FIC: The Seven-Day Virgin 2/7 (Sherlock BBC)
Title: The Seven-Day Virgin: Day Two
Author: Keelywolfe
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Wordcount:8000, this chapter.
Rating: NC-17
Pairing(s): John/Sherlock
Genre: First-times, Humor
Warning(s): None
Summary:In thirty-odd years, Sherlock hasn't felt the urge to lose his virginity. Until John Watson. God help him. Set after 'A Scandal in Belgravia'.
Continued from Day One
~~*~~
Day Two
John's room at Baker Street had come with a double bed and sinfully comfortable sheets. He'd never asked if had been Sherlock or Mrs Hudson who had furnished the flat, although neither would surprise him. Sherlock had a ludicrous amount of possessions for a man who didn't have a steady job.
It was a welcome change from the narrow bed he'd had at his temporary flat and miles better than the army cots that had been standard in Afghanistan, and normally when John collapsed onto it after night of chasing criminals through the seedy underbelly of London he had no trouble sleeping the sleep of the just.
Normally he hadn't also had a bit of a shag with his flatmate earlier in the evening, though, and exhausted as he was, well-dosed with pain killers to keep the ache of his bruised ribs at a minimum, John couldn't drift off. The bluish glow of his alarm clock obediently counted down the minutes for him and at 3:01 a.m., John rolled over, again, with an impatient sigh, tugging his pillow over his head as he tried to stop thinking about the night.
Dinner had been…strange, as strange as their first meal together had been with Angelo playing an Italian cupid and Sherlock eyeing the street for a serial killer while John made awkward conversation. Orgasm hadn't changed Sherlock's desire for their traditional near-death dinner fare and they'd shared a cab back to the flat, John curled mutely into one corner, watching the blur of streets and shops outside the window, his thoughts awhirl. Broaching the subject foremost in his mind had not seemed particularly enticing with a bored cabbie as audience and Sherlock hadn't been interested in talking.
Not true; Sherlock was always interested in talking in cabs, just not about the subjects that John would have preferred. By the time they'd gotten back to the flat to change, Sherlock had informed him about the kind of detonator their bomber had used and about the psychological profile of most bombers while John tried not to be horrified at the faint appreciation in Sherlock's voice as he spoke about their meticulous nature, their attention to detail.
"That they use to kill people, Sherlock," John pointed out, quietly, the first words he'd spoken since they left the hospital.
"Yes," Sherlock agreed, "Like most people, they misappropriate their best skills. It's a shame our local criminal was so eager to move past rubbish bins and skips; if he'd planned better like most of that ilk, we wouldn't have stopped him so easily."
"That and his preference for organically grown bananas…"
It was something of a relief that reminder launched Sherlock into a different segue on the history of banana shipping. The last was an honest surprise to John; Sherlock couldn't tell him who the Prime Ministers of the last century were but he knew about bananas. He'd was honestly curious why Sherlock had retained that titbit, some banana smuggling scheme he'd managed to overthrow? Not that it hadn't been useful in finding the location of their rubbish bin bomber; the man left one banana peel at a scene and it had been all Sherlock needed.
John supposed he'd have to rehash this all out with Lestrade tomorrow, along with another scolding. He didn't really blame Lestrade for being less than pleased to find he and Sherlock had gone to confront the bomber on their own. At least the explosion had been contained to the man's run-down flat, although how Sherlock had connected the bananas with the man was still a bit of a mystery to John. He supposed he'd hear about that the next day as well.
At Baker Street, John had gone to his room first and let Sherlock have the shower, digging through his rapidly shrinking allotment of clothing for something clean and neither blood-stained nor charred. He added 'do laundry' to his mental list for the week.
Sherlock was already out of the bathroom and changing by the time John came back down. He took a minute to wash up and changed into his fresh clothes, pausing to look at himself in the mirror. His hair was still damp and spikey, and the scattering of bruises on his face from his collision with a falling brick wall were shading into deeper yellowish-purple with the passage of time.
He just looked like himself, John Watson, M.D., formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, and now, it would seem, seducer of genius virginal flatmates in public toilets. Of all titles he'd thought to be adding to his name, that was not one of them.
All right, perhaps seducer was the wrong word for it. After all, he hadn't done much seducing at all. Mostly, he'd been dragged about, tossed up against walls, and then, orgasms. John couldn't even say for certain he had kissed Sherlock first. Thus far, the order of his evening was explosion, doctors, Lestrade, bathroom, and orgasms. And it wasn't over yet.
Sherlock was waiting impatiently by the time John came out of the bathroom, already be-scarfed and be-coated…wait. John gave the suspiciously clean coat a narrow look. Did Sherlock actually have a spare coat at the flat?
He might have asked and earned either a withering look from Sherlock at the obviousness of his question or perhaps an approving one for his observation, only Sherlock was already walking out the door with said coat swirling behind him in an enigmatic and attractive way.
John groaned to himself. Oh, do stop it, he told his brain sternly. There were several conversations to be had about their state of being before he was allowed to ogle Sherlock lasciviously.
Conversations that were quite conspicuously not happening. It didn't happen in the foyer at Baker Street, didn't happen on the walk to their favourite local Chinese restaurant, and continued not happening as they stood waiting for their usual table to be cleared. It wasn't the best Chinese food John had ever had but it was quite good, it was close, and as Sherlock had stated, there was something to be said for tradition.
John was hardly up to the standards of the world's only consulting detective when it came to observing details. He'd be the first to admit that and he would stand stoically while Sherlock enthusiastically agreed with that statement. In his favour, however, he had been in a number of relationships and when their hostess came to lead them to their table it did not escape his notice that Sherlock set a hand on him, automatically, to draw him along.
On its own that meant nothing; Sherlock was not shy about touching, willing to lean over John's shoulder to read whatever he was writing, sprawled out on the sofa with his feet pressing against John's leg. This touch was different, one simple touch collecting him up, a hand lingering possessively at the small of his back. Not conclusive evidence by any means but certainly something.
And when John figured out exactly what he wanted to do about that possessive little touch, Sherlock would be the first to know.
Dinner was a simple enough affair; after the Chinese circus case Sherlock had been determined to learn Chinese, Mandarin and Cantonese respectively, and practised it frequently with their elderly hostess, leaving John resigned to life without a menu and eating whatever Sherlock deduced he was craving on any given night. She tolerated it fairly enough, John assumed, and only occasionally corrected his pronunciation. Sherlock, who normally hated being proven wrong, swiftly accepted her corrections and she smiled at him like a proud mother at her child when he parroted them back to her. If he hadn't had physical proof otherwise, John would have thought Sherlock's tastes ran along the lines of middle aged women. In reality it seemed more like Sherlock was a mummy's boy without a mummy.
All in all, it was absurdly normal, for them. Dinner, conversation with minimal discussion about corpses per John's previously laid down rules, and fortune cookies at the end. If John hadn't paused in between bites of fried rice, remembering the sounds Sherlock had made echoing in a tiny bathroom, if he hadn't jerked every time Sherlock's feet bumped his under the table, each touch crackling like lightening in Sherlock's pale eyes, John might have thought the entire thing was a particularly vivid paracetamol hallucination.
Back at the flat, it had been a round of mumbled good nights before John climbed the stairs to his room, only to find himself in his sinfully comfortable bed, utterly unable to sleep.
Sherlock had asked him to wait to have his conniption; it was only a shame it had decided to pop to life at arse o'clock in the morning. Him and Sherlock, in a hospital bathroom, having a snog and a grope. Him. And Sherlock. His flatmate. His male flatmate. Grope and snog.
He supposed he should be upset about it. Worried, perhaps, over the state of their friendship. Breaking down into some crisis about his sexuality, fretting over kissing a bloke, wondering about whether he was bisexual or had he been gay his entire life, hiding his true nature behind a few shags with women.
He probably shouldn't be lying awake thinking about the taste, the feel, of Sherlock's mouth but there you have it. John never could do anything the normal way.
As conniptions went, this one had fallen mostly flat.
The only real question seemed to be did he want to continue with this?
After a laughable short mental debate, the answer he kept coming back to really fell along the lines of 'might as well'. All in all, it was nearly anti-climactic. He and Sherlock already shared a flat, they already lined up their toothbrushes next to each other. They ate dinner together more often than not and breakfast when Sherlock felt like eating it. They tended to spend their days, and their nights, together, as well as most of the time in between. Adding in a bit of shagging almost seemed like a forgone conclusion.
All that was left was finding out just what Sherlock wanted out of this. Sherlock, who'd spent the bulk of his life as a virgin. The thought that he might not want to tack on shagging to their normal activities…all right, their bizarre, dangerous activities that had nearly gotten them blown up, no point in splitting hairs…was more terrifying to John than the act itself.
There was nothing for it. They were just going to have to talk about it in the morning or rather, after sleeping since morning was already well established. John firmly closed his eyes and commanded his brain to sleep and after another wistful memory of Sherlock's mouth against his own, he did.
It was only just past dawn when he woke again. One year as a civilian hadn't dismissed the habit of living on military time and John was wide awake by the time the sun crept in through the slats in his window blinds despite his broken hours of sleep.
He crawled out of bed with a yawn, hesitating over his robe and then decided to get dressed. Better to be fully clothed today for whatever chat was going to happen at some point. Perhaps after they'd gone to Scotland Yard, Sherlock would probably be in a snit beforehand and in John's experience that did not lead to good conversations.
Downstairs, Sherlock was sprawled on the sofa, his dressing grown open over the t-shirt and pyjama bottoms he preferred to lounge about in, both of which probably cost more than most of John's wardrobe combined. Honestly, for a man who didn't care about fashion, he kept up with it particularly well.
"Oh, you're up," John said, unnecessarily. He was pointedly not noticing that Sherlock looked rather nice rumpled up in the morning, his ankles and feet bare, curled up against the chill as Sherlock contemplated the ceiling.
"Your grasp of the obvious is particularly scintillating this morning."
"Good morning to you, too," John muttered, wandering into the kitchen. He needed caffeine before he could deal with anything this morning. And toast. Toast was a requirement, a yeasty barrier of protection against Sherlock's obvious mood. He hadn't expected him to be sulking about having to go down to the Yard so early.
He had a plate made up quickly, butter scraped over his nearly burnt toast and a cup instant coffee. Foul-tasting but the caffeine infusion would be a help. Carrying it out to the sitting room to eat was more wishful thinking than hope; very rarely the smell of toast would entice Sherlock into filching a piece and he did tend to be in a better mood with a little food in him.
It was only as John got closer that he got a good look at Sherlock. The bluish shadows under his eyes were near-livid and the bruises on his face were stark in the morning brightness, one long scrape rusty with dried blood along his cheek.
"Did you even sleep last night?" John asked, appalled.
"Noooo," Sherlock lifted his hands long enough to drawl out and then returned his fingers to their normal posture against his lips.
Well, that set the tone for the morning. With a growing sense of dread, John tossed back his coffee with a grimace and set down his plate, toast untouched. If Sherlock hadn't slept then that meant something was twisting its way 'round his brain and John wasn't sure he was up to dealing with whatever it was just yet. Unless it was a case, that was entirely possible, perhaps something they'd missed from their friendly neighbourhood bomber?
"Did you want some tea?" John offered with desperate brightness, "I was going to make tea. And eggs, but I'm not sure you'd want any if you're on a case. Are you on a case? Did you…get one from the website last night?"
Sherlock didn't move. "John, you spent the entire evening wondering when we were going to talk about the bathroom incident. Pretending amnesia is not going to stop it from happening now."
"I'm not pretending-" John began, exasperated, yes, a bit flustered, certainly, this wasn't supposed to be happening yet, they were supposed to talk after Scotland Yard and Sherlock, of course, had to change all the schedules to fit his preferences… and then he saw the photos.
Oh, dear God. There, above the mantel in a pastiche of the normal crime scene diorama that often decorated it, was a massive collection of photographs, printouts, what have you. All organized in a cluttery mass of naked limbs and body parts that surely could only make sense to Sherlock.
"Sherlock," John said, distantly proud of his calm, even tone. "Was this what you were doing last night?"
"No, the pornography fairy paid us a visit while you slept. Of course I did it last night!"
Naturally. Because people often stayed up late into the night coming up with complex photo collages of naked people. No…John squinted at it, warily. Naked blokes, rather. All splayed out in complex positions, either wrapped up with a partner or staring lustfully at the camera. John wasn't sure what Sherlock was going for with that monstrosity but John's foremost emotion was disturbed.
A terrible thought occurred. "Has Mrs Hudson been up here yet today?" he demanded.
"She brought up the shopping, didn't stay for tea," Sherlock said absently.
"Oh, well, good. Great. That's perfect." John scrubbed a hand over his face tiredly and wished, fleetingly, he'd gone ahead and had a lie-in. It mightn't have stopped the conversation any more than an inexplicable case of amnesia but he could have had at least one thing in his favour today.
"Well?" Sherlock drawled, let the word drag along his tongue like speaking it was all the effort he was willing to put forth.
"Well, what?"
Sherlock's sigh was so rife with exasperation that John had to resist the urge to rip the sound from the air and strangle the man with it. "You've been waiting to discuss the incident."
"Oh. Right. All right, then. Let's…let's do this. Last night at the hospital we had a bit of a snog."
"My research would indicate that it was something slightly more than that."
That gave John a pause. "Research?"
Sherlock turned his head and gave the pictures above the mantel a pointed look. "The question of virginity is apparently quite fluid. The variance of sex acts, the duration, location. Any number of details can adversely affect the data."
"Fluid?" John repeated, weakly, wondering just when he'd lost the thread of this conversation.
"John, if you aren't going to pay attention-"
"I am paying attention!" he burst out, "Only we seem to be having the wrong conversation. I'm quite sure we were about to discuss our near-shag in a dirty, public toilet!"
"It was perfectly clean," Sherlock insisted.
"What bloody difference does it make?" John shouted, his concern over their neighbours evaporating in the face of early morning insanity and whether it was him or Sherlock who was insane, well, John thought you'd have to be crazy to even try figuring it out.
"What difference? Let's say you're sorting through the catalogue of your memories," Sherlock paused, eyebrows drawing together as he considered. "For the purposes of this experiment, we'll pretend that you catalogue your memories. And in the newly formed section regarding sexual activity, you have your first kiss alongside your first orgasm provided by another person. Where would you rather it took place, in a filthy disease-ridden lavatory or a nice clean one?"
Oh, God. John stared back at Sherlock in horror, felt his stomach drop out. Bad enough he'd been the one to do it and never mind that Sherlock had been the one to drag them into the lav to begin with but said like that, John was fairly sure that alongside his newly dissolved partnership with any deities this was going to lead straight to him going to Hell.
One corner of Sherlock's mouth quirked upward and on him it was as good as a grin. John glared at him. "You do realize you're about the biggest bastard I've ever met," John informed him conversationally.
"Nonsense. My parents were married both before my conception and well after my birth. Aside from that, Mycroft is at least two inches and three stone larger than I am." Sherlock shifted on the sofa, rolling over to lie on his side and actually looked at John for a change. "Honestly, John, I'm not sure why this is so troublesome to you. Coming from someone whose first kiss was standing on the girl's porch and first sex act was in the backseat of car, a hospital lavatory is hardly as gruesome as all that."
"How did you--no, don't tell me. I'd rather not know. Just…explain things for me. Why…what…what are we even discussing right now?"
Sherlock sighed, "You want to discuss yesterday's incident. I, on the other hand, was thinking that I might enjoy you coming close enough for another kiss."
If John had been concerned about it, it was probably not a good mark on the side of heterosexuality that John's mouth went a little damp just thinking about it. He swallowed it away; no, they needed to have this particular chat first. "I'm not sure that's a good idea right now, Sherlock."
"So kissing is only acceptable when you’re the one doing it?" Sherlock asked peevishly. He flopped back over, hiding against the back of the sofa.
"No, of course not, that isn't what I meant-"
"You're the one who kissed ME at the hospital."
"That's…that's true." John supposed it was true if Sherlock was telling him so, he honestly didn't remember past the wet touch of mouths and the way Sherlock had tasted like a sweet, bloody mess. "But I was not the one who dragged you into the dirty bathroom."
"Clean bathroom."
John rubbed his hands over his face. "Sherlock, exactly what is it that you are trying to do here? Let's clear this up. Please. I don't even understand why you're researching all this. I won't be part of some experiment."
"You think I'd use losing my virginity as an experiment?"
"Yes," John said instantly.
Sherlock's half-muffled laugh was in no way comforting. "So you want to discuss what happened last night even though both of us know EXACTLY what happened. You've been increasingly interested me in a sexual fashion, particularly since it was pointed out to you that our relationship is more similar to that shared by couples rather than flatmates or friends. That interest facilitated you kissing me last night while we were both still under the influence of adrenaline and narcotics and as I have felt an increased interest along the lines of yours, I responded in a universally appropriate fashion."
It took him a moment to parse that bit of Sherlockian observation but when he did…there was simply no way to not be flattered by that. John was under no illusions about himself. A desire for excitement aside, he was not much more than an ordinary bloke and Sherlock was…nothing less than extraordinary. And he'd just admitted right here in the light of morning that he found John interesting.
"Only this morning you're obviously having doubts. Perhaps you're concerned about the state of our friendship or the way our status as flatmates will be affected by the modification of our relationship. Or perhaps it's the homosexual aspect that's troubling you. Understandable, a man of your stature would be reluctant to relinquish any amount of masculinity he'd managed to achieve, particularly considering your military background," Sherlock spat, his voice increasingly bitter.
Oh, a jab right in the ego, was it. Sherlock upset became Sherlock prickly rude, lashing out, and John wasn't about to fall for it. John stood and walked over to sit on the edge of the couch and Sherlock froze mid-breath as John settled a hand on the middle of his chest.
"The homosexual aspect doesn't bother me," John said quietly. "I'm just a little concerned, is all. You told me yourself that you’re a virgin. What you haven't mentioned is why-"
"Why I'm a virgin? Because I haven't wanted to have sex with anyone, John." The 'obviously' was heavily implied but John was relieved to hear he was at least calmer.
"Except here you are, now, wanting to have sex with me. You're even researching it," he gestured at the porn-board, resolutely did not look at it. "Why, exactly, are you researching it?
"I wanted there to be no question that you've relieved me of every aspect of my virginity."
Oh, fuck. John blinked hard, swallowed, and firmly crossed his legs. Down, boy. "Sherlock, are you absolutely sure you want to do this?"
"In thirty years, you're the first person I have ever wanted to touch me and you're asking if I am SURE?" Sherlock demanded
John persisted, though, despite Sherlock's verbal argument and his prick's internal one. "And you're absolutely sure it's me you want to do this with?"
"John, I have been through public school, Uni, several bouts of drug rehab and a handful of flatmates and in all that time, I have never so much as had someone else hands down my pants. I never even had the urge until I met you. I think it's fair to say I'm sure."
"Fair enough."
"Good. Now will you come here!"
"Right now?" John started to stand, toppled back gently on the sofa as Sherlock grabbed his knee and held on. "I'm not doing it right this minute! I…I just made toast!"
"John, if toast is of more interest to you than sexual interaction with me, then I'm having some serious concerns about this working out."
Last night with the adrenaline still humming through him and Sherlock's mouth inches from his own, it had been easy to dive in. Press their mouths together and go along for the ride. Now, sitting here in their flat on Baker Street, it was strange and awkward and Sherlock was eying him resentfully for not jumping him the moment he announced his scheme.
Christ.
"Sherlock," John said, carefully, in the tone he reserved for moments when Sherlock was being particularly difficult. "You are exhausted. If you didn't sleep last night then you're on the tail end of 72 hours of not sleeping. This is not a good time to start with this. You need to get some sleep first."
"I can't." Sullenly.
"You can't," John repeated, slowly.
"No," Sharp snarl. "I can't sleep."
Ah. Not won't, but literally, could not. That made all the difference and John softened, helplessly. "What do you want me to do?"
"Come here?"
He did, let Sherlock pulled him down on top of him. Bony and thin, all elbows and knees and then Sherlock twisted beneath him somehow, eased the sprawl of their limbs together until John had his head pressed to Sherlock's chest, their legs twined together.
It was strange, John couldn't deny that. He was far more accustomed to soft curves against him, breasts and cushy bottoms, the bitter taste of lipstick after kisses. Sherlock could be described as anything but soft. Weedy and slim, every part of him bone and muscle and tendons. Flat where a woman would be rounded, angular where there should be curvy hips and thighs. Strange, to be sure. But not unpleasant.
Warm breath tousled against the top of his head and John tipped his head a bit, felt Sherlock bury his face into his hair and inhale, deeply. A softer touch and John realized Sherlock was pressing a kiss against his scalp. It was unexpected to the extreme and John swallowed dryly, certain parts of him responding eagerly to having a lovely, warm body against him.
He wanted this, John could admit to that. As far as men went, John was as much a virgin as Sherlock but at least he'd had sex and he wasn't about to take their relationship much further with the chronic insomniac before Sherlock had reset his brain function to something other than damn well exhausted.
Only, Sherlock was bloody well cuddling him and showed no sign of falling asleep anytime soon.
"Sherlock," John said, shifting gingerly until he could look up. "I know that you don't sleep or eat on cases but there does come a point where a lack of both is going to degrade brain function."
Sherlock's eyes were bluer in the morning light, resting on him. They were normally impassive, alive only with the ideas held behind them and just now they were filled with something like heat as they met John's eyes. "I know," he said, simply.
Right. Course he did. John took a deep breath, felt his chest press tighter against Sherlock's with it. "But you can't sleep."
"No."
Right again. John wanted so very much to look away, hide his eyes and he resisted the urge. He couldn't go into this with his eyes closed no matter how much easier it would be. It couldn't always be Sherlock dragging him off to the dir-to the clean bathroom. John held his gaze steadily, met that soft blue with his own. "And you want to do this, with me. Reduce your semi-virginal state to nonexistence?"
"Yes?" Sherlock agreed, a little warily.
John nodded, slowly, braced his hands against the sofa on either side of Sherlock and pushed himself up until he was upright, straddling Sherlock's slim waist. "I'd tell you to tell me if you want to stop but I think we both know you have no trouble speaking up."
"I've never had difficulty expressing my feelings over any subject….what are you doing?" Sherlock voice caught, a slightly higher note at the end as John pushed up what he thought of as Sherlock's lounge-about t-shirt. Let his hands glide upward with it, smoothing over silky skin until he'd rucked up the fabric to Sherlock's underarms.
"I'm a doctor," John reminded him, couldn't help smiling at the annoyed quirk to Sherlock's mouth. Yes, yes, stating the obvious. He ran his hands down the narrow chest, scratched his nails lightly through the tiny, curling hairs that led downward. "I'm quite familiar with sleep aids." A somewhat unnerving thought occurred to him, one that had to be asked. "I know you haven't done anything with another person, but have you ever masturbated?"
Relief coursed through him as Sherlock sighed impatiently, an answer in and of itself. Not that it stopped Sherlock from verbal confirmation. "Yes, of course, as has probably most virgins in the world. Just because I haven't had the urge to have another person groping me does not mean I don't have a libido...ah!"
John had scraped his thumbnail over one tight, pink nipple more out of curiosity than arousal but the sound Sherlock made, the way he twitched, hips pushing up automatically, made John do it again.
Sensitive, then. Sherlock already had his eyes closed, long lashes shading over the bluish circles beneath them. Not in any way was he close to sleep, not with his mouth parted, white teeth digging into his lower lip and the sharp breath he drew when John pinched his nipple lightly was entirely too enticing at this hour of the morning.
If he'd had trouble sleeping last night, unable to quiet his wandering thoughts, how must it be for Sherlock whose mind never seemed to take a break?
Those lashes lifted, pale eyes peering at him from beneath. "John?"
He realized he'd gone still and slid his hands into motion again. "It's all right," he soothed. "I'm right here."
"I can feel your hands on me and they are too warm to be severed. I'm fully aware you're right there."
"And you complained about my pillow talk?" John muttered.
A little more petting might reduce the chances of any more talk of severed limbs. John drew his hands down Sherlock's sides, felt the outline of his ribs through the thin skin. The man really did need to eat more...
His thought was cut off by Sherlock's violent twitch, his arms tightened to his sides to force John to stillness and he belatedly realized he'd been tickling him. Oh, that was too delicious and he grinned up at Sherlock's thin glare.
"Don't," Sherlock warned and John only gave him a sweet smile.
"Oh, wouldn't think of it, love. Lay back, you're supposed to be relaxing."
Sherlock warily let him pull his hands free, tense against any coming attack. He relaxed when John only let his hands slide down the tautness of his belly, the soft fine hair downy against his fingertips until he hit the barrier of Sherlock's pyjama bottoms. John drew in a long, shaky breath; he wanted this, he honestly did, but with the immediacy of it staring him in the face, his confidence was wavering.
Sherlock was unmoving beneath him, watching him through his lashes and John met the silent challenge in his eyes, thumbing the buttons at the flies until he could smooth it open. Sherlock wasn't wearing anything beneath it.
His cock was much like the man himself, long and slim, cupped in a soft nest of dark hair, the only place Sherlock seemed to have much hair except for that on his head. A swell of glistening wetness at the tip was shockingly vivid evidence that Sherlock did, in fact, want this. As though the rise of his hips against John's weight wasn't hint enough, Sherlock drawing in a stuttering gasp of air, rocking up against John in silent demand.
Well, then.
He kept his eyes on his own hands, the sharp contrast of his tanned skin against the paleness of Sherlock's hips as he dragged his thumbs down the length and back up again. The sound Sherlock made startled him into looking back up and John watched, entranced, as Sherlock tipped his head back with a moan, his tongue fluttering against his lower lip as though trying to speak. Trying, and failing, nothing escaped him but wordless sound and John slid his thumbs down again. Rubbing the looseness of the foreskin against the head made Sherlock thrash almost violently, nearly tipping John off his lap.
He managed to keep his balance and wrapped his hand awkwardly around the length of it. The angle was different than with his own prick, and it felt different in his hand, slimmer, longer, strange. Sherlock was a virgin but this was new territory for John as well. He'd touched another man's cock before but always through the thin latex of gloves and there was nothing at all seductive about a physical, the chemistry in the brain shut down in favour of the clinical nature of being a doctor.
Strange, yes, awkwardly, certainly, but it wasn't as though John didn't know what to do. He tested his grip, found a pressure that made Sherlock moan loudly, his hands scrabbling over the smooth leather of the cushions as he sought out something to cling to. Sherlock was already close, leaking enough to make everything smooth and easy. John stroked him quickly, watched as Sherlock writhed against the cushions, a sheen of sweat rising on his skin, dampening his hair. Barely touched and he was already a whimpering mess, pleading incoherently, and Christ, if he wasn't lovely. How had he gone this long in life untouched? It didn't seem possible; Sherlock who usually seemed as prickly as a wet cat came undone at only a few strokes, a single hand wrapped around his cock. Practically gagging to be touched and kissed and fucked.
Jesus.
Beneath his spread legs, Sherlock managed to shift a bit and pushed his thigh up against John's crotch unerringly, a warm line of pressure that dragged his thoughts back to his memory of the hospital, his own hard cock aching for him to ride against that offered body. Still… "Hold on," John began, had to close his eyes as Sherlock slid his leg against him with perfect force. "This is supposed to be about you."
A broken laugh made him look up, met darkened, languid eyes. Sherlock's mouth was red, a flush of colour staining his cheeks, spilling down to his chest, "If I'd wanted it to be about me, I would have tossed off in the shower, John."
John drew in a shaky breath and nodded, and any protest Sherlock might have had over John letting him go was instantly muted as John stripped his shirt over his head and tossed it aside. Not that he was trying to out-nude Sherlock just now, only he was starting to run low on clothing that wasn't blood splattered or scorched. Didn't much want to add any more bodily fluids to the few shirts he had left. With quick, jerky movements he opened his own trousers, tugging them down just below his hips.
"Oh," Sherlock breathed and John paused, just starting to lean over Sherlock. It left him on his hands and knees above him, his own hardened cock a heavy weight between his legs and he nearly flinched as startlingly cool hands wrapped around him possessively. Christ, it was like Sherlock had an abnormal amount of fingers, fluttering over him, touching every inch of skin, even cupping his balls firmly enough that he drew in a sharp breath through his clenched teeth.
"Easy," he gritted out and instantly, Sherlock gentled, both hands sliding up his cock in an entirely gorgeous way, one after the other in a tight, quick jerk.
"You like that," Sherlock stated, and John managed to nod curtly, sure that blurting out, 'Of course, I fucking like it, idiot' would ruin the mood. The way one side of Sherlock's quirked up in a half-smile made him think Sherlock heard his mental insult anyway and he swore aloud when Sherlock let him go, his freshly warmed, damp hands gliding up John's chest to his shoulders.
"Kiss me," Sherlock demanded and John collapsed down on him in relief, the warmth of his belly not quite a replacement for his hands but it gave John something to push against, riding the hard, flat plane of it as he pressed their mouths together for the first time this morning. Odd, was it, to be groping each other's cocks without so much of a kiss? John didn't know, not like they ever did anything the normal way. It was good to be kissing him now, slicking their tongues together messily. Sherlock kissed like…well, like someone who hadn't done it much, or ever really, and John only rubbed his mouth wetly against his and delighted in his eager inexperience.
"Come on," Sherlock mumbled into his mouth, wriggling and shifting beneath him and John only had the haziest idea of what he was up to until he felt the hard, eager length of Sherlock's cock against his own.
Oh, right.
He might have been embarrassed that it was the virgin who got things back on track if he didn't know that Sherlock had been researching sex all night long. Instead, he groaned into Sherlock's mouth, reached down and wrapped his hand around both of them the best he could. Oh, that felt fucking amazing, Sherlock's cock rubbing against his own and John wished desperately that he could use both hands, that he didn't have to brace himself on one arm to keep their mouths together.
Again, Sherlock seemed to understand him with a silent sort of telepathy and John wondered dimly if he'd gotten his wish for it of the night before a bit late. Then any fanciful thoughts were torn away by the feel of Sherlock's hand over his own, gripping tightly, matching John stroke for stroke as they slid slickly between their shared palms.
"Ohh...oh..that feels…John," Sherlock moaned into John's mouth, pouring each word into him in a frantic overflow. His hips were snapping up sharply, thrusting his cock into the tight clasp of their hands and John was only along for the ride, distantly aware of thick, desperate sounds rising from his own throat. This was…it was…yes, just like that, like Sherlock's feverish, broken words were tracing their way up to John's brain and settling in.
He could feel the crest of it rising in Sherlock, the tremble in his thighs, his tongue going lax against John's, and the shattered, staggered hitch of his hips as he pushed up into their hands once, again, and then groaned out a last, broken little sound; John's name.
The hot, wet spill over their combined hands tore a harsh cry from John, the feel of it, Christ, Sherlock was coming against him, coming all over him, slickening their grip. John shook away Sherlock's loosened hand, palmed himself hard and stroked with tight, vicious pulls, and that was all he could take, all he could stand, orgasm sparking bright behind his eyes as he followed Sherlock over the edge, coming in a hard, fluid rush over Sherlock's softening cock and belly.
Whatever strength John managed to retain throughout all this abandoned him promptly, his supporting arm folding under him until he was sprawled out on Sherlock, the wet evidence of their sex sticky between their stomachs and soon, John would probably care about that. Just now, John buried his face into Sherlock's startlingly prickly throat, confirmation that Sherlock hadn't even gotten up long enough to shave this morning.
It was just another facet of strange to his gem of a morning. Not that he was complaining, bloody hell, no. John couldn't remember a time when a handjob had left him so wrecked and if he felt like this, Sherlock must be feeling…well. John had no idea, no point of reference to work with for the aftermath with his antisocial, semi-virginal flatmate.
Concern helped John manage to lift his head, ready to soothe any after-sex jitters might be arising. Far from that, to John's bemused eyes Sherlock was already sound asleep, mouth slightly opened as he breathed deeply, silently, his lashes only barely quivering against his cheeks.
Jitters would have to wait then. Past experience had taught John that when Sherlock finally slept, he did it only just above the level of coma and when he finally managed to heave himself to his feet, he wasn't surprised that Sherlock didn't so much as twitch, sprawled out as John had left him, sticky and more than a little naked. Rather than tug his clothes back down over the mess, John chose to get a wet cloth from the bathroom first, wiping him down gently. Handling his softened prick was only slightly more familiar, reminiscent of giving a sponge bath to a patient on the occasions he'd been without a nurse. Having it twitch in his hand, already starting to harden was certainly a change and John hastily tucked Sherlock back into his pyjamas before this became less about cleaning and more about molesting the unconscious.
The flat was chilly this early in the morning and John pulled his shirt back over his head almost absently, wandering back into Sherlock's bedroom for a blanket. Sherlock would sleep through the chill without waking but to John's eyes he was already restless from it, turning towards to back of the sofa and drawing his legs up. Cold was the one element that tested the very limits Sherlock's tolerance.
The way Sherlock burrowed into the blanket as John tucked it around him was further proof and John made sure that his bare feet were well-covered, every bit of him from his toes to his eyebrows swathed in blanket. Just to keep him from waking up early, John told himself. Honestly, it was better for everyone that Sherlock get a nice, long rest.
He was already back in the kitchen, munching on his cold toast despite the congealed butter coating it, when he noticed the time.
Half-past ten. Shit. Lestrade was going to kill him.
But the only other option was waking Sherlock and John would cheerfully hand over his spleen and perhaps a kidney to Lestrade before trying to wake him up early. Sherlock was likely to hand him his own kidney if he did; not a morning person did not even begin to describe it.
John sighed aloud. No help for it, he was going to have to call. Sherlock might prefer to text but John's mum had raised him with better manners than Sherlock had managed to acquire.
It was doubtful that Sherlock would even stir but John went up to his bedroom to make the call anyway, dialing Lestrade's private number rather than trying to puzzle his way through the Yard's automated phone service.
"Greg?" John said cautiously as Lestrade picked up with nothing more than a curt, Where are you two?! "Ah, right, yes, I know we're supposed to be down there. Right. Yes. I know, but he's in a bad way this morning, up all night. Well, to be fair we did almost get blown up…" John winced and held the phone away from his ear as the volume increased exponentially, interspersed with much more creative swearing than Lestrade had shown the night before. He must be alone in his office. "I know, I know, I'll have him down there, soon as he wakes up."
More swearing and the threats were getting increasingly inventive. Hastily, John held the phone up to his mouth alone and said, loudly, "Right, then, we'll be seeing you soon, Inspector!" and jammed a finger on the end call button. So much for manners, then.
What to do until Sherlock woke, then. His laundry was overflowing in the hamper; a pointed, silent indication that he'd rather been neglecting it lately and John took the hint, heaved up the basket and carried it as quietly as he could down the stairs.
He was most of the way to the door leading out from the kitchen when John heard his name spoken in sleepy, peevish tones, "John?"
Shit.
"Right here," John set down the basket and leaned into the living room to find Sherlock propped up on his elbows, blinking tiredly at him.
"You left," Sherlock said, his voice hoarse with much-needed sleep and so guilelessly lost that John felt a sharp ache of guilt in the middle of his chest. He had left, hadn’t he, after Sherlock first real sexual experience, he'd gone off and left him alone. Of course, he'd expected Sherlock to sleep longer than twenty minutes but that wasn't much of an excuse.
"I'm sorry," John said honestly and Sherlock blinked up at him owlishly, seemed to be trying to process it. John wondered if he was even truly awake; outside of being drugged he'd never seen Sherlock so out of sorts.
"Come back?" he asked, sleepily hopeful and John couldn’t have resisted with a gun to his head. He quickly set the basket aside and moving to sit next to him. And found himself promptly tugged into Sherlock's arms, drawn back down against him as Sherlock nestled equal parts into the blanket and him. From the feel of it, he drifted off again the moment his head touched down and John settled against him with some bemusement, absurdly aware that Sherlock was using him as some sort of living teddy bear. He settled against Sherlock with a mental shrug, content to rest against him as unexpectedly strong arms held him tight.
It seemed he was having a lie-in this morning, after all.
Continued in Day Three
Author: Keelywolfe
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Wordcount:8000, this chapter.
Rating: NC-17
Pairing(s): John/Sherlock
Genre: First-times, Humor
Warning(s): None
Summary:In thirty-odd years, Sherlock hasn't felt the urge to lose his virginity. Until John Watson. God help him. Set after 'A Scandal in Belgravia'.
Continued from Day One
~~*~~
Day Two
John's room at Baker Street had come with a double bed and sinfully comfortable sheets. He'd never asked if had been Sherlock or Mrs Hudson who had furnished the flat, although neither would surprise him. Sherlock had a ludicrous amount of possessions for a man who didn't have a steady job.
It was a welcome change from the narrow bed he'd had at his temporary flat and miles better than the army cots that had been standard in Afghanistan, and normally when John collapsed onto it after night of chasing criminals through the seedy underbelly of London he had no trouble sleeping the sleep of the just.
Normally he hadn't also had a bit of a shag with his flatmate earlier in the evening, though, and exhausted as he was, well-dosed with pain killers to keep the ache of his bruised ribs at a minimum, John couldn't drift off. The bluish glow of his alarm clock obediently counted down the minutes for him and at 3:01 a.m., John rolled over, again, with an impatient sigh, tugging his pillow over his head as he tried to stop thinking about the night.
Dinner had been…strange, as strange as their first meal together had been with Angelo playing an Italian cupid and Sherlock eyeing the street for a serial killer while John made awkward conversation. Orgasm hadn't changed Sherlock's desire for their traditional near-death dinner fare and they'd shared a cab back to the flat, John curled mutely into one corner, watching the blur of streets and shops outside the window, his thoughts awhirl. Broaching the subject foremost in his mind had not seemed particularly enticing with a bored cabbie as audience and Sherlock hadn't been interested in talking.
Not true; Sherlock was always interested in talking in cabs, just not about the subjects that John would have preferred. By the time they'd gotten back to the flat to change, Sherlock had informed him about the kind of detonator their bomber had used and about the psychological profile of most bombers while John tried not to be horrified at the faint appreciation in Sherlock's voice as he spoke about their meticulous nature, their attention to detail.
"That they use to kill people, Sherlock," John pointed out, quietly, the first words he'd spoken since they left the hospital.
"Yes," Sherlock agreed, "Like most people, they misappropriate their best skills. It's a shame our local criminal was so eager to move past rubbish bins and skips; if he'd planned better like most of that ilk, we wouldn't have stopped him so easily."
"That and his preference for organically grown bananas…"
It was something of a relief that reminder launched Sherlock into a different segue on the history of banana shipping. The last was an honest surprise to John; Sherlock couldn't tell him who the Prime Ministers of the last century were but he knew about bananas. He'd was honestly curious why Sherlock had retained that titbit, some banana smuggling scheme he'd managed to overthrow? Not that it hadn't been useful in finding the location of their rubbish bin bomber; the man left one banana peel at a scene and it had been all Sherlock needed.
John supposed he'd have to rehash this all out with Lestrade tomorrow, along with another scolding. He didn't really blame Lestrade for being less than pleased to find he and Sherlock had gone to confront the bomber on their own. At least the explosion had been contained to the man's run-down flat, although how Sherlock had connected the bananas with the man was still a bit of a mystery to John. He supposed he'd hear about that the next day as well.
At Baker Street, John had gone to his room first and let Sherlock have the shower, digging through his rapidly shrinking allotment of clothing for something clean and neither blood-stained nor charred. He added 'do laundry' to his mental list for the week.
Sherlock was already out of the bathroom and changing by the time John came back down. He took a minute to wash up and changed into his fresh clothes, pausing to look at himself in the mirror. His hair was still damp and spikey, and the scattering of bruises on his face from his collision with a falling brick wall were shading into deeper yellowish-purple with the passage of time.
He just looked like himself, John Watson, M.D., formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, and now, it would seem, seducer of genius virginal flatmates in public toilets. Of all titles he'd thought to be adding to his name, that was not one of them.
All right, perhaps seducer was the wrong word for it. After all, he hadn't done much seducing at all. Mostly, he'd been dragged about, tossed up against walls, and then, orgasms. John couldn't even say for certain he had kissed Sherlock first. Thus far, the order of his evening was explosion, doctors, Lestrade, bathroom, and orgasms. And it wasn't over yet.
Sherlock was waiting impatiently by the time John came out of the bathroom, already be-scarfed and be-coated…wait. John gave the suspiciously clean coat a narrow look. Did Sherlock actually have a spare coat at the flat?
He might have asked and earned either a withering look from Sherlock at the obviousness of his question or perhaps an approving one for his observation, only Sherlock was already walking out the door with said coat swirling behind him in an enigmatic and attractive way.
John groaned to himself. Oh, do stop it, he told his brain sternly. There were several conversations to be had about their state of being before he was allowed to ogle Sherlock lasciviously.
Conversations that were quite conspicuously not happening. It didn't happen in the foyer at Baker Street, didn't happen on the walk to their favourite local Chinese restaurant, and continued not happening as they stood waiting for their usual table to be cleared. It wasn't the best Chinese food John had ever had but it was quite good, it was close, and as Sherlock had stated, there was something to be said for tradition.
John was hardly up to the standards of the world's only consulting detective when it came to observing details. He'd be the first to admit that and he would stand stoically while Sherlock enthusiastically agreed with that statement. In his favour, however, he had been in a number of relationships and when their hostess came to lead them to their table it did not escape his notice that Sherlock set a hand on him, automatically, to draw him along.
On its own that meant nothing; Sherlock was not shy about touching, willing to lean over John's shoulder to read whatever he was writing, sprawled out on the sofa with his feet pressing against John's leg. This touch was different, one simple touch collecting him up, a hand lingering possessively at the small of his back. Not conclusive evidence by any means but certainly something.
And when John figured out exactly what he wanted to do about that possessive little touch, Sherlock would be the first to know.
Dinner was a simple enough affair; after the Chinese circus case Sherlock had been determined to learn Chinese, Mandarin and Cantonese respectively, and practised it frequently with their elderly hostess, leaving John resigned to life without a menu and eating whatever Sherlock deduced he was craving on any given night. She tolerated it fairly enough, John assumed, and only occasionally corrected his pronunciation. Sherlock, who normally hated being proven wrong, swiftly accepted her corrections and she smiled at him like a proud mother at her child when he parroted them back to her. If he hadn't had physical proof otherwise, John would have thought Sherlock's tastes ran along the lines of middle aged women. In reality it seemed more like Sherlock was a mummy's boy without a mummy.
All in all, it was absurdly normal, for them. Dinner, conversation with minimal discussion about corpses per John's previously laid down rules, and fortune cookies at the end. If John hadn't paused in between bites of fried rice, remembering the sounds Sherlock had made echoing in a tiny bathroom, if he hadn't jerked every time Sherlock's feet bumped his under the table, each touch crackling like lightening in Sherlock's pale eyes, John might have thought the entire thing was a particularly vivid paracetamol hallucination.
Back at the flat, it had been a round of mumbled good nights before John climbed the stairs to his room, only to find himself in his sinfully comfortable bed, utterly unable to sleep.
Sherlock had asked him to wait to have his conniption; it was only a shame it had decided to pop to life at arse o'clock in the morning. Him and Sherlock, in a hospital bathroom, having a snog and a grope. Him. And Sherlock. His flatmate. His male flatmate. Grope and snog.
He supposed he should be upset about it. Worried, perhaps, over the state of their friendship. Breaking down into some crisis about his sexuality, fretting over kissing a bloke, wondering about whether he was bisexual or had he been gay his entire life, hiding his true nature behind a few shags with women.
He probably shouldn't be lying awake thinking about the taste, the feel, of Sherlock's mouth but there you have it. John never could do anything the normal way.
As conniptions went, this one had fallen mostly flat.
The only real question seemed to be did he want to continue with this?
After a laughable short mental debate, the answer he kept coming back to really fell along the lines of 'might as well'. All in all, it was nearly anti-climactic. He and Sherlock already shared a flat, they already lined up their toothbrushes next to each other. They ate dinner together more often than not and breakfast when Sherlock felt like eating it. They tended to spend their days, and their nights, together, as well as most of the time in between. Adding in a bit of shagging almost seemed like a forgone conclusion.
All that was left was finding out just what Sherlock wanted out of this. Sherlock, who'd spent the bulk of his life as a virgin. The thought that he might not want to tack on shagging to their normal activities…all right, their bizarre, dangerous activities that had nearly gotten them blown up, no point in splitting hairs…was more terrifying to John than the act itself.
There was nothing for it. They were just going to have to talk about it in the morning or rather, after sleeping since morning was already well established. John firmly closed his eyes and commanded his brain to sleep and after another wistful memory of Sherlock's mouth against his own, he did.
It was only just past dawn when he woke again. One year as a civilian hadn't dismissed the habit of living on military time and John was wide awake by the time the sun crept in through the slats in his window blinds despite his broken hours of sleep.
He crawled out of bed with a yawn, hesitating over his robe and then decided to get dressed. Better to be fully clothed today for whatever chat was going to happen at some point. Perhaps after they'd gone to Scotland Yard, Sherlock would probably be in a snit beforehand and in John's experience that did not lead to good conversations.
Downstairs, Sherlock was sprawled on the sofa, his dressing grown open over the t-shirt and pyjama bottoms he preferred to lounge about in, both of which probably cost more than most of John's wardrobe combined. Honestly, for a man who didn't care about fashion, he kept up with it particularly well.
"Oh, you're up," John said, unnecessarily. He was pointedly not noticing that Sherlock looked rather nice rumpled up in the morning, his ankles and feet bare, curled up against the chill as Sherlock contemplated the ceiling.
"Your grasp of the obvious is particularly scintillating this morning."
"Good morning to you, too," John muttered, wandering into the kitchen. He needed caffeine before he could deal with anything this morning. And toast. Toast was a requirement, a yeasty barrier of protection against Sherlock's obvious mood. He hadn't expected him to be sulking about having to go down to the Yard so early.
He had a plate made up quickly, butter scraped over his nearly burnt toast and a cup instant coffee. Foul-tasting but the caffeine infusion would be a help. Carrying it out to the sitting room to eat was more wishful thinking than hope; very rarely the smell of toast would entice Sherlock into filching a piece and he did tend to be in a better mood with a little food in him.
It was only as John got closer that he got a good look at Sherlock. The bluish shadows under his eyes were near-livid and the bruises on his face were stark in the morning brightness, one long scrape rusty with dried blood along his cheek.
"Did you even sleep last night?" John asked, appalled.
"Noooo," Sherlock lifted his hands long enough to drawl out and then returned his fingers to their normal posture against his lips.
Well, that set the tone for the morning. With a growing sense of dread, John tossed back his coffee with a grimace and set down his plate, toast untouched. If Sherlock hadn't slept then that meant something was twisting its way 'round his brain and John wasn't sure he was up to dealing with whatever it was just yet. Unless it was a case, that was entirely possible, perhaps something they'd missed from their friendly neighbourhood bomber?
"Did you want some tea?" John offered with desperate brightness, "I was going to make tea. And eggs, but I'm not sure you'd want any if you're on a case. Are you on a case? Did you…get one from the website last night?"
Sherlock didn't move. "John, you spent the entire evening wondering when we were going to talk about the bathroom incident. Pretending amnesia is not going to stop it from happening now."
"I'm not pretending-" John began, exasperated, yes, a bit flustered, certainly, this wasn't supposed to be happening yet, they were supposed to talk after Scotland Yard and Sherlock, of course, had to change all the schedules to fit his preferences… and then he saw the photos.
Oh, dear God. There, above the mantel in a pastiche of the normal crime scene diorama that often decorated it, was a massive collection of photographs, printouts, what have you. All organized in a cluttery mass of naked limbs and body parts that surely could only make sense to Sherlock.
"Sherlock," John said, distantly proud of his calm, even tone. "Was this what you were doing last night?"
"No, the pornography fairy paid us a visit while you slept. Of course I did it last night!"
Naturally. Because people often stayed up late into the night coming up with complex photo collages of naked people. No…John squinted at it, warily. Naked blokes, rather. All splayed out in complex positions, either wrapped up with a partner or staring lustfully at the camera. John wasn't sure what Sherlock was going for with that monstrosity but John's foremost emotion was disturbed.
A terrible thought occurred. "Has Mrs Hudson been up here yet today?" he demanded.
"She brought up the shopping, didn't stay for tea," Sherlock said absently.
"Oh, well, good. Great. That's perfect." John scrubbed a hand over his face tiredly and wished, fleetingly, he'd gone ahead and had a lie-in. It mightn't have stopped the conversation any more than an inexplicable case of amnesia but he could have had at least one thing in his favour today.
"Well?" Sherlock drawled, let the word drag along his tongue like speaking it was all the effort he was willing to put forth.
"Well, what?"
Sherlock's sigh was so rife with exasperation that John had to resist the urge to rip the sound from the air and strangle the man with it. "You've been waiting to discuss the incident."
"Oh. Right. All right, then. Let's…let's do this. Last night at the hospital we had a bit of a snog."
"My research would indicate that it was something slightly more than that."
That gave John a pause. "Research?"
Sherlock turned his head and gave the pictures above the mantel a pointed look. "The question of virginity is apparently quite fluid. The variance of sex acts, the duration, location. Any number of details can adversely affect the data."
"Fluid?" John repeated, weakly, wondering just when he'd lost the thread of this conversation.
"John, if you aren't going to pay attention-"
"I am paying attention!" he burst out, "Only we seem to be having the wrong conversation. I'm quite sure we were about to discuss our near-shag in a dirty, public toilet!"
"It was perfectly clean," Sherlock insisted.
"What bloody difference does it make?" John shouted, his concern over their neighbours evaporating in the face of early morning insanity and whether it was him or Sherlock who was insane, well, John thought you'd have to be crazy to even try figuring it out.
"What difference? Let's say you're sorting through the catalogue of your memories," Sherlock paused, eyebrows drawing together as he considered. "For the purposes of this experiment, we'll pretend that you catalogue your memories. And in the newly formed section regarding sexual activity, you have your first kiss alongside your first orgasm provided by another person. Where would you rather it took place, in a filthy disease-ridden lavatory or a nice clean one?"
Oh, God. John stared back at Sherlock in horror, felt his stomach drop out. Bad enough he'd been the one to do it and never mind that Sherlock had been the one to drag them into the lav to begin with but said like that, John was fairly sure that alongside his newly dissolved partnership with any deities this was going to lead straight to him going to Hell.
One corner of Sherlock's mouth quirked upward and on him it was as good as a grin. John glared at him. "You do realize you're about the biggest bastard I've ever met," John informed him conversationally.
"Nonsense. My parents were married both before my conception and well after my birth. Aside from that, Mycroft is at least two inches and three stone larger than I am." Sherlock shifted on the sofa, rolling over to lie on his side and actually looked at John for a change. "Honestly, John, I'm not sure why this is so troublesome to you. Coming from someone whose first kiss was standing on the girl's porch and first sex act was in the backseat of car, a hospital lavatory is hardly as gruesome as all that."
"How did you--no, don't tell me. I'd rather not know. Just…explain things for me. Why…what…what are we even discussing right now?"
Sherlock sighed, "You want to discuss yesterday's incident. I, on the other hand, was thinking that I might enjoy you coming close enough for another kiss."
If John had been concerned about it, it was probably not a good mark on the side of heterosexuality that John's mouth went a little damp just thinking about it. He swallowed it away; no, they needed to have this particular chat first. "I'm not sure that's a good idea right now, Sherlock."
"So kissing is only acceptable when you’re the one doing it?" Sherlock asked peevishly. He flopped back over, hiding against the back of the sofa.
"No, of course not, that isn't what I meant-"
"You're the one who kissed ME at the hospital."
"That's…that's true." John supposed it was true if Sherlock was telling him so, he honestly didn't remember past the wet touch of mouths and the way Sherlock had tasted like a sweet, bloody mess. "But I was not the one who dragged you into the dirty bathroom."
"Clean bathroom."
John rubbed his hands over his face. "Sherlock, exactly what is it that you are trying to do here? Let's clear this up. Please. I don't even understand why you're researching all this. I won't be part of some experiment."
"You think I'd use losing my virginity as an experiment?"
"Yes," John said instantly.
Sherlock's half-muffled laugh was in no way comforting. "So you want to discuss what happened last night even though both of us know EXACTLY what happened. You've been increasingly interested me in a sexual fashion, particularly since it was pointed out to you that our relationship is more similar to that shared by couples rather than flatmates or friends. That interest facilitated you kissing me last night while we were both still under the influence of adrenaline and narcotics and as I have felt an increased interest along the lines of yours, I responded in a universally appropriate fashion."
It took him a moment to parse that bit of Sherlockian observation but when he did…there was simply no way to not be flattered by that. John was under no illusions about himself. A desire for excitement aside, he was not much more than an ordinary bloke and Sherlock was…nothing less than extraordinary. And he'd just admitted right here in the light of morning that he found John interesting.
"Only this morning you're obviously having doubts. Perhaps you're concerned about the state of our friendship or the way our status as flatmates will be affected by the modification of our relationship. Or perhaps it's the homosexual aspect that's troubling you. Understandable, a man of your stature would be reluctant to relinquish any amount of masculinity he'd managed to achieve, particularly considering your military background," Sherlock spat, his voice increasingly bitter.
Oh, a jab right in the ego, was it. Sherlock upset became Sherlock prickly rude, lashing out, and John wasn't about to fall for it. John stood and walked over to sit on the edge of the couch and Sherlock froze mid-breath as John settled a hand on the middle of his chest.
"The homosexual aspect doesn't bother me," John said quietly. "I'm just a little concerned, is all. You told me yourself that you’re a virgin. What you haven't mentioned is why-"
"Why I'm a virgin? Because I haven't wanted to have sex with anyone, John." The 'obviously' was heavily implied but John was relieved to hear he was at least calmer.
"Except here you are, now, wanting to have sex with me. You're even researching it," he gestured at the porn-board, resolutely did not look at it. "Why, exactly, are you researching it?
"I wanted there to be no question that you've relieved me of every aspect of my virginity."
Oh, fuck. John blinked hard, swallowed, and firmly crossed his legs. Down, boy. "Sherlock, are you absolutely sure you want to do this?"
"In thirty years, you're the first person I have ever wanted to touch me and you're asking if I am SURE?" Sherlock demanded
John persisted, though, despite Sherlock's verbal argument and his prick's internal one. "And you're absolutely sure it's me you want to do this with?"
"John, I have been through public school, Uni, several bouts of drug rehab and a handful of flatmates and in all that time, I have never so much as had someone else hands down my pants. I never even had the urge until I met you. I think it's fair to say I'm sure."
"Fair enough."
"Good. Now will you come here!"
"Right now?" John started to stand, toppled back gently on the sofa as Sherlock grabbed his knee and held on. "I'm not doing it right this minute! I…I just made toast!"
"John, if toast is of more interest to you than sexual interaction with me, then I'm having some serious concerns about this working out."
Last night with the adrenaline still humming through him and Sherlock's mouth inches from his own, it had been easy to dive in. Press their mouths together and go along for the ride. Now, sitting here in their flat on Baker Street, it was strange and awkward and Sherlock was eying him resentfully for not jumping him the moment he announced his scheme.
Christ.
"Sherlock," John said, carefully, in the tone he reserved for moments when Sherlock was being particularly difficult. "You are exhausted. If you didn't sleep last night then you're on the tail end of 72 hours of not sleeping. This is not a good time to start with this. You need to get some sleep first."
"I can't." Sullenly.
"You can't," John repeated, slowly.
"No," Sharp snarl. "I can't sleep."
Ah. Not won't, but literally, could not. That made all the difference and John softened, helplessly. "What do you want me to do?"
"Come here?"
He did, let Sherlock pulled him down on top of him. Bony and thin, all elbows and knees and then Sherlock twisted beneath him somehow, eased the sprawl of their limbs together until John had his head pressed to Sherlock's chest, their legs twined together.
It was strange, John couldn't deny that. He was far more accustomed to soft curves against him, breasts and cushy bottoms, the bitter taste of lipstick after kisses. Sherlock could be described as anything but soft. Weedy and slim, every part of him bone and muscle and tendons. Flat where a woman would be rounded, angular where there should be curvy hips and thighs. Strange, to be sure. But not unpleasant.
Warm breath tousled against the top of his head and John tipped his head a bit, felt Sherlock bury his face into his hair and inhale, deeply. A softer touch and John realized Sherlock was pressing a kiss against his scalp. It was unexpected to the extreme and John swallowed dryly, certain parts of him responding eagerly to having a lovely, warm body against him.
He wanted this, John could admit to that. As far as men went, John was as much a virgin as Sherlock but at least he'd had sex and he wasn't about to take their relationship much further with the chronic insomniac before Sherlock had reset his brain function to something other than damn well exhausted.
Only, Sherlock was bloody well cuddling him and showed no sign of falling asleep anytime soon.
"Sherlock," John said, shifting gingerly until he could look up. "I know that you don't sleep or eat on cases but there does come a point where a lack of both is going to degrade brain function."
Sherlock's eyes were bluer in the morning light, resting on him. They were normally impassive, alive only with the ideas held behind them and just now they were filled with something like heat as they met John's eyes. "I know," he said, simply.
Right. Course he did. John took a deep breath, felt his chest press tighter against Sherlock's with it. "But you can't sleep."
"No."
Right again. John wanted so very much to look away, hide his eyes and he resisted the urge. He couldn't go into this with his eyes closed no matter how much easier it would be. It couldn't always be Sherlock dragging him off to the dir-to the clean bathroom. John held his gaze steadily, met that soft blue with his own. "And you want to do this, with me. Reduce your semi-virginal state to nonexistence?"
"Yes?" Sherlock agreed, a little warily.
John nodded, slowly, braced his hands against the sofa on either side of Sherlock and pushed himself up until he was upright, straddling Sherlock's slim waist. "I'd tell you to tell me if you want to stop but I think we both know you have no trouble speaking up."
"I've never had difficulty expressing my feelings over any subject….what are you doing?" Sherlock voice caught, a slightly higher note at the end as John pushed up what he thought of as Sherlock's lounge-about t-shirt. Let his hands glide upward with it, smoothing over silky skin until he'd rucked up the fabric to Sherlock's underarms.
"I'm a doctor," John reminded him, couldn't help smiling at the annoyed quirk to Sherlock's mouth. Yes, yes, stating the obvious. He ran his hands down the narrow chest, scratched his nails lightly through the tiny, curling hairs that led downward. "I'm quite familiar with sleep aids." A somewhat unnerving thought occurred to him, one that had to be asked. "I know you haven't done anything with another person, but have you ever masturbated?"
Relief coursed through him as Sherlock sighed impatiently, an answer in and of itself. Not that it stopped Sherlock from verbal confirmation. "Yes, of course, as has probably most virgins in the world. Just because I haven't had the urge to have another person groping me does not mean I don't have a libido...ah!"
John had scraped his thumbnail over one tight, pink nipple more out of curiosity than arousal but the sound Sherlock made, the way he twitched, hips pushing up automatically, made John do it again.
Sensitive, then. Sherlock already had his eyes closed, long lashes shading over the bluish circles beneath them. Not in any way was he close to sleep, not with his mouth parted, white teeth digging into his lower lip and the sharp breath he drew when John pinched his nipple lightly was entirely too enticing at this hour of the morning.
If he'd had trouble sleeping last night, unable to quiet his wandering thoughts, how must it be for Sherlock whose mind never seemed to take a break?
Those lashes lifted, pale eyes peering at him from beneath. "John?"
He realized he'd gone still and slid his hands into motion again. "It's all right," he soothed. "I'm right here."
"I can feel your hands on me and they are too warm to be severed. I'm fully aware you're right there."
"And you complained about my pillow talk?" John muttered.
A little more petting might reduce the chances of any more talk of severed limbs. John drew his hands down Sherlock's sides, felt the outline of his ribs through the thin skin. The man really did need to eat more...
His thought was cut off by Sherlock's violent twitch, his arms tightened to his sides to force John to stillness and he belatedly realized he'd been tickling him. Oh, that was too delicious and he grinned up at Sherlock's thin glare.
"Don't," Sherlock warned and John only gave him a sweet smile.
"Oh, wouldn't think of it, love. Lay back, you're supposed to be relaxing."
Sherlock warily let him pull his hands free, tense against any coming attack. He relaxed when John only let his hands slide down the tautness of his belly, the soft fine hair downy against his fingertips until he hit the barrier of Sherlock's pyjama bottoms. John drew in a long, shaky breath; he wanted this, he honestly did, but with the immediacy of it staring him in the face, his confidence was wavering.
Sherlock was unmoving beneath him, watching him through his lashes and John met the silent challenge in his eyes, thumbing the buttons at the flies until he could smooth it open. Sherlock wasn't wearing anything beneath it.
His cock was much like the man himself, long and slim, cupped in a soft nest of dark hair, the only place Sherlock seemed to have much hair except for that on his head. A swell of glistening wetness at the tip was shockingly vivid evidence that Sherlock did, in fact, want this. As though the rise of his hips against John's weight wasn't hint enough, Sherlock drawing in a stuttering gasp of air, rocking up against John in silent demand.
Well, then.
He kept his eyes on his own hands, the sharp contrast of his tanned skin against the paleness of Sherlock's hips as he dragged his thumbs down the length and back up again. The sound Sherlock made startled him into looking back up and John watched, entranced, as Sherlock tipped his head back with a moan, his tongue fluttering against his lower lip as though trying to speak. Trying, and failing, nothing escaped him but wordless sound and John slid his thumbs down again. Rubbing the looseness of the foreskin against the head made Sherlock thrash almost violently, nearly tipping John off his lap.
He managed to keep his balance and wrapped his hand awkwardly around the length of it. The angle was different than with his own prick, and it felt different in his hand, slimmer, longer, strange. Sherlock was a virgin but this was new territory for John as well. He'd touched another man's cock before but always through the thin latex of gloves and there was nothing at all seductive about a physical, the chemistry in the brain shut down in favour of the clinical nature of being a doctor.
Strange, yes, awkwardly, certainly, but it wasn't as though John didn't know what to do. He tested his grip, found a pressure that made Sherlock moan loudly, his hands scrabbling over the smooth leather of the cushions as he sought out something to cling to. Sherlock was already close, leaking enough to make everything smooth and easy. John stroked him quickly, watched as Sherlock writhed against the cushions, a sheen of sweat rising on his skin, dampening his hair. Barely touched and he was already a whimpering mess, pleading incoherently, and Christ, if he wasn't lovely. How had he gone this long in life untouched? It didn't seem possible; Sherlock who usually seemed as prickly as a wet cat came undone at only a few strokes, a single hand wrapped around his cock. Practically gagging to be touched and kissed and fucked.
Jesus.
Beneath his spread legs, Sherlock managed to shift a bit and pushed his thigh up against John's crotch unerringly, a warm line of pressure that dragged his thoughts back to his memory of the hospital, his own hard cock aching for him to ride against that offered body. Still… "Hold on," John began, had to close his eyes as Sherlock slid his leg against him with perfect force. "This is supposed to be about you."
A broken laugh made him look up, met darkened, languid eyes. Sherlock's mouth was red, a flush of colour staining his cheeks, spilling down to his chest, "If I'd wanted it to be about me, I would have tossed off in the shower, John."
John drew in a shaky breath and nodded, and any protest Sherlock might have had over John letting him go was instantly muted as John stripped his shirt over his head and tossed it aside. Not that he was trying to out-nude Sherlock just now, only he was starting to run low on clothing that wasn't blood splattered or scorched. Didn't much want to add any more bodily fluids to the few shirts he had left. With quick, jerky movements he opened his own trousers, tugging them down just below his hips.
"Oh," Sherlock breathed and John paused, just starting to lean over Sherlock. It left him on his hands and knees above him, his own hardened cock a heavy weight between his legs and he nearly flinched as startlingly cool hands wrapped around him possessively. Christ, it was like Sherlock had an abnormal amount of fingers, fluttering over him, touching every inch of skin, even cupping his balls firmly enough that he drew in a sharp breath through his clenched teeth.
"Easy," he gritted out and instantly, Sherlock gentled, both hands sliding up his cock in an entirely gorgeous way, one after the other in a tight, quick jerk.
"You like that," Sherlock stated, and John managed to nod curtly, sure that blurting out, 'Of course, I fucking like it, idiot' would ruin the mood. The way one side of Sherlock's quirked up in a half-smile made him think Sherlock heard his mental insult anyway and he swore aloud when Sherlock let him go, his freshly warmed, damp hands gliding up John's chest to his shoulders.
"Kiss me," Sherlock demanded and John collapsed down on him in relief, the warmth of his belly not quite a replacement for his hands but it gave John something to push against, riding the hard, flat plane of it as he pressed their mouths together for the first time this morning. Odd, was it, to be groping each other's cocks without so much of a kiss? John didn't know, not like they ever did anything the normal way. It was good to be kissing him now, slicking their tongues together messily. Sherlock kissed like…well, like someone who hadn't done it much, or ever really, and John only rubbed his mouth wetly against his and delighted in his eager inexperience.
"Come on," Sherlock mumbled into his mouth, wriggling and shifting beneath him and John only had the haziest idea of what he was up to until he felt the hard, eager length of Sherlock's cock against his own.
Oh, right.
He might have been embarrassed that it was the virgin who got things back on track if he didn't know that Sherlock had been researching sex all night long. Instead, he groaned into Sherlock's mouth, reached down and wrapped his hand around both of them the best he could. Oh, that felt fucking amazing, Sherlock's cock rubbing against his own and John wished desperately that he could use both hands, that he didn't have to brace himself on one arm to keep their mouths together.
Again, Sherlock seemed to understand him with a silent sort of telepathy and John wondered dimly if he'd gotten his wish for it of the night before a bit late. Then any fanciful thoughts were torn away by the feel of Sherlock's hand over his own, gripping tightly, matching John stroke for stroke as they slid slickly between their shared palms.
"Ohh...oh..that feels…John," Sherlock moaned into John's mouth, pouring each word into him in a frantic overflow. His hips were snapping up sharply, thrusting his cock into the tight clasp of their hands and John was only along for the ride, distantly aware of thick, desperate sounds rising from his own throat. This was…it was…yes, just like that, like Sherlock's feverish, broken words were tracing their way up to John's brain and settling in.
He could feel the crest of it rising in Sherlock, the tremble in his thighs, his tongue going lax against John's, and the shattered, staggered hitch of his hips as he pushed up into their hands once, again, and then groaned out a last, broken little sound; John's name.
The hot, wet spill over their combined hands tore a harsh cry from John, the feel of it, Christ, Sherlock was coming against him, coming all over him, slickening their grip. John shook away Sherlock's loosened hand, palmed himself hard and stroked with tight, vicious pulls, and that was all he could take, all he could stand, orgasm sparking bright behind his eyes as he followed Sherlock over the edge, coming in a hard, fluid rush over Sherlock's softening cock and belly.
Whatever strength John managed to retain throughout all this abandoned him promptly, his supporting arm folding under him until he was sprawled out on Sherlock, the wet evidence of their sex sticky between their stomachs and soon, John would probably care about that. Just now, John buried his face into Sherlock's startlingly prickly throat, confirmation that Sherlock hadn't even gotten up long enough to shave this morning.
It was just another facet of strange to his gem of a morning. Not that he was complaining, bloody hell, no. John couldn't remember a time when a handjob had left him so wrecked and if he felt like this, Sherlock must be feeling…well. John had no idea, no point of reference to work with for the aftermath with his antisocial, semi-virginal flatmate.
Concern helped John manage to lift his head, ready to soothe any after-sex jitters might be arising. Far from that, to John's bemused eyes Sherlock was already sound asleep, mouth slightly opened as he breathed deeply, silently, his lashes only barely quivering against his cheeks.
Jitters would have to wait then. Past experience had taught John that when Sherlock finally slept, he did it only just above the level of coma and when he finally managed to heave himself to his feet, he wasn't surprised that Sherlock didn't so much as twitch, sprawled out as John had left him, sticky and more than a little naked. Rather than tug his clothes back down over the mess, John chose to get a wet cloth from the bathroom first, wiping him down gently. Handling his softened prick was only slightly more familiar, reminiscent of giving a sponge bath to a patient on the occasions he'd been without a nurse. Having it twitch in his hand, already starting to harden was certainly a change and John hastily tucked Sherlock back into his pyjamas before this became less about cleaning and more about molesting the unconscious.
The flat was chilly this early in the morning and John pulled his shirt back over his head almost absently, wandering back into Sherlock's bedroom for a blanket. Sherlock would sleep through the chill without waking but to John's eyes he was already restless from it, turning towards to back of the sofa and drawing his legs up. Cold was the one element that tested the very limits Sherlock's tolerance.
The way Sherlock burrowed into the blanket as John tucked it around him was further proof and John made sure that his bare feet were well-covered, every bit of him from his toes to his eyebrows swathed in blanket. Just to keep him from waking up early, John told himself. Honestly, it was better for everyone that Sherlock get a nice, long rest.
He was already back in the kitchen, munching on his cold toast despite the congealed butter coating it, when he noticed the time.
Half-past ten. Shit. Lestrade was going to kill him.
But the only other option was waking Sherlock and John would cheerfully hand over his spleen and perhaps a kidney to Lestrade before trying to wake him up early. Sherlock was likely to hand him his own kidney if he did; not a morning person did not even begin to describe it.
John sighed aloud. No help for it, he was going to have to call. Sherlock might prefer to text but John's mum had raised him with better manners than Sherlock had managed to acquire.
It was doubtful that Sherlock would even stir but John went up to his bedroom to make the call anyway, dialing Lestrade's private number rather than trying to puzzle his way through the Yard's automated phone service.
"Greg?" John said cautiously as Lestrade picked up with nothing more than a curt, Where are you two?! "Ah, right, yes, I know we're supposed to be down there. Right. Yes. I know, but he's in a bad way this morning, up all night. Well, to be fair we did almost get blown up…" John winced and held the phone away from his ear as the volume increased exponentially, interspersed with much more creative swearing than Lestrade had shown the night before. He must be alone in his office. "I know, I know, I'll have him down there, soon as he wakes up."
More swearing and the threats were getting increasingly inventive. Hastily, John held the phone up to his mouth alone and said, loudly, "Right, then, we'll be seeing you soon, Inspector!" and jammed a finger on the end call button. So much for manners, then.
What to do until Sherlock woke, then. His laundry was overflowing in the hamper; a pointed, silent indication that he'd rather been neglecting it lately and John took the hint, heaved up the basket and carried it as quietly as he could down the stairs.
He was most of the way to the door leading out from the kitchen when John heard his name spoken in sleepy, peevish tones, "John?"
Shit.
"Right here," John set down the basket and leaned into the living room to find Sherlock propped up on his elbows, blinking tiredly at him.
"You left," Sherlock said, his voice hoarse with much-needed sleep and so guilelessly lost that John felt a sharp ache of guilt in the middle of his chest. He had left, hadn’t he, after Sherlock first real sexual experience, he'd gone off and left him alone. Of course, he'd expected Sherlock to sleep longer than twenty minutes but that wasn't much of an excuse.
"I'm sorry," John said honestly and Sherlock blinked up at him owlishly, seemed to be trying to process it. John wondered if he was even truly awake; outside of being drugged he'd never seen Sherlock so out of sorts.
"Come back?" he asked, sleepily hopeful and John couldn’t have resisted with a gun to his head. He quickly set the basket aside and moving to sit next to him. And found himself promptly tugged into Sherlock's arms, drawn back down against him as Sherlock nestled equal parts into the blanket and him. From the feel of it, he drifted off again the moment his head touched down and John settled against him with some bemusement, absurdly aware that Sherlock was using him as some sort of living teddy bear. He settled against Sherlock with a mental shrug, content to rest against him as unexpectedly strong arms held him tight.
It seemed he was having a lie-in this morning, after all.
Continued in Day Three