No one prompted this, so I had to just write it for myself
Title: The Secret
Pairing:Sherlock/John, John/Sarah
Rating: NC-17
Warning: Impotence issues, fail!sex, and just to be safe, possibly triggery for those with anorexia or OCDs (though this isn't about either). Not an AU, but not 100% canon compliant either.
Word Count:5564
Summary: John has a hopeless crush on Sherlock. To prevent Sherlock from realizing it, and the ensuing awkwardness and hopelessness, he locks his libido away and wills himself asexual.
Sherlock was asexual. And there was nothing at all wrong with that, John thought, but he was also the most perceptive man John had ever met. That's what made it impossible.
He'll never know, John vowed to himself while they bonded over noodles in the kitchen of their new flat. He'll never know that I want him, madly, the way I've never wanted another person before in my life. This wonderful, special man was laughing, laughing at some joke that was older than the hills, but apparently new to him. That would stop the moment he realized that John wanted to shag him. There would be a moment of devastating awkwardness, like the one before in the restaurant, and then everything would change between them. Sherlock would feel uncomfortable and creeped out and John would feel embarrassed and exposed.
The crush had seized John like an affliction. Everything about Sherlock, the voice, the shape of his face, his eyes, even his mannerisms, seemed to send shivers of pleasure down John's middle straight to his prick. It took willpower to not turn into a gushing puddle. Thankfully willpower was one thing that John had. Years in the army had made him disciplined. Years in med school had taught him focus. He knew how to clamp down on fear and simply be sharp and in the moment. He could do the same for attraction.
It was a triumph that Sherlock didn't notice. It felt like winning a little battle.
No. Sherlock would never know. John would just keep that vise clamped down until the crush burnt out and his body caught up to his intellect. John felt a warmth in his heart that he made it all through dinner, not two feet away from the object of his inappropriate lust, and his cock never once stirred. The slight thrills of desire were walled away, safe.
When the last of the Chinese was eaten and he begged off to his room for the night, John had had every intention of awarding himself a much overdue wank. It all began fine enough. He allowed himself a nice little fantasy and slipped his hands into his pants. He could hear Sherlock pacing downstairs, it wasn't hard to remember the sound of his voice, the way his eyes scanned him, picking up every trace, every clue, undressing him, flaying him. Knowing him in a way that no one had ever known him before.
Knowing even this.
Fuck, John thought, feeling a painful spike of terror. In a blinding moment of clarity he realized that Sherlock would know. The next time he saw Sherlock, the memory of this wank would be spelled out over his face. He might as well come out and say it: "Hallo, Sherlock, I just had a marvelous come thinking about you humming God Save the Queen around my cock."
Sherlock would likely be bothered, possibly horrified. That wonderful thing they had between them would be spoiled.
John had immediately let go of his cock, still hard, unfulfilled, and clamped that vise as hard as he could. He lay in bed, fists clenched and breathed deeply, trying to still his heart.
The solution was obvious. Wank to something else. Anything else. Tits. Legs. John grabbed his cock again, but it had already started to soften and just kept going that way. He was blue balled and he needed to come, but with that vise clamped down, nothing seemed to work for him. He tried anyway, keeping it up until he began to feel chafed and uncomfortable. It wasn't going to happen.
Finally, giving up, he got off the bed and dressed for sleep. It wasn't the first time he hadn't been able to perform. At least he didn't have a partner to share the humiliation with.
If Sherlock knew about his masturbation failure, he had the discretion not to mention it the next day. Instead he was filled with the notion of poisons and spent the better part of the day making noxious concoctions in the kitchen. John headed out to spend a few futile hours job hunting.
When he returned to the flat he was frustrated in more than one way. Sherlock took one look at him and then asked him, politely, if he had any ideas on how to safely dispose of nerve toxin. John took to the task like a drowning man gasping for air.
As the week wore on, the crush continued to batter at John. He could feel it, banging about like a caged animal any time Sherlock looked at him, or walked past him. Every time that John caught sight of his clothes or smelled that faint sweet musky smell, it surged up stronger. But it wasn't even hard to keep the vise clamped anymore. It had become almost reflex.
John grew to have more pride in the fact that his cock was limp than he ever had in proving to his lovers he was hard. Denial wasn't just face saving, it was a source of strength. He smiled beatifically at Sherlock knowing that there was absolutely nothing in his posture or face or the size of his pupils to give away his crush. No need for the man to ever feel embarrassed or uncomfortable around him. He could love Sherlock in a pure way, the way a man does his God.
Sherlock took one look at his face and made an odd expression. "It's flattering, John, but I'm not a deity. You've no need to worship me."
And John felt even more blissfully happy because Sherlock bought the lie and the truth remained safely a secret.
He'd had his first wet dream in twenty years five days after moving in. He didn't remember the dream, for which he was perversely thankful, but the evidence was all over his bedding and pyjamas. He had forgotten what a mess nocturnal emissions were.
Thankfully, Sherlock was out of the house when he got up. He dragged everything down to the laundrette, and washed away the evidence in front of a gaggle of people who neither noticed nor cared. When he returned to the flat, he found he had energy to burn. He spent hours tidying the apartment, scrupulously picking up and scrubbing down everything that didn't resemble an experiment in progress.
When Sherlock returned, sometime around ten pm, he didn't seem to notice. They were new to each other after all. Perhaps he thought it natural that John went on occasional cleaning binges.
To combat wet dreams, John tried to masturbate a few more times. The results were the same as the first. He couldn't even get hard without letting his crush free. Shame made him stop. He tried other things, spending a few hours in his room perusing pornography, but it just didn't seem to appeal unless it included someone who resembled Sherlock. And that seemed somehow to be in bad faith.
Frustrated he erased his browser's history, cleared the cache and dumped any cookies his computer might have acquired. Sherlock got into everything. There was simply no privacy around him.
Meanwhile hiding his little night problem got hairy. He took to sleeping with a wad of toilet tissue down the front of his pyjamas. It cut down on the mess considerably and could be disposed of in the toilet. After a couple of weeks, he was pleased to notice that the wet dreams seemed to stop. His body had adjusted to its new, sexless existence. Knowing this made him unaccountably cheerful.
John walked the streets a step or two behind Sherlock and noticed beautiful women and handsome men and felt absolutely no longing for them. It was oddly freeing. Meanwhile the tightness in his belly had become a comforting sensation.
Sherlock was looking over his shoulder and staring at him, a look of puzzlement on his face. John quickly adopted a politely blank expression.
It was almost four weeks into their friendship that Sherlock first broached the subject. "You know," he said over tea. "Just because I've no interest in dating, doesn't mean you can't."
John looked up, mildly surprised. "I know. Haven't found anyone worth asking out yet."
"Is it the shame of being out of work that makes you less interested in approaching women?" Sherlock asked this as if he were trying to grasp at straws.
He doesn't know. John suppressed the prideful smile. "Probably a bit. But you know, back in Afghanistan, there weren't any opportunities for dating either. Sometimes it's just convenient not to worry about such matters."
"I agree," said Sherlock looking relieved.
John took that conversation as a warning. Sherlock might not know exactly what was up, but he was on to something, and the detective seldom left mysteries alone. As soon as he got a job he made a valiant attempt to find a date. Sarah fit all the things that previously had attracted him: She was pretty, smart, and nice. He fully expected her to beg off when he asked her out.
To his surprise, she said yes. She almost asked him first. And she kept saying yes even after meeting Sherlock and getting kidnapped by Chinese circus murderers. That said a lot about the woman.
Sherlock's reaction to her was mixed. At first he seemed resolute to ignore her, talking exclusively to John and seeming irritated when she attempted to join in on their conversation. Then over the next week or so, he unaccountably seemed to want to include her, finding excuses for John to bring her by. Needing a "woman's" opinion on this or that clue. Then just as abruptly, he went back to ignoring her.
"Well, he's brilliant," Sarah said. "I can see why you admire him. But his social skills are a mess. And, would you believe it, I'm not really that interested in talking about Sherlock right now."
They were back in her flat. She'd made them dinner and lit candles. Music played nearly subliminally in the background. No, John realized, talking about Sherlock wasn't appropriate. It was desperate.
"Let's go to the couch," Sarah suggested in a sultry tone.
Swallowing, John nodded. He knew how this game was played. He snuggled next to her and kissed her, trying out some techniques that had worked in the past. It was like acting. Her lips felt warm, but nothing else. Without any lust to drive it, it seemed rather silly and awkward. They bumped noses and Sarah drew back and laughed, putting her hand over her face and rubbing.
"A bit out of practice?"
John nodded sheepishly. "Couple of years, actually. Afghanistan. War. Sharia law."
"Well, I'll give you a primer."
She tried her best, running her hands up and down his body, fondling him through his clothes, but it was painfully obvious to John that nothing was working. That part of him was resolutely off-line.
After a couple of minutes, he flipped the tables on her, becoming the aggressor. He undressed her with a passion he didn't really feel. Cupping her breasts, he thumbed at her nipples and worked her flesh with intellectual satisfaction. She let him fondle her body, until finally he was on his knees before her, her legs over his shoulders while he brought her to orgasm with his mouth and fingers.
It wasn't until after she'd stopped moaning and gripping his hair that she realized that he hadn't come. That he wasn't even hard. The look on her face was confused betrayal.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I - I don't know what's wrong with me."
She stood up and wandered to her purse. John watched her scribble something out on a pad, then she brought the prescription back to him. Viagra.
She shrugged. "It's the least I can do. I know how embarrassing this can be, especially in someone as young as yourself."
He accepted the slip with a painful smile.
Sherlock sniffed him as he walked in the door and gave him a sour look. He then found some reason to be off elsewhere for the next two days.
That was fine, because John knew he'd smelled of Sarah and that proved that he was not interested in Sherlock. The secret was, once more, safe. If John were keeping a chart, he'd have awarded himself a star.
He'd honestly thought that keeping chaste would be a hard thing to do. It was surprising how easy it was. Every day that went by he felt that much better about himself. He enjoyed the discipline, knowing that he was in control of his libido. He wasn't like other men who were hopeless in the presence of an attractive lady. He could be comfortable and friendly with anyone, with no sense of embarrassment or awkwardness or longing.
He was aware of people flirting with him in a way they never had before, as though his unavailability made him somehow more attractive. It was quite confidence boosting, but he was always careful not to lead any of them on. More than once during these occasions he found Sherlock staring at him.
"How are things with Sarah?" Sherlock asked, after watching John politely rebuff their waitress with a smile.
"She's fine," John made a show of putting his napkin on his lap. "Busy this week," he said knowing what Sherlock was thinking of. "Friend in town." It was the story she'd given him, and he thought maybe it was true.
He didn't mention that the dates had steadily become worse since his failure in performance. Although he offered to please her one-sidedly, she refused to let him touch her until he worked out his problem with his penis, or at least showed some interest in progress. In her words, "I want a lover, not a sex toy."
She'd also said, "I do like you, John, a lot. But I'm not a beard, and if that's your aim, forget it."
John didn't mention either of those things to Sherlock.
"Ah." Sherlock still looked puzzled.
John switched the subject.
Every time John thought he had the crush put down, it had a way of reasserting itself. Sometimes in the most awkward times and ways. Perhaps it was because John was tired from work. Perhaps it was because Sarah had seemed a bit extra cool to him that day. When John heard gunshots in his flat and worry sent adrenaline racing through his body, somehow the monster slipped the cage.
It turned out that Sherlock was just playing with John's gun. Without thinking John reached out and grabbed it away and pulled out the clip. The wall was full of holes. The fridge was full of corpse. There was nothing to eat, the place was a mess and John was exhausted and it was just too god damn much.
John felt furious. And then it wasn't just fury. That knot of tension loosened, only for a second and suddenly it felt like a wild animal clawing at his chest. The smell, the voice, the way Sherlock had curled, so petulantly on the couch. John's skin was on fire. His cock felt warm and heavy. He wanted to attack the man with his hands, his mouth.
He slammed down on that feeling as hard as he could. He didn't even know how he'd managed to lose control in the first place, he was angry. He shouldn't have been turned on.
The solution was to flee as quickly as he dared. Thankfully, Sherlock was sulking on the couch with his back to him. There was no way he could have seen the slip.
He went to Sarah's. Maybe his damn penis would work with her this once. "Let me try?" he begged.
Sighing she let him in. They groped each other perfunctory for a few minutes then gave up when first John balled his hands into impotent fists, then Sarah raised hers in surrender. Whatever fire had been set had long cooled, leaving nothing but a persistent ache in John's balls. Sarah seemed torn between tearing her hair out and laughing.
"You should just admit that you are gay for your flatmate," she said as she straightened her clothes and went to put the kettle on.
"I'm not gay," said John automatically. "And definitely not for Sherlock." How had she known? Sherlock didn't.
"You aren't the first, you know," Sarah said with a sigh. "I fell for this guy first year at uni. He was so deep in the closet he had me fooled. But he was like you. Went through all the motions, but that's all they were. Motions. Trying so desperately to convince himself that he was straight. I got tired of it."
"What happened?"
"Last I heard, his third wife hadn't stopped him from propositioning an undercover officer in the men's toilet."
John thought. It really wasn't fair to be using Sarah as a prop for what really was his dysfunction. But he couldn't give her what she wanted either. He felt a wave of helplessness.
"Can we be friends then? Who hang out together when it's convenient? And also," here was the truly awkward part. "I had a bit of a row with Sherlock. Would you mind if I stayed here tonight."
Sarah melted into a laugh. "All right. Sure. Friends it is. I'll fetch the lilo."
"No need," said John, relieved. "The couch would be fine."
Sarah looked at him a bit. "Do you really need to keep it secret from him? If I was able to figure it out, don't you think he will too? He's the world's best bloody detective."
"That's what I'm terrified of," admitted John.
"Tell you what. Because you are cute, I'll think about the beard bit." She considered. "At least until I find myself a real boyfriend. Which I will be working on in short order, so don't think that this is a long term solution."
"All I could ask," said John utterly relieved.
The next few days were far too busy and confusing for John to think about anything other than work, either his or Sherlock's. Every moment that wasn't spent at the clinic was spent chasing one lead or another down. When, at last, there was a bit of a break, John intended to go back to Sarah's to talk a bit more. He got kidnapped instead.
He would have been blown up as well if Mycroft hadn't come through at the last moment. One by one the little red dots on Sherlock's throat disappeared. Moriarty had noticed as well, and chosen to make a rather hasty get away. Sherlock lowered the John's gun and joined him in sitting next to the pool.
A moment later the place was filled with men in black. Sauntering into the middle of the mess was Mycroft himself, looking distinctly put out.
"Sherlock," Mycroft said with a bit of a tut to his voice. "I'd appreciate a bit of a heads up next time you decide to involve me in one of your cases."
"I didn't involve you," muttered Sherlock. "You involved yourself."
"You used my plans as bait, and you knew, of course, that I had you under observation."
"You could have come a bit sooner. And how did you let John get kidnapped?"
"While I know it must have seemed like a long time to you, Sherlock, it was in fact only a couple of minutes. We had to isolate all of Moriarty's men before we dared to take out any of them."
"And Moriarty?"
"Caught. And you're welcome."
They argued a bit about the safety procedures and who had the right to claim victory. John found himself listening to the cadence of Sherlock's voice and discovered it made him itchy in a distinctly dangerous way. He was still practically high with relief and the monster was back to scratching at the walls of its room. John shifted and grimaced and tried get hold of himself again. Mycroft's men were watching him sharply and this was far too public and inappropriate a place and time to be getting turned on.
He'd almost died. Sex should have been the last thing on his mind. What kind of insanity did he have?
Mycroft turned to him suddenly. "How are you feeling, John? I would have come to your rescue earlier, but there was a slight problem with interoffice communications. Won't happen again. I've sacked the man who was supposed to be keeping track of you."
The man who-- did John want to know? No, no he really didn't. "I'm just tired," he lied. "And I'd like to go home." John wasn't sure he had the mental stamina to hold it together much longer.
He pretended to sleep in the car. He was pretty sure he didn't fool anyone, but it gave him an excuse not to speak, which might have triggered Sherlock to talk. It gave an excuse not to look at Sherlock, which would have triggered something much worse. John's stomach hurt from all the clenching. Worse than when he'd been strapped up with explosives.
"You're in shock," Sherlock stated.
"Don't speak to me," he said as the monster writhed and he writhed with it. Rolling away onto his hip, treacherous penis trapped between his thighs, he clenched his eyes shut tight. His forehead brushed the cold glass of Mycroft's car window.
"I'm sorry, Sherlock," he said when the crisis passed. "I just need a moment to myself. That was a close call, even for us."
Let him think it was the trauma that had him tied up in knots.
He heard Sherlock sigh.
It was with relief that the need cooled down. Thinking resolutely of things not-Sherlock, he regained his equilibrium. His legs relaxed and he sat more normally. His gut knotted in that pleasant way that meant that he was back in the driver's seat. The wave of serenity that followed felt near euphoric. The car abruptly stopped and he felt Sherlock's hand on his shoulder. "I'm afraid your moment alone has passed. We've reached our destination."
John opened his eyes and climbed out, he then quickly moved to let himself into the flat. Sherlock was just behind him, so close that he felt the bush of his coat against his leg while he turned the key, but he was in control now. It didn't matter.
"Well, that was quite a day," John said, walking inside. Understatement, the last refuge of the discombobulated. "I'm retiring for the night." He didn't bother to look at Sherlock. Better to wait for tomorrow for that. Not tempt fate so soon.
The door behind him shut. "Hold on a minute John." Sherlock clasped his shoulder, preventing further retreat.
John turned around and smiled with false tiredness. "Listen -"
"I think you should know, I masturbate frequently," said Sherlock out of the blue.
John tensed, torn between shock and inappropriate intrigue. The monster was back out and furious. Sherlock's face seemed pensive. He didn't appear to be joking about.
"How lovely for you," John managed to gasp after an awkward second. "But too much information."
Sherlock's eyes grew sharper. "I don't usually indulge when I'm on a case, unless I think that release will help me think better, but when I'm bored, between cases, I have three, four, sometimes five wanks a day. Don't you find that interesting?"
"I don't want to know," said John, feeling a thrill of terror. He refused to visualize anything. He resisted the urge to cover his ears and shout. He clamped, tight, tight as he could.
"You never noticed did you?" there was a little triumph in Sherlock's voice, as if John had confirmed something. "You just assumed I don't do such tawdry things. Doesn't fit with your theory that I'm some untouchable angel, does it. Is my pedestal looking a bit shaky?"
"Oh really, Sherlock, shut up." John glared at him to cover over the squirmy sensation inside. This discussion was far too dangerous. "I don't think you are some angel. Far from it." That bit, at least, he could say with complete honesty. He twisted his shoulder out from Sherlock's hand.
"Ah, thought not, but I had to confirm it." Sherlock let him walk away towards the safety of his room.
"Well then, glad that's settled," John called over his shoulder.
"After all," Sherlock called back, "That was the lie you wanted me to believe. Nice to dispense with that falsehood so we can get to meat of the matter as it were."
"There is no meat to the matter." John felt goosebumps on his skin. Too close, too close.
"You don't do such things, do you? Masturbate. When was the last time you've come, John?"
Strategic retreat turned into full out fleeing. "Not your business! Leave me alone!" He took the stairs quickly, his feet stomping heavily on the hard wood. Not heavily enough to drown out the sound of Sherlock's voice.
"It was before you moved in. Three months ago," Sherlock called up from the bottom of the stairs. "I've read your psych reports, your service records, your medical records dating back to childhood, you've never complained of any sort of sexual dysfunction. You aren't on any medication that would destroy your libido. You've experienced no injuries that would interfere with normal erectile function. The problem is not physiological."
John opened the door to his room with a shaking hand. "We are not having this discussion," he said as evenly as he could make his voice.
Sherlock just continued, like a relentless wave, walking up the stairs slowly like some confident predator. "You have a prescription for Viagra written by Sarah folded up in your wallet. You haven't thrown it away, but you haven't filled it. Part of you, the intellectual part, knows that your impotence is destroying your relationship, but part of you, the emotional part, doesn't want to be cured." Sherlock reached the landing, he stood just outside John's door while John stood just within. "Why would that be?"
"It could just be a dislike of taking unnecessary drugs."
"Hardly," Sherlock dismissed. "You prefer this state. It doesn't bother you the way it should have."
"Well there you go, as one asexual to another, we are fine." He started to close the door.
"You didn't used to think that way." Sherlock went on, putting his foot out to stop the door. "I've conducted interviews with women you've dated before going to Afghanistan and been assured that you functioned perfectly fine in the past. And yet, since moving in with me, you've remained celibate even to yourself."
"You've interviewed my old girlfriends to inquire as to my sex life?" John pulled himself around and leveled a forbidding look that mostly masked his relief. Sherlock's trespasses were annoying enough to dampen his libido. He was just angry now, and thank heavens for that.
"Of course I did. You have become very important to me. I'm concerned about your well being."
"If you had questions about my sexuality, you could have asked."
"Could I have?" Sherlock leveled a chiding look. "Would you really have told me your terrible secret if I'd just asked?"
"Oh, just shut it," said John, his face burning with embarrassment. "For God's sake, Sherlock. Leave it alone."
He stepped backwards into his room. Sherlock advanced into his sanctuary. There was no getting around him. John was cornered.
"I have to know, John," said Sherlock. "You are sending me mixed signals. I have to know if I am the one causing this condition."
"Well you aren't," John lied desperately. "And it's not your problem."
Sherlock closed his eyes, his face grew placid with relief. Case solved, everything could go back to normal. And John found himself almost smiling in sympathy. The enemy had almost had him, but he was safe now. That had been close.
"Now that your worries have been put to rest," said John, turning away and making for his dresser. "If you don't mind -"
He got no further. Sherlock grabbed him from behind, wrapping one arm around his chest and pulling him into an embrace. He could feel the man's warmth all up his back, feel his breath on his neck. His voice purred in John's ear. "One thing I won't tolerate is dishonesty between us, John."
The vise slipped, the knot failed, the walls around his libido came crashing down. John shuddered with the power of the need that swept over him.
Nonetheless, he denied. "Let me go. I'm not interested in you." His voice sounded choked even to himself.
One of Sherlock's hands slid lower, found his crotch and the traitor that resided there. "This says otherwise."
"Shock."
"John, you've been impotent for three months, this isn't shock. You want me. Desperately." A deft tug loosened his belt. Clever fingers found the zip and pulled it down slowly. Each bit of released pressure made John's breath jag in.
"And you don't want me, so let's pretend it's shock."
"Is denial really preferable to this?" Sherlock's hand found it's way into John's pants.
"This means nothing. You don't respect limits. You see this as a problem that needs solving when it doesn't. I have solved it."
"But it does," said Sherlock. "I will not be responsible for your mental illness. I may be celibate by nature, but you are not. You aren't asexual John, no matter how much you seem to want to make yourself. You are punishing yourself for something that is natural."
"This isn't solving anything. It's making things -- worse." He gasped, Sherlock's hand had started to move, stroking slowly up and down John's erection. Need spiraled out of control.
John winced. "Sherlock, please do-"
"--Don't say it!" Sherlock said hastily. "If you say it I will have to honor your words. And neither of us wants that."
It was too late anyway, John panted, his hand over the sleeve of Sherlock's coat, urging him to go faster because, oh fuck, oh fuck, he was going to come. He could feel Sherlock behind him, an odd hardness pressed against the top of one buttock. He stiffened rigid as Sherlock shifted his weight, pressing against him harder.
Three things happened nearly simultaneously, one was that Sherlock suddenly moved his left arm from around John's chest to over his face, forcing the sleeve of his Belstaff coat into John's gaping, gasping mouth like a gag. The second was that he thrust against his back in a way that was unmistakably provocative. The third, was that he finally sped up the strokes with his hand.
John screamed into the sleeve and came for the first time in three months. It felt like his entire body was pouring out of him. When his breath had all been blown out, he sucked in as much air as he could with his nose, and let it go again. He wasn't sure if it was pleasure or agony, all he knew was that he was falling apart and he wanted it to go on forever. Eventually, there was nothing left to give. Utterly emptied, John slumped out of Sherlock's grip, falling to his knees on the floor.
They were quiet for a minute while John regained his breath.
"What have we done, Sherlock?" Would it all be a mess between them now? Would their uncomplicated relationship be hopelessly tangled by one-sided need. He knew how Sarah felt. I want a lover, not a sex toy. He didn't just want a hand job. He wanted it all.
"Only what I should have done to you our third night together, when I realized there was a problem."
"Third night?" John laughed. He wasn't sure with bitterness or relief. Perhaps it was both. "I didn't fool you at all did I."
"You fooled me unfortunately very well." Sherlock reached down and helped John onto the bed. "It's not something most people can do. They simply don't have that sort of control over their bodies. But nothing added up." He put his hands to either side of John's face. "My senses told me you were completely asexual, but my investigations told me otherwise. I knew which way I wished you would be, but I couldn't find any confirmation."
"Sarah was supposed to have convinced you I was having sex."
"And she convinced me that you were categorically incapable." Sherlock ran his hands through his hair. "And I have to say, it's all been very cock-blocking."
"Cockblocking to you?"
Sherlock frowned. "Well who did you think I thought of while I wanked? It's rather hard to maintain a fantasy of you being sexually molested to ecstasy by a variety of partners when in reality you remained so damnably chaste. Achieving visual confirmation, even by use of hidden cameras, was clearly impossible."
"Thank God for that." John found himself laughing. "Oh, God we are hopeless, Sherlock. You wank to the thought of me with others, and I can't even wank with anyone but you. Bloody fantastic."
Sherlock thought. "It's true that by far my main, and hitherto exclusive preference, is for voyeurism, perhaps I can branch out." He shrugged. "You've shown skill at pleasing others. I can always give it a try."
He drew John's hand down to his still hard crotch. "At the very least, I believe you owe me a hand. And soon please. I'm becoming very uncomfortable."
"Oh." John relaxed. "Of course. That I can do."
Pairing:Sherlock/John, John/Sarah
Rating: NC-17
Warning: Impotence issues, fail!sex, and just to be safe, possibly triggery for those with anorexia or OCDs (though this isn't about either). Not an AU, but not 100% canon compliant either.
Word Count:5564
Summary: John has a hopeless crush on Sherlock. To prevent Sherlock from realizing it, and the ensuing awkwardness and hopelessness, he locks his libido away and wills himself asexual.
Sherlock was asexual. And there was nothing at all wrong with that, John thought, but he was also the most perceptive man John had ever met. That's what made it impossible.
He'll never know, John vowed to himself while they bonded over noodles in the kitchen of their new flat. He'll never know that I want him, madly, the way I've never wanted another person before in my life. This wonderful, special man was laughing, laughing at some joke that was older than the hills, but apparently new to him. That would stop the moment he realized that John wanted to shag him. There would be a moment of devastating awkwardness, like the one before in the restaurant, and then everything would change between them. Sherlock would feel uncomfortable and creeped out and John would feel embarrassed and exposed.
The crush had seized John like an affliction. Everything about Sherlock, the voice, the shape of his face, his eyes, even his mannerisms, seemed to send shivers of pleasure down John's middle straight to his prick. It took willpower to not turn into a gushing puddle. Thankfully willpower was one thing that John had. Years in the army had made him disciplined. Years in med school had taught him focus. He knew how to clamp down on fear and simply be sharp and in the moment. He could do the same for attraction.
It was a triumph that Sherlock didn't notice. It felt like winning a little battle.
No. Sherlock would never know. John would just keep that vise clamped down until the crush burnt out and his body caught up to his intellect. John felt a warmth in his heart that he made it all through dinner, not two feet away from the object of his inappropriate lust, and his cock never once stirred. The slight thrills of desire were walled away, safe.
When the last of the Chinese was eaten and he begged off to his room for the night, John had had every intention of awarding himself a much overdue wank. It all began fine enough. He allowed himself a nice little fantasy and slipped his hands into his pants. He could hear Sherlock pacing downstairs, it wasn't hard to remember the sound of his voice, the way his eyes scanned him, picking up every trace, every clue, undressing him, flaying him. Knowing him in a way that no one had ever known him before.
Knowing even this.
Fuck, John thought, feeling a painful spike of terror. In a blinding moment of clarity he realized that Sherlock would know. The next time he saw Sherlock, the memory of this wank would be spelled out over his face. He might as well come out and say it: "Hallo, Sherlock, I just had a marvelous come thinking about you humming God Save the Queen around my cock."
Sherlock would likely be bothered, possibly horrified. That wonderful thing they had between them would be spoiled.
John had immediately let go of his cock, still hard, unfulfilled, and clamped that vise as hard as he could. He lay in bed, fists clenched and breathed deeply, trying to still his heart.
The solution was obvious. Wank to something else. Anything else. Tits. Legs. John grabbed his cock again, but it had already started to soften and just kept going that way. He was blue balled and he needed to come, but with that vise clamped down, nothing seemed to work for him. He tried anyway, keeping it up until he began to feel chafed and uncomfortable. It wasn't going to happen.
Finally, giving up, he got off the bed and dressed for sleep. It wasn't the first time he hadn't been able to perform. At least he didn't have a partner to share the humiliation with.
If Sherlock knew about his masturbation failure, he had the discretion not to mention it the next day. Instead he was filled with the notion of poisons and spent the better part of the day making noxious concoctions in the kitchen. John headed out to spend a few futile hours job hunting.
When he returned to the flat he was frustrated in more than one way. Sherlock took one look at him and then asked him, politely, if he had any ideas on how to safely dispose of nerve toxin. John took to the task like a drowning man gasping for air.
As the week wore on, the crush continued to batter at John. He could feel it, banging about like a caged animal any time Sherlock looked at him, or walked past him. Every time that John caught sight of his clothes or smelled that faint sweet musky smell, it surged up stronger. But it wasn't even hard to keep the vise clamped anymore. It had become almost reflex.
John grew to have more pride in the fact that his cock was limp than he ever had in proving to his lovers he was hard. Denial wasn't just face saving, it was a source of strength. He smiled beatifically at Sherlock knowing that there was absolutely nothing in his posture or face or the size of his pupils to give away his crush. No need for the man to ever feel embarrassed or uncomfortable around him. He could love Sherlock in a pure way, the way a man does his God.
Sherlock took one look at his face and made an odd expression. "It's flattering, John, but I'm not a deity. You've no need to worship me."
And John felt even more blissfully happy because Sherlock bought the lie and the truth remained safely a secret.
He'd had his first wet dream in twenty years five days after moving in. He didn't remember the dream, for which he was perversely thankful, but the evidence was all over his bedding and pyjamas. He had forgotten what a mess nocturnal emissions were.
Thankfully, Sherlock was out of the house when he got up. He dragged everything down to the laundrette, and washed away the evidence in front of a gaggle of people who neither noticed nor cared. When he returned to the flat, he found he had energy to burn. He spent hours tidying the apartment, scrupulously picking up and scrubbing down everything that didn't resemble an experiment in progress.
When Sherlock returned, sometime around ten pm, he didn't seem to notice. They were new to each other after all. Perhaps he thought it natural that John went on occasional cleaning binges.
To combat wet dreams, John tried to masturbate a few more times. The results were the same as the first. He couldn't even get hard without letting his crush free. Shame made him stop. He tried other things, spending a few hours in his room perusing pornography, but it just didn't seem to appeal unless it included someone who resembled Sherlock. And that seemed somehow to be in bad faith.
Frustrated he erased his browser's history, cleared the cache and dumped any cookies his computer might have acquired. Sherlock got into everything. There was simply no privacy around him.
Meanwhile hiding his little night problem got hairy. He took to sleeping with a wad of toilet tissue down the front of his pyjamas. It cut down on the mess considerably and could be disposed of in the toilet. After a couple of weeks, he was pleased to notice that the wet dreams seemed to stop. His body had adjusted to its new, sexless existence. Knowing this made him unaccountably cheerful.
John walked the streets a step or two behind Sherlock and noticed beautiful women and handsome men and felt absolutely no longing for them. It was oddly freeing. Meanwhile the tightness in his belly had become a comforting sensation.
Sherlock was looking over his shoulder and staring at him, a look of puzzlement on his face. John quickly adopted a politely blank expression.
It was almost four weeks into their friendship that Sherlock first broached the subject. "You know," he said over tea. "Just because I've no interest in dating, doesn't mean you can't."
John looked up, mildly surprised. "I know. Haven't found anyone worth asking out yet."
"Is it the shame of being out of work that makes you less interested in approaching women?" Sherlock asked this as if he were trying to grasp at straws.
He doesn't know. John suppressed the prideful smile. "Probably a bit. But you know, back in Afghanistan, there weren't any opportunities for dating either. Sometimes it's just convenient not to worry about such matters."
"I agree," said Sherlock looking relieved.
John took that conversation as a warning. Sherlock might not know exactly what was up, but he was on to something, and the detective seldom left mysteries alone. As soon as he got a job he made a valiant attempt to find a date. Sarah fit all the things that previously had attracted him: She was pretty, smart, and nice. He fully expected her to beg off when he asked her out.
To his surprise, she said yes. She almost asked him first. And she kept saying yes even after meeting Sherlock and getting kidnapped by Chinese circus murderers. That said a lot about the woman.
Sherlock's reaction to her was mixed. At first he seemed resolute to ignore her, talking exclusively to John and seeming irritated when she attempted to join in on their conversation. Then over the next week or so, he unaccountably seemed to want to include her, finding excuses for John to bring her by. Needing a "woman's" opinion on this or that clue. Then just as abruptly, he went back to ignoring her.
"Well, he's brilliant," Sarah said. "I can see why you admire him. But his social skills are a mess. And, would you believe it, I'm not really that interested in talking about Sherlock right now."
They were back in her flat. She'd made them dinner and lit candles. Music played nearly subliminally in the background. No, John realized, talking about Sherlock wasn't appropriate. It was desperate.
"Let's go to the couch," Sarah suggested in a sultry tone.
Swallowing, John nodded. He knew how this game was played. He snuggled next to her and kissed her, trying out some techniques that had worked in the past. It was like acting. Her lips felt warm, but nothing else. Without any lust to drive it, it seemed rather silly and awkward. They bumped noses and Sarah drew back and laughed, putting her hand over her face and rubbing.
"A bit out of practice?"
John nodded sheepishly. "Couple of years, actually. Afghanistan. War. Sharia law."
"Well, I'll give you a primer."
She tried her best, running her hands up and down his body, fondling him through his clothes, but it was painfully obvious to John that nothing was working. That part of him was resolutely off-line.
After a couple of minutes, he flipped the tables on her, becoming the aggressor. He undressed her with a passion he didn't really feel. Cupping her breasts, he thumbed at her nipples and worked her flesh with intellectual satisfaction. She let him fondle her body, until finally he was on his knees before her, her legs over his shoulders while he brought her to orgasm with his mouth and fingers.
It wasn't until after she'd stopped moaning and gripping his hair that she realized that he hadn't come. That he wasn't even hard. The look on her face was confused betrayal.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I - I don't know what's wrong with me."
She stood up and wandered to her purse. John watched her scribble something out on a pad, then she brought the prescription back to him. Viagra.
She shrugged. "It's the least I can do. I know how embarrassing this can be, especially in someone as young as yourself."
He accepted the slip with a painful smile.
Sherlock sniffed him as he walked in the door and gave him a sour look. He then found some reason to be off elsewhere for the next two days.
That was fine, because John knew he'd smelled of Sarah and that proved that he was not interested in Sherlock. The secret was, once more, safe. If John were keeping a chart, he'd have awarded himself a star.
He'd honestly thought that keeping chaste would be a hard thing to do. It was surprising how easy it was. Every day that went by he felt that much better about himself. He enjoyed the discipline, knowing that he was in control of his libido. He wasn't like other men who were hopeless in the presence of an attractive lady. He could be comfortable and friendly with anyone, with no sense of embarrassment or awkwardness or longing.
He was aware of people flirting with him in a way they never had before, as though his unavailability made him somehow more attractive. It was quite confidence boosting, but he was always careful not to lead any of them on. More than once during these occasions he found Sherlock staring at him.
"How are things with Sarah?" Sherlock asked, after watching John politely rebuff their waitress with a smile.
"She's fine," John made a show of putting his napkin on his lap. "Busy this week," he said knowing what Sherlock was thinking of. "Friend in town." It was the story she'd given him, and he thought maybe it was true.
He didn't mention that the dates had steadily become worse since his failure in performance. Although he offered to please her one-sidedly, she refused to let him touch her until he worked out his problem with his penis, or at least showed some interest in progress. In her words, "I want a lover, not a sex toy."
She'd also said, "I do like you, John, a lot. But I'm not a beard, and if that's your aim, forget it."
John didn't mention either of those things to Sherlock.
"Ah." Sherlock still looked puzzled.
John switched the subject.
Every time John thought he had the crush put down, it had a way of reasserting itself. Sometimes in the most awkward times and ways. Perhaps it was because John was tired from work. Perhaps it was because Sarah had seemed a bit extra cool to him that day. When John heard gunshots in his flat and worry sent adrenaline racing through his body, somehow the monster slipped the cage.
It turned out that Sherlock was just playing with John's gun. Without thinking John reached out and grabbed it away and pulled out the clip. The wall was full of holes. The fridge was full of corpse. There was nothing to eat, the place was a mess and John was exhausted and it was just too god damn much.
John felt furious. And then it wasn't just fury. That knot of tension loosened, only for a second and suddenly it felt like a wild animal clawing at his chest. The smell, the voice, the way Sherlock had curled, so petulantly on the couch. John's skin was on fire. His cock felt warm and heavy. He wanted to attack the man with his hands, his mouth.
He slammed down on that feeling as hard as he could. He didn't even know how he'd managed to lose control in the first place, he was angry. He shouldn't have been turned on.
The solution was to flee as quickly as he dared. Thankfully, Sherlock was sulking on the couch with his back to him. There was no way he could have seen the slip.
He went to Sarah's. Maybe his damn penis would work with her this once. "Let me try?" he begged.
Sighing she let him in. They groped each other perfunctory for a few minutes then gave up when first John balled his hands into impotent fists, then Sarah raised hers in surrender. Whatever fire had been set had long cooled, leaving nothing but a persistent ache in John's balls. Sarah seemed torn between tearing her hair out and laughing.
"You should just admit that you are gay for your flatmate," she said as she straightened her clothes and went to put the kettle on.
"I'm not gay," said John automatically. "And definitely not for Sherlock." How had she known? Sherlock didn't.
"You aren't the first, you know," Sarah said with a sigh. "I fell for this guy first year at uni. He was so deep in the closet he had me fooled. But he was like you. Went through all the motions, but that's all they were. Motions. Trying so desperately to convince himself that he was straight. I got tired of it."
"What happened?"
"Last I heard, his third wife hadn't stopped him from propositioning an undercover officer in the men's toilet."
John thought. It really wasn't fair to be using Sarah as a prop for what really was his dysfunction. But he couldn't give her what she wanted either. He felt a wave of helplessness.
"Can we be friends then? Who hang out together when it's convenient? And also," here was the truly awkward part. "I had a bit of a row with Sherlock. Would you mind if I stayed here tonight."
Sarah melted into a laugh. "All right. Sure. Friends it is. I'll fetch the lilo."
"No need," said John, relieved. "The couch would be fine."
Sarah looked at him a bit. "Do you really need to keep it secret from him? If I was able to figure it out, don't you think he will too? He's the world's best bloody detective."
"That's what I'm terrified of," admitted John.
"Tell you what. Because you are cute, I'll think about the beard bit." She considered. "At least until I find myself a real boyfriend. Which I will be working on in short order, so don't think that this is a long term solution."
"All I could ask," said John utterly relieved.
The next few days were far too busy and confusing for John to think about anything other than work, either his or Sherlock's. Every moment that wasn't spent at the clinic was spent chasing one lead or another down. When, at last, there was a bit of a break, John intended to go back to Sarah's to talk a bit more. He got kidnapped instead.
He would have been blown up as well if Mycroft hadn't come through at the last moment. One by one the little red dots on Sherlock's throat disappeared. Moriarty had noticed as well, and chosen to make a rather hasty get away. Sherlock lowered the John's gun and joined him in sitting next to the pool.
A moment later the place was filled with men in black. Sauntering into the middle of the mess was Mycroft himself, looking distinctly put out.
"Sherlock," Mycroft said with a bit of a tut to his voice. "I'd appreciate a bit of a heads up next time you decide to involve me in one of your cases."
"I didn't involve you," muttered Sherlock. "You involved yourself."
"You used my plans as bait, and you knew, of course, that I had you under observation."
"You could have come a bit sooner. And how did you let John get kidnapped?"
"While I know it must have seemed like a long time to you, Sherlock, it was in fact only a couple of minutes. We had to isolate all of Moriarty's men before we dared to take out any of them."
"And Moriarty?"
"Caught. And you're welcome."
They argued a bit about the safety procedures and who had the right to claim victory. John found himself listening to the cadence of Sherlock's voice and discovered it made him itchy in a distinctly dangerous way. He was still practically high with relief and the monster was back to scratching at the walls of its room. John shifted and grimaced and tried get hold of himself again. Mycroft's men were watching him sharply and this was far too public and inappropriate a place and time to be getting turned on.
He'd almost died. Sex should have been the last thing on his mind. What kind of insanity did he have?
Mycroft turned to him suddenly. "How are you feeling, John? I would have come to your rescue earlier, but there was a slight problem with interoffice communications. Won't happen again. I've sacked the man who was supposed to be keeping track of you."
The man who-- did John want to know? No, no he really didn't. "I'm just tired," he lied. "And I'd like to go home." John wasn't sure he had the mental stamina to hold it together much longer.
He pretended to sleep in the car. He was pretty sure he didn't fool anyone, but it gave him an excuse not to speak, which might have triggered Sherlock to talk. It gave an excuse not to look at Sherlock, which would have triggered something much worse. John's stomach hurt from all the clenching. Worse than when he'd been strapped up with explosives.
"You're in shock," Sherlock stated.
"Don't speak to me," he said as the monster writhed and he writhed with it. Rolling away onto his hip, treacherous penis trapped between his thighs, he clenched his eyes shut tight. His forehead brushed the cold glass of Mycroft's car window.
"I'm sorry, Sherlock," he said when the crisis passed. "I just need a moment to myself. That was a close call, even for us."
Let him think it was the trauma that had him tied up in knots.
He heard Sherlock sigh.
It was with relief that the need cooled down. Thinking resolutely of things not-Sherlock, he regained his equilibrium. His legs relaxed and he sat more normally. His gut knotted in that pleasant way that meant that he was back in the driver's seat. The wave of serenity that followed felt near euphoric. The car abruptly stopped and he felt Sherlock's hand on his shoulder. "I'm afraid your moment alone has passed. We've reached our destination."
John opened his eyes and climbed out, he then quickly moved to let himself into the flat. Sherlock was just behind him, so close that he felt the bush of his coat against his leg while he turned the key, but he was in control now. It didn't matter.
"Well, that was quite a day," John said, walking inside. Understatement, the last refuge of the discombobulated. "I'm retiring for the night." He didn't bother to look at Sherlock. Better to wait for tomorrow for that. Not tempt fate so soon.
The door behind him shut. "Hold on a minute John." Sherlock clasped his shoulder, preventing further retreat.
John turned around and smiled with false tiredness. "Listen -"
"I think you should know, I masturbate frequently," said Sherlock out of the blue.
John tensed, torn between shock and inappropriate intrigue. The monster was back out and furious. Sherlock's face seemed pensive. He didn't appear to be joking about.
"How lovely for you," John managed to gasp after an awkward second. "But too much information."
Sherlock's eyes grew sharper. "I don't usually indulge when I'm on a case, unless I think that release will help me think better, but when I'm bored, between cases, I have three, four, sometimes five wanks a day. Don't you find that interesting?"
"I don't want to know," said John, feeling a thrill of terror. He refused to visualize anything. He resisted the urge to cover his ears and shout. He clamped, tight, tight as he could.
"You never noticed did you?" there was a little triumph in Sherlock's voice, as if John had confirmed something. "You just assumed I don't do such tawdry things. Doesn't fit with your theory that I'm some untouchable angel, does it. Is my pedestal looking a bit shaky?"
"Oh really, Sherlock, shut up." John glared at him to cover over the squirmy sensation inside. This discussion was far too dangerous. "I don't think you are some angel. Far from it." That bit, at least, he could say with complete honesty. He twisted his shoulder out from Sherlock's hand.
"Ah, thought not, but I had to confirm it." Sherlock let him walk away towards the safety of his room.
"Well then, glad that's settled," John called over his shoulder.
"After all," Sherlock called back, "That was the lie you wanted me to believe. Nice to dispense with that falsehood so we can get to meat of the matter as it were."
"There is no meat to the matter." John felt goosebumps on his skin. Too close, too close.
"You don't do such things, do you? Masturbate. When was the last time you've come, John?"
Strategic retreat turned into full out fleeing. "Not your business! Leave me alone!" He took the stairs quickly, his feet stomping heavily on the hard wood. Not heavily enough to drown out the sound of Sherlock's voice.
"It was before you moved in. Three months ago," Sherlock called up from the bottom of the stairs. "I've read your psych reports, your service records, your medical records dating back to childhood, you've never complained of any sort of sexual dysfunction. You aren't on any medication that would destroy your libido. You've experienced no injuries that would interfere with normal erectile function. The problem is not physiological."
John opened the door to his room with a shaking hand. "We are not having this discussion," he said as evenly as he could make his voice.
Sherlock just continued, like a relentless wave, walking up the stairs slowly like some confident predator. "You have a prescription for Viagra written by Sarah folded up in your wallet. You haven't thrown it away, but you haven't filled it. Part of you, the intellectual part, knows that your impotence is destroying your relationship, but part of you, the emotional part, doesn't want to be cured." Sherlock reached the landing, he stood just outside John's door while John stood just within. "Why would that be?"
"It could just be a dislike of taking unnecessary drugs."
"Hardly," Sherlock dismissed. "You prefer this state. It doesn't bother you the way it should have."
"Well there you go, as one asexual to another, we are fine." He started to close the door.
"You didn't used to think that way." Sherlock went on, putting his foot out to stop the door. "I've conducted interviews with women you've dated before going to Afghanistan and been assured that you functioned perfectly fine in the past. And yet, since moving in with me, you've remained celibate even to yourself."
"You've interviewed my old girlfriends to inquire as to my sex life?" John pulled himself around and leveled a forbidding look that mostly masked his relief. Sherlock's trespasses were annoying enough to dampen his libido. He was just angry now, and thank heavens for that.
"Of course I did. You have become very important to me. I'm concerned about your well being."
"If you had questions about my sexuality, you could have asked."
"Could I have?" Sherlock leveled a chiding look. "Would you really have told me your terrible secret if I'd just asked?"
"Oh, just shut it," said John, his face burning with embarrassment. "For God's sake, Sherlock. Leave it alone."
He stepped backwards into his room. Sherlock advanced into his sanctuary. There was no getting around him. John was cornered.
"I have to know, John," said Sherlock. "You are sending me mixed signals. I have to know if I am the one causing this condition."
"Well you aren't," John lied desperately. "And it's not your problem."
Sherlock closed his eyes, his face grew placid with relief. Case solved, everything could go back to normal. And John found himself almost smiling in sympathy. The enemy had almost had him, but he was safe now. That had been close.
"Now that your worries have been put to rest," said John, turning away and making for his dresser. "If you don't mind -"
He got no further. Sherlock grabbed him from behind, wrapping one arm around his chest and pulling him into an embrace. He could feel the man's warmth all up his back, feel his breath on his neck. His voice purred in John's ear. "One thing I won't tolerate is dishonesty between us, John."
The vise slipped, the knot failed, the walls around his libido came crashing down. John shuddered with the power of the need that swept over him.
Nonetheless, he denied. "Let me go. I'm not interested in you." His voice sounded choked even to himself.
One of Sherlock's hands slid lower, found his crotch and the traitor that resided there. "This says otherwise."
"Shock."
"John, you've been impotent for three months, this isn't shock. You want me. Desperately." A deft tug loosened his belt. Clever fingers found the zip and pulled it down slowly. Each bit of released pressure made John's breath jag in.
"And you don't want me, so let's pretend it's shock."
"Is denial really preferable to this?" Sherlock's hand found it's way into John's pants.
"This means nothing. You don't respect limits. You see this as a problem that needs solving when it doesn't. I have solved it."
"But it does," said Sherlock. "I will not be responsible for your mental illness. I may be celibate by nature, but you are not. You aren't asexual John, no matter how much you seem to want to make yourself. You are punishing yourself for something that is natural."
"This isn't solving anything. It's making things -- worse." He gasped, Sherlock's hand had started to move, stroking slowly up and down John's erection. Need spiraled out of control.
John winced. "Sherlock, please do-"
"--Don't say it!" Sherlock said hastily. "If you say it I will have to honor your words. And neither of us wants that."
It was too late anyway, John panted, his hand over the sleeve of Sherlock's coat, urging him to go faster because, oh fuck, oh fuck, he was going to come. He could feel Sherlock behind him, an odd hardness pressed against the top of one buttock. He stiffened rigid as Sherlock shifted his weight, pressing against him harder.
Three things happened nearly simultaneously, one was that Sherlock suddenly moved his left arm from around John's chest to over his face, forcing the sleeve of his Belstaff coat into John's gaping, gasping mouth like a gag. The second was that he thrust against his back in a way that was unmistakably provocative. The third, was that he finally sped up the strokes with his hand.
John screamed into the sleeve and came for the first time in three months. It felt like his entire body was pouring out of him. When his breath had all been blown out, he sucked in as much air as he could with his nose, and let it go again. He wasn't sure if it was pleasure or agony, all he knew was that he was falling apart and he wanted it to go on forever. Eventually, there was nothing left to give. Utterly emptied, John slumped out of Sherlock's grip, falling to his knees on the floor.
They were quiet for a minute while John regained his breath.
"What have we done, Sherlock?" Would it all be a mess between them now? Would their uncomplicated relationship be hopelessly tangled by one-sided need. He knew how Sarah felt. I want a lover, not a sex toy. He didn't just want a hand job. He wanted it all.
"Only what I should have done to you our third night together, when I realized there was a problem."
"Third night?" John laughed. He wasn't sure with bitterness or relief. Perhaps it was both. "I didn't fool you at all did I."
"You fooled me unfortunately very well." Sherlock reached down and helped John onto the bed. "It's not something most people can do. They simply don't have that sort of control over their bodies. But nothing added up." He put his hands to either side of John's face. "My senses told me you were completely asexual, but my investigations told me otherwise. I knew which way I wished you would be, but I couldn't find any confirmation."
"Sarah was supposed to have convinced you I was having sex."
"And she convinced me that you were categorically incapable." Sherlock ran his hands through his hair. "And I have to say, it's all been very cock-blocking."
"Cockblocking to you?"
Sherlock frowned. "Well who did you think I thought of while I wanked? It's rather hard to maintain a fantasy of you being sexually molested to ecstasy by a variety of partners when in reality you remained so damnably chaste. Achieving visual confirmation, even by use of hidden cameras, was clearly impossible."
"Thank God for that." John found himself laughing. "Oh, God we are hopeless, Sherlock. You wank to the thought of me with others, and I can't even wank with anyone but you. Bloody fantastic."
Sherlock thought. "It's true that by far my main, and hitherto exclusive preference, is for voyeurism, perhaps I can branch out." He shrugged. "You've shown skill at pleasing others. I can always give it a try."
He drew John's hand down to his still hard crotch. "At the very least, I believe you owe me a hand. And soon please. I'm becoming very uncomfortable."
"Oh." John relaxed. "Of course. That I can do."