I never imagined that the touching and swapping of saliva with another human would prove so necessary to my everyday life. I never imagined myself snogging, much less initiating the action. The friction of mouths and teeth and hands – oh god hands – I now know why there are so many crimes of passion.

Ever since the case was closed, John and I have been growing closer in several ways. Publicly, we were out (and have been since the breakfast incident) but there were less stares and mutters since the Trio had been sent to a correctional school (thanks to Lestrade and bad press on St. Bart's, and in no way due to the actions of the staff here).

The spring semester had flown by, the fastest it has ever seemed to me. The classes weren't as bad, especially when John was next to me. I had a partner for projects, a companion to keep me company, a doctor to heal me and a John to be … John. We were boyfriends, but the term seemed so weak in my eyes that I neglected to use it. Instead, I introduced him as My John, which described him perfectly and matched the possessiveness that 'boyfriend' instilled. According to my mental notes of the past few months, we would snog about 1.7 times per day – but never much further than that.

A kiss, after dinner or homework or in the middle of an experiment would start it off. Gentle, soft presses of lips as our bodies would rearrange themselves – seeking warmth and friction with the other. Usually, we'd go to the closest bed. I'd straddle John (the friction was important) and lean over him. We touched from toes to foreheads, breathing each other's air.

"God, Sherlock," John breathed.

I leaned further and kissed him again. Lips, dry and chapped, slid against mine. His tongue invariably ended up sliding between my willing lips searching and exploring, tangling with my own.

"JohnJohnJohn."

His hands would card through my hair and mine would take turns supporting me and running up his sides and neck. Sometimes, I'd break off to breath and start just under his jaw, pressing firm kisses along until I reached his ear. Experimentally, I had once taken his earlobe between my lips and the result had been very satisfactory for both parties ("Oh, Sher," he said as he arched up into me) and was repeated often. The spot behind his right ear was quite sensitive as well, as the spot was just above my collarbone he liked to attack.

We'd roll over to change positions and then there was no space between us. Hands were no longer used for support and things would get faster and more desperate and there would be groans and uncontrollable bucking (oh, god, my favorite) and hands inside t-shirts until we'd let it simmer down.

But, oh - oh yes - the snogging. The snogging was glorious and never boring and ever different and wonderful. It made me think in sonnets and clichéd phrases found only in greeting cards and bad TV movies. Or good TV movies, come to think of it. This brings us up to date: an oddly scheduled spring break has just begun and campus was quiet the Friday night in question. Almost all of the students fled the moment they could from their last class, and more would leave tomorrow. It was the perfect opportunity to bring up something that had been plaguing me for a few months.

Sex.

Surprise, surprise, we had not done the deed in our many months of a relationship. Even more of a surprise is that we haven't talked about it either. Kissing had led to snogging which led to roaming hands which were usually interrupted with: sleep, class, hunger (on John's part), homework, a knock at the door, bathroom call and on one occasion a murderous clown (but that's a story for another time).

Having no experience in such things, it was hard to know exactly how to make the proposition. I had thought for a while that one day it would just progress to that point, but I had never thought of the during. Maybe, as the less experienced one, John was waiting on my okay to proceed. That is, of course, if John even wishes to proceed. Maybe he did not wish to do… that with me. Maybe thought I didn't want it.

There were too many questions.

I didn't have any friends that weren't John, no confidantes that weren't Mrs. Hudson (and I shudder thinking of asking her) and no relatives besides Mycroft (who's name shouldn't even be thought of in this situation). This left the internet.

Last week, my Google search history was depressing to say the least. Among searches of how-to's regarding gay intercourse, conflicting relationship advice, a few seconds of a video and a live chat with a Phillove69 (quickly over), I concocted a plan.

Romance, I had learned, was the way to go. A nice day and a dinner was the thing to start with. I picked Sunday (two days left) implement the plan. The sex would be brought up causally in conversation by me during the pleasant day, and I would learn about his experience and whether or not to continue with the plans.

Communication was important. I would ask (after determining how he felt about the prospect of having intercourse with me) if he would be amenable to moving forward in our relationship that evening. I would be prepared, in either instance, with back up plans (which included a movie, snogging, or packing my things and changing my name). Condoms and lube were purchased and waiting in a desk drawer, hopefully to be uncovered and opened after a delicious take-away dinner eaten on real paper plates. I haven't decided whether or not to have a candle; it posed a fire risk but was generally included in a romantic situation.

I just had to make sure I was ready so that everything would go according to plan tomorrow.