If you're being charitable, you'd call it petite. At least that's what your first girlfriend called it. The first one who actually saw it, that is. She'd bit back a giggle and rolled it in her soft little hand, stroking it.
"It's like a petite little kitten," she said. She stopped when she saw the hurt in your eyes, tried to make it up to you by sucking you off. But by then… it was too late and you couldn't get hard again, much less come – especially humiliating because you were seventeen, and dammit, you got a stiffy when the wind changed.
So you broke up. Well, she broke up with you, and you went to university, and joined the army and became a doctor and went to Afghanistan. And while you had sex after that first abortive attempt, and while you discovered that you were, in fact, bisexual, it really was all the same.
With women, you perfected your techniques at oral sex, mastering the art of bringing them off with such intensity that they didn't notice, or if they did, would feel too bad after that earth-shattering orgasm you just gave them to complain if your cock was too small to bring them off properly. You barely ever let them suck you, either. Only if you (or they) were so blindingly drunk, neither one of you would really notice that you weren't… well proportioned.
With men, you always bottomed. It was easier that way, whispering, "I'll take care of myself, just fuck me, oh, please fuck me," in their ears before spreading your legs, seeming to be panting for it. And some of them were decent enough, bringing you off with their fingers (and on one memorable occasion, his tongue in your arse) while you tugged on your cock, trying to think about anything but what would happen if the man behind you ever got a truly good look at it.
But the truth is, you want to like sex. You enjoy bringing your partner off, love knowing that you made them feel good, so good – you have plenty of memories of that: "Oh God, John… you make me feel so good. What you do with your hands/tongue/fingers/lips is so amazing. I love the way you do that. You're so good at that. You're so considerate. You're so kind. You're so gentle/wonderfully rough/tender/amazing." And it's nice. Nice to be that close to somebody. Nice to feel their lips on your cock – usually right before they back off and give you That Look.
And it's That Look that kills it for you every time. That Look that says "Doesn't it get any bigger?" or "What's wrong with it?" or, at its worst, "I'm sorry." The "I'm sorry" is about a hundred times worse than the "What's wrong with you?" And you sigh, and try to smile and murmur encouragements ("That's so good, you feel so nice, God, yes, don't stop"), but you know that it's not really going to make a difference what they do. Which is why you've made sure they've already come and you make your excuses as quickly as you can ("Long day," or "I'm just knackered," or "You feel so good, but just not right now… it's me, darling.") and skip either straight to the cuddling, or hurry to get a towel to clean them off, caressing bruised or reddened skin with gentle kisses.
So when it comes to Sherlock, when you finally actually manage to fall in bed together, after The Pool, after you pulled him from that burning wreckage, after that heart-stopping moment when he fell from the roof of St. Bart's and you thought that you had lost him forever, on a steaming hot August afternoon, when you walked into the lounge and found him, passed out on the floor half-dead from heat exhaustion, and you hauled him into a icy cold bath and he pulled you into the bath with him, it seemed almost a foregone conclusion that he'd be tearing your vest and shorts off, that you'd be tugging at his shorts and you'd fall into the nearest bed (his) as he laved your throat with his tongue, his hands wandering down to tweak your nipples while you called his name, an obscene groan teased from your throat.
And then it's hands and lips and tongues, and oh God, Sherlock's mouth is around your cock and you're fisting his sheets, head thrown back, jaw tight as you're encompassed by wet heat, sucking and licking and biting just enough and oh, right there. Sherlock backs off and you look up at him, waiting.
You know it's coming. You steel yourself. You can withstand this. Even this. Even though (and that's the moment when you realize it and your life takes a sharp turn to the left, it seems) you've fallen in love with him, you can survive this. And then Sherlock says, tugging at his own cock, already hard and leaking, "John, please… please, I want you to fuck me."
What happens next, you think, is nothing sort of fucking miraculous.
Sherlock tugs on your shoulder, rolling you over so he can lie next to you, spreading his legs and stroking his beautiful, hard, leaking cock. You lean down, taking an exploratory lick.
He tastes of precome and sweat and soap and Sherlock, and God, you could die now and never be more contented. But Sherlock makes an impatient whimper as you pull back.
"Condom, John. Please. I know you'll want to be careful. And lube… there's lube in the bedside drawer. Please, John, please, I want you to fuck me."
His voice sinks into a needy whine that goes straight to your balls and you fumble with the lube and the condom before sinking your fingers into his tight opening.
"JOHN!" he cries as you curl your fingers, finding that spot that you know would reduce Sherlock to desperate whimpering if he wasn't already doing so. "JOHN, stop playing around and just fuck me. Make me come from your cock, John… please…"
You sink into him – harder than you've ever been in your life, it seems, as his arse pulls you deep inside his heat. You feel him clench around you as you slide, carefully, slowly, so carefully into him. It's too much and it's perfect and oh, God, you want to come, but not yet, not yet.
Sherlock's tugging at his cock, and you can see that his balls are already taut against him and you groan, your orgasm building as you look down to see yourself sliding in and out of him. It's beautiful. It's perfection. And it feels so fucking good.
"Sherlock," you gasp as you begin to thrust in earnest now, feeling him contract around you – your hands digging into his hips, bruising the pale, sensitive skin.
Sherlock is coming with a strangled shout, obscenities pouring from his tongue, and it's the most fucking beautiful thing you've ever seen or heard in your life and you can't stop thrusting and thrusting into him over and over and over and you're coming and coming, your head thrown back, crying out his name.
In the aftermath, you toss the condom onto the floor, pulling Sherlock close to you. You're both sticky and sweaty, Sherlock's come pooling over his concave stomach, but you don't care as he pulls you to rest on top of him.
It's in that moment that you stiffen as you realize that for the first time, not a word, not a look has been exchanged about the size of your cock. Until now. Because you know Sherlock noticed it. He had to have. It's Sherlock, for Christ's sake. You know he's had lovers before – he's told you, even showed you his fucking lab book on his experiences at university. But you're not going to be the one to bring it up. You can't. You just can't.
The silence stretches between the two of you, and then snaps when you finally ask (you can't help yourself), "Well? Aren't you going to say something?"
"'bout what, John?" Sherlock sounds on the edge of sleep. His come is sticking to you, running between you onto the bed.
"Mff, no, John. I am not, despite the rumors, clairvoyant."
"My cock," you snap in exasperation, leaning up on your elbows. "My pathetic little todger."
Sherlock turns to look at you, his eyes snapping open, focus returning almost immediately.
"What about your cock?" he asks, and he looks genuinely puzzled.
"It's…" You're blushing now. Miserable. "It's… small. Most people, when they see it, make a comment. I almost never top because people complain that they can't feel… that I'm not doing enough, that it's pathetic…." You're babbling now, almost wishing you were a woman, wishing you were Harry, wishing it was acceptable to cry, because you've just laid out every insecurity that you have to this brilliant, frustrating man with whom you've just inexplicably fallen in love, and it's the worst fucking thing that's ever happened to you.
Sherlock is still staring at you in puzzlement. You wait. And then he says, "John… it's fine. As far as the standard deviation for the adult Caucasian male, it's…" he pauses as you frown. "Perfect. Well within normal parameters, but more importantly, it's healthy, it makes me feel good. It’s all… fine."
You blink. You are not having this conversation.
"It's not…" you start to ask.
"It's a perfectly normal, healthy specimen, John," Sherlock says. "I don’t understand why you're so upset."
"It's just that…" you begin.
"And you know what?" Sherlock cuts you off, his hand reaching between the two of you to rest on it, still slick and sticky with lube and come, still warm and sensitive from being trapped between your bodies. You hiss. "It tastes fucking wonderful."
Later, after you've cleaned up (because of course Sherlock can't be arsed to move and you have to fetch the warm water and the flannel) and Sherlock's pulled you back into his bed by the wrist and flopped over you, pinning you there, later, as you're on the verge of sleep, the word "love" comes unbidden to your lips. Sherlock sighs, and you think you've managed to get away with it – for God knows what he'd say if he thought you loved him the way you do – when he shifts a bit, pulling you tighter against him.
And you realize he's been awake the entire time.
"'s about time you figgrd id out," he mutters into the pillow, pushing at you so you roll onto your side and spooning up behind you. "Now sleep."
With his arm wrapped around you like a great bloody python, and post-orgasmic lassitude setting in, it's really probably about the wisest thing you can do.
Until two a.m., when you wake up suddenly because Sherlock's stolen the sheet and the duvet, and you're fucking freezing because the tiny window unit air conditioner you installed last week that failed to work has just kicked on. You tug and jerk at the covers until Sherlock groans and releases the duvet and you (you can't believe you're using this terminology with Sherlock) snuggle close to him, falling asleep to the sound of his quiet breath.