"Why do we never have sex?" John asks across the kitchen table one day, in a perfectly innocuous kind of way.
There's nothing special about that morning, him sipping his coffee and Sherlock tinkering with something that looks toxic and smells antiseptic. But he long ago stopped worried about the things that come out of his mouth sounding strange, because he lives with Sherlock Holmes, and that's just the way things go.
"Pardon me?" Sherlock doesn't look up from the experiment, and John takes another sip of coffee before he explains.
"We live together. There's no point trying to lie, so I assume you're aware that I'm in love with you."
"And those feelings are reciprocated."
"Indeed," Sherlock replies, though this time he actually does look up, and meet John's eye.
"We don't have sex," John repeats, calmly, taking another sip.
"Not my area. I told you ages ago."
"But love is?"
Sherlock shrugs. "Honestly, John."
"I'm serious. You know you sometimes... act like you're coming on to me." John clears his throat, and now Sherlock looks genuinely curious.
"I don't know, you... drag me around by various body parts," John points out. "Invade my personal space. Sleep in my bed occasionally. Walk in on me naked. Use... that voice."
"The 'do exactly as you're told' voice. And I'm not talking about on a case. I'm talking about here. At home. And sometimes your pupils are dilated. You look like you're aroused."
Sherlock nods abruptly. "I'm not interested in sex. I'm interested in other things."
John's eyebrows lift. "...other things?"
"Technically speaking, I am an asexual romantic with dominant tendencies. My behaviour as you describe it is likely influenced by the possessiveness I feel towards you, amplified by the aforementioned intervening element of love. I do not indulge in sexual interest; however, I do fantasise about you in an immovable position, underneath me."
John inhales sharply and has to concentrate to avoid choking. "You fantasise about tying me up?"
"There are variations."
John's cock throbs in his trousers. He has to remind himself very sharply that he isn't actually interested in the things Sherlock's describing. "I like sex, Sherlock. And I usually top."
"Yes. I have no intention of pursuing my fantasies in a physical sense."
"But you do fantasise about me?"
"Oh yes." Sherlock's voice is almost a purr, and were he anyone else, John would be leaning over to kiss him fiercely on the mouth. But something tells him not to do that, and instead he stands, comes around the table behind Sherlock, and hooks an arm around his chest, breathing in the scent of Sherlock's shampoo. Long fingers close tightly around his wrist and he lets them. It's no real hardship.
"Sherlock, really," John exclaims with an exasperated sigh when Sherlock flings the door open and stands there in his dressing gown, looking straight at John, wet and naked. Determined not to let Sherlock win, he doesn't immediately reach to cover himself, but instead starts towel-drying his hair.
"Really what, John?"
"You're standing there looking at me like you want to come in here and snog the fuck out of me, which would be perfectly lovely, but I know you're probably really thinking about hanging me from the shower rod or something and doing unpleasant things to my dangly bits."
That, at least, does get Sherlock to crack a smile, leaning in the door frame. "Honestly, John, you must have taken sufficient physics courses in pursuit of your medical degree to be aware that the shower rod wouldn't support your weight."
"Hmph. What do you think of, then?" John asks, tossing the towel over said rod and reaching for his toothbrush.
"Would you like to know? Certain scenarios you will almost certainly find objectionable."
"Yeah. I would," John decides on the fly, not looking at Sherlock as he sticks the toothbrush in his mouth.
"My fantasies are often mundane, in an erotic sense," Sherlock declares. "I simply imagine giving you the same orders I often do, but with the addition of an emotional response from you. Sometimes I think about stripping you naked--" John's eyebrows raise, but his mouth is full of minty foam so he doesn't interrupt "--and inspecting your body to observe your reactions. Or alternatively, simply to have you kneel at my feet."
John's brows knit together as he spits and rinses, then straightens up and eyes Sherlock. "You think about that, then? Me kneeling?"
"Oh," Sherlock smiles, stepping into the close steamy space and murmuring a few centimetres from John's lips. "Often."
His eyes are intense enough to make John shiver, and it isn't until Sherlock leaves the room that he notices his erection.
It's late one evening when John arrives home to find Sherlock sitting in the middle of the sofa, hands steepled in a "thinking" pose in front of his face, looking incredibly at ease in a pair of pinstriped trousers, navy satin peep-toed shoes with at least a four inch stiletto heel, a silky navy camisole, and a smart-looking women's blazer to match the trousers. He's remarkably unsurprised by this development, and he just waits for Sherlock to notice he's in the room before he asks.
"Is this... crossdressing, or are you trans?" John asks, waving a hand vaguely to indicate Sherlock's outfit. It's a little unsettling that despite all the time they've known each other he doesn't know the answer to his own question, but he doesn't find that he has a preference for what that answer is.
"I'm not a trans woman," Sherlock replies, and John notices the specificity. He decides to sit. "You are aware that my brain has two distinct states."
"Yeah, solving a puzzle and shooting up the living room."
Sherlock doesn't smile. "Indeed. The former personality is female. The latter is male."
John frowns a little. "You have multiple personality disorder?"
"No. Expand your perspective, doctor."
John shrugs. "All right. So... when you're solving cases, you're female?"
"Are these clothes more comfortable for you at those times?"
"Yes and no. Cases are not the only times when I occupy my female self."
Sherlock shakes his head sharply. "I do not, as a rule, choose to dominate another person as a man."
"Oh." John stares. "Uh... not that we're monogamous or anything..." Sherlock snorts, undoubtedly thinking of John's string of girlfriends before he left and the women he still woos on occasion without any real purpose. "...but I didn't think you were dominating anyone."
"I'm not," Sherlock specifies. "I have merely been thinking about it more frequently than usual. For which you should be thankful, as you will find the refrigerator stocked principally with edibles."
Well, that is a pleasant change. John realises, then, a beat later, why Sherlock's been thinking about it, and with whom, and his cheeks flush scarlet.
"Do you, um... prefer female pronouns when you're... en femme?"
John sits in his chair, considering that. "Same name?"
"Can you... explain, at all? Why it's female, I mean? Or maybe... not why it's female, but why cases and being dominant are the same part of your brain?"
"You're familiar with my method of solving cases. My thinking is far more active, focused, directed on a particular target... it's much the same with domination. The submissive is the target, their complete submission the goal. Often a submissive person believes that they are in submission at all times, but that is absolute rubbish. To find the tipping point is... intriguing."
"Oh God," John groans. "Please don't say you're looking for my tipping point."
At that, Sherlock flashes him a genuine grin. "Much as I could break you if I really wanted to, John, that has never been my goal."
"Thank God for small mercies," John sighs, and doesn't even blink when Sherlock's high-heeled shoes wind up in his lap. The whole thing is surprisingly--or quite unsurprisingly--uneventful.
"I can hear you thinking," John announces, his voice sleep-groggy as he shifts a little and feels Sherlock's arm tighten slightly around his waist, palm splayed on John's stomach. It's after midnight. Sherlock came to his room without asking, climbed into bed in a pair of navy blue pyjama bottoms, and snuggled up like this at John's back. He's not bothered, but he finds himself having trouble sleeping.
"Tell me?" There is a brief pause, maybe fifteen seconds, before Sherlock speaks in his usual low rumble, spiking a dull wave of arousal in John's lower belly.
"I would have you against the wall," he says, no emotion in it, and John's mind instantly supplies one image before Sherlock replaces it with another. "Your wrists bound with rope. Struggling, of course," he adds, and John feels the smile at the nape of his neck. "But I would place my palm against your throat and you would go still for me, underneath my hand. I would increase the pressure so gradually you wouldn't notice until you had no breath and were speaking my name silently, begging with your lips only."
John breath hitches at this bluntly-spoken fantasy and feels his dick rise under the sheet. He should say something, but he's captivated in the safe cool dark of the room.
"Perhaps I would push you down gasping and have you kiss my shoes, but I haven't decided yet."
John remembers those navy satin peep-toes, and though he'd rather imagine one skimming his calf as he snogs Sherlock senseless, that image is wrong somehow. He can't imagine Sherlock's fantasy either, but his fingers are twitching on his thigh.
"You may touch, John. I am not repulsed."
John doesn't miss the way Sherlock grants him permission, but he'll give him--her, he mentally corrects--that. He's always obeyed Sherlock, just as Sherlock's always known it's not like that for him. His hand shifts under the sheet and reaches inside his briefs, a low groan leaving his lips.
"I believe I would tease you," Sherlock continues. "As I said, I am not repulsed. Arousal doesn't interest me in a prurient sense, but it is useful."
John's cock twitches in his hand at the way Sherlock weaves present and fantasy together, skirting the limits as always. John feels like an adrenaline junkie begging for a hit around her. Sherlock's hand applies a little more pressure on his belly.
"Fuck," John whispers, jerking himself off in earnest. He squeezes his eyes shut tight, concentrating on that firm, circling pressure of Sherlock's hand, and only half-listening to the gentle melody of words coming from Sherlock's lips. Too much, all of it would be too much for John in reality, but he can listen. He can certainly listen.
John has a brief moment of alarm when Mycroft strides into the flat unannounced while Sherlock is still in case mode after a rather complicated one is solved, and she's lounging on the sofa in a silky kind of slip dress, black and lacy at the neckline. Before he can bolt out of his chair, though, Mycroft's just tossing Sherlock a snide look and tapping his umbrella against the floorboards.
"I require your attention, sister dear."
"Fuck off. I'm basking in my glory."
"Hmph. You could've solved that one in less time," Mycroft muses, his eyes sweeping over John and no doubt deducing how many times Sherlock has watched him wank thus far and what brand of cereal he had for breakfast at the same time. "You've been distracted." He raises his eyebrows, but John refuses to rise to the bait.
"Are you here for a reason, Mycroft?"
"Certainly. Mummy requests your presence at Easter, Sherlock."
"What will you to me do if I don't come?" Sherlock parries, re-crossing her legs the other way round, still reclining quite calmly.
"Oh, the question isn't what I'll do to you," Mycroft says, or rather leers, stepping closer to John's chair and giving him a look that John would really rather not decipher. In fact, he's about to stand up and give Mycroft what for when Sherlock abruptly rises, confiscates Mycroft's umbrella in a graceful move, and slices it through the air between them, creating an effective barricade at the level of Mycroft's pelvis. When John looks up to see her face, it is fixed in an icy expression on Mycroft, who smirks once again.
"Well that explains so much," Mycroft declares, gleefully.
"Far less than you think you know," John grumbles in rejoinder, because he hasn't turned into the damsel in distress overnight, and he really doesn't like the elder Holmes sibling deducing his sex life.
"You'll arrive Saturday night and remain through Easter Monday," Mycroft states, ignoring John and holding out his hand. John's certain Sherlock only returns the umbrella because without it Mycroft won't leave, but he does notice Sherlock shifting to stand between Mycroft and his chair, hands on her hips.
It's only when they hear the door slam shut downstairs that John rises to his feet and slips his hands around Sherlock's waist, palms smoothing up to press against her chest. Sherlock covers his hands immediately, pressing against them, and John smiles against the nape of her neck. "You know I don't mind," John murmurs. "If you get something out of standing up for me like that, it's okay. That you're a little protective."
Sherlock doesn't say anything, but she breathes deeply, and John thinks he feels her relax a little against his chest.
"It's complicated, how I feel about stuff like this," John adds after ten or twenty breaths have passed. "But...I'm really not any more normal than you are, even if I'm not a proper genius. So fuck Mycroft. No one gets to get us."
Sherlock turns suddenly in his arms at that, and beams. John smiles, realising he's said the right thing, and tips his head up to kiss Sherlock's forehead. If Sherlock holds him a little more tightly than usual, he's not going to say anything.
"You are mine," Sherlock says four hours later, fiercely, and unexpected as they've been sitting in silence, eating a curry.
John smiles and cocks his head to the side in acknowledgement. "In certain ways that matter," he agrees. "Yes." That'd be hard to deny, with the way Sherlock's flicked away his girlfriends like flies since the beginning, John's objections only half-hearted and unsuccessful, not to mention the long nights chasing Sherlock all over London despite work the next day. He is Sherlock's, more or less. Certainly his time is. Certainly the more important parts of his heart.
"I think about you leaving and it makes me want to crush something precious," Sherlock murmurs. John shivers then, because she almost--almost--sounds like Moriarty. Long-dead Moriarty, John reminds himself, something that he has to mentally repeat sometimes whether it staves off the nightmares or not.
"I'm not going anywhere."
"I know that." Sherlock takes a few bites, then presses her fingers into a grip around John's thigh, her eyes not meeting John's but focusing on his throat. "I would own every part of you, if I could," she whispers. "I want to keep you safe."
John wonders how cracked he is for thinking that's romantic. "Maybe you should stop taking me all over London to confront serial killers, then." Maybe you shouldn't have jumped off a building and let me watch. Except he's here and so is Sherlock and he's not sure how but there's some link between those three years and the solid fact that John and Sherlock are never, ever, letting each other go.
Sherlock sniffs with derision at the suggestion, fingers squeezing.
"Do you wish I were into the things you are?" John asks, his tone carefully soft and non-judgemental. "I mean... into your doing them to me?"
Sherlock considers maybe half a second, then shakes her head sharply. "I like to picture you tied down too tightly and gasping for mercy," she says, so evenly as John's cock sends a little bolt of pleasure up his spine. "But I like it more that you're willing to take those desires as part of me."
"Even though I don't want them?"
"Because you don't want them. Because you are unconditional."
John thinks that might possibly be the most profoundly touching thing Sherlock's ever said to him. He shoves a bite of lamb into his mouth.
"In any event," Sherlock smirks, breaking the moment. "I enjoy crossing lines. I like seeing you frustrated. There is never going to be a bright line marked between what's going on in my head and what's going on between us."
"No," John agrees, with a little smile to himself. "I didn't think so." He sips from his bottle of beer and nudges Sherlock's ankle. "That would be boring."
"Don't take this the wrong way," John murmurs late one night in bed, spooned up against Sherlock's chest and unable to sleep. "But how much of this dominance stuff have you actually... done?"
Fortunately, Sherlock just snorts a little at his ear. "Enough to realize my tendencies would be described by most as sociopathic."
John rolls his eyes, even though Sherlock can't be, and squeezes his hand. "You're not. I've seen you get emotional fulfilment from being what you are to me. Genuine emotional fulfilment."
"You've caught me, John," Sherlock says in a dull tone, but John doesn't miss the firm flat hand between his belly and his chest, anchoring him firmly to Sherlock's body.
"Do you think that's the equivalent of an orgasmic experience for you?" John muses. "Maybe what you get from dominating someone is similar to what others get from sexual release."
"Perhaps, in the sense of endorphin response," Sherlock concedes. "But decidedly less messy. And," he adds after a beat. "Decidingly more revealing."
John wonders what Sherlock has revealed to partners in the past that has left him vulnerable. He takes a sharp breath, wanting to squash any such people like bugs against the sidewalk, but Sherlock's pyjama-clad calf slips between his own and he calms a little. "I was so alone before you," John murmurs, a propos of nothing, into the darkness. It's the first time he's said it to Sherlock aloud, rather than to a forbidding stone of black marble. Sherlock squeezes him tighter.
"It would be hard for you to understand," Sherlock says gently in his ear, the low timbre of his voice soothing. "It is another kind of game, if not the Work it is still a kind of work, physically stimulating and satisfying to work out. Perhaps the point where I came closest to a precipice I never want to cross was on that rooftop..."
"Sherlock," John interrupts, but he keeps talking, tightening his hold to the point that John feels a pressure on his lungs.
"...not literally. But it's the triumph of reading and manipulating another human being that satisfies me, and most would find that sick. I don't know, for certain, for myself, whether I would never turn a partner into Jim Moriarty in my head, or Moriarty into..."
"No," John interjects sharply. "No, Sherlock," he insists with all the air he can force out of his lungs.
"You're playing with fire, John. This itch, it may not be sexual, but it is exciting. It does drive me to do stupid things. Sometimes with you," Sherlock whispers. "I would have your heart."
"You already do," John insists. "Don't try to make me fear you, because I won't. I will not."
"I know," Sherlock murmurs. They lie still for a long moment before he continues, some tension easing in his hold. "Perhaps it is a kind of climax. I have thought of the scene as a build-up to a musical crescendo, as the final movement in a symphony. You have to weave so many bits and pieces together, to build this beautiful thing and then take it down weeping and pick up the pieces." Sherlock shifts a little and the mattress creaks. "My mind sometimes goes quiet on the other side, after a very good session, and all the danger sifts away and I'm almost... responsible." He smiles against John's neck and it breaks John's heart to know that Sherlock considers it strange that he could be so. John knows better, because he's seen Sherlock do the right thing, even when every detail rarely falls into place.
"Responsible for the person you've taken down?"
Sherlock nods against the pillow. "It's known as aftercare. Caretaking, after the scene. You must find it funny to picture, me, taking care of someone." He laughs tightly and John twists in his arms.
"Not at all," he counters, kissing Sherlock's forehead lightly. "Is it nice?"
"Yes. Because they deserve it. It doesn't feel empty."
John wonders if holding him like this feels empty to Sherlock, and almost voices it. He pulls himself up short, but Sherlock grips his head, John's ears slotting between thumbs and fingers, and just breathes with him until doubts melt away.
Another case is wrapped up and unusually, Greg stays at their flat for dinner. It's hardly cosy and domestic, and Sherlock throws an orange at the wall at one point for no reason whatsoever, his masculine edges creeping in more quickly than the last time. But it's still nice, and John finds himself at the window, watching the detective peel away on his motorbike.
"You still have a bloody crush on Lestrade."
"He was helpful to me when you buggered off the face of the planet. Be nice."
"You had a crush on him long before them."
John doesn't deny it, because why bother? "You're behaving like a child. So what if I do have a crush? You haven't asked me to be monogamous. At some point you're going to have to pick someone up for a bit of play, Sherlock, and don't bother denying it."
"Good. Then you understand that at some point I may be sexually interested in someone else?"
"Yes," Sherlock agrees, jaw tightening.
"You don't like it."
"I don't like the idea that you might run away with someone else."
"That's rather bloody dramatic. Have you conveniently forgotten that I broke it off with my girlfriend and moved back into 221B the moment you showed up again?"
"No." Sherlock's face slowly shifts into a grin, and John finds himself grinning back.
"Git." He bends and picks up the orange from earlier, tossing it at Sherlock, who shoots a hand out to catch it effortlessly. "Seriously. I'm going to have crushes sometimes."
"I'm in love with you," John reminds him, stepping closer. "With you." Sherlock bends and inhales, his nose against John's hair. John doesn't stop him.
"You're sexually frustrated," Sherlock declares with a grin one afternoon as they slide into the backseat of a cab.
"Sherlock!" John hisses, glancing between her and the resolutely-forward-staring cabbie as his cheeks start to warm.
"Don't be embarrassed, John, it serves no purpose. Camden Town, please."
"Camden? I thought her brother lives in Islington."
"He does. His lover works at a leather goods stall in Camden Market. We're going to question him."
"I'm not going to ask how you know that..."
"Right, then, is it his cologne? It's different today."
"Is it?" John frowns, surprised enough by the particular detail Sherlock selects that he's sidetracked from his indignation for a moment. "I didn't actually notice."
"Why? Because people are supposed to notice things like that, in your estimation?" John nudges Sherlock's shoe lightly with his own.
"Because you always inhale deeper when you're close to me," Sherlock says, and her volume is lower, though whether out of discretion or a moment of feeling, John can't be sure. She does seem to be more inclined to sentiment since her glorious return, though John would never put it that way, out loud.
"If you must know," John whispers, leaning close, "I haven't had a wank since the case started and the trousers he's wearing today seem to fit particularly well."
"Ah." John's candid admission is rewarded with a wide smile. "At some point, we need to get him into jeans..."
"You know," John muses that night, when he's sitting in the kitchen with a cup of tea and Sherlock's giving some official-looking document a disgruntled look, holding the paper under the overhead light. "You've never asked me whether I was sleeping with him, when you were gone."
Sherlock makes a distracted noise. "You weren't."
"Yes, I know, but you didn't ask. Even if you'd deduced, I would have expected you to ask me why not. I did date. We spent a lot of time together. You're normally more jealous than that."
"Lestrade is straight. Even you do not possess the supernatural power to convert every man toward whom you feel sexual attraction."
John barks out a laugh. "Greg? Straight?"
"Well isn't he?" Sherlock frowns, looking away from the paper long enough to meet John's eyes.
"No!" John grins like he always does when he knows something Sherlock doesn't. "Not at all!"
"Oh, that." John rolls his eyes. "I just assumed you'd figured it out by now. Though... I suppose you do have a certain gap when it comes to understanding gender."
Sherlock's face falls for half a second, then shifts into something blank and hard, and John immediately slips off of his chair and goes around to wrap his arms around Sherlock from behind. "Of course not, love, not like that at all. If you even think it you're a bigger berk than I realised," he says, kissing softly behind Sherlock's ear with just a light touch that he thinks Sherlock will appreciate rather than suspect.
Sherlock sniffs and holds another document to the light.
"You're the most beautiful woman I know. You do know that."
Sherlock concedes with a very slight relaxation in his muscles that John feels and accepts for what it is.
"I meant my sister. And Greg's ex-partner, who is definitely not female, though I suppose it's not that surprising a mistake. He really doesn't date much, as far as I know. Or hasn't, since. Work and all that."
"It's never work," Sherlock muses. "Ordinary people always make that excuse, but when sexual activity is available and desired, they always find a way around it. Curious."
John smiles, because she's certainly right. "Maybe, but I haven't probed too far into Greg's personal life."
"No, only his arse."
"In my dreams," John snorts, and goes back to his side of the table and his tea.
Sherlock smiles slightly, holding the documents next to one another. "The shape of it, certainly."
"Certainly," John agrees, and doesn't even bother to correct her. It's true enough.
Sherlock lands on John's bed one evening in a terribly dramatic flop. "I'm bored."
"I can see that," John grumbles, slipping his hand as quietly as he can manage out of his pants.
"You're having a wank."
"Without me," Sherlock pouts.
"Yes, Sherlock, without you. I didn't think you were interested."
"Not in your penis."
John snorts. "I'm so flattered."
"Tell me what you were thinking about," Sherlock demands, propping up on one forearm with that "I have something to do" gleam in her eye. It's funny that John doesn't actually think of that instantaneous shift as a change in Sherlock's gender any more than he did before, though he's become used to thinking of Sherlock in her modes with the correctly gendered terms without even thinking about it. It's still "bored Sherlock" and "I have a case and/or a puzzle and/or a way to outsmart the entire world before breakfast Sherlock." And it's suddenly the latter with which he's faced.
"What if I won't tell you?"
"Oh," Sherlock purrs, looking positively luminous as her voice lowers and she dips her head closer to John's. "You wouldn't want to do that."
John bites his lip and makes a decision. "All right. I was thinking about Greg."
Another person might be upset, but Sherlock takes the challenge happily, pushing a hand up under John's shirt and stroking his chest. "Please. Continue. With narration."
John sighs and slips his hand back where it was, making a soft sound at the contact. "I'm not sure I can narrate, Sherlock. My brain doesn't go very verbal when I'm turned on."
"No? Interesting." Sherlock considers for a moment, fingertips gently caressing, and then continues full steam ahead. "Perhaps I can be helpful, then. Let's see. What would John like to do to Gregory Lestrade?"
John groans. He wonders how much Sherlock actually knows about vanilla sexual interests, though Sherlock knows about pretty much everything, so he doesn't expect a naïveté that Sherlock's virginity might suggest.
"You've been eyeing his arse enough. I'm certain you'd like to put your hand on it. Perhaps a smack or two wouldn't be outside your usual realm of activities, provided it's only foreplay?"
And John can imagine that, actually he can specifically imagine Greg in jeans and motorcycle leathers, as he's seen him off-duty quite a few times, and he can imagine giving a few firm smacks even as he tugs Greg into his arms and kisses him senseless. He feels guilty sometimes, when his thoughts towards Greg turn too romantic, but they've been friends so long and through so much, and he just can't see Sherlock minding that, not when it's so obvious that Sherlock holds John's heart.
"You're agitated beyond your normal arousal responses. Why?"
John curses under his breath.
"Tell me. Now." Sherlock's voice is smooth as honey but no less demanding, and though he'd never submit to Sherlock in the bedroom, doing as she says is something John's been doing since the very first day they met.
"I think about kissing him. Having him here. Does that bother you?"
Sherlock doesn't answer at first, and John imagines she's running scenarios. "Here alone?"
"Not necessarily. I mean, I don't know if you want to be doing biology experiments in the kitchen while I'm shagging fantasy-Greg on the sofa, but if you'd like...."
"I always want to be there," Sherlock says firmly, and suddenly she's inserted herself into John's fantasy life just as firmly as she has into his day-to-day, as John's never going to be able to imagine himself fucking someone again without Sherlock right there in the daydream, studiously watching. Maybe Sherlock has more control over him than John would like to admit.
"Okay," he says instead, a little shaky. "Then with you there."
"That's fine. You share a close friendship, as well as sexual interest in your case. I suppose your most forbidden fantasies blend these things?"
John nods before he notices he's doing it.
"Forbidden by whom?"
John frowns and Sherlock pinches his nipple. "Oi! Fuck, okay, fine, then, by you, Sherlock. I don't want to disappoint you."
Sherlock smiles and kisses his forehead. "Not at all, John. But you've stopped," she murmurs. "And I didn't say you could do that."
John hesitates--shaky territory, here, as always with Sherlock, rather liminal--and then plunges ahead.
"So you're thinking about kissing Lestrade. Perhaps here, in your bed. Would you like that, John?"
John nods quickly. Easy enough to imagine.
"I wonder what you would think if I sat in that chair in the corner, watching you fuck him."
John hisses in a sharp breath. Fuck him. Fuck him fuck him fuck him. Sherlock's voice should absolutely be banned. Possibly internationally. He'll get Mycroft on that right after he regains his higher brain functions. Oh God, fucking him. While Sherlock watches. And it's obvious Sherlock didn't miss some tiny biometric signal always being there triggered in John, but fuck-it-all. He may not be an exhibitionist but it's a fantasy, he'll take it.
"Keep going," John mutters through gritted teeth, jerking faster.
"I wonder if you would try to be quieter, knowing that you weren't alone in the room. I think you might at first, out of some sense of propriety. But Greg... no, I don't think so," Sherlock pronounces with a wicked smile, breath moist and hot at John's ear. "I think he'd enjoy being fucked with an audience, and I think he'd be greedy for it. Perhaps he'd beg for your cock and you'd be so shocked, you'd forget to be embarrassed."
John hiss-moans in a pained sort of way, coming before he has a chance to shove his pants down. He could pretend he doesn't hear Sherlock's next words, except in some part of his brain maybe he wants to hear them, far-off and thoughtful in a tone that suggests she hasn't even noticed John's orgasm. "Perhaps... he'd thank me after you had finished." John doesn't know what thank me means here, exactly, but there's something in Sherlock's tone to suggest it's more significant than it sounds. John fumbles for Sherlock's hand, and catches his breath.