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Shame is Overrated

Chapter Text

Reading the newspaper, Sherlock catalogued the sleepy shuffle of feet across the hall upstairs. 6:30 am. John was up. A corner of his mind contentedly prepared itself for breakfast tea and eggs on toast. Another corner bookmarked an interesting obituary in the Telegraph and began the countdown to the inevitable phone call from the Met.

Holy shit!

All trains of thought derailed. Sherlock was banging up the stairs to the loo before the echo died down. The last time John’s voice had cracked like that, an unhinged scientist had been holding him face-down over a tank of infected laboratory rats.

John jumped and spun when Sherlock barged in. Sherlock dismissed it, focus darting around the room. Mrs. Hudson’s locks were only middling—midnight break-in, hide in the—no. Clerestory window—gun, blow dart, poison gas—no, clear. Venomous spider on the toothbrushes—no. Nothing but John. Rather more of John than usual, in fact. He was just scrambling to pull his pyjama bottoms up from—

Sherlock’s brain cleared its throat and tapped politely on his shoulder.

Rather…less of John than usual. “Dear god,” Sherlock said. A still-operational mental transit corridor noted this as probably the least useful activity he’d ever performed with his mouth. “John?” No, that wasn’t better.

John froze in place, face down-turned and red with humiliated fury.

Contrary to popular belief, Sherlock did have a sense of social appropriateness. It was somewhat atrophied from lack of regular exercise, true, but he did comprehend ideas like ‘poor timing,’ ‘personal space,’ and ‘inappropriate touching.’

But at the moment, it seemed vitally important to get a second opinion on the data coming in from his eyes, because they were telling him that John was missing certain intrinsic bits of anatomy that had definitely been accounted for the last time Sherlock interrupted him in the bath. So Sherlock stretched out his fingers to run them down John’s lower abdomen, confirming the sudden critical lack of normal primary sex traits and, going a bit further just in case they’d somehow gone into hiding, a surprising wet enveloping warmth that was entirely out of place.

The contact snapped John out of his momentary fugue with a gasp. “Out!” He lunged at Sherlock, shoving him out of the room so hard that he collided with the opposite wall of the hallway.

The door slammed shut between them.

Sherlock leaned his shoulders back against the wall and staked out the lavatory.

Water ran and splashed. A deep breath was drawn. A prodigious silence stretched, ended by the toilet flushing.

The door swung open again. John stared up at him from the doorway, pyjamas firmly back in place and jaw clamped so tight it looked about to crack.

Sherlock considered voicing something along the lines of “What the hell?” but it seemed redundant. Sure enough, after a moment, John got hold of himself and snapped, “Well, you were right about that woman I slept with last week. Happy now?”

Sherlock watched him storm off to his room, then went down the stairs to the kitchen. Under the circumstances, maybe he’d better be the one to make the tea.

Fifteen minutes later, they were occupying the kitchen with steaming mugs in their hands. Sherlock leaned against the worktop, following John with his eyes as he paced and muttered vulgarities to himself.

“It’s a new STI that’s been cropping up here and there,” John finally said with the misery of a man pronouncing his own death sentence. “Bacterial infection, rare and fairly benign but...notable in its occasional side effects.”

“Yes, I’d read about it.” Sherlock squinted through the steam of his tea, retrieving facts from his mental database. “Bacillus suscipio, responsible for Sexual Transposal Syndrome, known colloquially and with grating inaccuracy as the ‘trans virus.’” John jerked his head in the affirmative. Sherlock frowned at him. “John. You’re a doctor. Please tell me you don’t need a lecture on safe sex.”

“Condoms fail occasionally,” John snapped.

Sherlock settled himself a little more comfortably. He should not be feeling smug, he told himself, but John did keep sleeping with harlots. If he’d only concede to letting Sherlock pick out his partners for him, this wouldn’t happen. “I told you that woman was a-”

“Yes! Yes, I know what you told me!” For a small, unassuming man, John Watson could look remarkably threatening. Sherlock’s admittedly anaemic sense of self-preservation diffidently suggested that he might try exercising some of that social appropriateness just now.

He ducked his head in a show of contrition. “It hasn’t responded well to antibiotics in reported cases, but it does pass in about a month,” he offered soothingly. “Surely that won’t be too disruptive.”

John snarled, tossed back the rest of his tea, and grabbed his coat. “I’m going to work.”


‘Not too disruptive,’ Sherlock said. The man had no fucking clue.

The thing about having one’s bits rearranged for a month was the hormones that went with it. Thank Christ it couldn’t manufacture a womb—John wasn’t wasting tears on missing that particular life-affirming monthly experience—but a sudden radical upsurge in progesterone combined with the healthy testosterone levels of an average male of the species led to a truly alarming result: John’s body was loudly asserting its intense desire to get fucked.

The sensation was uncomfortable and tantalizing at the same time, and it was driving him out of his head. He felt wet and weirdly empty, walking sometimes felt awkward (though compared to having an erection in his pants, it was liveable), and whenever a sufficiently attractive individual sauntered by, his thighs wanted to spread themselves a little wider.

Even worse, ever since Sherlock’s fingers had slipped into... No, he hadn’t quite worked up to coming out and naming it. But since they’d slipped in the other morning, he couldn’t shake the memory of how shockingly good it had felt for the second it had happened. It’d been like having a craving satisfied. His body was quite sure it wanted more of that, thank you very much. John’s preferences had always leaned more towards women than men, but apparently one was currently as good as the other.

This was currently a particular problem, since Lestrade had called them down to the station on a case. John had never had cause to appreciate just how well Lestrade’s suits fitted his trim frame, but now he was embroiled in an argument with his libido over whether he wanted to see more or less of the man’s hips and collarbones.

The less said about the mobility of Sherlock’s fingers when darting through boxes of evidence, the better.

Eventually Lestrade looked up at him, concern carving itself a groove between his eyebrows. “You’ve been awfully quiet, John. Feeling alright?”

John opened his mouth to lie, only to be cut off by Sherlock. “Trans virus.”

The open mouth got recycled into gaping shock. He was used to Sherlock behaving like he was raised by wolves, but who the hell went around outing their friends’ embarrassing ailments? “What the hell, Sherlock?”

Lestrade wore pretty much the same expression. “Yeah, not on, mate,” he pitched in, which was at least a courteous way of protesting his right to ignorance. He carefully didn’t look at John. “I know it’s hard for you to grasp, Sherlock, but there’s such a thing as too much information!”

“What?” Sherlock straightened so he could bring his nose to bear in his trademark look of disdain and confusion re: humanity. “It’s just an infection. Happens to everyone.” His eyes narrowed forbiddingly at Lestrade. “You get sinus infections every April and none of us go around complaining about you honking and snuffling like a drowning elephant for a week, no matter how revolting you sound.”

God help me, John thought. This is Sherlock trying to be supportive.

Lestrade saw it too. He set down the bag of evidence he was holding like he’d forgotten how tables worked. “Yeah. Right, okay, that’s... Yeah.”

There was a moment of mortification all around, Sherlock as discomfited by being caught out showing emotion as Lestrade and John were by the subject matter, which left only one option. By unspoken consensus, they all bent back to what they’d been doing and avoided eye contact for the next five minutes.

But on the cab ride home, John got a text.

Ever wondered how a woman feels when a man goes down on her? -GL

John’s thoughts went in this order: “What the fuck, Lestrade?” “Yes, actually I had,” “My god, that is kinky,” “...I never knew that about myself,” and finally, “What sexual orientation does that even fall into?”

He took a few minutes to think it through as rationally as he could manage, then typed back, I do now.


John sobbed and twisted his fingers into the sheets till threads popped. Lestrade stretched between his spread legs, tongue lapping and exploring inside him. It moulded to and pierced him by turns, and every so often Greg would pull out to flick at...hell, yes, clitoris, call a spade a spade, which sent John’s hips spasming, unthinkingly eager for more stimulation when he couldn’t even take what he was already getting.

God, he had never appreciated women enough. Sex had never felt like this, and it didn’t fucking stop. His body was haywire with unfamiliar sensuality. Pleasure cascaded out from what Greg was doing to tingle in his fingertips, the soles of his feet, the back of his neck, and he couldn’t stop moving and crying out under every touch. All Greg had to do was breathe on him at this point and he went wild with it. A series of well-aimed thrusts tore a whimper from his throat. “God. Greg—ohgod—where’d you. Learn to.”

Some kind of corkscrew motion happened and words stopped working. The tongue was such an amazing shape-shifter of an organ.

Greg had already made him come once. When he had tried to move away afterwards, over-sensitized, Greg had held his hips down and kept right on going through John’s protests, licking delicately over him with teasing little brushes until he had John writhing and begging for it again. The bits of John’s mind that hadn’t melted yet were in awe. It wasn’t like he’d never performed oral sex for a woman before, but Greg fucking loved it. One day he’d have to sit down and pick the man’s brain for pointers.

He moaned hysterically as Greg flattened his tongue out and used it to spread him. Or this would work.


After he got over this, John wanted to write a paper, and he wanted to title it, “The female orgasm: marvel of evolutionary engineering.”

How the hell Lestrade was single, John had no idea. Scratch that, no, a policeman’s hours could wreck the most dedicated relationship. But John had never met anyone, male or female, who was so generous to their partner, and he could cook. It was a crying shame he didn’t have someone, because Greg was born to be a family man.

And he’d meant exactly what he’d said in that text. Once he’d got done unravelling John into a pile of loose DNA strands, he’d brought him a cup of coffee and asked how it felt different. John had told him that it was lucky that men didn’t have orgasms like women did or no one would ever have found time to get civilization going.

It was a bit brilliant that Greg was so curious about how the whole job worked, because a scientific part of John was busy cataloguing the experience with wide-eyed fascination. Maybe it was because they both had merciless jobs. Maybe associating with Sherlock had devastated their capacity for social embarrassment. Maybe it was because they’d been shagging like rabbits half an hour earlier, but for the sheer weirdness of the situation, that conversation had been surprisingly easy, not to mention interesting.

He’d got home to discover that the world had flipped itself over the swing set when he wasn’t looking. Lestrade had leapt on the experimentation bus. Sherlock was giving him funny looks.

Sherlock’s scrutiny was a force unto itself. It hadn’t ceased bearing down on John for the two days since he and Greg had it off. With no hope that Sherlock hadn’t sussed out exactly what happened, John simply sucked it up and tried not to let his face flame up too much. Shame was pointless around Sherlock anyway. He never really cared enough to judge; he just saw everything. John only wished he knew why Sherlock wouldn’t let it go. Something was eating at him or else he would’ve moved on to more interesting matters after the obligatory scornful once-over.

To add to that frustration, even with (or especially with) their owner glaring at him like a crabby eagle, it was still damned hard to ignore those clever, clever hands.

It was hard to ignore a lot of things. John hadn’t been this easily turned on since he’d outgrown his teens. Getting fucked had been meant to take the edge off so he could get back to business, but what a tactical error that had been. Now that he knew what it felt like, wanting it came a lot easier.

But at least, after they got into a row about dipping fingers into caramel sauce (“testing factors that influence insect depredations on decomposing matter” insisted the ant-taunting genius), John had to admit that his current problem was far from the weirdest thing in his life. And thankfully (if that was the right word) it put him off thinking about Sherlock’s hands for a few days.


After he got past the initial days of awkwardness, John acknowledged that he’d been avoiding this for long enough. Taking stupid chances with diseases was not a sexy kind of reckless; consulting with a medical practitioner should’ve been his first move. And, well, he and Sarah weren’t exactly seeing each other these days, but they had a sort of on-again/off-again thing that left him feeling like she had a right to know.

Anyway, there might be something to be said for getting a woman’s opinion. God help him.

It helped that she was a consummate professional in her role as a doctor. Her eyebrow didn’t even twitch when he told her the story. She sat and thought for a bit while he sat and felt...well, less sheepish than he might have in anyone else’s office. “Well, it sounds like everything’s working right,” she finally offered. “I have to say, I’m impressed that you...tried it. I don’t think many men would feel that secure.” Her eyes picked up a sparkle. “What did you think?” Like she was asking him whether her turquoise blouse suited her. Which it did.

“Well. It was. Ah.” John tucked his chin and cleared his throat. “It was. Mind-blowing, actually. Honestly I’m a bit in awe that women can live with themselves, being able to feel like that.”

She smiled that achingly sweet smile that always made his stomach flip, and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear.


She’d made him sleep on her sofa for three months. They’d always had such normal sex. He’d always thought of her as a ‘take home to Mum’ kind of girl.

Well, she was, but either she’d worried she might frighten him off or she’d been more pissed off about that ‘I want to get off with Sarah’ faux pas than she’d ever let on, because she’d been keeping this side of her personality under a bushel.

Then again, it had potential personal benefits for her. At the very least, she’d pointed out, he could impress their female patients with his pelvic exam technique. Though if he ever tried the things she’d done to him with a speculum, he doubted he’d make it to the lawsuit alive.

“Push in slowly,” she instructed, “then when you pull out, spread your fingers and crook them a little so you rake with the pads of your fingertips. Right across...there.” John choked and fought to keep his bones from melting as her fingers stretched and manipulated him.

When he copied her, she gave a gasp and a delightful full-body shudder. “Good?” he asked.

“Apt pupil,” she agreed, a little breathless. “Faster. And rub with your thumb, like this.” When the combination of penetration and clitoral stimulation knocked him over, she leaned in over him. “You know, I quite like doing this to a man. I’ve always found a combination of strength and vulnerability sexy.” Then she collapsed against his chest as he gathered his senses enough to mirror what she was doing to him. “Oh god,” she moaned. “They need to figure out how to bottle this.”

“I...ohhhhh,” he groaned as she added a third slender finger and pushed back into him. It was true what they said about girth having it over length. “I’m beginning to agree with you.”


Sherlock was at the living room table, brushing up on his soldering skills, when he heard John’s feet on the front steps. He took a moment to wrap up his work on the pocket watch he was rebuilding, then assessed his flatmate while he kicked his boots off, nudging them into neat alignment against the wall with his feet.

Sherlock frowned, disgruntled. “Again?”

John threw him a confused look over his shoulder on his way to the kitchen. “Again what?”

“Sex!” Sherlock stood to follow him. “Isn’t promiscuity what got you into this in the first place?”

John set down the mug he’d just picked up. “Excuse me?”

Perhaps it wasn’t fair. John had clearly been having difficulties managing this, but honestly. Lestrade? Sherlock resented even being made to contemplate Lestrade as a sexual being. The man was a police officer, their police officer, no good could come of mixing work and leisure. And Sarah... Well. He was hard-pressed to come up with a sound objection to Sarah other than that he heard too much about her as it was. And sometimes John went over to her place simply to avoid dealing with Sherlock, whether Sherlock wanted to be avoided or not.

But the point remained. “It’s been a week. Even you don’t average two lays in a week.”

“Even me.” John’s mouth pursed as he sucked his cheeks in. Holding in an angry impulse. “Do you know what I did today, Sherlock? Today, I had a gyn exam.” Shame; attention fixed firmly on the mug despite the levelness of his tone. “I’m really not in the mood to hear my flatmate call me a slut.”

Exam? Oh, now that was much more interesting. Sherlock closed his mouth on ‘yes, but you had sex after’ and re-opened it to ask, “Interesting results?”

“Depends on your definition of interesting,” John said wryly, dropping a teabag in his cup. He was only making one, Sherlock noted. Definitely angry. “I’ve been declared perfectly normal for someone with a pair of X chromosomes. And it was just as bloody unpleasant as patients’ reactions always led me to believe.” He turned to confront Sherlock squarely, peering suspiciously up into his face. “Why are you so hung up on this? You haven’t been at me like you are with an interesting puzzle, but you won’t stop worrying at it.”

“I’m not!” Sherlock’s head jerked back. He wasn’t worrying at it. He was just...annoyed. John had been watching him all week, and he kept bringing all this baggage in, and his choices in sex partners still left a great deal to be desired, and Sherlock was dying to ask him all about the whole experience, only every time he so much as demonstrated interest, John all but took his head off or left the room.

“You are!” John insisted. “You’ve been tetchy all week. You haven’t stopped staring at me since I came home from that evening with Greg. I come home from seeing Sarah and you- Oh.” He looked off into the middle distance. “Ohhhhhhh.” He snapped back into focus on Sherlock. “Really?”

“Really what, John?” He couldn’t help rolling his eyes at the vagueness, even though he knew damn well what.

John, who knew he knew, merely lifted an eyebrow at him.

Sherlock huffed and jerked his head to the side. “I will point out that you started watching me first. And it’s rather rich for you to accuse me of tetchiness when you’ve been too temperamental to hold a conversation about anything more emotionally loaded than the grocery list.” Even that had been touch-and-go. He’d even offered to make do with only five jars of honey. He raised his chin imperiously, cursing it for a telltale sign of defensiveness even as it went up. “And if you insist on pursuing the question, then perhaps you can tell me why you can’t seem to stop staring at my hands.”

John coloured and looked away.

Which was perfect, because it meant he didn’t see how pink Sherlock’s face had just turned. Damned pasty complexion. Thank god he didn’t have cause to blush very often. “Yes. Well. There you go, then.”

The kettle snapped off, its throaty hiss dying away into silence. John fetched down another mug. Sherlock mentally leapt in a triumphant circle. An accord reached, and they hadn’t even needed to have an awkward talk about their feelings.

Sherlock stepped up against John’s back, and tipped the shorter man’s head back against his shoulder so he could kiss him from behind.

“Tell me how it feels, John,” he whispered against John’s temple. “I want to know everything.”


Those fingers—at last—were back between John’s legs, dipping in to tease and test him in a way specially formulated to drive him mad. “More, Sherlock. God, please!”

It wasn’t so much begging as a politely phrased demand, and it made Sherlock laugh and obey at the same time. “How does that feel?”

“Nnnnn, good.” He settled his stance a little wider, enjoying the feel of fingers pushing in, longer and broader than Sarah’s, reaching places that hadn’t been touched before. “It feels ache being stretched out. Those deep muscle aches, that drive you nuts because you can never quite get at them? Only...” He breathed and moved his hips, trying to guide Sherlock’s hand. “Only your fingers are almost...almost right on it.”

“Almost.” Sherlock moved searchingly inside John, leaving him weak in the knees. “Where?”

“Deeper.” John gasped at a thrust, and then another, and another, each one probing fractionally deeper. But none of them quite, quite...

“Not long enough,” Sherlock muttered, sounding as frustrated as if he were the subject of the exercise. His erection pressed into the small of John’s back. “I want...,” Sherlock breathed so vaguely John couldn’t tell whether he’d meant to speak. When his hips arched against John again, though, what he wanted was pretty clear.

The idea shot him through with a bolt of lust and alarm. Hands and mouth were one thing, but full-on intercourse? John’s body and mind held a lightning-round debate. Body won, brain forfeiting due to concussion via hormones. “Yeah. Just. I haven’t.”

A beat, then Sherlock’s arms tightened around him. “You haven’t?”

“No! It seemed a bit too—” Weird? Irresponsible? His mind woozily tried lodging another protest, but threw in the towel when Sherlock shuddered heavily against his back. What the hell. Here he was, already shagging Sherlock Holmes. There was no topping that for weird and irresponsible.

They stumbled over to the sofa in a detonation of clothing. Sherlock pulled John down on top of him, greedy to take up whole armfuls of him. Amidst the touches Sherlock stole with mouth and hands, John sorted himself out from the heap he’d landed in, manoeuvring till he was astride Sherlock’s lap and bundled close into great decadent swathes of skin-to-skin contact.

Like this, their faces were almost on a level. It was far beyond John to resist leaning in to coax his way into Sherlock’s mouth. Their tongues licked and toyed with each other, rough velvet textures sliding and catching gently. John felt Sherlock’s cock twitch where it was trapped between their abdomens. For a moment, the strangeness hit him—his should be there too—but the void between his legs was throbbing just as piteously as his prick ever had.

He dropped his forehead against Sherlock’s collarbone and admitted it out loud. “I need to be filled.”

Sherlock’s breathing hitched. John felt those captivating hands clutch tight where they lay on him and recognized the grabby impulse. Good to know that even the deductive genius could give in to caveman tendencies when it came to it.

Ah, but position, though. He lifted his head to regard the two of them and the sofa. “How do we do this?”

Sherlock caught his waist and tipped them. They rolled till John landed on his back, Sherlock smirking down at him. “Traditional. In this particular state, I have rather more experience than you.”

This position, on his back with Sherlock between his thighs, brought back the extraordinarily filthy things Greg had done to him with his tongue. His hips rolled against Sherlock of their own volition. Sherlock ground down against him in response.

“C-condom.” John scrubbed at his face with one hand, trying to muster some sense. “Infection’s...spread by genital contact. You don’t need this.”

Sherlock rumbled irritably and leaned off over the side of the sofa to fish through the piles of their clothes. “Hey,” John protested. “That’s my wallet!”

“Yes, and you always keep a foil in your wallet, don’t you, Doctor?” Sherlock held up the evidence between two fingers, letting the wallet fall to the floor. Then he was tearing at it, fumbling to get it open with his gorgeous, less than steady hands. John marvelled at the sight.

Then he held his hands out. “Here, here, let me.” His own hands, solid as bedrock, finessed the packet away and opened it. Sherlock lifted himself to let John get at him, his bohemian tumble of hair brushing over John’s face and chest as he bowed his head against the sensation.

They looked at one another for a moment. John nodded. “Take it slow.”

Sherlock teased at John with the tip of his cock, but didn’t push into him right away. It made John’s hips cant upward, straining for the stimulation, but Sherlock only pulled back to keep the same light contact, moving just enough for the hint of pressure to wax and wane. “Tell me how it feels,” he reminded.

“How it...jesus!” He let his head fall back. Sherlock was watching him expectantly, attention lying heavy on John like another groping hand, and...fuck but his eyes were stunning. John could feel all his secrets being stripped away when Sherlock examined him like that. He groaned. “Hungry! It feels hungry. Like when you drag me away from dinner after only two bites when we haven’t eaten in twenty hours. It feels like your mouth does,” he continued vindictively, “when you’re craving for a cigarette and you start wrapping your lips around anything cylindrical that presents itself. How it feels is like I fucking want you in me but an acceptable second option is to beat you senseless and then go for a hard run!”

Sherlock laughed, delighted. “Anything cylindrical?” But, perhaps recognizing that John wasn’t strictly joking with his threat, he finally took pity.

John arched and moaned in a whole new way as Sherlock’s cock parted him like a curtain. His body warred with itself: he wanted to push up and envelop Sherlock in one go at the same time as he wanted to draw away and process the intrusion before moving further. Sherlock took the decision out of his hands, holding his hips still to penetrate him one slow, unrelenting half inch at a time. John thought his expression must be a picture, because Sherlock wouldn’t look away, devouring every second of his amazement and confusion just as greedily as his cock was taking John.

Each new push was like being entered all over again: an uncomfortable stretch followed by a pause, in which his body surrendered to the burn only to have it sublimate into startling pleasure. Sherlock drank down every nuance of his response. “Breathe,” he suggested suddenly. John hadn’t realized he’d stopped, but when he started again, he found that breathing through it helped. The choppy pain-and-pleasure cycle smoothed out as his body relaxed.

He’d thought he was aroused before, but now John felt something in his core go molten. He suddenly wanted Sherlock there, right inside that liquid steel sensation.

Sherlock picked up on the transformation. His strokes lengthened and grew smoother, reducing John to helpless moans. There was a disturbing thrill in knowing how Sherlock must be experiencing him, that welcoming yielding when a woman was ready. He still went slow, piercing John fractionally deeper at the apex of each unhurried thrust, though there was altogether more heat in his eyes now.

John snarled and twisted, frustrated by the restraint on his hips. “Sherlock. Sherlock.” He’d wanted John to tell him everything, which now sounded like a plan. John would go crazy if he didn’t express himself somehow, and he wanted to crack that brittle control. “Sherlock. I can feel you. I can feel you, clinging inside me. Pulling at my, my walls. Oh god.” Admitting to it still made his stomach twist, but not entirely in a bad way. The fizz of pleasure made him groan and fight to arch up. Sherlock moved lazily over him, but John could feel him hanging on every word. “I can feel the stretch. The way you’re stretching me. So deep inside. Like you’re turning me to lava.”

Sherlock’s cock jumped inside him, jolting him and wrenching a tormented groan from Sherlock. “Jesus,” John whimpered. “Sherlock. Please. I need.”

“What, John?” That gorgeous deep voice had slivered into fragments. “What do you need?”

Hearing that kind of neediness in Sherlock’s voice stole John’s capacity for sentient thought for a moment. All he could do was wrap around that hard body above him and kiss him as deeply as he wanted to be fucked. Sherlock responded with enthusiasm, letting go of John’s hips to pull him tighter against him.

“Deeper.” John finally managed to wrench his head away and speak. “Oh, god, please deeper.” He panted, throat tight. Sherlock was fully inside him now. He thought the intimacy might kill him. It felt transgressive, like a room where no one was meant to go, but he wanted Sherlock there so badly. Wanted to be exposed and experienced by the unbearable mind behind this long magnificent body.

Sherlock wasn’t holding his hips down anymore, but he wasn’t pulling out as far either. Unless he adjusted his angle—he was doing this deliberately, the prick—there still wasn’t much John could do to move on him. John nearly sobbed at the thought. He needed Sherlock right there, all the way in the core of him. “There’s coil all the way up inside me, and I can’t-” His voice cracked into silence.

Sherlock’s chest heaved, a sob of his own ripped from him by the effect he was having on John. The hard thrust that followed was exactly right.

“Yes! More of that!” John’s body undulated temptingly. His mouth went on autopilot. “Can you reach it? Sherlock. I need you to get to it, and keep-” Oh.

Oh yes, yes, yes. He might’ve been saying it out loud, as Sherlock finally took mercy on them both and brought himself to bear. “Yes! Please, Sherlock. Oh god, unwind me.”

Sherlock went still and stiff. After a heartbeat, the deceptively broad shoulders bowed down over John, who frowned up in concern. “Sherlock?” He reached up to touch his friend’s back.

John,” Sherlock choked. His voice was strangled with emotion. John caressed soothingly down his spine, trying to work out if they’d crossed a limit somehow.

Then John’s larynx seized up, because Sherlock started moving again. The new rhythm he established was... Not fast. Not pounding, but it was relentless. Surging and inexorable, a tide of pleasure rolling in till all John could do was wrap his legs around Sherlock’s waist and ride it for all he was worth.

One of them was growling and one of them was whimpering, or they might have been swapping off, and John had lost track of whose hands were where because he was too deeply engrossed in swamping them both in as much sensation as he could manage to generate. Fuck but every part of Sherlock felt so good to taste and suck; even better than Sherlock felt doing the same thing to him.

It was like a sunrise, the world slowly growing brighter and sharper around him. And if that world had pretty much condensed to the span of their bodies, well, everything else was irrelevant anyway. Sherlock—oh fucking brilliant Sherlock—had located that tight spark inside John and was methodically picking out the knot in it with every perfectly targeted thrust.

Greg had been lavish. Sarah had taken her time. If John had been asked to speculate on Sherlock as a lover, he might’ve guessed ‘headlong,’ but he’d forgotten a critical point: Sherlock observed everything. And he was using what he saw to take John apart.

Sherlock was fucking owning him. John did his level best to return the favour.

He didn’t know how long they lasted like that. He had a vague awareness that his body was currently equipped to exist in this state for an indeterminate time, if his partner had the skill to maintain the balance. And his partner was Sherlock, so.

He wondered, in some part of his mind that didn’t need to bother with words, how long Sherlock could edge himself for.

When he came, he was caught in the bright heart of an explosion.

He didn’t black out; he whited out. The world outside him reduced to extraneous noise. When he came to—more of an eventual decision to pull his faculties together from the exploded mess of silly string they’d blown apart into—Sherlock was lying atop him in a boneless puddle of shaking satiation.

Since John felt about the same way, he just smiled and smoothed his palms down that glorious back. The sleepy kiss Sherlock placed on his shoulder in response was the sweetest thing John had ever known.


A few weeks later, John woke to find things feeling decidedly more crowded down below than he’d recently experienced. He lifted the covers, then dropped back against the pillows in relief.

Thank fuck.

The bedclothes stirred on his right side, presaging the advent of a sloppy pile of dark curls that popped up into his field of view. Sharp eyes flicked from his face to the covers and back. “All better?”

Well. It hadn’t been all bad. John sighed. “Yeah. Back to normal.”

Sherlock hummed and squirmed close to cushion his head on John’s chest. “Pity. I was rather enjoying it.”

“And you called me a slut.” John smirked. “You’re bloody insatiable. Where the hell did you ever get off with ‘not my area?’”

Sherlock shrugged around him. “Relationships aren’t my area. If I can’t stand someone when their brain is functional, why would I ever want to put up with them when they’re stupid with sex?”

John blinked. He thought he felt obscurely... No. He felt deeply touched. Sherlock had just told him he was worthwhile even when he was stupid. He reached over to cup those impeccable cheekbones for a lingering kiss.

Which quickly turned heated, as Sherlock decided to make his acquaintance with the part of John he hadn’t yet met.

“Oh, blowjobs,” John sighed. “How I’ve missed you.”


John was wired to have sex as a man, and he enjoyed it. Enjoyed the hell out of it, in point of fact. He’d wanted to fill Sherlock’s mouth with his prick even when he hadn’t had one. Now that it was back, he had plans.

But a month was enough time to form new tastes. He’d found he liked spreading his legs to provide access to him. He loved the forbidden intimacy of another man moving inside him, loved being filled by the demanding hardness of a cock, and then of course there were the multiple orgasms. Enough couldn’t be said about those.

So the next time he knelt into Sherlock’s chair to straddle his lap, he asked, “You liked fucking me, yeah?”

Sherlock’s eyes ran white-hot. “I’ll take that for a rhetorical question.”

John smiled at him, syrup slow. “I think we could improvise something, don’t you?”

Sherlock pulled John down to him with unnecessary force. John thought being ravished felt like a ‘yes.’