Chapter Text
John woke up to discover the world’s only consulting detective passed out partway on top of him. Sherlock’s nose was buried firmly against John’s carotid and his left leg was thrown over John’s thigh. He was also snoring slightly, which the git managed to actually make sound adorable instead of annoying. John let himself enjoy it for a few minutes before the pressure in his bladder made escape necessary.
“Mmm,” Sherlock murmured as John shifted. “Y’re warm.”
“Go back to sleep, Sherlock,” John said with a smile. “You needed it.”
“Warm,” Sherlock repeated. And then blinked himself a bit more awake. “This is . . . nice. Sharing a bed with you.”
“You sound surprised.”
“I’ve never tried it before.” Sherlock shifted away and propped himself up one elbow, his hair fluffed wildly (and unevenly) in all directions. “Always assumed that it would impinge on my sleep patterns.”
“What patterns?” John couldn’t resist the impulse to lean forward and plant a kiss on Sherlock’s temple, dandelion-fluff hair tickling his nose as he did so. “You don’t sleep as much as randomly cease consciousness, most of the time.”
“I sleep,” Sherlock protested. “Just not during cases.”
“Would that change if the bed had me in it?”
Sherlock smiled drowsily up at him. “Depends if you intend to keep my prolactin and oxytocin levels high. Associated with-” - he closed his eyes and let his head fall back to the mattress - “-both orgasm and slumber.”
Berk. John forced himself to get out of the cozy Sherlock-scented bed and go use the loo. Yeah, once per day can go hang. It was his day off, Sherlock was adorable, and John really didn’t have anywhere else he wanted to be.
***
A case intervened, of course. John had showered, shaved, and was just making up a tray of breakfast nibbles to bring back to Sherlock’s room when Lestrade called.
“Think his phone’s off, mate,” Lestrade said by way of greeting. “Is he there with you?”
John shifted over to the doorway, the better to look in on Sherlock’s sleeping form. “Yeah, he’s home. Actually sleeping for once.”
“Huh - will wonders never cease?” Lestrade’s smirk was audible even over the iffy connection. “Could really use him on this one, though: dead barrister found in his walk-in closet, nude except for a pair of pink bunny slippers and a rubber Margaret Thatcher mask. Anderson thinks it’s some sort of kinky sex thing but I’m not so sure.” He chuckled. “Not really Sherlock’s area, I know.”
Christ. “Yeah, it’s really not,” John agreed. “But you think Sherlock will find another explanation?”
“No sign of a partner,” Lestrade explained. “Nothing actually sexual about the scene, apart from how it’s just fucking weird. I think Sherlock should be able to manage okay - nothing to scar his poor little virgin mind.”
Not so virgin anymore, John argued silently. Sherlock had sprawled back over the center of the bed after John left, burying his face in the pillow where John’s head had been and displaying one long, pale leg. John wanted to slide in next to him and cover that long body with his own. Instead, he flipped on the lights and cleared his throat. “Text me the address,” he said into the phone in an almost-normal tone. “We’ll be there as soon as we can.”
***
The case took all day and a fair chunk of that night. It was looking like it would take much longer, but sometime around midnight Sherlock suddenly looked at the clock, stood up from where he’d been pacing Lestrade’s office and shouted something unintelligible before dashing out the door. By the time John caught up to him at the other end of the corridor, Sherlock had already texted Mycroft that his top-secret MI5 operation was anything but secret and he really ought to do something about it. Ten minutes later the entire team was being pulled off the case and it was being handled “by an interdepartmental team specializing in circumstances such as these.”
“Mycroft?” Lestrade asked as he hung up the phone.
“Mycroft,” Sherlock confirmed. “Apologies - John and I need to get home. It’s after midnight, you know. Brand new day.”
Lestrade gave them a skeptical side-eye, clearly not buying Sherlock’s sudden haste, but he let them go with a brief thanks and a promise to keep them informed if he ever heard back about the outcome. Sherlock wasn’t exactly subtle as he swept John out the door and into a cab.
“New day, hmm?” John teased.
“Obviously.” Sherlock huffed and resettled his coat, looking for all the world like a large bird fluffing its feathers. “I knew it was one of Mycroft’s from the moment we saw the body, but I needed something to occupy our time until we could have sexual relations again. Since you insist on time limitations.”
“You . . . dragged out a case for almost sixteen hours so we could occupy our time?” John groaned. “Bit not good, Sherlock. Greg, for one, would have certainly preferred not to be paying the overtime.”
Sherlock waved his objection away with an elegant flick of his wrist. “Lestrade would have been just as irked by a swift deduction. And I would have been bored.”
“Any chance of sleep first?”
Sherlock licked his lips and eyed John speculatively. “If I say no, will it decrease the chances of a mutually satisfying lesson?”
God, that look. The cabbie was definitely driving too slowly, John decided. A horny Sherlock was surely worth breaking a few traffic laws for. And maybe relaxing the “one a day” rule.
***
Sherlock didn’t even wait for the door to close behind them before he had rounded on John and was leaning in for a kiss. John permitted it for only a few achingly sweet moments before pulling away and offering an apologetic shrug in return.
“Can’t do much down here without frightening Mrs. Hudson,” he explained. “If you want your mutually satisfying lesson we’re going to need a bed. And fewer clothes.”
Sherlock bit his lip, his eyes going dark. “You’re not mad?”
“At the idea of getting you naked?” John returned Sherlock’s lust-filled stare with a dark one of his own. “Sherlock, I’m just getting started.”
Sherlock swallowed hard. “Please,” he whispered.
“Up to your room then. I’d like you stripped and waiting for me when I get to your bed.”
Sherlock hesitated only a moment longer - to ensure his legs were still working, was John’s guess - then practically sprinted up the steps. John detoured to his own room for a few supplies first and then followed at a much more leisurely pace.
The overhead light was off and the bedside lamp on, bathing the room in a dim golden glow which somehow did nothing to conceal the unearthly paleness of Sherlock’s skin or the dark halo of his hair as it curled against the pillow. He was indeed nude, his sheet pulled primly up to his armpits, but his eyes tracked John relentlessly as John put down the condoms and lube on the bedside table, stripped out of his (admittedly a bit stale) clothes, and slid in under the sheet alongside him.
“This is all right?” Sherlock murmured. “I know you’re tired, but I was hoping . . .”
“It’s okay,” John reassured him. “I am a bit knackered, but snuggly-sleepy sex is every bit as much fun as the wild kind. And it’s something I haven’t ever gotten to indulge in all that often. If that’s okay with you?”
Sherlock tilted his chin up higher, a hint of a challenge in his spine, but he also wriggled closer and lay a warm palm on John’s chest. “It’s fine.”
“Was hoping you’d say that.” John closed the gap the rest of the way, pressing them chest to chest. And naked erection to naked erection. “I want you to just close your eyes and feel - can you do that for me, Sherlock? I’ve got you, I promise.”
Sherlock nodded and let his eyelids drift closed. “Trust you,” he murmured.
God, Sherlock sleepy and pliant was another vision for John’s upcoming “mind cupboard.” John left the sheet where it was, covering them both from the chest downward, but he let his hands wander over Sherlock’s skin. Sherlock shivered and snuggled closer, wrapping his own arm around John’s ribcage and splaying it possessively over his bullet wound. If it were anyone else John would have assumed they hadn’t noticed the scar, but Sherlock always noticed everything.
“Learning it by touch?” John leaned his head forward to give Sherlock better access. “Would have thought you’d have memorized it by now.”
“I have,” Sherlock said softly. “Just marveling that you’re permitting me to do this. To be here.”
“Ditto.” John was deliberately avoiding Sherlock’s erection so far, but he did dare a little gentle grope of Sherlock’s magnificent arse. “All those times I denied we were together - it was because I couldn’t let myself hope for this. It would have hurt too much if you had . . . well, you know. Like you do sometimes.”
“If I had deduced you and mocked you for your attraction to me,” Sherlock finished for him. “I might have, when we first met, but after that . . . no.” He kept his eyes closed, but a small smile drifted across his face. “You confused me, you know.”
“Why?”
“Because I didn’t mind you.” Sherlock nudged forward into the pressure of John’s hand on his shoulder. “This. Touching my arm or my back, brushing against each other in doorways or cabs at variable intervals. Makes my skin crawl for anyone else, but I didn’t mind it with you. I couldn’t figure out why.”
“And now you have?” John tugged him closer, nuzzled a ghost of a kiss against Sherlock’s jaw. “Am I an exception?”
“To everything.” Sherlock opened his eyes and returned the kiss, a soft and achingly sweet brush of lips that somehow managed to convey everything his words hadn’t. “You make me want to be . . . good. Better. For you.”
“I love you just as you are,” John said.
Sherlock stilled. “You’re not . . . you’re not lying.”
God. John hadn’t entirely meant to blurt it out like that, but Sherlock wore a stunned look John had rarely seen before and damn if it wasn’t the royal icing on the sweetness of the moment. “Don’t tell me you hadn’t deduced that,” John urged.
“I hadn’t . . . I didn’t dare to . . . John, I’m terrible at this.” Sherlock went to bury his face in the pillow, but John kept a solid hold on his shoulder and prevented him from hiding.
“You’re not terrible. I think you’re doing rather well, actually. Wouldn’t mind if we did a bit more, if you’re feeling up to it.”
Sherlock nodded frantically. “Anything.”
“Tell me how you like this, then.” John pressed all the way flat against him, one hand slipping down to guide Sherlock’s arse forward and to press Sherlock’s cock against his own. They both gasped in unison.
“I like it,” Sherlock said unnecessarily. “Keep going.”
“I’ve got you.” John nudged his hips gently, getting Sherlock used to the feeling, then kissed him one more time and pulled back to grab the bottle of lube off the nightstand. “Okay?”
Sherlock bit his lip, his eyes wide and dark and so full of sexual promise John was hard-pressed to not just say to hell with it and throw the whole “soft and slow” thing out the window.
“John,” Sherlock murmured. “John, I very much would like to have sex now.”
John slid a slicked-up hand gently down Sherlock’s cock. “That’s what we’re doing.”
“No, I mean . . .” Sherlock slid his own hand down to John’s arse, kneading him forward. “I want to have penetrative intercourse. My research tells me men participating in homosexual encounters tend to prefer to ‘bottom’ or ‘top’ - do you have a preference? I’m open to either experience.”
Christ. John didn’t let his slow, careful strokes falter, but the thought of Sherlock open in any sense was enough to make him groan. Still . . . “Probably best if you learn by example first, right? Here.” He canted his hips backwards a few crucial inches, so Sherlock’s long fingers slid from merely groping his arse to actually tracing his crack.
Sherlock didn’t answer - couldn’t, if the hitch in his breathing was any indication.
“You want to be inside me,” John pressed. “Is that what you want?”
Sherlock swallowed and nodded. “That’s - that would be acceptable,” he choked out.
Hopefully not just “acceptable,” John vowed silently. I’ll settle for nothing less than blowing his fucking mind.
“What do I do?”
“Start with this.” John extricated Sherlock’s arm and rolled onto his back. The change in position meant he had to let go of Sherlock’s cock, but it also meant he could grab Sherlock’s hand and press a dollop of lube onto Sherlock’s finger before the observational genius could figure out what was happening. Direct information usually works best for him . . . “You’re going to stretch me,” John instructed. “One finger first, then add a second when I’m ready. You want to move to between my legs so you can see better?”
Some of Sherlock’s nerves and shyness fell away as they worked out the blocking. They eventually settled on a pillow under John’s hips and Sherlock kneeling between his legs, looking awed and overwhelmed by turns. Sherlock’s fingers were long - much longer than John’s own - and John wasn’t at all surprised when Sherlock found his prostate almost immediately through some combination of luck and just observing John’s facial expressions.
“That’s it, isn’t it?” Sherlock murmured. “Am I doing it right?”
John groaned. “So fucking right you wouldn’t even believe it. Two fingers now - make me desperate for it.”
Oh, Christ, he liked hearing that. The thrill of the challenge shone on Sherlock’s face as he breached John with a second and eventually a third finger. John moaned aloud, both of them watching as his cock twitched and started drooling a little pool of sticky precome into his navel.
“Now?” Sherlock asked.
“Fuck, yes.” John grabbed a condom from the nightstand without twisting his hips and rolled it onto Sherlock’s cock as quickly as possible. “Go slow and wait for me to adjust, but I swear I’m probably so keyed up at the moment I wouldn’t even care. I need your cock filling me up right the hell now.”
Despite Sherlock’s inexperience, he was nowhere near as awkward as some of John’s previous partners had been. Was impressively in tune with John’s body language, as a matter of fact. John found himself feeling idly grateful that “reading micro-expressions” was information Sherlock had bothered to retain instead of tossing out as irrelevant and unscientific, because holy fucking damn.
Sherlock did go slowly at first, lining up his cock with John’s hole and only pressing forward in micrometer-sized increments. His long fingers gripped John’s hips tightly, holding John’s body steady and providing some stability. John sighed and wriggled himself further onto Sherlock’s cock.
Sherlock sucked in a breath. “It’s still not comfortable for you,” he objected. “This is as slow as I can-”
“You’re doing fine,” John promised. “I’ll say something if it hurts - but right now, I just need you inside me. You can-”
Sherlock cut him off with a very definite thrust which seated him most of the rest of the way into John’s arse. John dragged in a breath, nearly seeing stars, but quickly wrapped his legs around Sherlock’s ribcage and dug his heels into Sherlock’s scapulae. “Again,” he demanded.
Sherlock did it again, a little deeper this time. Damn the man for his giant brain and his keen observational skills - two more thrusts and he was grazing John’s prostate with just the right amount of pressure, leaving John gasping and trying very hard to remember why exactly he thought he was in charge here in the first place. Sherlock’s lips twisted into something dangerously like a smug smile as he settled into his role as “best damn fuck ever.”
“You’ve been - oh! - researching, haven’t you?” John gasped out as his hole took the delicious pounding. God, so precise, so controlled. Sherlock may have claimed he was new to this, but sometime since that first kiss he’d acquired a nearly supernatural set of fucking skills. “Watching porn in the name of science?”
“Too random,” Sherlock murmured from above him. In that bloody deep voice that never failed to get John a bit turned on even in totally non-sexual contexts, damn it. “I did review select portions of your browser history, though.” His dextrous fingers skimmed up John’s sides, settled over his nipples, plucked and tweaked in time with his thrusts, and John involuntarily arched into the touch. “Needed to see what turns you on.”
“You’re - ah! - bloody good at it.”
“Of course.”
Despite Sherlock’s casual words, his own body language was anything but. Even through his half-gone state, John could see the telltale signs - the dilated pupils, the tight breath, the flush creeping over Sherlock’s pale skin. He’s thirty goddamn seconds from coming himself. John arched again, taking the opportunity to clench his internal muscles at the same time-
Sherlock howled and abandoned all sense of control. No attention to finesse, now - both of them were chasing that final plunge. John dug his heels in tighter, lifted his hips to meet every snap of Sherlock’s, threw his head back, and just . . . let it happen. Sherlock tensed and came three or four thrusts later, a look of complete wonder on his face, and John couldn’t repress a smug smile.
***
“Good?”
Sherlock hummed and burrowed his nose further into John’s neck.
“Further experimentation necessary?”
“Not an experiment. Not with you.”
“Everything’s an experiment for you, Sherlock.”
“Fine, then. Best experiment I’ve ever done. Brilliant.” Sherlock tightened an arm over John’s chest. “Need to prove repeatable results. And alter the variables next time.” He paused, then pulled himself up to one elbow so he could see John’s face. “Do we have to wait twenty-four hours?”
John rolled his eyes. “Shut up and kiss me, you git,” he commanded. And then dragged Sherlock back down on top of him before Sherlock could ask more questions.