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A Beautiful Specimen

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John dragged himself up the stairs to 221B feeling like his entire lower body was made of lead. His date had been utterly dreadful; the woman he had taken out (Jane? June? Janet? Something like that) had burst into snotty, violent tears when John ordered the chicken. They hadn't discussed her veganism beforehand, causing the woman to storm out, insisting that John was a murderer. John had to agree that he was a murderer…but the things he had murdered were much larger than chickens.

He stopped dead and groaned inwardly as he heard the familiar sounds of Mycroft and Sherlock bickering from the living room. John was tired, cranky, and in desperate need of a wank and at least nine hours sleep, and he truly could not be bothered refereeing a fight between the stubborn Holmes brothers. He waited on the stairs to see whether Mycroft was at the end of his visit, straining his ears to listen to what they were arguing over.

“Sherlock, you need to have these tests. It's imperative to the family name that you provide a sample.”

John frowned, his eyebrows knitting together as his brain whirred, tests? What tests? Was Sherlock ill? Why did it involve the family name?

“I…you know I cannot. I find it utterly loathsome and I hate that you ask it of me,” the detective said, anger, frustration and something akin to embarrassment dripping from his words.

“For goodness sake, man! Your inability to provide a simple sample has forced us into a tricky situation…and the fact that you didn't tell me early enough to meddle has caused further issues,” Mycroft sighed. John could hear the sound of his umbrella tapping sharply on the wooden floor in frustration, “Do you want the manor to go to Horrid Harold? As the next fertile male in the family, everything in grandmother’s estate will be given over to him unless you prove, with medical certainty, that you are able to reproduce.”

John blinked, licking his lips and then shook his head at the entire situation which he found himself in, standing on the stairs of his flat whilst listening to his best friend have a rather bizarre conversation with his brother.

“Just because yours are as fat and slow as yourself!” Sherlock huffed acidically. John heard the clatter of the teacup and saucer being put to the side, “You can't force me to take the test.”

“I could try,” Mycroft seethed.

“It's entirely pointless,” Sherlock responded, “they could not find a physiological cause for the inability to give a sample, therefore they believe it’s psychological. My mind just isn't wired to allow me to have a strange man discuss my personal circumstances and then touch my genitals. How anybody can ejaculate after such trauma is beyond me.”

“Sherlock!” Mycroft said angrily, startling John slightly, “This is a serious matter! We could lose everything! Do you really think that Harold would allow Mummy and Daddy to stay in the manor? No. That vile creature of a man would sell everything from under them and leave them destitute. Is that what you want? I suppose...”

“Suppose what?” Sherlock mumbled, sounding worn down.

“Well, you could sleep on the sofa whilst they take your bed. You don't sleep much anyway so it shouldn't be a problem,” Mycroft said, a smirk evident in his tone.

Sherlock stayed silent for a long time before exhaling, “What do you suggest?”

“I suggest you ejaculate into a pot. I've arranged an appointment with the finest Urologist in London,” Mycroft replied, “If you're unable to do it yourself, then perhaps you can find someone to help.”

“And who would that be?” Sherlock laughed bitterly.

“Doctor Watson, why don't you come in here?”


John sat with his left leg over his right, looking around at the hospital waiting room and wondering what Sherlock could see about the other patients waiting for their appointments.

It wasn't a regular NHS waiting room but one which could have been a medical boutique with its massive spaces and expensive furnishings. John actually felt a little rough, sitting here in his Marks and Spencer's jumper next to Sherlock who was wearing Armani.

Sherlock, however, was quiet - his focus completely on a small leaflet which he was reading with interest. John twisted in the leather sofa and reached for his posh coffee which the receptionist had brought him in a real teacup with saucer.

“John,” Sherlock rumbled, causing the doctor to turn and look with a distracted hum, “You're thinking too loudly.”

“Sorry,” John mumbled, taking a sip and relaxing back, “You're being quiet, actually; what's so interesting?”

“Cervixes,” Sherlock frowned, “or should that be Cervici? What's the plural for cervix?”

John shook his head and huffed a laugh, “You're reading about the cervix?” he asked, “Why?”

“It's interesting,” Sherlock replied before shrugging, “I mean…it's not like I’d be panicking or anything, why would I panic? It's only a routine test. Like a blood test. I'm fine with those. It’s just that this time, they'll want me to touch my penis.”

A couple in the corner looked up and frowned in Sherlock's direction before tutting and turning away.

“Why are they so annoyed? It's a bloody urology department,” Sherlock grumbled under his breath, “What do they think urologists do ?”

“Right. Calm down. Did you take the sedatives I left on the table for you?” John soothed, watching Sherlock nod nervously, realising now why Mycroft asked him to accompany Sherlock to the appointment, “How about you deduce them? Tell me their secrets?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes but gave a single nod before shuffling back in the sofa and looking around the room.

“Him. Big man in the corner,” he nodded over, waiting for John to catch up, “Nervous, tiny pig eyes darting around every few seconds. He's obviously afraid, but of what?”

“Penis touching?” John whispered, causing Sherlock to smirk.

“No. That was the route of his trouble. He's recently slept with a woman, unprotected, and now has to have treatment for an STI,” Sherlock responded, “Oh! Not just any woman: a masseuse. He went to sort the arthritis in his hip and instead came away with gonorrhoea. Fantastic.”

“First time I've heard that be called fantastic. Go on,” John coaxed.

Sherlock looked around and focussed on a couple sitting together holding hands, the woman was smiling and flicking through a booklet on conception.

“She doesn't know he's had a vasectomy,” Sherlock whispered, “Probably due to his last marriage which she also doesn't know about. His hair is dyed and his skin around the hairline shows the marks of botox. He's lying about his age.”

“That's horrible,” John frowned, “Poor girl.”

“She's also lying,” Sherlock countered, “she's already pregnant. Around three months. She's going to pass it off as his when really it's her other boyfriend’s.”

“Nice couple,” John said as he took another drink.

“Sherlock Holmes?” a man called from behind the reception desk, “ Dr Forest will see you now.”

Both men looked at one another before John got up and followed Sherlock down the long hallway to the examination room. It was huge and nicely decorated with expensive looking wallpaper, along with a medical bed hidden behind velvet curtains, and two leather seats opposite a large, wooden desk.

“Ah. Mr Holmes,” Dr Forest held out his hand, shaking Sherlock's professionally before turning to John, “Oh, and you are…?”

“Dr Watson. John Watson,” John nodded, holding out his hand to return the shake, “here purely as a chaperone.”

Dr Forest held out his hand to beckon the two men to take a seat before seating himself behind the desk and folding his hands onto his thighs. The man was in his early 60's with a thatch of silver grey hair and a small, neatly trimmed beard; on his shirt were a pair of folded tortoiseshell glasses held with a chain.

“Right,” Sherlock nodded, his foot was bouncing nervously and his eyes darting around the room, “Can we stop the niceties and get on with it?”

“Very well,” the doctor laughed before whirring up his computer and typing in his password, “I'll need to do a thorough health check-up. Just the regular physical which I'm sure John has done a hundred times before.”

“Thousands,” John smiled before looking over at Sherlock, “It's easy.”

“I've had one before,” Sherlock huffed and rolled his head, “Okay.”

“Right. So, medical history is first,” Dr Forest said softly, “I can see here you have previously had an issue with class A drugs.”

“Cocaine and Heroin,” Sherlock said without embarrassment, “but I've been clean for two years.”

“Good, that's good,” the doctor said, typing it into the space provided, “I see here your blood work from a year ago came back clean for all bloodborne disease. I’d like to do another, just in case.”

“Fine,” Sherlock waved a hand nonchalantly.

The questions were simple, asking about Sherlock's lifestyle, his job, and any risks he faced at work ( he didn't have a box for 'being blown up by a psychotic madman' so he just typed in 'various' ). The next were about smoking and alcohol ( Sherlock's first answer of 'neither' was argued by John clearing his throat and Sherlock admitted that he smoked on occasion ). Dr Forest was not impressed with Sherlock's diet and avoidance of food during cases but was eventually soothed by John who promised that Sherlock did eat enough and when he wasn't, then John added protein powder into his tea ( something which outraged Sherlock) .

“Okay, now I need to check out your body. Quick tests,” Dr Forest smiled, hooking Sherlock into a blood pressure cuff and nodding when the reading came back normal, “Heart rate and breathing are fine. Temperature is a little higher than normal, but I assume it's because of that enormous coat..”

Sherlock frowned, but kept his mouth shut, even when John began to chuckle beside him.

“Okay, open up and say 'ahh' please?” the doctor asked, feeling around Sherlock's neck glands and then checking his tonsils and throat. Sherlock gagged at the taste of latex when the doctor ran his fingers on the inside of his lips to check his teeth and gums and reared back when the doctor moved to pull down his eyelid to check his colour.

“Sherlock,” John whispered, “It's okay.”

Sherlock huffed, folding his arms whilst Dr Forest continued to check his sinuses, nose, and carotid arteries.

“Onto the bed please, Sherlock. Shirt up,” Dr Forest said, snapping off his gloves and replacing them with a fresh pair. He followed Sherlock to the gurney and began a brief abdominal exam, tapping Sherlock's abdomen, and using his stethoscope to listen to Sherlock's lower stomach, “Constipated?” he asked, watching as Sherlock turned his head away from John to nod.

“You never said; I’d have got you something,” John grumbled, turning in his seat to look over at Sherlock.

“Not very often my compacted bowels come up as a topic of conversation over breakfast,” Sherlock replied with bite.

“Tenderness?” Dr Forest asked, palpating Sherlock's abdomen and down towards his groin.

“No,” Sherlock said through gritted teeth; he hated the part where his stupid transport was examined and discussed.

“I would do the genital exam, but as we're hoping to get a sample later, we can just leave it for the moment. Save you getting undressed twice,” Dr Forest smiled reassuringly before gesturing with his hand that Sherlock could get up. He took off his gloves and washed his hands before returning to his desk and typing his findings into the computer quickly.

“So, because you were referred here due to your inability to maintain an erection and give a sample, I will have to do another examination,” the older doctor smiled in his best reassuring way, “as you may know, for the next part of the assessment I'll need to ask some rather personal questions. These can be embarrassing, so if you would prefer for Dr. Watson to leave, it would probably be eas--”

“No,” Sherlock responded with a shaking head, “No. John stays.”

Dr Forest looked at John, who shrugged. Clicking his mouse, the urologist put on his glasses, “Very well.”

Sherlock had taken his seat once more and was looking more nervous than ever.

“Are you on any medications? Prescribed or over the counter, herbal or illegal?” Dr Forest asked.

Sherlock shook his head, “No. None.”

“Good. Okay, do you snore at night or have any symptoms of sleep apnoea?”

“I, er…have no idea, actually,” Sherlock scratched his head, “I've never spent the night with anyone who could tell you.”

“No. He doesn't,” John chimed in, looking over at Sherlock, “we've been on stakeouts where we've taken it in turns to sleep. He's usually dead to the world and doesn't move or snore.”

“Right,” Dr Forest smiled, nodding to John in thanks, “Any psychological problems? Stress? Anxiety? Depression?”

“No,” Sherlock shook his head, “Oh, I mean…it's slightly stressful trying to find a bomber before he blows up an old lady, but I don't think I have any long-lasting issues from it.”

“I…I see,” The older doctor frowned, making a quick note before deleting it, “I'll just put ‘no’.”

“Good idea,” Sherlock agreed. He turned to John and rolled his eyes, “why couldn't you do this at home?”

“Because I'm not a urologist,” John hissed, “Now shush.”

“When did you first notice symptoms of erectile dysfunction?”

Sherlock's cheeks flooded with colour and he looked down at the floor, “I haven't.”

“You've never noticed?” Dr Forest asked.

“I don't really care about…that,” Sherlock insisted, rolling his shoulders, “My body is transport.”

“So, you are able to get an erection?” the doctor asked in confusion.

“Probably…possibly? I've never tried. Well…I mean…I tried when I was to get the sample, but it didn't work. The timing wasn't right and…I was tired and I...”

“It's alright,” John soothed Sherlock before turning to the doctor, “I spoke to Sherlock's brother, Mycroft. Basically they have to provide a sample every ten years to show that they are still fertile and able to continue the family name, otherwise, all worldly possessions go to their cousin as part of their grandmother’s will. Sherlock managed to avoid it last time but this time he needs to provide it, otherwise, it's void and he loses everything. From what I can gather from the conversations we had, Sherlock was unable to achieve an erection and couldn't give a sample.”

“I see...” Dr Forest trailed off before folding his arms on the table, “ Mr Holmes, when was the last time you had an erection?”

“I sometimes get them in the morning,” Sherlock shrugged, “but they go away soon enough.”

“Okay, let’s try it another way: when was the last time you masturbated?”

Sherlock's face flared bright red and he mumbled something which was only audible to John, “10 pm on 29th January 2010,” John repeated.

“That's very…specific,” The other doctor nodded, “and that was the last time?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said as he brushed a lock of hair from his face.

“You said you have them sometimes in the mornings. How long do they usually last?” Dr Forest asked, tilting his head, “Are they good quality?”

Sherlock chuckled dryly at that, “I have no idea. What is the scale of quality when it comes to tumescence?”

“Just…answer as best you can,” John replied beside him, nudging gently.

“They last approximately 15 minutes, or until I can get into a cold shower,” Sherlock responded, “As for quality: they are erect. That's the best I can do.”

“Any night time emissions? Wet dreams or sexual dreams in which you awake on the edge of ejaculation?” the urologist asked, his expression natural as he looked over at Sherlock who was now squirming with embarrassment.

“Y-Yes,” Sherlock nodded, “Occasionally.”

John could feel his own cheeks becoming slightly flushed. Normally he could maintain a clinical detachment from his patients and their issues, but this was Sherlock - his best friend and flatmate - who was admitting to still having wet dreams at the age of 34.

“That's a good sign,” Dr Forest smiled reassuringly, “Nearly done now, Mr Holmes. I know it's unpleasant.”

Sherlock nodded in agreement and looked around the room, his mind wandered as he looked at the framed certificates of Dr Forest’s medical achievements and the photos of his family. The man seemed nice; a sound and caring doctor, unlike many of the others which Sherlock had endured over the years.

“Sherlock?” John said, his voice slightly too loud in the office, “Are you listening?”

“What? Sorry. No. I got distracted,” Sherlock admitted before focussing back on the urologist, “continue.”

“I asked what sexual techniques you use with your partner?” Dr Forest looked over at both Sherlock and John, his eyebrow raised as if waiting for John to answer.

“I…I don't. I mean I haven't…ever,” Sherlock winced.

“We're not a couple. Just flatmates,” John countered, “Not that there's anything wrong with that. It's just, we aren't...”

“Ah. Apologies,” Dr Forest replied, noting something in the computer, “Have you had more than one sexual partner?”

“No. I've had none,” Sherlock said slightly aggressively, “Not that I see any reason to discuss my sex life. I've given you the information you asked.”

“Shhh, it's alright,” John whispered, putting his hand on Sherlock's own, “Nearly done now.”

“Actually, that's all I need for the moment,” Dr Forest smiled, “Since Mr Holmes has no sexual history, I won't need to ask any further questions. Now, I just need a few more tests and we'll be ready to get you in the sample room.”

“Can't wait,” Sherlock huffed, slouching down in his chair.


Sherlock sat in the chair and watched as a young and attractive nurse entered with a sterile blood kit. John and her met eyes and smiled at one another, seductive and flirty glances as she opened the packaging.

“It's actually me that's supposed to be getting pricked, not you ,” Sherlock hissed at the woman, startling her into blinking rapidly and continuing her work without looking up. She took Sherlock's blood and pressed a cotton ball onto the oozing spot without looking at John before turning on her expensive heels and clicking her way out of the room, closing the door silently behind her.

“That was rude,” John looked at Sherlock.

“You're here for my well being,” Sherlock complained, “Not to get your end away. We all know how spectacular your own erections and sex life are, but it's not you we are here for.”

“What do you know about my erections?” John huffed, slouching in the chair, “She was fit.”

“She was married ,” Sherlock countered, “with two rottweilers. You hate dogs. What were those tests for?”

John ignored the first part and focussed on the medical question from his best friend, “Blood count, glucose levels, liver and kidney function, cholesterol and thyroid, and also your hormone levels.”

“And PSA,” Dr Forest said as he re-entered the room, “Checking your prostate levels in your blood.”

“Ah, so you won't have to do the physical test?” Sherlock asked hopefully.

“Unfortunately, we will still have to do that,” the urologist replied, “and a few others, too.”

“Brilliant,” Sherlock grumbled, standing from his chair and suddenly looking meek and anxious, “what should I do?”

“Go behind the curtain and strip from the waist down,” Dr Forest said as he procured more gloves and snapped them on, “I'll be through in a second.”

“John,” Sherlock mumbled, looking up red-cheeked, “Come too?”

“There won't be much room in the cubicle, I'm afraid,” Dr Forest explained.

“Then do it here,” Sherlock insisted, standing his ground until both doctors shrugged. John used his non-gloved hands to close the blinds against the windows and then stood close to Sherlock whilst the younger man stripped himself of his lower garments. Eventually, Sherlock stood naked from the waist down, playing with the bottom of his shirt whilst his flaccid penis was revealed to the cool air of the examination room. John quickly checked over his friend - purely as a doctor, he insisted to himself.

“Right, so we'll start with the usual testicle exam,” Dr Forest explained as he reached across and carefully took Sherlock's balls in his hand, rolling them and checking for lumps, “Any tenderness? Changes in size?”

“N-No,” Sherlock shook his head, closing his eyes in embarrassment.

“Good. That's good,” the urologist nodded, “Okay, now, if you can just turn your head and cough?”

Sherlock did as he was told, his cheeks now blazing as he stood with his penis out in front of John.

His embarrassment was increased when the doctor stepped forward and began rolling back Sherlock's foreskin, checking the glans for signs of infection or disease. Sherlock felt nothing but revulsion at the touch, his stomach lurched and he felt momentarily sick until he felt John's hand moving to rest onto his shoulder, “It's okay. You're okay,” he chanted to the detective, soothing him as much as possible, which seemed to help as Sherlock could finally push the nausea back down.

“Oh,” Dr Forest said in surprise. The penis which was once small and uninterested now plumped to half-hard in his hand. Sherlock mewled in embarrassment and covered his face with his hands.

“It's fine. It happens,” the urologist attempted to soothe, “I'm surprised, though. I thought you said...”

“Can we continue?!” Sherlock asked, his voice shrill, “I would like to leave here at some point this week.”

Dr Forest removed his hand from Sherlock's penis and watched as it hung between the young man's legs, “Turn and put your hands on the bed, please. Quick prostate examination.”

Sherlock cleared his throat and avoided looking at John as he bent over slightly, gripping the padding on the table as he heard the urologist walking around behind him, gathering up lubricant and supplies. Sherlock startled slightly when a cool finger was pressed against his buttocks, but relaxed when he felt John's steady and familiar hand against his neck.

“Deep breath in,” John whispered, just as the other doctor said the same thing, causing both professionals to smile. Sherlock winced as there was the unfamiliar pressure against his anus before the finger slipped inside him, poking and caressing his insides until there was an intense sensation which was neither pleasant nor enjoyable. Sherlock inhaled sharply and slammed his eyes closed as the doctor checked the small gland and caressed it until he was satisfied that it was normal.

Sherlock could feel his cock leaking down his thighs, it seemed like a river of precome was flooding his skin and he opened his eyes to look down, watching as drops brushed against the sparse hairs on his legs.

“It's normal,” John interjected, “you don't ejaculate often - or ever - so it builds up. He's just checking to ensure there is no infection and so it causes some to leak out.”

“It's horrid,” Sherlock grumbled, closing his eyes again and feeling when Dr Forest removed his finger.

“All done,” the older doctor smiled, “Now, whilst you're undressed, you can pop into the sample room. There is a selection of magazines for you to use, and I just need you to put your sample into this,” he said as he gave Sherlock a small pot.

Sherlock examined the pot with nervousness before lowering his eyes to the floor, “I don't think anything will happen...”

“You could try though?” John asked, putting a hand on Sherlock's shoulder.

The detective felt the heat bleeding through his jacket and shuddered, feeling a slight twitch in his cock at the touch. He froze and then twisted away, closing his features and shutting the door behind him with a snick which told everyone that it had been locked.


“Is he…always...?” Dr Forest nodded towards the door with an upturned eyebrow.

“Yeah, pretty much,” John gestured absently before rubbing his face, “This whole scenario just seems so utterly bizarre to me.”

“Oh, it's fairly common for us,” Dr Forest explained as he set about redressing the bed and washing his hands, “The upper class seem to enjoy the superiority of their samples compared to family members. We get them quite regularly.”

“I thought dealing with snot-nosed kids and flustered old women was bad enough,” John chuckled before looking back at the door, “What are the protocols if he can't…if it doesn't work?”

“Technically, it’s a matter of legal paperwork. As a trained doctor, I can sign to say that I witnessed him entering the room with the sample pot and that it was not tampered with beforehand. No sample had been added and I'm fairly certain Sherlock has no biological matter in his coat pocket,” the doctor laughed, worried when John's face suddenly fell and John rushed to the door, knocking rapidly.

“What?” Sherlock shouted, sounding flustered.

“Sherlock, what have you got in your pocket?” John asked.

“What? Is this a joke?!” Sherlock replied, a tone of uncertainty creeping into his voice as though he was being mocked, “Is this a 'is that a gun in your pocket, or are you just pleased to see me' joke?”

“No. No, Sherlock,” John shook his head, hiding a smile, “It's a ' have you got anything in your pocket that could void the entire test?' question.”

“Oh. Oh, well no. John, could you please…leave? You're rather distracting,” Sherlock complained before there was the sound of water running from the tap, “I'm drowning you out with water, John.”

“No. He's fine,” John said to the other doctor carefully.

“Is that a usual concern of yours?” Dr Forest frowned, a deep crease forming beneath his glasses.

“With Sherlock?” John asked, “All the time.”

Chapter Text

Sherlock stood looking at himself in the mirror. He felt utterly ridiculous as he glared at his reflection and then down to his flaccid penis, which still refused to harden regardless of how much touching and stroking he did.

It wasn't that Sherlock had an aversion to touching himself - he had maintained his transport whenever it was required - but it just seemed that his body didn't require sexual sustenance as much as other human beings. He put this down to his superior intellect and the fact that he focussed on other activities rather than the boring act of self-pleasure.

Well, …he had until he met John Watson.

They had met on a Thursday, at the Lab in Barts, and immediately Sherlock felt like he had known the doctor his entire life. He had always called 'fate' or 'destiny' utter hogwash, but when Mike had walked in, followed by the man with a limp and a cane, Sherlock had felt like he couldn't breathe. Like he couldn't do anything but read the tell-tale signs which screamed from John's mannerisms and told the whole rotten story of John's life so far.

They had agreed to see a flat. His flat. He had already been living there a while due to Mycroft's subsidised rent payments and Mrs. Hudson's insistence that he needed someone to care for him. Mycroft had attempted to force Sherlock into flat shares before, but all had ended in disaster.

Tim had left 36 minutes into his tenancy after Sherlock showed him a head being boiled on the stove (it had taken Lestrade almost an hour to calm the babbling man down after he had screamed that Sherlock was a serial killer. Made worse when Sherlock agreed that it did look that way and then discussed in detail about Jeffrey Dahmer's way of boiling away the flesh. Tim had fainted .)

David had lasted a little longer, much to Sherlock's disdain. The man was utterly dull and dreadfully boring; he insisted on doing tedious things like talking and breathing in an oh-so-annoying way which had Sherlock scraping wildly on his violin.

Mycroft had refused to pay his rent after that, insisting that Sherlock wasn't trying hard enough. The next day, John Watson had limped into his life and everything had changed.

John Watson was fascinating. Everything about him was a paradox. He was an assassin, trained in blood and death, yet he was also a healer, a doctor. His hands were hard but his face was soft, emotive eyes and harsh little lips which John licked at every opportunity whether good or bad.

Sherlock couldn't stop watching him. After they had solved the cabbie case on the Friday night, and had the frankly awkward conversation about sexuality, Sherlock had come to the startling realisation that he had a stirring in his loins, his flatteringly tailored trousers barely concealing the prominent bulge beneath as he sat in the cab beside John, watching as London passed by.

They had gone their separate ways once in the flat; John had been tired and wanted to be dull and sleep whereas Sherlock was wired. His body was flooded with hormones and arousal, which caused him to feel itchy under his skin. Sherlock had rubbed across his clothed cock and gasped, slamming his eyes closed and biting his lip as he catalogued how good the sensations felt. He hadn't felt arousal for many years, and he only ever dealt with his erections during the night, when he wasn't aware of his body forcing through the night time emissions.

Climbing naked into his bed, he touched himself lazily, drawing shapes and patterns on his skin until his toes curled and his eyes crossed. He grabbed his cock, pulling back his foreskin and thumbing across the slit to spread the precome and lubricate proceedings ( he didn't even own lubricant since it was so long ago that he indulged like this ). Luckily, his body was producing enough precome to slick his path up and down his shaft, teasing his red-flushed glans and then rolling his bollocks in his palm.

He came with a whine twenty seconds later, biting his other hand to stifle the sounds lest John hear from above. Sherlock reasoned that the older man was probably fast asleep until something caught his attention…a soft creak, rhythmic pounding, an occasional gasp.

Sherlock was still hard but getting harder still as he wrapped his hand around his cock again, using his previous ejaculation as lubricant as he stroked again, using his vivid imagination to picture John in the throes of lust. His head back on the pillow, his legs spread wide, the flush across his chest and cheeks forcing Sherlock closer and closer to a second orgasm which exploded from him with a choked off grunt at the same time that John climaxed, too, a hitched groan the only sign that they had shared a moment without John realising.

Sherlock had claimed that he needed to sleep the next day when John knocked on his door; Sherlock had been awake all night in his mind palace, attempting to understand his body’s urges before snapping back to the real world with an erection.

It had been a difficult weekend; Sherlock's body, heart, and mind ached with worry until he reasoned that John was straight. He dated women, he wanted the lush curves of a woman, and he wasn't interested in Sherlock. He had said so at Angelo's plain and clear. So Sherlock had had a few more stealthy and secret wanks before his genitals were too tender and sore to touch any more. Sherlock wrote it off as a weekend of madness, a chemical imbalance possibly or a hormonal change which would soon rectify itself. He showered, shaved, dressed impeccably and then exited his bedroom with a dancer’s grace.

Now, standing in the examination room of the private clinic, Sherlock reasoned that it would be a simple enough task to masturbate and ejaculate into the sample pot. He had masturbated to completion before, and although the situation and surroundings were different, he understood the need.

However, his body refused to comply, staying small and flaccid between his legs as he closed his eyes and rubbed roughly.

Nothing.

Sherlock frowned, opening one of his personalised magazines which littered the coffee table in the Baker Street living room of his mind palace. The magazines showed John in various states of undress and even one hint of John's arse after he had rushed from the bathroom in only a too-short towel revealing the plump cheek.

That wasn't working, nothing was working.

Sherlock decided to go for the big guns: imagining a sexual scenario involving himself and someone else. That fellow from the film which John had forced him to watch, Loki with the ridiculously phallic horns. Sherlock frowned as he pictured the man, clad in green leather which showed off his pale skin and dark hair but still, his cock remained flaccid.

There was a banging on the door which startled Sherlock into dropping his penis as though he expected his childhood nursemaid Old Nan to walk in and catch him.

“What?” he barked angrily, he was trying to focus, to fantasise, and they kept interrupting him.

Sherlock frowned, John was asking what was in his pocket? Sherlock dipped a hand into his jacket finding only his keys and phone. Worried that it was a trick, Sherlock responded with a snarky comment, irrationally angry at John.

Turning on the tap, Sherlock looked over at himself in the mirror and sighed, this wasn't going to work. His body didn't react the same way regular people did, his only option now was to go to the lawyers of his vile cousin and ask for a reprieve for his parents. Perhaps John would provide him with a signed statement insisting he had some terrible disease that stopped his penis working. That would be better and less embarrassing than admitting to Horrid Harold that he simply couldn't get it up.

Sherlock turned off the water and unlocked the door, pushing through it and walking straight for his folded trousers. He was still aware of his nakedness, his cock slapping against his thighs as he walked and stepped into his boxers and trousers to zip them up. He refused to make eye contact with John and instead handed the empty sample pot back to Dr. Forest with a soft pink blush across his cheeks, “I can't.”

“There are no physical reasons why you cannot, Mr. Holmes,” Dr Forest soothed as best he could, “Perhaps you can come back tomorrow? We can try again.”

“No,” Sherlock said curtly, holding up his hand, “No. I can't. I'm not doing this again. Absolutely not.”

“Sherlock,” John said from across the room before walking towards his friend, “we were talking…myself and Dr. Forest.”

Sherlock made a grunt of acknowledgement, his eyes staring at the artwork across the room.

“Well, perhaps it's this situation which is causing the issues,” John gestured around him, “Perhaps you'd be more comfortable at home, in your own bedroom.”

“I need a witness, John,” Sherlock grumbled, “I need a trained professional who can sign legally to say that…oh…oh, I see. Yes.”

“I've okayed it with Dr. Forest who said that so long as I make sure you don't take any genetic material into the room with you, I can sign and say it was all done professionally and properly. I'm willing to help,” John smiled, running his hand up Sherlock's arm.


The journey home was awkward, to say the least; both men sat in the back of the cab nervously considering what they were about to do. John frowned, his heart thudding at the thought of standing so close to Sherlock's bedroom whilst the other man was pleasuring himself…or attempting to, at any rate. The doctor hoped that Sherlock could give a specimen to allow the relevant tests to be completed and this whole business to be finished for another decade. It wasn't that John didn't want to help Sherlock - he did - but the idea of standing outside Sherlock's door, listening to his best friend masturbating, would be enough to give him a stiffy and he wasn't sure whether he could get through the entire act without throwing open the door and snogging Sherlock senseless.

Sherlock was sitting beside John, feeling the tension and awkwardness like waves coming from John's body. The detective knew that John would be uncomfortable in this stupid situation; as a heterosexual man, he wouldn't want to listen to another man masturbate, especially not his best friend, colleague, and flatmate. That was travelling way past the ' not good ' mark and over into ' absolutely dangerous to friendship ' route.

“Almost home,” John said causing Sherlock to startle slightly and turn to look at him, “so, from what I know, once we've decided when you're going to do it, we have a certain amount of flexibility…until you, er…I mean if you…finish,” John looked up at the cabbie and lowered his voice, “then I call a number and one of Mycroft's minions comes to pick up the sample and send it to the lab?”

Sherlock shrugged moodily, he refused to look at John in case his face was doing that stupid expression of confusion and vulnerability he hated so much.

“Hey,” John whispered, obviously sensing Sherlock's nervousness and anxiety, “You don't need to worry. We can sort this. Whatever the issue is, we can fix it.”

Sherlock gave a derisive snort and shook his head before reaching into his coat to pull out his wallet. The car came to a stop and Sherlock took out some money, handing it to the cabbie before getting out and striding to the front door and into Baker Street, leaving John on the street.

Chapter Text

Sherlock was in the shower when John entered the flat. The sound of running water was loud enough to suggest that Sherlock had it on full power, seemingly wanting to scrub the memory of the clinic from his skin. Not that John could blame him.

Removing the sample cups from his coat pocket, John put them on the kitchen table before setting about to make tea. The familiar routine was comforting as he considered what he was about to do, how he could help Sherlock, and what this could mean for their friendship. His thoughts were interrupted by Sherlock exiting the bathroom in his camel dressing gown, standing haughtily at the doorway to the kitchen.

“I've thought of a way out,” Sherlock stated factually, “You do it.”

“I'm sorry, what?” John blinked, shaking his head.

“You do it. The sample. You fill it with your semen and send it in as mine,” Sherlock said, “they won't DNA test it…probably. They just need to know that it's viable.”

“No,” John coughed, “Absolutely not.”

“Why?” Sherlock frowned, “It's the easiest option! Mine doesn't work and we both know that yours does.”

“Sherlock...” John sighed, rubbing his neck, “It needs to be your sample. We'll get it…we just need to work out what works for you.”

“Nothing works!” Sherlock hissed, pulling at his hair, “I've tried everything.”

“Really?” John asked, “Pornography? Erotic stories?”

“Dull,” Sherlock responded, rolling his eyes.

“There must be something…you managed to masturbate before?” John said, biting at his thumb as he thought, “What happened to bring that on?”

Sherlock shrugged, not wanting to simply say the one answer that could solve this whole mess. You. You, John Watson. It's always you .

“I…I got an erection once from – listening to you quote from that book?” Sherlock blushed, clearing his throat with embarrassment, “That sex book.”

“Fifty Shades?” John asked, “Oh, right…so, BDSM then? Okay…well, I don't have the book anymore but…I could try and make something up?”

Sherlock felt his cock twitch at the thought. John sitting so close, talking about intimate things. Perhaps that would be enough to get the ridiculous situation over with.

“Worth a try,” Sherlock said, attempting to make his voice flat and uninterested, “I'll be in my room.”

John gulped, taking a drink of his tea before picking up the sample pots and carrying them into Sherlock's room.

This was going to get interesting.


Sherlock stripped off his robe and lay back on his bed, naked. He wasn't proud of his body, but he wasn't ashamed of it, either. It was a perfectly acceptable transport.

John hesitated at the door but quickly pushed through, placing the sample bottles on the bedside table before returning to the hallway and closing the door, much to Sherlock's confusion.

“John?” Sherlock called out, sitting up, “What's happening?”

“I thought you would be more comfortable if I was outside the room,” John insisted, although he wasn't sure it wasn’t to protect himself and his own feelings for the detective.

“Oh,” Sherlock said quietly, sitting back down with a resigned sigh. John obviously didn't want his heterosexual sensibilities questioned by watching another man masturbate.

“So...” John began, “I was thinking that I’d talk and you just – go for it. If you feel like you need to ejaculate, then you should do it in the pot. I've taken the lid off so it's ready.”

“What?” Sherlock said, frowning, “I can barely hear you.”

John rubbed his face and spoke louder, “Hows this?”

“This is ridiculous. I don't want the whole street knowing my intimate business.” Sherlock scoffed, standing up and walking to the door, opening it quickly and looking down at John who allowed his eyes to trail up and down Sherlock's naked body, “Get in here.”

John hesitated, biting at his lip before turning to the kitchen, grabbing a chair and pulling it through to Sherlock's room. Placing it in the corner, John sat and crossed his legs awkwardly as Sherlock repositioned himself back onto the bed. His genitals lay mostly flaccid and small against his thick, unruly pubic hair as he let his hands rest on his stomach.

“Er…right,” John began, clearing his throat, “Comfortable?”

Sherlock nodded, already feeling his cock swelling slightly at John being in the room. He could feel the doctor's eyes raking over his body, whether it was for a medical opinion or not, it still made Sherlock blush and feel like he needed to cover his half-hard erection.

“So...” John said again, clearing his throat once more, “so…there's, er, a woman…oh wait, do you want me to talk about a man or a woman?”

“What?” Sherlock blinked.

“In the story? Talk about a man or woman?” John repeated, “Which would you prefer?”

“Oh. Man,” Sherlock said, waving his hand dismissively. Perhaps he could pretend it was John in the story.

“Right...” John said, taking a deep breath, “There's a guy, a sexy guy. He's got muscles and a six-pack. He's wearing leather and he wants you to be a good boy. He wants you to be his slave.”

“No,” Sherlock said, shaking his head, “I don't like that.”

John exhaled before nodding, “Okay, the man is on his knees. He's – he's sucking you off. His lips are around your er…your cock, and he's sucking it. Slow, but sexy.”

Sherlock could feel sweat gathering on his brow as he reached for his cock, taking it in his hand and attempting to coax it to full hardness, “Okay.”

“Okay, good,” John said brightly, happy that the situation had progressed, “He's licking your testicles and – licking around your slit, swallowing your precome.”

Sherlock was starting to harden again, growing in his hand as he imagined John on his knees, his mouth open for Sherlock's cock, “Yes.”

John too was feeling the heat, pulling off his jumper, “He has his eyes on you all the time, his hand stroking the bottom of your cock that he can't reach with his tongue. He's – sucking on you.”

Sherlock grunted, closing his eyes and attempting to twist the words. Instead of 'He', Sherlock wanted to hear 'I'. Wrapping his hand around his prick, Sherlock began stroking harder, feeling the first dribbles of precome beginning and running across his fist.

“He wants to fuck you. The big, muscled man. He wants to put his cock in you,” John said, feeling his own cock harden.

“No,” Sherlock said, eyes open and his cock dropped against his stomach, “No. No, I don't want that. I don't like that.”

John was quickly across the room, one hand on Sherlock's shoulder softly as he took a seat on the bed, “Shhh, it's alright. I'm sorry. Forget that. It was silly.”

“I don't think I would like to be penetrated,” Sherlock said quietly, blinking nervously, “not by a stranger. I don't like that. I don't like the thought of someone I don't know touching me.”

John seemed to understand, “Oh,” he said simply, “So…do you want me to use someone you know? Lestrade maybe? Or...er…me?”

Sherlock's eyes shone brightly but he tamped down his excitement as he gave a half-hearted shrug, “It doesn't have to be you, I know it'll be awkward for you. You could talk about a soldier maybe? Who looks a little like you? That – That might work?”

John nodded resolutely, remaining where he was on the bed as he began to think of a new story, “Okay, so there's a soldier. He's short but compact, strong and toned. He's wearing his fatigues and dog tags as he bends down to kiss you, bullying his tongue into your mouth. Do you like kissing?”

“Not usually,” Sherlock answered, sounding breathless, his erection already hardening once more.

“You do with him,” John replied, “You're making soft little moaning noises, and he's groaning, too. His hand cups your neck whilst the other holds you tight against his front. You can feel his own growing erection against yours. His cock is big and thick,” John said, thinking of his own cock,

“You can feel it thickening against your own.”

“Yes,” Sherlock nodded, biting his lip.

“He pushes you back, the soldier,” John said softly, his voice breathy, “against the wall, kissing along your neck as he undresses you. Showing off inch by inch of your perfect skin. So beautiful and pale, perfect for biting and marking and claiming.”

Sherlock moaned, his cock stiffer than he had ever known. Arousal was making him dizzy and he whined low in his throat as he stroked himself from root to tip, rocking his hand and returning to the base.

“You're naked now, backed against the wall, the soldier is between your legs and he's kissing your stomach. He's nipping at your skin, licking your hips as he works his way down towards your cock. Do you want him to put it in his mouth?” John asked, his eyes glued to Sherlock's hand.

“Yes,” The detective replied with a moan, “Yes, John.”

John swallowed the saliva which had pooled in his mouth and continued, “He does, he puts it in his mouth and sucks. He's sucking you down, licking around your tip and swallowing. He's cupping your balls and running his finger over your perineum.”

John noticed that Sherlock's other hand was moving down to copy the movements. Leaning closer to Sherlock, John cleared his throat, noticing how breathy and deep his voice had suddenly gone, “and – his other hand, it looks for yours. He tangles your fingers together so you're holding hands. He wants you to feel loved, to feel cherished. This isn't just about sex…it's togetherness.”

John wasn't sure where that last comment came from, but it seemed to work for Sherlock who jack-knifed forward and cried out, covering his stomach and chest with ejaculate with a loud bark of pleasure. John could only stay motionless, staring at Sherlock who was shaking and trembling with the force of his orgasm, his cock red-tipped and glistening still twitching in Sherlock's grasp.

“You-you were supposed to do it in the pot,” John mumbled, gesturing to the bedside table.

“I didn't know it was going to happen...” Sherlock admitted quietly, looking down at the mess of himself. They had been in the room less than five minutes and he had already embarrassed himself.

“We can't do anything with this sample. It needs to be a clean collect,” John sighed, rubbing his face, “We'll have to try again...”

Sherlock blinked, shaking his head, “No, I can't keep doing this, John. Please, can’t we just – put some of this in?”

“Afraid not,” John answered, getting off the bed and moving to get a wet towel to wipe Sherlock down with, thankful that he could reposition his own erection into a more modest one.

Sherlock sighed, wiping himself down and then covering his body with his duvet, “At least we know it works, though...”

John smiled, nodding as he began to leave, “At least it works,” he agreed.

Chapter Text

“John...” Sherlock said quietly, sidling up beside the doctor at the side of the crime scene with a pinched expression on his face, “It's happened again...”

John sighed, closing his eyes tightly and then rummaging in his deep coat pocket to touch the small specimen jar he had kept handy. Since the first night they had tried to get a sample, Sherlock had been frequently having “ annoying protuberances ” as he called them. John simply called them erections.

Still unable to collect a sample correctly, John had taken to carrying a pot around with him in case they were ever in a place where they could viably collect a sample – at the side of a crime scene did not seem to be the right place.

“You'll have to wait until we get home,” John whispered in reply, “We're at a crime scene.”

“I'm well aware of that,” Sherlock hissed, twisting to obscure the bulge in his trousers, “I can feel my heart beating in my penis!”

“Oh Jesus,” John groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose, “Come on...”

John cleared his throat and gestured to the backside of an abandoned building, “Sherlock, maybe we should check round here?” he called out animatedly, grabbing Sherlock's arm, “See if there is anything useful?”

“Hmm? Oh yes, right. Good idea, John,” Sherlock smiled in response and followed John's lead, only stopping when he heard Greg shouting over to them:

“You should have one of the techs with you. Just in case you find anything,” he stressed.

“I'll call if we find anything. I don't want your clumsy staff trampling my crime scene,” Sherlock grumbled, only just catching when Greg shouted back, “It's my crime scene, you twat.”

“Come on,” John grabbed Sherlock roughly and marched them around the back, wincing at the smell of the Thames in the air and the scent of rubbish and rusting metal. Once they were out of sight of the Yard, John gestured for Sherlock to pull himself out of his trousers, “We'll have to be quick…and quiet.”

“I know...” Sherlock scoffed, already thinking of ways to ruin the sample. There was the option of simply throwing it into the Thames but even John would realise what Sherlock was plotting.

Instead of hating and dreading the urges to masturbate, Sherlock now enjoyed them. Well, not quite enjoyed them; he only found them pleasant if John was nearby – as in: directly in front of him. For the last week, they had been trying to get a sample but Sherlock had managed to miss, ruin, or ignore the pot entirely whenever he was close to ejaculating. Thanks to his awkwardness around the subject of sex and bodily needs, John had allowed Sherlock to get away with it, which only pushed him further into extending their odd little pastime.

Pulling his cock from his trousers, Sherlock groaned at the freedom and slowly began to stroke himself. He had discovered how sensitive his frenulum was, especially if he pulled back his foreskin and simply tickled at the little bundle of nerves, and how much pleasure he received from cupping his bollocks in his hand, rolling them and slightly pinching them with each thrust of his hips.

“Come on,” John stressed, peeking around the corner of the building, “I really don't want people to find us like this...”

“Shut up,” Sherlock hissed, closing his eyes, “Do you want me to do this or not?”

“Do I want you to wank in public?” John asked, “No. Definitely not. Do I want this to be over with so I no longer have to wander around with specimen cups in my pocket? Yes.”

“The more you talk, the longer it takes,” Sherlock complained, spitting in his hand loudly and smearing it along his length, “Oh that's the ticket.”

“You say the weirdest shit during a wank,” John huffed.

Sherlock smirked and pressed his hand down to his bollocks, the other continuing a rapid thrust as his cock made soft squishing sounds. It wouldn't be long now, Sherlock knew. He recognised the signs of his climax although he had often tried to hide them to surprise John and miss the pot. He had pressed a knuckle up to his perineum when he felt the urge build.

“Now, John…unscrew the top and place it near my penis,” Sherlock said breathily, “I'm about to ejaculate.”

“Why me?” John stressed, but he was already readying himself in position, “Hold your own pot.”

“Can't,” Sherlock breathed, his cheeks red and his chest heaving, “I need this pressure against my testicles.”

John rolled his eyes but tipped the pot into a ready position, nodding at Sherlock, “Okay, it's good, it's safe.”

“Good,” Sherlock smiled, taking a half step back when his cock gave a final thickening and then he was pulsing hard with a grunt, coating John's hand and sleeve with come and entirely missing the specimen jar.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” John hissed, looking down at the slick trails across his skin and jacket, “Sherlock…I swear to god I'm going to punch you.”

“I couldn't help it,” Sherlock breathed, feeling quite proud of himself, “I have never attempted masturbation whilst upstanding. It's difficult.”

“I'm going to murder you,” John promised as he jammed the pot back into his pocket and then reached for his handkerchief, wiping himself down as best he could.

“I feel much better,” Sherlock admitted with a smug grin, “Okay. We can return to Lestrade now...”

“He's going to be suspicious if we don't find anything here when we spent so long ‘looking’,” John said, scrubbing at his jacket.

“I solved the case before I came to speak to you. It was moronically simple,” Sherlock smirked, “Shall we go then?”


Tick tock little brother. Horrid Harold is waiting to evict mummy and daddy – MH

Piss off – SH

If you spent more time getting the sample in the pot, and not over your doctor friend then it would be much easier. I wouldn't need to have these discussions – MH

I don't know what you're talking about – SH

 

“Sherlock?” John said from the doorway of the hall, “I'm going out with Lestrade tonight. Quiz night. Sure you don't want to come?”

“Absolutely certain, thank you,” Sherlock replied with a fake smile, “Please do not get too intoxicated. You're incredibly annoying whilst drunk.”

John rolled his eyes but grabbed for his coat and ensured he had his phone and wallet in his pockets. Bidding Sherlock a final goodbye, John left for the pub.

It wasn't until hours later that John returned, stumbling and giggling with drunkness as he pushed open the door to the living room and caught sight of Sherlock in his chair. The detective rolled his eyes but stood up, walking across the room to help John into the room before helping him strip out of his outer clothes.

“Five beers, three spirits – rum, I believe – and four shots.”

“Yup,” John laughed, nodding quickly, “Lestrade's fault.”

“I'm sure,” Sherlock replied as he helped John to the sofa, “Do you want water or tea?”

“Yes,” John nodded, fiddling with the TV remote.

“Great. That was a useful answer,” Sherlock whispered, moving to the kitchen to fill up a pint glass with cold water before returning to John's side, “Drink this.”

Gulping quickly, John finished the water and slumped back on the sofa with a frankly pornographic moan, making Sherlock's cock twitch in his pyjama bottoms. Attempting to rise from the seat, Sherlock found John's hand on his thigh, keeping him in place.

“Stay here,” John whispered, blinking too quickly as he looked over at Sherlock, “I wanna help with your problem...”

“What problem?” Sherlock frowned, watching as John's hand inched closer to his crotch, “John…stop. This isn't…you're drunk.”

“Needed courage,” John smiled, looking up at Sherlock as his hand cupped the other man's genitals, “To do this.”

Sherlock squeaked with shock as he looked down, feeling lightheaded with how quickly he became erect. John didn't seem to mind as he rocked his hand back and forth, simply feeling the length and girth in his palm through the flimsy cotton of Sherlock's trousers.

“John…John I...” Sherlock spluttered, blood unsure whether to rush to heat his cheeks or cause his erection to harden further.

“Shhh,” John whispered, tightening his grip and finally beginning a stroke. Although they were still separated by fabric, Sherlock could feel every line in John's palm as he stroked him, keeping the movements slow and steady, almost methodical as he coaxed precome from Sherlock's tip, watching a small bloom of wetness cover the front of Sherlock's trousers.

“John...” Sherlock moaned, head falling back onto the sofa as his legs jerked with pleasure, “John…please.”

“You've got an erection...” John hummed, “a good one…it's not broken, Sherlock. It's just – picky.”

Sherlock didn't understand John's comments, although it was mostly because he was shaken by the mind-blowing pleasure which John was creating.

“It just wants to be used by someone it likes…someone you like. Someone you trust…like me,” John continued, “You don't like strangers touching you, you don't like the thought of sex with strangers, but you do if it's me,” he commented, remembering the night of the soldier story, “You need a connection to the person...”

“Yes, John,” Sherlock whined, hips bucking up to meet John's hand, “Yes…I do.”

“If you wanted me to touch you...” John answered, leaning into Sherlock's cheek, “You only had to ask me...”

“John!” Sherlock shouted, eyes rolling, “John we need a pot…we don't have a pot!”

“Forget the pot,” John replied, tightening his grip, “It's not about that.”

“John, I'm going to…I'm close to…oh, John!” Sherlock groaned before jack knifing forward in pleasure as he came hard, soaking his pyjamas and John's hand with his come. The pleasure was so intense that it was almost painful and Sherlock finally felt his brain click back online after a few long seconds.

“We'll get a sample tomorrow,” John promised, leaning over and kissing Sherlock's forehead, “Goodnight, Sherlock.”

“Goodnight, John,” Sherlock responded, too shocked to do anything but blink and sit in his wet, cooling trousers.

Chapter Text

John walked down the stairs cursing Greg’s name for the hangover he was currently nursing. It felt like he had a wrecking ball bashing against his skull as he headed for the kitchen and began to boil the kettle. Sherlock was nowhere to be seen, and John was privately grateful for that as he tried to explain his behaviour the previous night. Granted, his feelings for Sherlock had grown massively but he hadn’t expected to come onto his friend so roughly and clumsily - sticking your hand against a man’s prick wasn’t exactly subtle - and John winced as he poured the tea and wondered how Sherlock was feeling this morning.

“Stop thinking so loudly!” came a call from the direction of Sherlock’s bedroom.

“I’m not doing anything loudly,” John replied with a grumble of complaint, “My head feels like shit.”

“That’s what you get for being intoxicated,” Sherlock responded, stepping out of his bedroom wrapped only in a sheet, but with a delicate blush across his cheeks.

“Yeah, about that…” John said as he cleared his throat nervously, “about last night,”

“You regret it,” Sherlock replied without emotion, he looked like he had shut down completely at John’s words.

“No. No not at all,” John shook his head, turning to look at Sherlock with a small smile, “I just -- I regret the way I went about it. I didn’t intend on coming on so strong.”

“Oh,” Sherlock ducked his head, “I see. Well, I appreciated it…it helped me to sleep.”

John grinned, laughing softly at Sherlock’s response, “Good.”

“So…you still er -- intend on helping me get a sample?” Sherlock asked cautiously, “Or would you like to woo me first? Because unfortunately we don’t have a lot of time for wooing - and I don’t need it. In fact, I would find it horrendous if we had to do the banal romance which other couples insist upon.”

John’s chest warmed at the thought of doing romantic things with Sherlock, and he forgot about his hangover for just a few minutes, “We could never be a normal, boring couple,” he smiled, but at seeing Sherlock’s face fall, clearly mishearing his meaning, John closed the gap between them while shaking his head affectionately, “Because you and I are a remarkable pair.”

“I said no wooing,” Sherlock argued half-heartedly, staring into John’s eyes a bit vulnerably.

“But you deserve to be wooed.”

“No.”

“Please?”

“No.”

John moved so their chests were pressed together so he could whisper in his ear, “Not a big one; just a little woo. Let me take you to a romantic dinner, and then afterwards,” John’s hand moved to Sherlock’s stomach, fingertips moving lightly over the material near his naval, “we’ll come home and,” the hand trailed down not even half an inch, but the intent was clear, “get the sample.”

“J-John,” Sherlock stammered, letting go of the sheet to hold onto John’s side instead.

“Is that a yes?”

“Yes,” Sherlock exhaled more than answered.

“Good,” John placed a kiss to Sherlock’s cheek before pulling away slightly to see to his tea.

As John drank his slightly tepid tea, the effects of his hangover came rushing back to the forefront of his mind and he groaned in annoyance. As a grown man; he’d like he’d be able to keep better control of his alcohol intake by this point in his life.

“Lunch,” Sherlock blurted suddenly.

John opened his eyes, having closed them against the pain, “Sorry?”

“Why must it be dinner? Let’s do lunch instead.”

“Eager are we?” John smirked playfully, full out smiling once the blush took over the other man’s face, “Who’s ever heard of a romantic lunch?”

“Angelo can make anything romantic,” Sherlock argued haughtily, trying to tame his embarrassment.

John shrugged slightly, “Well, that’s probably true, but I have a hangover to nurse and the anticipation will do you good. Create a nice...full...quality sample.”

“John,” Sherlock whined.

Looking at the taller man, John could tell they could probably easily gather a sample right now, but that wasn’t how he wanted this to end. He wanted it to end with Sherlock knowing that he isn’t a bother (much), that he is cared for, and even loved. It was not something he’s willing to rush. John moved with tea in hand towards the living room to sit on the sofa and watch crap telly. As he passed Sherlock, he used his Captain voice to order, “And don’t you dare try to get yourself off before tonight.”

Sherlock cursed at him under his breath and went to his room, slamming the door and hoping it caused John’s head to ache. Once alone, however, he sat on the edge of his bed and smiled.


Dinner at Angelo’s was, as ever, delicious and John enjoyed watching Sherlock’s cheeks tinge with colour each time he complimented or flirted with him. Sherlock seemed entranced by John’s attention, and he almost missed his mouth with his fork twice as he lost himself in John’s cobalt eyes.

“I -- I wanted to ask you…” John began, taking a sip of the light white wine at his elbow, “I know you’ve never really done anything like this before - and I just wondered, well, how far do you want to take this?”

Sherlock frowned with confusion, and John cursed under his breath, “Sexually, Sherlock. How far do you want to take it?”

Sherlock’s frown intensified as he twined his fingers together tightly, “I want everything.”

“Yes but…I mean, it can be painful and intense and overwhelming. You’ve never really had to experience anything like that and I don’t want to rush you,” John promised, putting a hand on Sherlock’s arm.

Scoffing dramatically, Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Do you really believe you could make me do something I don’t want to do? I think not, doctor.”

“You’re a stubborn sod, though! You’ll want to try everything so you can experience it. Whether you feel ready or not!” John hissed under his breath. They weren’t exactly arguing, but they weren’t far off.

“I’m thirty four years old, John!” Sherlock said with another eye roll, “I am not a blushing, fainting maiden.”

“We don’t know that yet!” John argued.

“For heaven’s sake! I want your penis inside my rectum and that is the end of it!” Sherlock said, slightly too loudly which caused a young couple on the other side of the room to turn, gape and then giggle at Sherlock’s words.

John glared at Sherlock and then dissolved into giggles himself, covering his face with his hands, “God, you are bloody daft.”

“I want this, John,” Sherlock said sincerely, “I wish everything came as easy to me as wanting you.”

John’s eyes went immediately soft as he reached out to touch Sherlock’s hand. Leaning over to kiss Sherlock’s cheek before reaching for his wallet to pay the bill, “Are you ready to leave?”

A moment of nervousness flashed across Sherlock’s face, but the detective nodded solidly before shuffling his chair back and giving a cheery wave to Angelo as they left.


The journey back to Baker Street thrummed with erotic tension, and John could feel his leg anxiously bouncing up and down as he attempted to fight his base urges. He definitely didn’t want to prolong their sexual experience by getting thrown into the cells for lewd behaviour.

Sherlock was quiet, but composed, as he watched the various grey buildings go by in a blur. His heart was beating too quickly, and his mind was cataloguing possible complications to their evening. Sherlock had forced the thought of anal fissures from his mind as he looked over at John anxiously. John would never allow him to be hurt; John would care for him.

“We’re here,” John whispered, giving Sherlock’s knee a gentle squeeze.

Sherlock hummed that he had understood and climbed from the cab. He didn’t wait for John - there was no reason to change his habits - and simply ran up the stairs to their flat. He stood still in the middle of the living room floor, wringing his hands as he tracked John’s entry into the house, up the stairs, and finally into their home.

“You sure you’re okay?” John asked as he walked to Sherlock’s side, pressing himself against the lean hip.

“I won’t deny that I’m nervous,” Sherlock answered, pushing himself into the warmth of John’s body, “But that is only due to the unexpected.”

“I’ll talk you through it. If you want to stop, pause, or slow down then just tell me. Okay?” John whispered as he stood on tip toes and pressed a soft kiss to the corner of Sherlock’s lips, “Would you be more comfortable in your room?”

Sherlock nodded wordlessly, following John who led him by the hand through the hallway towards his bedroom which was partly shrouded in darkness thanks to his blackout blinds. John stopped in the doorway and turned to kiss Sherlock more passionately this time, still taking it slowly, but pushing his tongue against the seam of Sherlock’s lips.

Sherlock practically melted at the touch and grasped for John, holding him tightly as he inexpertly returned John’s kisses. It was messy and sloppy, but with each passing moment Sherlock improved until John felt his knees go weak as Sherlock did a complicated move with his tongue which seemed to have a direct connection to John’s cock.

Sweeping his hands up Sherlock’s chest, John pushed the jacket from Sherlock’s shoulders and watched it fall to a heap on the floor. Unbuttoning Sherlock’s shirt, John took his time to tease each button apart, revealing each sliver of pale skin which begged to be kissed and touched.

Leaning in, John focussed his attention on the moles which dotted across Sherlock’s skin. He kissed the soft flesh, enjoying the rich scent of Sherlock’s body mixed with his hygiene products as he kissed down across Sherlock’s toned chest, looking up at his lover with a reassuring smile as his hand reached for the younger man’s belt.

“May I?” John asked, watching as Sherlock gave a stuttered nod, his own head tilting down, seemingly obsessed with watching John’s callused hands work against his leather belt. Sherlock shivered as he felt the back of John’s knuckles brush against his stomach and he sucked in a breath, closing his eyes tightly as his cheeks flushed pink.

“Need a break?” John hesitated, hands remaining on Sherlock’s hips gently as he waited for Sherlock’s response. Sherlock gave a shake of his head and bit his lip as he reached for John’s hands and put them over the prominent bulge in his tailored trousers.

Inhaling slowly, John nodded and then flicked open the clasp on Sherlock’s trousers, followed by the barely audible zipper. John could see the crimson colour silk pants beneath, a dark stain of precome marring the fabric at the tip of Sherlock’s prick. For some reason, the intimacy of the moment hit John hard and he leaned forward to kiss Sherlock again. Lifting Sherlock’s hands, John placed them on his jumper and prompted his lover to undress him, too, giving both men time to cool off as Sherlock haltingly stripped John of his jumper, t-shirt, and vest until the doctor stood topless in the semi-darkness.

Sherlock had seen John’s scar before - their small flat and Sherlock’s disregard for personal boundaries didn’t leave much opportunity for privacy - but it was the first time he was able to touch it. Hesitantly, Sherlock placed his hand over the wound and felt the texture underneath; the ridges and grooves which told the story of John’s injury. The story of how John came to him.

“Its ugly,” John cringed, still not at peace with the jagged flesh.

“It’s beautiful,” Sherlock answered, his voice so sincere that for a moment John could only stare, “It’s -- You. A part of you. The hurt and pain brought you to me. To London. To our life.”

“I thought we said no wooing?” John smiled and blinked back the glistening tears on his lashes and reached up for another kiss as he felt Sherlock’s fingers track over the outline of his scar. Cataloguing each and every aspect to lock away in his mind palace.

When it seemed Sherlock had gained enough information, the detective moved his hands over John’s belly, across his hips, and then down to his waistband of his jeans. John felt the pressure lessen on his erection as Sherlock peeled back the flies of his trousers to let them fall to the floor until John stood in just his underwear. Sherlock wiggled his hips so his own trousers slid down, and John laughed, breaking the sexual tension between them as Sherlock grinned down at his feet.

There were a few moments of awkwardness as both men had to sit on the edge of the bed to untie and take off their shoes and socks, but once almost naked, John pushed Sherlock into the centre of the bed and crawled over to him. Straddling his legs, John ran his fingers from beneath Sherlock’s ear, down to his navel, watching as goosebumps broke out across the pale, beautiful skin.

“So responsive,” John purred, bending down to suck on Sherlock’s nipple, enjoying when the detective arched up with a hiss of pleasure, “I’m going to have a lot of fun with this.”

Sherlock smiled, reaching up to run his thumb across John’s lower lip, his breathing hitching when John opened his mouth and pulled the digit into his mouth to give it a gentle suck. John raised an eyebrow teasingly before looking over at Sherlock’s bedside drawer, “Do you have -- supplies? Lube? Condoms?”

Reaching into his drawer, Sherlock pulled out a tube of half empty personal lubricant and handed it to John before shrugging, “I don’t have condoms. Never needed them…and I thought maybe…if we’re going to be exclusive we could -- forgo them?”

“Afraid not,” John shook his head, but bent to give Sherlock a kiss, noticing that it was much easier to kiss the lanky git now they were on the bed, “I prefer using condoms for anal sex. It makes things -- cleaner. It doesn’t matter how much cleaning you do, there is always bacteria and…well, that isn’t important at the moment, but I would prefer to use condoms for sex. We don’t have to use them for oral, though.”

“Oh,” Sherlock nodded in understanding. It made sense that as a doctor John would be concerned at the possible negative side effects of their carnal pleasure, “Yes. That would be fine.”

“Glad you agree,” John laughed, kissing Sherlock again before reaching over to his trousers where he pulled out his wallet to fish for his trusty condom. He checked it was still in date ( it had been in there quite a while ) and then placed it on the bedside table for when the time came.

“I’m going to touch you now,” John warned, giving Sherlock a moment to consider what he had said before he rocked his hips back and forth, rubbing their fabric-covered cocks together for the first time. The pleasure was intense and both men groaned loudly, Sherlock’s fingers moving to bury into the bedding as he moaned loudly, eyes fluttering closed despite his need to watch every second of John’s touches.

Giving a few more rubs, John groaned and then ran his hands down towards Sherlock’s crotch. The fabric was sodden with their precome, and John cautiously dipped his hand under the waistband, running his fingers through the dark bush of pubic hair above Sherlock’s cock as he sensitised the skin. Sherlock whined low in his throat, legs kicking out absently as his fingers spasmed in the bed. He had never felt pleasure when anybody had touched his genitals before. He had only felt revulsion, but this sensation - his perfect, beautiful, John-created sensation - was blowing every fuse in his mind palace.

“Shhhh,” John soothed, his other hand trailing through Sherlock’s curls as he bent down to kiss his forehead. Sherlock frowned and realised that the high pitched humming was coming from his throat, and he immediately cleared his throat with embarrassment. John realised and rolled his eyes, “I don’t mean ‘shhh’ as in, ‘be quiet’. Idiot. I mean it’s okay,” he laughed.

Sherlock hadn’t been aware that there were other types of shushing, but he was pleased that he hadn’t ruined the moment. His hips bucked forward as he felt the back of John’s hand brush against the wet tip of his prick, and it took every bit of concentration Sherlock had to hold back his orgasm.

John almost had to bite his lip as he watched Sherlock struggle. They hadn’t even taken their underwear off yet and Sherlock was already on edge. It shouldn’t have been so arousing, watching Sherlock whimper and drown in sensation, but John was bewitched by the colours in Sherlock’s eyes and the blush of his cheeks.

Finally lifting himself onto his knees, John lay beside his lover and stripped himself of his pants, helping Sherlock do the same until they were both naked and flushed beside one another.

“I’ll need to prepare you,” John whispered, cupping Sherlock’s cheek and kissing him tenderly, “It might ache a little.”

Sherlock nodded, letting his legs fall open unashamedly and watching as John’s eyes seemed to flash with a hunger that sent shivers down his spine. John moved quickly, reaching for the lubricant and unclicking the lid, pouring a dollop into his hand and warming it quickly as he positioned himself at Sherlock’s hip.

‘This was it,’ Sherlock thought. At the grand age of thirty-four he was going to lose his virginity to someone he liked. Someone he cared for. Someone he might even love.

It was more than he had ever expected and the fact hit him hard as he felt John’s finger probing lower and lower, between his buttocks to caress his most intimate part. A part which only medical professionals had ever seen.

The feeling wasn’t bad. A little bit ticklish and odd as John circled his finger around his entrance. The lubricant made everything feel slick and slidey between his cheeks and he felt the sparse pubic hairs between his buttocks get stuck to his skin as John continued to circle, trying to get Sherlock to relax with each pass.

It took a few minutes of careful caressing and kisses before Sherlock had got used to the feeling and unclenched. John smiled, whispering praise to Sherlock who blushed with an odd sense of pride as John carefully and gently pushed the tip of his index finger inside.

Bells rang in Sherlock’s ears and everything dimmed as the pleasure rushed at him. John was inside him and it was good.

“Relax,” John whispered, using his other hand to carefully cup Sherlock’s genitals, careful not to overstimulate him. The touch worked because Sherlock relaxed, feeling John’s probing finger slip inside and through the rings of tight muscle, “There’s a good lad.”

Sherlock wanted to scoff at John and call him a ridiculous name; he wasn’t a good lad. He certainly wasn’t John’s good lad, but he couldn’t help the purr of contentment which escaped his throat at the sentiment.

It was just his hormones, Sherlock told himself.

The movement continued until John was satisfied that Sherlock could take another finger. Adding more lubricant, John pushed in his middle finger alongside the index, making them as small as possible at first in order to allow Sherlock to acclimatise to the stretch. Sherlock winced, a frown crinkling his forehead as he tried not to clench down on the intruder, he knew he would have to relax if he wanted John’s larger than average penis to fit inside him without pain.

“You’re doing good,” John said softly, his hand toying with Sherlock’s foreskin before his finger traced the prominent vein down the shaft. Sherlock was starting to soften due to the burn of the stretch, but John soon had him to fully erect again with his nimble and clever fingers.

Realising that John must be avoiding his prostate, Sherlock was thankful for the man’s patience and expertise. He was too afraid to come prematurely and end everything before they had started, and the simple tugs to his penis were not enough to push him over that edge.

It seemed like forever before Sherlock was deemed ready for a third finger, and by that time he was sweating profusely. His bedding was soaking, and his hair stuck to his skin in black ringlets as he was stretched wider and wider, John’s fingers spreading him further apart than ever before.

“Almost there,” John said, a touch of apprehension to his voice as he looked down at Sherlock, “You can still say no if you’re not ready.”

“I’m ready,” Sherlock said immediately, clenching his muscles down on John’s fingers as they worked inside him, “I’m so ready.”

Bending down to give Sherlock a kiss, John rested their foreheads together to allow them to breathe for a brief moment before he carefully pulled his fingers out of Sherlock, wiping the excess lube onto the bedding carelessly.

Now in an obvious state of desperate arousal, John reached for the condom. He struggled with the packet for a moment, his hands too shaky to tear the perforated edge, before he finally snagged the opening. The condom came out slick and wet, and John expertly rolled it onto himself, giving his cock a few tugs to stop the ache before he shuffled back down to Sherlock’s lower half. Lifting Sherlock’s leg, John ducked underneath until he was between the spread legs, his cock bobbing inches away from Sherlock’s entrance.

“Is this position okay?” John asked, “I want to see your face.”

Sherlock nodded slowly, lust-blown eyes following John’s lips before he reached a shaky hand to touch John’s hand, entwining their fingers.

Giving a gentle squeeze, John used his other hand to fish out the lube, squeezing a large amount directly onto his latex-sheathed cock which he spread over his shaft and then added the leftover onto Sherlock’s hole, giving a final check with his fingers to ensure he was still open enough.

“Ready?” John asked, holding the base of his cock as he shuffled closer, nudging his blunt edge against the rim of Sherlock’s hole.

“Yes, John,” Sherlock answered, feeling his heart begin to beat loudly in his ears. He was going to have a heart attack. Or a stroke. Feeling this excited and nervous wasn’t good for your body. He was going to die before he got to experience the pleasure - he was going to -- ooh.

The first push of John’s cock into his body had Sherlock tense. It felt far too big. There was no way it would fit without ripping him apart. Sherlock fought against the rising panic and forced himself to take a few deep breaths. John knew what he was doing, he wouldn’t hurt him intentionally.

John gasped at the tightness around his prick, stopping as the head of his penis popped into Sherlock’s body to be gripped by his muscles.

“Ow, ow, ow,” Sherlock winced, eyes slammed shut against the pain, “It’s really - ow.”

“Try to relax,” John answered, his free hand moving to cup and stroke at Sherlock’s now flaccid cock. The pain obviously dampening his arousal for the moment.

“That’s easy for you to say,” Sherlock said through gritted teeth, cracking one eye open to look at John, “You’re not the one who feels like they’re being impaled.”

“I can stop…” John said softly, ready to pull his hips back only to be stopped by Sherlock squeezing his hand tightly.

“No. Don’t stop just -- take it slow,” Sherlock said as he took a few deep breaths.

John shuffled his knees so he was in a better position and carefully pushed himself another inch inside Sherlock’s body. The heat and tightness was almost too much, and John was incredibly thankful of his condom use as he would have lost it then and there, ejaculating before he was even fully inside.

It took long minutes for John to push himself fully into Sherlock. John could feel the sweat pouring from him as he shivered and trembled, knowing that Sherlock was feeling the same as they rocked and circled their hips. Each gentle movement eased the pain inside Sherlock until it was bearable and Sherlock didn’t feel like he was going to faint. He still felt full - almost too full - but it was a good feeling knowing that it was John inside him. The first, and only, person to ever have him this way.

“Move,” Sherlock insisted, feeling his cock beginning to stiffen again. He wasn’t fully hard, but it was definitely looking bigger than it was moments before.

John grunted as he pulled out of Sherlock a few inches, pushing back in with another moan. It was almost surreal to look down at Sherlock who was practically glowing, eyes bright and cheeks and chest a burned pink.

Raising Sherlock’s hand to his lips, John kissed the younger man’s knuckles before letting go of his hand to better position them on Sherlock’s waist. Now with both hands on Sherlock’s hipbones, John was able to pull Sherlock up slightly in order to find his prostate, something which, judging by the loud cry of bliss ripped from Sherlock’s chest, John did easily.

“Oh god!” Sherlock cried out, eyelids fluttering closed and his mouth gaping wide open, “Do that again! Please!”

Angling his hips, John pushed in again, another direct hit against the special spot hidden inside which had Sherlock seeing stars and leaking pearly precome against their stomaches. John grunted, his hair falling into his face as he picked up speed, bucking his hips and carefully ensuring he hit Sherlock’s prostate on every third thrust.

“John!” Sherlock practically screamed, eyes rolling back, “John! John!”

“Shhh, it’s alright. I’m here,” John whispered, his hand moving to stroke Sherlock’s prick. The velvet skin was soaked with precome, and John ran his finger tip around the inside of Sherlock’s foreskin, spreading the wetness around the shiny head as his hips moved harder and faster, building a rhythm steadily until he could feel the sweat dripping into his eyes and his muscles straining.

“John!” Sherlock continued to chant, hands turning into talons in the bedding before they reached for John and then cycled to the bedding again. It seemed that Sherlock wasn’t aware of what he was doing, too drunk on lust to care.

“I’ve got you,” John insisted, looking over at the bedside table and spying one of the open sample pots. It would be a stretch, but he could reach it when the time came.

Sherlock couldn’t think. He couldn’t breathe . He could barely focus on anything that wasn’t the pinprick of absolute pleasure which seemed to be getting bigger and bigger, growing in intensity as his orgasm built from the pit of his stomach. He wanted to reach for John, to tell him he loved him and that he needed him and that he would never, ever leave him. That John was the only thing in Sherlock’s entire life that actually made sense to him.

Instead, Sherlock simply exhaled the word “John” before his body clenched and light burst behind his eyes. The pleasure was painful and overwhelming and completely wonderful as his cock twitched and pulsed thickly, his hole clenching at John’s cock which tipped the doctor into his own climax. John gave three hard thrusts before he stayed still, grimacing as he came hard into the latex between them.

The air in the bedroom seemed still and empty. Sherlock realised that all of the noise that happened in his genius brain had been silenced. His deductions had stopped. For a moment it seemed that time had simply stood still as the golden afterglow of his orgasm washed over him.

John balanced precariously on shaky legs as he looked at the sample pot. The tube was almost half full, and he grinned as he put the lid on and placed it beside them on the bedside table before he half collapsed onto Sherlock. Moving to kiss, touch, and whisper against the damp skin of Sherlock’s forehead.

“Are you alright?” John asked cautiously, nudging Sherlock’s nose with his own, “Was it okay?”

“Mmm,” Sherlock grinned dopily, cracking open his eyes, “M’fine.”

“I need to get rid of the condom,” John said softly, kissing the corner of Sherlock’s mouth and tasting the salty sweat on his lips, “I’ll be right back.”

“Mmm,” Sherlock repeated, wincing as he felt John carefully remove himself from his anus. His hole felt stretched and sore, and Sherlock moved his fingers down to his bottom in order to feel the damage himself.

“Nothing ripped or torn,” John promised, standing on shaky legs to walk unashamedly naked to the bathroom, the full condom hanging from the end of his cock comically.

“Good,” Sherlock mumbled, fingers still probing at his hole. He would be sore for days, but he would wear the ache with pride.

Laying back against the mattress, Sherlock looked over at his table and spotted the sample pot. His output was far greater than normal, although that was probably due to the prostate stimulation and for the first time, he wondered whether any of his sample would be viable. Would he still be fertile?

Feeling his eyes drooping, Sherlock rested against his pillows and ran his fingers through the sweat and precome against his stomach. Only stopping when John reentered the room with a playful tut as he brought a warm, wet flannel to Sherlock’s side and cleaned him off before leaving the rag on the floor to deal with later.

“Fancy a cuddle?” John asked, shuffling beside Sherlock and opening his arms to allow the detective to twist into his embrace. Sherlock found himself thinking that the cuddle itself seemed far more intimate than the sex did, but he snuggled into John’s arms regardless, letting his nose bury itself into John’s neck to smell the musky scent of John’s body.

Chapter Text

John had waited until Sherlock had fallen asleep before he had climbed out of the bed, picking up his mobile and wrapping a robe around him as he walked into the living room to call one of Mycroft’s minions for a pick up. It still felt surreal to walk around sated and giddy with happiness and John stood with his back against the hallway wall, seemingly unable to tear his eyes away from Sherlock’s peaceful sleeping face.

The knock on the door startled John, and he quickly answered it - only realising how he must look, completely rumpled and flushed with sexual satisfaction whilst wearing one of Sherlock’s flimsy silk dressing gowns. The man at the door barely looked at John, simply reaching for the pot with his latex-covered hand and giving a nod as he walked straight-backed down the stairs and out into the waiting car. John exhaled, closing and locking the door behind him as he wandered back into the bedroom, stripping the robe and slipping into the bed, naked, beside Sherlock.

The detective was still snoring lightly, curls obscuring his fluttering eyelashes. John watched him for a long moment, his hand moving inch by inch closer to Sherlock until he could place his hand over Sherlock’s larger one, feeling the heat of the younger man’s body bleeding through.

“I adore you,” John whispered, keeping a close eye on Sherlock to ensure the man was still asleep. Sherlock was a master of deception but John knew his tells now, “I want to spend my life with you…”

Laying his head on the pillow, John continued to watch Sherlock sleeping until his own exhaustion washed over him and he, too, fell asleep.


The next morning John awoke alone, blinking awake in an unfamiliar bed surrounded by the scent of Sherlock. It was oddly jarring to wake up in Sherlock’s bed, and John yawned and stretched, giving his tummy a scratch before he climbed out of bed and headed to the bathroom. He still had trails of lube and precome across his stomach and groin, and after using the toilet, John quickly showered and then wrapped himself in his own flannel robe before heading into the living room, smiling when he saw Sherlock curled up in his chair with Jeremy Kyle playing on the TV.

“Good morning,” John said.

“My anus is sore,” Sherlock replied, looking up at John shyly through his eyelashes, “Will my anus always hurt?”

John laughed, “What does it say about our friendship that that isn’t even the weirdest greeting you’ve ever given me?” he asked, “It’ll be less painful the more we do it…if you want that?”

“Don’t be an idiot. Of course, I do,” Sherlock smiled bashfully, “If you…if it was satisfactory?”

“Idiot,” John grumbled, walking over to kiss Sherlock’s forehead and then his lips.

“How is it that you make insults sound like pet names?” Sherlock asked, “You call me an idiot so fondly.”

“It’s a secret skill of mine,” John laughed.

Sherlock seemed to unfold his limbs from under him and leaned up, wrapping his long arms around John until they could hug lovingly. John was forced down slightly to accommodate Sherlock’s seated position, but it was tender and perfect and everything John had thought about for months.

“Mycroft called,” Sherlock said into John’s neck, “he wants to see us.”

“Oh god,” John blinked, wrapping his arms tighter around Sherlock, “Is he going to have me deported for deflowering you?”

“Deflowering?” Sherlock gaped with a playful mue, pulling back to stare at John, “Take that back. That’s -- No. Never say that again.”

Worry was starting to grow in John’s chest, though. Although Mycroft himself didn’t scare John, his resources did. Mycroft could easily have John taken out, his death made to look like an accident, or simply have him disappear never to be heard from again.

“Stop that,” Sherlock scoffed, rolling his eyes and letting go of John, “You’re being ridiculous. He’s not going to have you killed, or maimed. He just needs to discuss the results of the sample.”

John should have known that the results would have been rushed through. The Holmes brothers didn’t exactly have patience.

“Get dressed, we’re going to the Diogenes.”


Walking through the doors of the members-only club, John remembered exactly why he hated this place. It was stuffy and filled with ridiculously posh old men, drinking scotch at ten am and tutting over their papers. Following in silence, John remained close to Sherlock who walked them towards the back of the club where the private offices were, where Mycroft had his own suite.

As usual, Mycroft’s pretty assistant sat at her desk, Blackberry in hand as she tapped away, not looking up whilst she talked in a foreign language John didn’t recognise. She was obviously busy and she simply looked up, nodded towards Mycroft’s door and then began talking louder, speaking every inch like the upset school ma’am chastising a naughty schoolchild.

Sherlock didn’t bother to knock as he pushed open the doors to Mycroft’s rooms, flouncing over to the leather wingback which he sprawled over inelegantly. He knew it upset his brother - that’s why he did it.

“Brother mine,” Mycroft said, a sniff of anger at Sherlock’s inability to use chairs as they were intended, “I didn’t expect you so early.”

“Get on with it, Mycroft” Sherlock sighed, pulling a sherbert lemon sweet from his pocket which he unwrapped and popped into his mouth, leaving the wrapper to flutter to the floor.

“Dr Watson,” Mycroft addressed the other man who was lurking in the middle of the room. There was another wingback chair on the other side of Mycroft’s desk, and John walked to sit himself down tentatively as he felt Mycroft’s eyes skimming over him, obviously reading everything on him. John’s stomach swooped when Mycroft folded his arms and leaned onto them, “I hear congratulations are in order.”

“Don’t care. Get on with it!” Sherlock barked, “This is tedious.”

“Er - yeah. Thanks,” John muttered, scratching the back of his neck, “It wasn’t planned. Well, not really, and I er - you know I care for him and I’d never hurt him…”

“Believe me, Dr Watson,” Mycroft began, “If I believed for one moment that you were a danger to my brother, you wouldn’t be sitting in front of me.”

John shifted, but Sherlock rolled his eyes as Mycroft continued, “However…I believe that, in all honesty, I could not find anyone who treats my brother as well as you do. I am - pleased for you.”

Both Sherlock and John frowned, looking at one another as Mycroft showed a hint of his emotions and feelings towards his brother, “This is not why you are here, though,” Mycroft said as he shifted some files around and lifted a folder which he waved at the other men, “I have the results of the sample. It’s good news.”

Sherlock tried to look bored and uninterested, but he couldn’t stop himself watching his brother as Mycroft opened the file and began to read, “Sperm count was in the lower end of normal, but healthy. Output was good, with active spermatozoa.”

“That’s good,” John nodded, extending his hand, into which Mycroft placed the results. John read through, nodding and humming as he looked at the various numbers, “Very healthy.”

“Good. So we can stop this now?” Sherlock asked, eating another sweet.

“Well, Mummy and Daddy are safe at home, if that’s what you mean,” Mycroft answered, taking the results back from John and then flicking onto the next page.

“Fantastic. We can leave, come along John!” Sherlock said, moving to stand only to be stopped when Mycroft lifted a hand.

“Not quite,” Mycroft replied, crossing his legs and gesturing to the desk, “As you have never participated in the sampling before, I had no reason to tell you; however, now that you have provided a healthy sample, we must move onto the second part of the will.”

“The what now?” Sherlock blinked.

“Grandmama left a substantial amount of money in trust,” Mycroft said, moving to his drawer and pulling out another document, “a trust which was not available to us until a healthy specimen was provided.”

“Why have I never heard about this before now?” Sherlock asked, frowning inelegantly.

“Your drug use ruled you out of any claim,” Mycroft said simply, not being insensitive or rude, but simply stating it as fact, “and it only kicks in after a viable specimen.”

“What would he need to do?” John asked, breaking his silence, “He doesn’t have to -- marry someone?”

“No,” Sherlock scoffed, “She wouldn’t do that. She knew I would never agree to marriage.”

“Indeed,” Mycroft began, shifting awkwardly in a way John knew could not be good, “the only way to release the funds is…well…”

“Spit it out, Mycroft!” Sherlock shouted, leaning in.

“On the birth of a Holmes heir,” Mycroft winced.

The men could have heard a pin drop in the office. John heard buzzing in his ears as he looked at Sherlock in stunned silence.

“Me? I need to -- procreate. I need to bring life into his world and for what? A few thousand pounds?”

“Forty Million,” Mycroft explained, entwining his fingers.

“For - Forty Million?” John gaped, “Did you just say Forty Million?”

“The funds will be released into a bank account in which I have control. Twenty will go to yourself and your child, ten to Mummy and Daddy, and five to myself and Horrid Harold.”

“I don’t understand…” Sherlock blinked, looking at John and Mycroft in turn.

“Grandmama wanted to ensure the Holmes name carried on. If no Holmes heirs, the money is split between a number of charities,” Mycroft explained.

“How long does he have?” John asked, reaching to take Sherlock’s hand and squeeze, “To decide?”

Mycroft shifted again, “The will insists that you must have an heir within two years of the successful sample.”

“Two years?!” Sherlock shouted, standing up dramatically with a whisk of his coat tails, “No! No, Mycroft, this is..this is ridiculous!”

“Quite,” Mycroft agreed, “and I had hoped that it never had to come to this. I had always assumed that I would be the one to provide the sample and the family…but then Nigeria happened and…”

“What happened in Nigeria?” John asked, suddenly wondering if he was digging into private details that Mycroft wouldn’t want to share.

“I was shot,” Mycroft stated without emotion, “Five times. Three in the stomach, one in the leg, and one in the groin. I survived, but I am unable to procreate.”

“God, I had no idea…” John frowned, “I’m sorry.”

“Truth be told, I didn’t want to bear children into this world. Not in my line of work,” the older Holmes explained, “If they were ever taken from me, they would be used as leverage. I couldn’t risk myself in that way…which leaves only Sherlock.”

Sherlock was pacing back and forth across Mycroft’s office, fingers pressed in his thinking pose against his lips.

“Two years,” John mumbled, glancing back at Sherlock with a heavy feeling in his stomach. Their relationship had only begun, and John wasn’t sure what was going to happen next.

Chapter Text

John dragged himself up the driveway of the house, feeling like his entire lower body was made of lead. The shopping bags for their weekly shop cut deeply into his wrists as he struggled to carry them into the door, barging it open and dumping the plastic bags onto the floor so he could rub at his sore skin.

“Ah, you're home,” Sherlock said as he walked through from the living room, giving John a quick peck on the cheek.

John smiled as Sherlock kissed him, only to be dislodged when Sherlock handed him the squirming bundle of upset, pouted-mouth, and furrowed brow, “Take her.”

“I need to sort out the groceries,” John replied, juggling the baby in his arms so as not to disturb her so much, “I have frozen, it'll defrost.”

“Mmm,” Sherlock said in that I'm-really-not-listening way, “Fascinating as that is, I've been busting to urinate for the past two hours and she hasn't stopped pouting. Whenever I tried to move she would mewl like an injured cat.”

John laughed, rolling his eyes as he playfully tapped Sherlock's shin with his toes, “Go on then, but you need to rush back.”

Whilst listening to the sound of Sherlock rushing upstairs towards their bathroom, John looked down at the wrapped-up baby in his arms.

It had taken a year for them to decide on what to do about the secondary part of the will. Sherlock had been insistent that he didn't want a child. He didn't know if he would be a good father – and whether he even had anything to give to a child. John had disagreed, praised Sherlock's good qualities until Sherlock was pink-cheeked and silent, obviously thinking of every outcome he could foresee. Sherlock had capitulated, only to begin to worry about something else. Who would be the mother?

The idea of having sex with a woman was right out the window. Sherlock didn't ever want to intimately touch someone who wasn't John, and he had explained this to both John and Mycroft who agreed to find an alternative way around it. John had to admit that he was pleased about this – he had once had a dream about them doing it like in A Handmaid's Tale, with a woman between them and Sherlock rutting between her thighs whilst John held her tightly. He had awoken feeling sick to his stomach.

And so the hunt for a surrogate had begun. Mycroft had done most of the work, vetting strangers, following up on background checks and insisting on regular drug testing. Sherlock hadn't seemed bothered about 'the vessel' of the birth, but John could tell something was on his mind. Another long, irritating battle of wills had been fought before Sherlock admitted his worry that their baby wouldn't have any of John. It would be Sherlock's baby, and John would simply be its guardian.

John hadn't even considered that he would be biologically related to the baby. It wasn't part of the contract – and he hadn't even thought about it until Sherlock raised the issue, not that being blood-related would matter at all. John would love any baby related to Sherlock without question.

Mycroft had been the one to suggest Harry. Not as a surrogate - her alcohol dependence had ruled her out for carrying the baby - but perhaps she would be willing to donate her eggs to be fertilised with Sherlock's sperm. The surrogate would carry the Watson-Holmes baby until term and then deliver him or her for them to take home as a family.

It had been overwhelming. It was wonderful. Harry had immediately agreed and within weeks, Mycroft was sending documents over with a choice of three surrogates. After meeting all three, John and Sherlock decided on a dark-haired, constantly smiling woman named Georgia who promised to do her best to incubate their baby.

The early weeks of pregnancy had been scary. John found that he was checking for messages from Georgia and Mycroft a lot more often than he was used to. As a doctor, he knew the miscarriage rates well, and the thought of losing a baby that was part of him and Sherlock was both horrifying and emotionally draining. It wasn't until they got to the first scan that John found he could relax and breathe a little easier.

Until the doctor hummed, frowning in concentration before fiddling with the machine and squinting.

“What is it?” Sherlock asked, leaning in too, although John wasn't sure that Sherlock knew what he was looking for.

“It's – good news,” Doctor Ford said as he grinned and turned the screen around to show the trio, “There is baby, happy and healthy,” he smiled, “and there is baby two.”

“Baby two?” Sherlock mumbled, immediately turning to John, “Two babies?”

“Oh…oh brilliant,” Doctor Ford added, “and there is baby three!”

Sherlock had fainted.


Due to the multiple births, it was decided that a C-section would be the safest delivery option for Georgia and all three babies. By month eight, poor Georgia was as big as a house, barely able to waddle as she heaved her bulk around, and she was glad when she was finally taken into the hospital to be induced.

Sherlock and John had worn scrubs and sat at Georgia's head as the operation began. Baby one came first, a healthy baby girl who squawked unhappily as she was lifted out of the warm into the harsh lights of the theatre. Sherlock seemed catatonic as he watched the doctor snip the cord and hand the crying baby to an assistant who took the baby to one side to clean her up, weigh her, and then give her to Georgia who gave the baby a quick cuddle and kiss before smiling.

“Go on,” she insisted to John, nudging him playfully, “Take your baby.”

A sudden rush of love and protective instinct came over John and he realised that he would die for this baby.

The second baby was a boy, smaller but still healthy who was followed by another boy. All three were allowed a quick cuddle with their daddies – and a picture – before they were taken up to the neonatal unit to get checked out.

“Thank you,” Sherlock whispered emotionally, bending down to push his forehead against Georgia's, “Thank you. We truly can't thank you enough.”

“Care for those babies and be happy,” Georgia replied, reaching to cup Sherlock's cheek, “Be a family, and love each other.”

“We will,” John promised, the lump in his throat threatening to choke him as he blinked back tears and reached for Sherlock's hand to give it a squeeze.


Florence, Chester, and Alexander Holmes-Watson returned home to the large house on the outskirts of Sussex which Sherlock and John had bought with the first instalment of their inheritance. It wasn't ostentatious, although it was certainly larger than John had ever expected to own. The five bedrooms gave them enough space, and the land which came with it allowed Sherlock to add stables, beehives, kennels, and finally one more important building. A smaller, two bedroomed contained flat for Mrs Hudson who rented out Baker Street and moved in to live with her favourite tenants and the babies.

When the babies were three months old, Mrs Hudson had pulled both men aside and handed them a leaflet for a new Thai restaurant opening in the small high street nearby. They hadn't had a date night - or anything resembling alone time - since the babies had come along, and Mrs Hudson had noticed.

“I've got them, dears,” Mrs Hudson had insisted, watching as John checked and rechecked that three lots of bottles, nappies, and clothes had been put aside, “John...” she chided, “you will only be gone a few hours. Nothing is going to happen whilst you're away. If it does, I have Sherlock's incredibly helpful manual complete with diagrams, emergency numbers, and –“ she blinked, “an underground map. Very useful, indeed.”

“Perhaps we shouldn't go?” Sherlock said, obviously anxious.

“Sherlock Holmes,” Mrs Hudson replied carefully, “if you do not leave this house within ten minutes and leave me with my beautiful Grandbabies, then you're in trouble.”

“I’d run if I were you...” John teased, but stepped closer to give Mrs Hudson a kiss before walking along the line of sleeping babies to give them all kisses on their soft hair.


Getting Sherlock out of the house had taken almost another half an hour, but once outside in the autumnal crisp air, John exhaled and relaxed. It felt nice to be outside without the need for a ridiculous amount of baby gear, without constantly feeling he was forgetting something important and he hummed happily as he took Sherlock's hand in his own and began walking down the road towards the restaurant.

After a delicious meal, and almost two bottles of red wine, John and Sherlock were on their way back home. Full bellies and fuller hearts as they talked quietly between themselves. John could only stare at Sherlock's red-stained lips, arousal flooding through him as they finally reached home and pushed open the door. Mrs Hudson sat in front of their television, the babies asleep in the travel cot beside her as she knitted. Turning to smile at the new parents, Mrs Hudson put a finger to her lips and snuck out of the door in order to talk without waking the triplets.

“Chester has been fussy tonight,” she explained, peeping her head back around the corner, “I think it’s a touch of colic. I've done the special massage and he seems to have settled a little better, but just something to keep an eye on.”

Sherlock nodded in understanding, swooping in to go and check on the babies. Despite trusting Mrs Hudson with their care, he still felt the urge to check himself as he looked down and smiled as each of the identical babies wore the same babygrow, just in different colours so that they could be told apart. Sherlock found it easy, but John had admitted that he found it quite difficult to tell them apart when they were all dressed the same.

Florence (or Flossie as John and Mrs Hudson had taken to calling her – much to Sherlock's chagrin) was in yellow, Chester in blue, and Alexander in green and they all slept peacefully beside one another. Sherlock smiled warmly as he watched Alexander and Chester holding hands as they slept.

“You sure you don't want me to walk you back?” John asked Mrs Hudson, watching as the older lady tutted and rolled her eyes.

“John. I live in your back garden. I doubt that a rabid badger will attack me on the way home, I'm quite safe,” she argued, stepping up to kiss John on his cheek, “Goodnight dear, don't have too much fun,” she chuckled.

Sometimes John hated how observant the woman was.

Watching as Mrs Hudson exited the back door, John walked through to the living room where Sherlock was bent over the travel cot. Sherlock just looked so utterly beautiful that John knew he wouldn't be able to stop himself as he walked over and pushed his crotch against Sherlock's bum, licking and kissing down the back of Sherlock's long, pale neck.

“John...” Sherlock sighed, his voice full of lust as he reached behind to put his hands on John's hips, holding him in place.

“I have to have you...” John moaned, giving a gentle nip against the skin as his hands wriggled their way to Sherlock's front to stroke against his stomach, “I need you.”

“Yes,” Sherlock nodded rapidly, turning and launching himself at John with a flurry of kisses and a wantonness that surprised John. The lack of sex had obviously affected Sherlock more than he was showing, and John noticed that the detective was trembling as they stripped themselves messily, clothes landing haphazardly across all surfaces until they were naked, their skin blue in the television light.

“Lube,” John insisted, rushing to the cabinet and fishing out the long forgotten tube which they had kept there for their sex play before the birth of the babies.

“Hurry,” Sherlock insisted, bending over the seat of the sofa and kneeling with his legs spread against the carpet.

John craved Sherlock. It was almost painful how much he wanted to be sheathed inside his lover.

“Hurry!” Sherlock hissed again, wiggling his bum.

Knowing that their first time would be over quickly, John didn't hesitate to slick his fingers up with lube and carefully begin to finger Sherlock open. The man was tight – and it took a few moments for John to relax Sherlock's tense hole before he could even push his finger in, but once the first was inside, it took only moments for the second and third to join it.

Only for there to be an unhappy splutter from the travel cot.

John and Sherlock held still, holding their breath as the baby grumbled and fussed, squawking unhappily until John tapped Sherlock on the bum, “You'll have to go – I have bum germs on my hands,” he whispered, watching as Sherlock looked comically offended.

“Bum germs?” Sherlock hissed, but scrambled to his feet and took the few steps to the cot where he picked up Florence's dummy and carefully placed it back into her mouth. Now soothed, the baby clicked happily on her dummy until sleep took her over again.

“Good save,” John smiled, giving a jaunty jerk of his head to have Sherlock rejoin him by the sofa.

Sherlock quickly moved back into his position, arching his back and sighing as he heard the familiar sounds of John putting on a condom. Reaching for one of the pillows, John held it out to Sherlock and whispered, “Bite on it; you make too much noise.”

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock opened his mouth and dramatically bit down on the pillow with a flourish, wiggling his bum again as he inhaled deeply and waited for the burning stretch which came before the bliss.

John pushed inside gently, allowing Sherlock to become used to the sensation before he pressed any further. One hand rested on Sherlock's hip, whilst the other reached for Sherlock's hand, tangling them together as he moved slowly at first, but building a steady and quick rhythm that had Sherlock grunting into his cushion and John gritting his teeth to stay quiet.

Another soft cough, and a whine came from the cot, but nothing followed it as John pounded into Sherlock, tilting his hips and searching for the special spot. He knew he found it when Sherlock whined low and loud into his pillow, hand squeezing John's tightly as he keened and bucked back against John's cock.

“Close…so close,” Sherlock whispered, turning his head to look at John and rewarding his lover with the view of Sherlock's sweaty curls plastered to his forehead, and the lust-blown eyes and red cheeks.

“Just a bit longer...” John whined, his hand slipping from Sherlock's waist to pull one of Sherlock's buttocks open, watching as his cock ploughed into the small, furled knot which was stretched around him.

Sherlock muffled a cry into the pillow, pushing his arse back and forth in order to get John inside him harder and faster, deeper and more desperate. Moving his other hand underneath him, Sherlock wrapped a hand around his cock and gave three rough strokes before he was freezing, shuddering and clenching around John with an intense climax which burst from him in large pulses to cover his fist. The tensing of the muscles dragged John over the edge, too, making John bite his lip to stifle the sound of his orgasm as he gave a few hard thrusts to continue milking his orgasm, driving the tip of his cock directly against Sherlock's prostate which sparked a new level of excitement inside his lover.

“John, I…John…John!” Sherlock shouted, coming hard for a second time, completely untouched against the leather of their sofa. The noise sounded deafening in the small room and John had only a second before three sets of lungs began to scream, obviously awoken by the loud and scary noise.

“They're awake,” Sherlock mumbled, obviously aware that it was his fault.

“Yeah. Got that,” John said, pulling his half-hard cock from Sherlock's arse and heading to the side table where he picked up some baby wipes to clean his hand and stomach, and to wrap the now full condom. It was obvious that the babies wouldn't settle for quite some time after the shock, and John was frustrated by the lack of post-coital cuddling which they would be able to indulge in.

“I'm sorry,” Sherlock said sheepishly, climbing on shaky legs to take a baby wipe which he cleaned himself with on the way to the cot. With his hands reasonably clean, Sherlock began to reach in and sooth the babies whilst John focussed on cleaning the leather sofa of the trails of ejaculate.

John couldn't be angry at Sherlock. The vocalisation of his pleasure had always been a huge turn on, and John stepped behind Sherlock to kiss his neck, “I'll jump in the shower. Do you want help putting them to bed?”

“No,” Sherlock smiled, cupping John's cheek and kissing him tenderly, “I've got it.”


The heat from the shower had helped John to relax; combined with his orgasm, the red wine, and the good food he was becoming incredibly sleepy. He stepped from the shower, wrapping a towel around him as he padded into the bedroom and began his nighttime ritual.

The babies slept in a room adjoined to the master bedroom. Their nursery had been decked out in all the best and most expensive furniture which Mr and Mrs Holmes could find. They had insisted on helping, fussing over Sherlock and John and regaling them with tales of Mycroft and Sherlock's childhood.

Silence surrounded the house, except for the soft tone of Sherlock singing. It was unusual to hear Sherlock sing – he usually preferred to play violin to soothe the babies - and John strained his ears to listen. Sherlock's melodic voice resonated around the room as he sang in a language John didn't understand. Leaning on the door frame, John watched as Sherlock stroked each of the babies hair, seeming to focus on one baby at a time as he sang.

“What are you singing?” John asked after a while.

“Hmm?” Sherlock replied, turning and looking at John, “Oh, just an old lullaby Mycroft used to sing to me when I was afraid. I – I often turned to him when my dreams became too vivid. He – calmed me.”

John wasn't surprised, really. The Holmes parents were delightful, but they had never seemed the type to have Sherlock curled up in their bed after a nightmare. It was obviously down to the older Holmes brother to take over that duty (and some would say he hadn't stopped). John smiled softly as he imagined a small, curly-haired Sherlock snuggling up with his big brother until he felt safe.

“It's a fairly creepy song,” Sherlock admitted, “I have translated it recently and – well, it's rather unsettling. About someone who breaks into the house looking for people who cannot sleep, how they're huddled in a corner watching you to take you away...”

“Jesus,” John blinked, “and he sang that to you?”

“From the ages of three until nine,” Sherlock hummed, “Perhaps I should find a different lullaby.”

“Yeah. I think that's best,” John laughed, walking beside Sherlock and looking down at their babies. Reaching for Sherlock's hand, John tangled their fingers together and gave them a squeeze, “We have a very beautiful family.”

“Yes, we do,” Sherlock agreed, “and it's all because of you.”

“Well, you did most of the work,” John admitted, smiling as he leaned his head against Sherlock's shoulder and gave him a soft kiss on the bare skin.

“But if it wasn't for you, for your patience and you making me realise my feelings…we wouldn't have all of this,” Sherlock said with a strained voice, almost like he was going to cry, “Our family, our life.”

“We'd still have each other,” John replied, bringing Sherlock's hand to his lips where he covered each of Sherlock's knuckles with soft kisses, “and that would have been perfect, too.”

Sherlock leaned into John and allowed himself to be led through to the bedroom. Climbing onto the large bed, Sherlock settled himself into John’s arms and hummed happily as John tucked the covers around them.

“Goodnight,” John mumbled, already on the cusp of sleep as he kissed the soft hair at Sherlock’s forehead.

“Goodnight, John,” Sherlock replied, hand moving to rest on John’s stomach as they settled into sleep.

The wail of a trio of babies made both men sigh.

“Perhaps your creepy lullaby wasn’t such a bad idea after all?” John groaned.