. He was – he truly was her best friend, her most intimate and understanding friend. It took her a lifetime to meet a man like him – but she had. She found him. John.
Mary moaned softly. She could feel tingling pleasure coming from her breasts and the wet heat below, a liquid lust she thought she'd lost after the baby. Wave after wave of bliss built up in her body, like heat builds up in an oven, until it finally exploded, submerging her body in a lake of warm euphoria, and making her moan louder and deeper than before. She felt limp and utterly satiated, but John hadn't finished, so she continued to move.
OOOXOOO
John was close, he could feel it. Mary reaching her peak had aroused him still further – his eyes were fixed on her dangling breasts, fascinated by the new phenomenon of white liquid spilling from her nipples; his ears were filled by her sounds of pleasure, her body rubbed against his and her wet folds were coaxing his cock into – and that was it. He went rigid and closed his eyes, the pressure that had built up within him finally breaking through its barriers and pouring bliss into his nervous system.
They remained in that position for some time, enjoying the intimacy of the aftermath and the warm contact of each other's skin. Their hearts were starting to beat more slowly, their breathing was deeper and more relaxed. She kissed his cheeks and lips with tenderness and had a grin of contentment John felt very proud of. He was unable to suppress a silly smile at Mary's glowing face and her joyful chuckle. How could they have been so stressed and tired to not even miss such pleasure? Following a sudden urge, John hugged Mary tightly and burrowed his face in her neck.
"Tomorrow won't change anything between you and me, Mary," he said, his voice muffled by her hair and his feelings. "I don't want it to – I won't leave you behind."
Mary smiled softly at his timid attempt to lighten the mood, and answered him by kissing his forehead. "I know," she assured him, but he knew that deep down, she was dreading tomorrow.
OOOXOOO
City lights illuminated the night and coloured the streets' dark puddles, but did little to ease John Watson's nervousness. 'Tomorrow' had arrived, and once more, he felt split between what he sarcastically called his 'Dr Watson' and his 'Mr Hyde' sides. He felt a rush of adrenaline; anticipation, fear, hope, dread.
Sherlock. Sherlock and 221b Baker Street and their daredevillifestyle. Memories came rushing to his mind, lost memories of happy times. He felt excited to meet Sherlock again, to meet him in their old flat. But he felt guilty as well. Guilty because of Mary, because of the baby. Mary and their daughter in the cold, silent, lonely gloom of their house. He felt an iron grip of pain constricting his chest. He shouldn't be allowed this chance, he shouldn't. But he was. By some cosmic miracle he'd married a woman who had allowed it. Who had allowed them: him and Sherlock.
Christ. I've missed you, Sherlock. Missed you so much and yet life rushed around me and before I knew it months had passed. We've been meeting, of course. Of course. For your cases. To have tea with Mrs Hudson. But it feels like we're, I don't know... acquaintances. And we're not. We're so much more than that. We were so much more than that. God, Sherlock. Is it too late for us? I don't want it to be. Better late than never, they say. Oh, Mary. Oh, Mary, Mary; thank you so much. This must be hurting you and yet you allowed us. I'm shameless. I'm despicable.
Get a grip on yourself, John Hamish Watson. Breathe. Continue walking. Continue walking down Baker Street. Continue walking home. Your other home.
He hesitated a great deal though, before ringing the bell of home; so much that he was late. When he finally entered 221b Baker Street's living room, he found Sherlock exactly as he had expected to find him: feeding some kind of foul-looking liquid to a poor laboratory rat.
"I see you made it on time, John!" he greeted him.
"I'm late," John replied flippantly.
"Only because you took fifteen minutes hesitating on my doorstep. Do you fancy a Chinese take away?"
John smiled with a sudden overflow of nostalgia. It felt like living once more at Baker Street, like having his old flatmate back, like sharing his live again with Sherlock – something he, like yesterday with Mary, hadn't realised he'd been missing.
"Why not?" he finally answered, "I'm starting to get hungry."
"Excellent! Would you mind making the call?"
John almost laughed. How could he have missed this cheeky git? But he made the phone call anyway.
"So," he said afterwards, "I know you must've told me, but... did you catch the one behind the Moriarty thing?"
Sherlock was covering the cage with a dark cloth; he frowned slightly and replied with his eyes fixed on his hands. "The ones. Lestrade did. Or so he claims... he's wrong, obviously, but I can't do anything about it. But that was ages ago. Even if you don't listen to what I tell you any more, haven't you been watching the news?"
John felt an acute pain in his chest, as if Sherlock had stuck a needle in it. He tried to conceal it and excused himself with a smile. "I've been very busy lately, and quite out of touch."
"Only soap operas?" asked Sherlock, looking up with a mocking glint in his eyes. John huffed half-annoyed, half-abashed.
"Only soap operas," he said.
"I thus deduce you've spoken with your wife?" he asked, straightening up.
John shifted awkwardly. "I did."
"So?" Sherlock said while reaching for the cage's top handle. John wasn't fooled by Sherlock's well-practiced tone of indifference, and swallowed.
"She broke down in tears."
Sherlock stopped in mid-motion; he had a deeper frown and a serious stare.
"She feels neglected," John muttered defensively.
Sherlock broke his stillness and gripped the handle, fixing his eyes on the cage and remaining silent. He then lifted the cage abruptly; the rat squealed, and Sherlock gave John a grave side-glance.
"So do I," he replied flatly, shocking John into silence. "I've hardly seen you since your daughter was born, John." He paused and the air between them was electric. He fixed his eyes on the cage and quietly added, "I missed you."
John stood in surprised silence for several seconds. "How am I supposed to answer that?" he finally said, puzzled and a bit frightened by Sherlock's unusual frankness.
But Sherlock's eternal mask of detachment was back on; his tall, slender frame carrying and stashing the cage away in busy, elegant motions. John blinked, momentarily caught up by Sherlock's grace. It was the first time he was acutely aware that Sherlock's movements were so fluid he almost looked like he was dancing.
Sherlock broke into his reverie. "Just say no, and then yes," he said, as if it were the most obvious platitude in the world. John felt a familiar spark of mild annoyance.
"Sherlock Holmes," he huffed, "you know I hate it when you speak that way."
Sherlock gave him a ghost of a smirk. It'd been a taunt. John knew it, and he still fell for it. Damn Sherlock, he thought, but couldn't help mirroring his friend's smile. Sherlock leant back against the edge of the table, his eyes as playful as his smile.
"Say no to your current work, and yes to working with me." He raised his eyebrows in mock seriousness. "I won't be a tyrannical boss, I swear. I'll pet you now and then." John snorted, pretending not to be amused. Sherlock's face became suddenly more serious.
"You spend all your day holed up in that hospital, John, don't you?" Sherlock was going to add something, but the doorbell rang. "Ah! It must be the take away," he exclaimed, and rant to fetch it. He returned in a flash, put the boxes on the living room table and added, "Do you want a beer? I've got some in the fridge."
John's mood was still a bit forlorn. "Okay," he said mildly.
"They're on the top shelf," Sherlock cheekily answered, and sat down in his armchair. John sighed, softened his expression and went to the kitchen; when he looked back, he saw his friend's barely concealed smile of anticipation. John gave a half-smile of complicity, opened the fridge and continued to play along.
"Sherlock!" he exclaimed, pretending to be more horrified than he was. "You've got human feet in the fridge!"
"On the top shelf!" Sherlock replied, and opened his box. He seemed to be in the best humour ever.
OOOXOOO
'A beer' had become three beers each, and although they weren't wholly drunk, they had enough alcohol in their veins to loosen their tongues. They were sitting in their respective comfy chairs; Sherlock seemed to be relatively sober, but John couldn't help noticing the slight mist that threatened to fog his own mind.
"I don't earn that much money," Sherlock blurted out. "But the job compensates for it."
"Yeah," John agreed, "but I've got a baby, remember?"
Sherlock smirked. "Yeah, she's quite something. Did you read her files?"
John felt his face become hot. "What the hell, Sherlock?"
"She didn't tell you that part?"
"Which part?"
"MI5's got her files. Mycroft showed me."
"Is she in trouble?" John inquired, anxious.
"Not for now."
"But isn't the UK obliged to share intel on internationally sought – ?"
"So you did read her files, right?" cut Sherlock, an infuriating glee on his eyes. John felt annoyed.
"Well, yeah, I did. So what?"
"But you told her you didn't?"
"She told you that?" exclaimed John, vexed.
Sherlock smiled with smugness. "We talked about many things, John," he said, then sipped at his fourth beer. Suddenly, the atmosphere became awkward.
John tentatively said, "She told you... about...?"
Sherlock averted his gaze and fixed it on his glass of beer. "About an 'arrangement' between us three? She insinuated, yeah."
John flushed a bit. "What do you think about that?" he quietly asked.
"What do you think about that?"
John fell silent. "If you two don't mind," he finally said, "I guess I don't either."
Sherlock chuckled in an infuriating way. "No," he replied, "Of course you don't."
That annoyed John a bit. "Look, I think Mary's having a hard time. I think she proposed this... 'arrangement' in spite of herself, of her feelings. I don't want to hurt her."
Sherlock's look became serious. "Well," he said, "I did put on a smiling face about your marriage in spite of myself too."
John's mind suddenly sharpened. "I thought you didn't mind –"
"Naturally," cut in Sherlock with arrogance, "I made you think so." But there was sadness underneath.
John fixed his eyes in a corner, then quietly spoke. "I was convinced you cared about me much less than I cared about you."
Sherlock answered as quietly as he had. "I thought that myself." He paused. "But then I realised."
John was barely aware he had clenched a fist. "And it was too late by then," he guessed.
Sherlock looked at the ceiling. "Too late," he confirmed, absent mindedly. "And too many mistakes."
John was astonished at his friend's prolonged honesty and introversion. "Where's the high-functioning sociopath I know?" he asked, wanting to lighten the mood.
Sherlock smiled and answered, "In – front of you. My God, your observation skills are terrible, John."
John giggled and pretended to have heard 'in love' instead of 'in front of you', but remained silent. Sherlock would probably make fun of him if he ever confessed such a thing. He took his can and emptied it.
John got the distinct impression the atmosphere had changed. He licked his lips; he had never seen Sherlock so open, never had he been so aware of his gaze, of the hot lava of his eyes. The certainty of each other's interest and the new freedom to express it had changed the rules of their game, and John found himself lost. Suddenly, he felt the need to swallow and to avert his eyes to the unopened beer can that lay on the table. He took it and opened it mechanically, just to distract himself from the sudden tension in the air. It had been so long since he felt so nervous in such a situation, he had almost forgotten what it was to feel that way, to feel like a – well, like a clueless teenager. He was so used being a Don Juan, winning at cards with a poker heart, having the game under control – he felt puzzled at the burning need in his chest, at the fast and painful heartbeat, at the sudden inability to look at Sherlock in the eye. This had never happened to him with Mary. No; with Mary it'd been different – a much healthier love. With Mary, he'd felt the need to seek her eyes, to smile at them. But this thing he was feeling for Sherlock... was fever.
Oh, but he was also a soldier, a courageous one, and a proud one too. It wouldn't do for Don Juan to shy away like a prude. So he steadied his breath, took a sip of beer and looked at Sherlock with what he hoped was a calm gaze and a friendly half-smile.
And then, Sherlock did the unthinkable: he blushed.
Except, that blush actually fueled John's knot of fire under his ribcage. Sherlock was a smart man. He was attractive, he was charming, he was proud and cold and radiated confidence; he was the one who usually took the lead, the one who gave orders expecting them to be obeyed as if he were a prince or something – and yet there he was, shy, blushing, as quiet as a bunny trapped by a fox.
That was intoxicating, John decided, but it didn't last as long as he'd have liked, because Sherlock could be as stubborn and proud and poker faced as John and then some. His friend had effectively fought down his expression into something closer to neutrality, and his gaze was fixed on his glass. That cooled John down a bit; he took a sip of beer and stared at the empty space between them.
Then, he took a deep breath and said, "If only I'd told you three years ago about –" and his voice broke, unable to continue speaking. His lust was being quickly replaced by melancholy.
Sherlock was looking at the far side of the living room when he replied, "You wouldn't have met Mary. And at that time, I would've been scared. I would've run away from you."
"You ran away anyway," John reproached with weary bitterness.
There was sharp pain in Sherlock's eyes as he quietly replied, "I'm sorry, John. I really am." John's feelings sweetened in front of his friend's honesty, and answered him with a timid smile that Sherlock mirrored. Dr Watson was back.
But then, Sherlock broke the atmosphere with a melodramatic sigh.
"I think I'm a bit too inebriated," he stated. "Is it me or is it hot in here?" and stood up to open a window.
John blurted out a laugh and decided to let Mr Hyde loose again. "It's you," he replied with a flirty smile, "I mean, it's you who's hot here." Sherlock's face became delightfully pink, but this time, he wasn't as unprepared as before.
"I therefore deduce you feel pretty cool, don't you?" he cheekily shot back, "By implying I'm the only one feeling the heat."
John chuckled at his friend's witty feistiness and gave up trying to outsmart him with clever comebacks.
"Let me feel cool for once, Sherlock," he replied with gentle playfulness, "you're usually the one looking cool." The flattery, like all the flattery he'd given him before, hit bull's eye: his friend's satisfied face was almost comical. Then Mr Hyde smirked and the room's temperature dropped and rose at the same time.
"Come on," he said with a darker, deeper voice. "Let's go to your room."
Sherlock's demeanour had radically changed as well, his smart cheekiness sobered by nervousness. But he wasn't going to run away; John knew. Not this time.
"Let's," he answered, and led John to his bedroom.
OOOXOOO
Once in Sherlock's room, Don Juan hesitated a bit, his heart beating faster than he'd anticipated. Sherlock was Sherlock after all, his best friend; not a what's-her-name-again he'd just picked up. John felt Dr Watson and Mr Hyde measuring each other with their gaze, like cats sizing each other up before a fighting.
Sherlock's voice startled him. "Here we are," he said with his deep, velvety voice. "Now what?"
John felt uncomfortably weak and nervous. Both Dr Watson and Mr Hyde seemed to have abandoned him, making him feel like an inexperienced teenager once more. Irritating. Sherlock, on the other hand, appeared more confident and dangerous. He started walking towards John, at a deliberately slow pace that seemed to charge the air with electricity. John breathed deeply, never averting his eyes from his friend's.
"Now the game's on," John replied, trying to break the tension with some humour.
Sherlock answered with a half-smile, but it had the opposite effect – it raised the heat of the air between them, instead of cooling it down. But John didn't care that much – he was starting to go with the flow, and at that moment, he knew – Mr Hyde had won. Like he always did when he was with Sherlock, his dear Sherlock, his very best friend and – he was so tantalising; he was wearing his black shirt, the one with the open collar, so sexy, dammit – and John realised, he realised Sherlock knew he liked that shirt; Sherlock knew it looked good on him and had put it on on purpose, had always put it on on purpose; that wicked boy playing man, dammit – so hot, so cool, so confident, so prince-like, and yet; he gave off a kind of a male Lolita-y impression – Or was it just his own twisted imagination? – It must be, it must be one of his unconsciousness' tricks – the lustful outcome of some deep, sick deficiency or something – Freud must be laughing so hard in his grave – but –
But John honestly didn't give a damn. Didn't want to give a damn. He was attracted to Sherlock, loved him, lusted after him – whatever, damn, no need to define it, to justify it. Just go with the flow. Full stop.
Meanwhile, Sherlock had approached John and stood in front of him, mere inches from his body, radiating heat like an overworked laptop. He smelled nice. John was quite aware of it; hell, they had shared the same shampoo and shaving foamfor so long he knew where that smell came from. It still was nice, nice and nostalgic and familiar and – and it awakened an unethical streak of primal satisfaction in him. John'd continued using those very products all the years he and Sherlock had lived in separate places – out of habit, certainly, but also out of silly nostalgia. They shared the same smell; as if Sherlock were marked territory, as if he were part of his own herd, as if he were his – an absurd, ridiculous and censurable reaction, no doubt. Not something he'd ever admit out loud – Harry'd slap him if she heard him speak in such a way about another person; Mary'd outright punch him.
However, there was something unique in Sherlock's smell, his own personal aroma – that particular smell right then shot a pang to John's chest: Sherlock's own smell was just as nice, as nostalgic and as familiar as the commercial ones; it shouted friend, it shouted home, it shouted intimacy, like it always had; and now, it also, and clearly, shouted lust.
John's pulse quickened with an animal thrill. Mr Hyde was back.
OOOXOOO
To say Sherlock hadn't been prepared for John's scalding eyes was an understatement. He wasn't used seeing him like that, like a – a hungry tiger in a cage. John was kind, John was friendly, John was understanding, patient, funny, reliable – not a passionate volcano that made him feel like stepping back. Yet there John'd been, looking at him with such uncensored want, Sherlock's mind had gone blank for some time.
Once in his bedroom though, Sherlock snapped out of it and took the lead. He felt empowered, he felt courageous; eager to touch the forbidden fruit he'd never dared to approach. It had been so long since he touched someone – anyone – even in the chastest way. And now here he was, with John, his John. Sherlock's heart started to beat faster.
John seemed uncertain; his eyes showed no kind doctor and no hungry tiger, but a man unsure of how to act. Sherlock wasn't sure how to behave either, it still was kind of weird. He wanted to touch John, to be as near him as possible, but he couldn't act as if his friend were a woman, right? And how did he treat women, anyway? As embarrassing as it might be, his first sexual partner had been Janine. Well, not exactly, there was this girl once... but he didn't want to think about that. Besides, he didn't even know exactly how he had seduced them – it was like winking and smiling; he just followed the example of what he saw on films and television. Those women hadn't meant anything to him, so he'd felt quite confident, using his best charming skills. And Irene... well, it'd been her doing all the work, hadn't it?
But John was different. So, so different. How to proceed? The gay porn he'd been watching wasn't helping much, not yet anyway. So?
And then, his brilliant mind's light bulb switched on. Redbeard.
Sherlock raised his hands and placed them on his friend's arms. The gesture was simple and innocuous, but it kindled something in John's eyes – it only lasted few seconds, though. So Sherlock took a step further and started caressing John's arms; slowly up then slowly down, a careful motion he completed by delicately hugging his friend. It wasn't a passionate nor a tender hug; it was cautious, calculated, light; the way you'd try to pet an unfriendly horse or try to feed a wary squirrel. John. It felt so nice to hug him, to be so close to him, even if his arms barely touched the good doctor's clothes. It was still exhilarating to have physical contact with another person, to feel his body heat; he hadn't known he'd had such a desperate need for it – Janine had been nice, but this, John – oh, so pleasant. His friend was warm, pulsing like an enormous heart; he smelled exactly as he remembered: their anti-dandruff shampoo, their shaving foam, their detergent,their cheapest Tescohand soap, and especially, that very same smell of John. His kind, his good humoured, his reliable, his loyal companion. Reunited once again to take a step further together – Sherlock felt a burst of intense feelings he wasn't quite certain he could define. He wouldn't waste any more time, he'd shine, he'd charm John into the best sex they'd ever had. Not that he was very experienced, but never mind. Inexperienced didn't mean clueless, especially if one's partner happened to have the same kind of anatomy as one's own.
OOOXOOO
At first, John hadn't known how to react. Sherlock initiating a hug? But later he'd reciprocated in a similar fashion, almost without truly touching his friend. They were testing the waters after all, deciding whether it was wise to dive in or not. Sherlock bowed his head and whispered to John's ear.
"If you knew how many times I've fantasised about this moment, you'd be shocked."
"If you knew what I've fantasised about," replied John darkly, "you'dbe shocked."
Sherlock chuckled, and the sound vibrated in like a pleasant rumble that took John's breath away. Before he knew it, Sherlock had burrowed his face into his neck and had chastely kissed it. Goose pimples rose on John's skin and, instinctively, he moved to place his lips under Sherlock's ear and gave him a wet kiss. Sherlock shivered, moaned quietly and closed his eyes - enough to makeJohnharden.
Jesus, Sherlock. Do you even know what you're doing to me?
Emboldened by lust, John moved his hands down from his best friend's upper back to his hips in a tender caress. His mind was full of Sherlock. Sherlock... he was so strong and so weak at the same time. As if he had a heart of raw diamond sometimes and of fine glass at others. A paradox, a contradiction, an oxymoron. So observant and so oblivious. So charming and so infuriating. So smart and so stupid, so hot and so cold, so public school and so unconventional. A bad boy and a good man.
And an impatient one.
Sherlock took John's face between his slender hands and kissed him chastely on the lips. It felt like an electric shock, a velvety caress. Sherlock was a bit clumsy and inexperienced, but that didn't put John off – quite the contrary, in fact; he hugged his lover tightly and gave him a wet kiss, tongue on tongue.
Sherlock pressed his hardened erection against John's thigh and hummed in pleasure.
"Let me play out your fantasies, John," he said with a hoarse voice, his pounding heart knocking at John's chest. He sounded like he meant every word.
John, for the first time in that evening, blushed a deep crimson – he felt both embarrassed and tempted by the offer. Dr Watson, however, overpowered Mr Hyde.
"It's our first time together, Sherlock," he answered, "Let's take it easy. Let's be mindful. After all," he added with a short, nervous laugh, "no need to try to impersonate porn stars."
Sherlock didn't answer, but started unbuttoning John's shirt at a deliberately slow pace, his eyes burning holes in the fabric. When he finished with that task, he took John's shirt off and placed both palms on his chest. John closed his eyes and inhaled; when he opened them again, Sherlock was on his knees and unfasteninghis belt. His intentions couldn't be clearer.
"Sherlock..." said John, hesitantly. He was panicking a bit. "No need to go straight to this; let's play some more, let me touch you. Let's go to bed and get comfortable."
Sherlock had already unfastened John's belt and was unzipping his jeans, his meticulous and slender fingers working in what his attention seemed absorbed. Suddenly, two icy eyes pierced John's.
"Don't tell me you don't want this," he said in such a husky voice John felt the need to swallow, "because I can feel your lieutenant standing at attention."
He then tugged at John's jeans until they pooled around his ankles; John's boxers were pulled tight over his erection. Sherlock brushed it with his delicate hands and John hold his breath.
"I know I'm an insufferable, irreverent asshole, always blurting out things I shouldn't say." In spite of those words, Sherlock's tone was flirty, not acid. "I bet one of your fantasies includes shutting my inappropriate mouth up by..." he didn't end the sentence, but he placed a ghost of a smile next to John's clothed cock – once again, the message was quite clear. John blushed again, agitated by his friend's too good a guess.
"Fantasies aren't reality, Sherlock," he uncomfortably answered back, but didn't stop Sherlock from stripping him of his boxers. "Let's do this properly."
But despite Dr Watson's efforts, he was being overpowered by Mr Hyde.
OOOXOOO
"Let's do this properly."
Sherlock answered with a strained smile, half-playful, half-irritated. "I am doing it properly, John."
This long awaited contact was so gratifying he felt like kissing every inch of John's skin. God, he was so aroused he wanted to push his friend onto the bed and rub against him like an animal. But he wouldn't, obviously. Before John could reply, Sherlock languidly licked the head of his penis. He felt the shiver that went through John's body, and smiled with self-satisfaction. He then slowly and sensually licked all the length of his friend's shaft, lubricating it with his saliva, carefully, methodically, erotically. It was an odd and new experience, licking another man's penis. Sherlock was actually surprised by how much it turned him on.
Here be dragons, indeed.
OOOXOOO
John was in pure bliss. Dirty, sexy, disturbing pleasure that travelled from his cock to the rest of his body like waves on a shore. He couldn't help uttering a strangled gasp. His hands had travelled to Sherlock's black curls without his permission, and instead of pushing him away, they were holding the man in place. He wouldn't admit it out loud, but he had fantasised such a scene – with 'shutting Sherlock's mouth up'. Slowly, tantalisingly, his lover opened his mouth and surrounded John's erection with his hot wetness. Oh, God. Oh, God. There he was, his piercing blue eyes clouded with lust and his too smart a mouth sucking John's – oh dear. John felt ashamed of his fantasies, of enjoying the idea of thrusting his cock as far into Sherlock's mouth as he could; he knew they were twisted – yet he couldn't help getting ridiculously aroused by them; he imagined thrusting right into Sherlock's throat, almost making him choke; as if he were making a point, demonstrating who was in command, owning him, subordinating him – shut your impertinent mouth and do your job – that's it, take it all, swallow it all – I'll pet your hair meanwhile, good boy – I'll make a good boy out of you – I'll fuck your mouth so hard you won't be able to do anything until I finish – yeah, just like that, good boy – take it all – you'll have to swallow all of my seed, you'll choke on it, that'll teach you to shut the fuck up – so good, so good – so good...
OOOXOOO
Sherlock was doing his best to please John. He was enjoying giving him a blowjob, he enjoyed knowing he was enjoying it – he enjoyed the eroticism of faking powerlessness – but it was becoming uncomfortable. John had accelerated his thrusting pace, had become rougher, more demanding – the idea was arousing, but the physical consequence of it was that Sherlock's facial muscles had started to hurt a bit, unable as he was to take a break. He did his best not to interrupt John, though – not to spoil his pleasure now that he seemed to be so close – he'd make him reach the highest peak ever, he swore.
OOOXOOO
And reach the peak John did. He thrust hard and fast into Sherlock's mouth, in a rough and domineering way – just like in his fantasies, until pleasure exploded in powerful shock waves that made him groan. Pure, intense bliss poured out and collapsed his nervous system. He wasn't usually so carried away, but – but this was one of his most secret, most shameful fantasies come true. Kind of come true... and thank God.
Descent to reality, however, was somewhat embarrassing. He sat down on the bed while Sherlock stood up with a smug smile and located the roll of toilet paper he had left on his night table. John felt ashamed. He didn't regret doing it – so good – but he firmly believed he should. Dr Watson glared at Mr Hyde, Mr Hyde gave Dr Watson the finger, and John sighed.
There was but one thing John could do to redeem himself.
"Your turn," he said to Sherlock, who had finished cleaning up. He had his trousers on, which made John's cheeks grow hot – hadn't even properly undressed him. Damn Mr Hyde. Sherlock's smug smile was still in place.
"I'd like your feedback first, John," he said with a smirk, "after all, it was the first time I performed a fellatio. Did I do it properly, doctor?"
John felt his cheeks burn again, and Sherlock chuckled. John didn't dare utter a word, but Sherlock didn't seem to mind: he probably had had all the answer he wanted. John silently freed himself of his jeans and his boxers, his eyes unable to look at his best friend. Until...
"John." Sherlock's voice had become serious. "Are you all right?"
John snapped his eyes up and found his very dear friend's piercing blue ones, full of concern and – and – love? He felt a knot in his throat, swallowed and forced a smile, as genuine a smile as he could.
"Don't mind me. It's your turn!" he said with false vitality, and stood up.
"John, what's going on? Wasn't it good?"
Oh, dear, no. Not that question, not that very same face he made when asking if he'd made a social blunder. The knot in John's throat tightened.
"No, Sherlock, it was – " he cleared his throat " – it was very good, I've..." I've enjoyed myself. Too much. "I – thank you, Sherlock."
And just like that, with two magic words, Sherlock was smiling once again. Like a child.
Christ. John Hamish Watson, he's not a child. Stop that.
"My turn?" Sherlock ventured, with a timid half smile. John smiled back and batted his eyelids fast to prevent tears from forming.
"Your turn," he confirmed. He approached Sherlock, and took a moment to contemplate him. He was bony, pale, skinny. His body made John think of delicate porcelain statues – absurd. He knew how strong and fast his friend could be, how much his body could endure. Sherlock was resilient, he wouldn't shatter just like that.
Would he?
Maybe, if John touched the right places the right way... he might shatter. In pleasure. Yes, good idea.
John sat down again and smiled calmly to Sherlock. "Come here," he whispered, and Sherlock obeyed. John could tell he was trying to act confident, just like he had before.
Oh, but you're nervous, Sherlock, I can tell. I bet Irene was the first person to touch you in any way. If she did.You probably had no action at all after Irene – until Janine. You must crave human contact, right? Come here. Come, my friend.
The change was incredible. Sherlock had become quieter and shier, as if he didn't know what to do any more. It was endearing. John strongly suspected Sherlock had been... 'looking up' on the Internet. It made sense; his words, the way he went almost directly for his cock... At first, Sherlock's hug had been all giving, but it rapidly turned into something more demanding.
Jesus. Did you enact porn clichés for Irene and Janine as well, Sherlock? So candid. So ridiculous. So endearing. God, Sherlock. I overcame that period on my teens. You're over thirty.
John felt his heart swelling with tenderness at first, and then his cheeks became hot once again. He could patronise Sherlock as much as he wanted, but he'd imagined the dirtiest porn clichés ever while Sherlock was giving him a blowjob. He shouldn't speak so high and mighty, not even just inside his mind.
Sherlock stood exactly in front of John's knees, still and awkward. Like a virgin.
Like a virgin… John, stop that. It's ridiculous to get aroused by that idea. That false idea, mind you. Mary would punch you if she heard you. And Harry'd hold you to help her. God.Remember Janine. Remember that morning. He didn't act like a virgin then, did he? No, certainly not. Most certainly not.
Shit. I'm blushing again. I'm blushing and he's waiting.
"Sit next to me, Sherlock."
Oh? He obeys without a word. That's new. That's nice. But, come on, John.Itwon't harden again. You're way too exhausted, friend. You know you are.
Sherlock seems uncomfortable. Why is that? Nervous? He's staring at his knees as if his eyes were anchored to them. His hands are twitching. His shoulders are tensed. Jesus. He's in his defensive stance.
So John decided to start cautiously. He didn't know the reason behind the change in mood, but he'd make him comfortable again. He could and he would.
He placed his right hand on his friend's shirtless shoulder blade and pressed gently.
"Sherlock," he said in a soothing tone, a tone he'd learnt to use with his patients. "Do you want me to go slowly?"
Silence. Odd.
More silence.
Worrying.
"Sherlock?" he said cautiously. "Do you want this?"
His friend didn't reply, didn't even look at him, but nodded with his head once. Tense. He was tense. It was both worrying and endearing.
Instead of saying anything else, John chose to caress his partner's back. Up, down, up again; he rubbed it gently, lovingly, and then went further and hugged him with one arm first, then with both arms. Sherlock had closed his eyes. John moved his lips to Sherlock's left ear and whispered.
"Relax, Sherlock. If this becomes too weird for you, if after all you decide you don't want to... just tell me, and I'll stop."
His friend blushed furiously. He half-opened his lips, breathed shallowly, and finally croaked: "That's not it, John."
"Hmm?" he hummed. John felt Sherlock's breath quicken in response, and couldn't help smiling smugly.
"It's just..." Sherlock's voice betrayed unease.
"You want me to go faster?"
"No. No, it's..." John licked his neck and Sherlock whimpered. "... it's fine."
John couldn't help smiling in triumph. Of course it was fine. And it'd become better. He promised.
"Lie down, Sherlock," he instructed with his calm voice. "Get comfortable."
His friend shot him a strange look. His cheeks were pink, his eyes cried vulnerability. John felt his pulse quickening with tenderness, and he smiled at Sherlock.
OOOXOOO
Sherlock could feel his breath becoming shallow and his eyes losing the focus he was so proud of.
Jesus. God. John. John. John was nothing like Janine. He wasn't unreliable, he wasn't awkward. He wasn't mechanical, stereotypical. And he wasn't like Irene either – he wasn't dangerous, he wasn't a threat, he wasn't domineering. Not now at least. Not when it mattered.
It was Dr Watson at his gentlest. Soothing, relaxing, warm. Sherlock's face became hot like fire. Oh dear. Did John guess how that affected him? How much he liked that aspect of him? How shaken he was by it? Sherlock felt an overflow of some warm feeling he couldn't name – it was too intense to be just affection, but too gentle to be febrile lust. It burned with low intensity, but constantly, like sleepy magma on top of his stomach. It was like – this was embarrassing – like with Redbeard, but multiplied by a million. He felt relief. He felt like crying and hugging him and burrowing his face into John's slightly hairier chest and letting him stroke his head forever.
Sherlock swallowed and closed his eyes. It was too intense, like looking directly at the sun. Too intense.
Once more, he had obeyed his good friend and lay on his back. John'd stood up to leave him enough room to do so. He was now hovering over Sherlock, with that relaxed and reliable demeanour of his. Sherlock shot a glance at John's penis. It was flaccid, but somewhat swollen still. That made him remember –
"Hm, John..."
John stopped, blinked and looked into his eyes. Sherlock averted his gaze. He was uncomfortable again, uncomfortable and ashamed.
"There's..."
Damn. He wouldn't be able to say it, but it was better for him to say it than letting John discover it.
"Hm... there's a problem."
Shit. John would think it was because of him. He'd think he didn't turn Sherlock on, or that he wasn't doing it properly. It wasn't that. He was aroused, he wanted to be touched by John. But...
"You see..."
He was blushing. Again. He felt like a teenager. It was infuriating. Why did this always happen? Had he some kind of dysfunction or something? Wasn't he a true man? Probably not, seeing how he'd enjoyed sucking John's cock. No. Stop it, Sherlock. Stop it. Gay men are still men, don't be childish. Stop hurting yourself – what's a 'true man', anyway? Oh, dear. It was his worst fear, his worst fear coming true – once again. Again, and again, and again, and again till eternity. Fuck!
It was Helen all over again. Helen. He'd worked so hard to forget her name – yet, no; his brilliant mind chose not to do so. He'd barely known her, for God's sake. She was his violin teacher's daughter, they were twenty, it was his first time, he was nervous; no, terrified – and it hadn't stood up. He'd managed to take a girl home for once – and it had backfired in the most embarrassing way possible. Mycroft had deduced what happened right away, fucking teased him no end – and Sherlock never lived it down. Ever. No wonder he'd become asexual; no wonder he'd come to believe what his brother told him, that love... Christ. Stop it.
And then there was Janine. But he was more prepared for her; after all, he couldn't fail her – John and Mary's happiness was at stake. Irene did teach him a thing or two about seducing people. So, even if that happened with Janine too, she hadn't minded – not as long as he managed to make her come using other methods. And he certainly did. But it'd been unsatisfying for him. Worse, it'd been yet another blow to his male pride.
Jesus. And John... no woman had ever made him feel like John did – except maybe Irene? But certainly not as much as his best friend did. God. He'd deduced John was the right answer. But he wasn't, apparently. Was he defective? Was this a side effect of smoking? Was it because of the cocaine? Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
"Shh. Sherlock, stop it." Sherlock's attention snapped into focus. "I know you're worrying over something, Sherlock. Stop it. Relax." John took a deep breath and added, "This is your moment to enjoy, to be pleasured." He then gave a slightly embarrassed, friendly smile. "Let me, Sherlock. I really want to."
Sherlock's chest warmed again, but he looked down.
"I want this as well, John, don't doubt it," he quietly said. "But... down there..." Jesus. No, he couldn't put it into words.
But it wasn't necessary. John looked down and realised what he had tried to say. "Sherlock... you could've told me, you know." Sherlock must've let his doubts cloud his face, because John closed his eyes and sighed.
"I'm a man as well, you git."
Sherlock didn't answer. John opened his eyes and shot him an honest look. "It happens to all of us, Sherlock. No need to be ashamed or distressed by it. The more you stress over it, the more you'll panic and it will happen over and over again."
Sherlock averted his gaze; he felt like a scolded child. John sighed again, approached his lips to his neck and whispered, "It's happened to me too. It happens if you're too nervous or too drunk or drugged or if your body's tired. Sherlock, it's nothing to be ashamed of."
Sherlock was aware he was sulking like a schoolboy, but he had lost enough dignity as it was. He wasn't going to lose more by playing along. He heard John huffing.
"Sherlock."
"Hmm?"
"I've told you I'm a man as well."
"I heard you. Well done, John. You're becoming better at making accurate deductions."
"I meant I understood, you dick."
"Really? You've improved."
"I'm also your best friend, aren't I?"
"So what?"
John made an exasperated sigh.
"Sherlock. What I'm saying is that you don't need to impress me – I'm not some young pretty girl you've just met, am I? Stop trusting porn and start trusting me, for God's sake!"
At first, Sherlock felt embarrassed and mutinous – but it wasn't long before a smile that became a laugh broke through his façade. John. Oh, John. You keep me right; always and in all ways. John.
His friend smiled as well. "Now be a good boy and fucking listen to what your doctor says."
"I thought we'd leave porn alone, John."
"Shut up and take your trousers off."
"Hmm. I didn't know you were so bossy in bed. I could get used to it." Sherlock smiled with glee. "Be gentle with me, doc?"
"Continue speaking like that and I'll spank you."
"Hmm... would you?"
They both burst into laughter. They had all the night to be together.
Note1: This is a work of fanfiction based on other works of (fan)fiction and on some real-life names and places. However, it still is just a work of fiction and any resemblance with real-life events is pure coincidence.
Note2: It is not my intention to offend or to put any one ill at ease. If, however, that is the case, I apologize.