The door to 221B echoed loudly in the afternoon dimness of the hallway, mostly because he'd closed it with more force than he'd initially intended. John stopped for a moment, half-expecting Mrs. Hudson to come out and see what the fuss was. Instead he stood there briefly, before realising that no one was coming.
With bated breath, John started up the stairs, shedding his coat as he walked. Maybe Sherlock wasn't here, he thought idly. That would be better. He wasn't in the greatest mood for pleasantries and didn't think he had it in him to deal with Happy, Sexually-Satisfied Sherlock. He pushed open the second door and turned to the hooks along the wall, hanging his coat and pretty much ignoring the slumped, pyjama-clad figure spread over the leather couch.
He had expected an immediate, intrusive and perfectly-accurate deduction, but Sherlock carried on reading his (...John's) Kindle, humming the occasional note, and twitching his bare feet peaceably.
John was almost disappointed.
Trying not to feel flabbergasted at Sherlock's lack of deductions, he turned and gave the man one long sweeping appraisal. Sherlock was rarely so... still.
"You haven't deleted all my books again, have you?" he found himself asking, more to the cut the silence than anything.
Sherlock looked up, his expression cherubim, eyes languid and his glossy dark curls looking less wild (manhandled) than they had earlier that day.
"By 'books,' I assume you mean whatever you happened to hear was at the top of the list of bestsellers that month, regardless of the genre. And John...'50 Shades of Grey,' really? I'm disappointed. If you want erotic fiction, I'll give you some recommendations."
No doubt theories tried and tested. John opened his mouth but decided that he didn't want to bumble, so he let out a harsh breath. "Take that as a 'yes', then."
"It wouldn't be worth the milliseconds it would take to delete them. If ever you become a fugitive, and they look into your reading habits to try and glean information about you, they'd have a hell of a job. All they'd know is that you're impressionable and rather bland. Besides, there's plenty of room left on it for things I want to read."
Oh, that was better. There was the Sherlock Holmes he knew.
"Anything else you want to add, there? No?" he kept his tone clipped, because if he didn't give some indicator that he was annoyed then Sherlock would never pick up on it. "If my personal literature choice is too bland for you, why not go and spend your own money on your own bloody Kindle?"
"John," Sherlock sighed, sitting up and swinging his legs to the floor so he could place his long, pale hands in front of his lips in a prayer position and fix him with That Look. "...This isn't really about the Kindle, is it?"
The wording might have generated a snicker from John if Sherlock didn't sound so serious, so...concerned.
It gave John an edge of alarm, but really, what had been expecting?
"Don't do that," he said quickly, pointing accusingly in Sherlock's direction. "The thing you're about to do. Don't deduce me. If you want to know something, just ask."
Sherlock raised his hands in supplication, sitting back in a less aggressive pose, his legs spread lazily and his rumpled dressing gown pooled around him. "You can't deny you enjoy the drama of it," he said, grinning knowingly. "And I'm not the one with questions."
John sighed and pinched the bridge of nose, shaking his head.
"Maybe a few, but that's your business to be honest Sherlock, and I'm not going to pry." Tell me anyway, he added mentally.
"I'll start us off then, since you're so reticent. First question. Why do you think I didn't tell you?" Sherlock asked simply, eyes calm.
How had this suddenly shifted to Sherlock asking the questions? Probably because Sherlock knew he was bloody curious.
"Because it's your business? Although it is common courtesy to put a tie on the door or something."
"To put a what on the door? …Why?" Sherlock frowned, brow furrowing in that way that always made John kind of want to poke the little bump that formed there.
He resisted the urge, but it was a close call, and he felt a bit of tension ease from his shoulders.
"I'm not going to explain that to you. Just give me a heads up next time okay?"
"...I hadn't anticipated you would be home. Up until now, I haven't needed to...warn you. I apologise. I am aware I am...expressive in such situations. I can do little to control it." The blasé pronouncement was not accompanied by any blush or apparent self-consciousness on Sherlock's part.
How did he do that? Just admit to something so intimate without even stuttering?
"You don't... need to apologise," he said carefully. "Just, uh, you know. Let me know beforehand so I can give you, uh, your privacy with..." He tried not to shift from foot to foot, because this was still surreal. "How long have you been with... them?"
"There's only one person, John. I prefer to focus my efforts...completely."
"Oh, yeah, yes. Right." Jesus Christ. The man certainly wasn't lying, and no doubt the other person had the same sex ethics. "Well, is it a serious thing?"
"It's been going on since before you met me."
John searched that grey-green gaze, which managed to appear both guileless and impenetrable at the same time, and saw no hint of an untruth.
So it must have been serious. For Sherlock's face to give nothing away, a trait not all unfamiliar, it must have been true. He couldn't understand why Sherlock had never said anything about it, though, mostly because John had asked him if there were anyone the first time they'd been to Angelo's.
"Right," he said thoughtfully. "Were you ever planning to introduce them to me? Or anyone?"
"Who says you don't already know them?" Sherlock asked in a low tone, grinning fiendishly. He was beginning to enjoy this.
John felt the heat curling up his neck, because Sherlock rarely paid so much attention to him unless he was under the microscope of his eyes.
"Do I?" he asked, maybe a little too enthusiastically. He did notice the way Sherlock's face brightened, the smile taking a curling edge, and he could have punched the man. "You're not going to tell me, are you?"
"That, John is on a need-to-know basis, and the only person who needs to know is me, and the person who is making love to me," he said, a blush finally staining his high cheekbones a rose petal-pink.
John would have revelled in the long-awaited dusting of colour on that pale skin, if he didn't feel a parallel burning in his own. He cleared his throat.
"Yes, well, I get that. But you do know that everyone could hear you, right? That Mrs Hudson can hear you. You might want to... tone it down a little?"
Sherlock's reply was flippant again. "I have tried everything John, believe me. But you know I don't like to waste precious time on bodily needs. Therefore if I must do it, I'll do it properly. I'll only partake in sex if I can guarantee a black-out level orgasm. Otherwise, it's entirely not worth the effort." His blush was disappearing. Sherlock was coy when he discussed 'making love,' but not 'black-level orgasms.' God forbid 'sentiment' could be involved? Hmm…perhaps not.
Maybe that was why Sherlock had never mentioned a partner, because it wasn't actually serious. If Sherlock only 'partook' in that frivolous engagement when he had to, then that wouldn't be the basis of a relationship, would it?
Jesus, Sherlock had a fuck-buddy. And from what John had heard, it was an incredibly gifted buddy. He ran his tongue over his lower lip, unsure whether he was more embarrassed for himself or for Sherlock's lack of subtlety.
"Um, alright."
What else could he say? 'Well I'm still dying to know who it is, what the gender is, and where I can find one because on my own I'm left being constantly rejected and you sounded like you nearly fainted during climax.'
Subtle.
"...Does my behaviour...upset you?" Sherlock seemed genuinely curious as to the answer, as if he wasn't sure if he had once again overstepped the invisible line and done something Not Good.
John did shift at that point, turning to take off his shoes. It was much easier to face the man when he wasn't looking directly at him.
"Upset me? Don't be silly, Sherlock. Just surprised me a bit."
"I'm not...promiscuous. I practice safe sex, if you're worried about that. This is actually the only partner I've ever had."
"Jesus, Sherlock!"
John turned awkwardly on his feet to face him, but he couldn't feel anger towards the man. Not when he was sat with his legs tucked underneath him, his brow furrowed in the way it did when he was trying to understand something. When he was trying to collate the pieces together and move them in tandem.
"I'm really not wanting to know the details, I think I heard enough." Ah, shit. Now he'd admitted to hearing it all. "I trust you know what you're doing. It's fine, please don't explain. Just... A tie. On the door. Humour me."
"You really don't think you would know I was participating in sex unless I hang clothing on the door? What if I just leave earplugs on your pillow," Sherlock chuckled, but soon sobered when John just glared at him.
"A tie. On the door. If you would be so kind," he added with a bite, finally brushing past the man into the kitchen. He should have been able to laugh it off, really he should. So why couldn't he? John flicked the kettle switch and took a deep breath.
"...I could teach you," Sherlock's voice came plaintively. The subsequent silence was as blanketing as the freezing snow that had now evolved from slush to crunch on the grubby London streets.
The mug in John's hand clattered against the counter as the doctor tried to adjust to what Sherlock had just said.
"What?" He turned and moved his head around the door. "What did you just say? Did you... Did you really just say that?"
Sherlock was looking more confident and bright, as if he had finally pin-pointed the nerve centre of John's obvious angst, and could now go about mollifying it. "You were intrigued, when I told you about mastering pleasure. I admit it sounds a lot grander when you say it like that. But I can teach you how, it'll be worth it. God knows you have sex more than I do. Tantric techniques are really only part of it, it's really a fascinating subject, and one unique to each individual person."
John blinked, quite a few times, trying to piece together everything that was wrong with this whole situation.
"I don't need to you teach me," he finally spluttered out. "I just don't need to walk into my own house with moans bouncing off the walls after a long day at work, okay? You want to have mind-blowing sex, fine, but don't rub it in my face."
Calm, calm. John realised he was about to implode, for nothing other than jealousy that Sherlock was not only having sex, but it was far better than John could ever remember having.
Sherlock pressed on, calling out to him, even as John finally started rummaging in the fridge for dinner, considering the conversation to be ended.
"...I wouldn't have to touch you, or even undress you. No-one could consider it homosexual."
The detective flinched as the response that greeted him was not, in fact, John's heartfelt agreement and a warm chuckle, but a sound that was indisputably a mug being hurled at the tiled wall, ceramic shards raining onto the counter. Sherlock squirmed back into the sofa as the hot-headed doctor appeared, snarling and apparently furious.
"Fuck you, Sherlock, it's not about that. Keep your hands to yourself and your friend. Don't talk to me about this shit just because you two have nothing to say to each other. You've proved once again that you're superior to me. Fine, I accept it. You even fuck better than me. And now you think I'd be grateful for a hands-on demonstration. Well, fuck off."
His breath was heavy, even as Sherlock practically cowered on the sofa. It took three long breaths for the doctor to notice the slight change in Sherlock's face. He recognised it, the lowering of the eyes, the pursed lips, the crumpled chin.
Oh for fuck's sake. John raked his hand through his hair.
"Look, Sherlock. No. Just... No."
"Um...I think I'm going to stop talking now," Sherlock said weakly, his face looking even more pale than usual. A nervous blue vein throbbed in his temple.
"Sorry...I just...let's just...forget that. Come 'ere," John said apologetically, leaving down and giving Sherlock a quick, rare hug. He pulled back and almost laughed at Sherlock's apparent bemusement. "Want to get rat-arsed?"
Sherlock's eyes flickered over John's face, as if he were searching for something. No doubt he was seeing every thought, or lack thereof, passing over his features. It was only one moment of stillness, but the detective must have understood something, because the pout vanished, replaced by that giddy post-orgasm excitement.
"If you like."