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Above Average

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It wasn't that Sherlock was inexperienced with sex. During university she had spent her spare time engaged in plenty of bedroom activities of all kinds of varied and/or multiple partners, and even after leaving had kept seeking out new partners until she had crossed off most of the list. Pegging? Check. Threesomes of all configurations? Check. Sadomasochism? Check, from both sides.

She hadn't done this in the pursuit of pleasure, and orgasms only resulted about fifty per-cent of the time. It had been more in the name of experimentation, to see if sex was really all it was chalked up to be by the rest of the boring, normal people around her. There were certainly things she liked more than others, but none of them were actually preferable to an hour sitting at a microscope or catching up on the newest scientific journals. On the rare occasions when when her erratic libido waxed full, she always took care of it herself. Most people thought having sex with Sherlock meant they had a right to demand emotional intimacy from her, and she had no patience for that kind of thing.

It was surprising when Sherlock started to develop feelings for her flatmate and colleague. John Watson was objectively attractive, she supposed, but no more attractive than some of her previous sex partners. Personality-wise, he was even a little bit bland. His only interesting qualities seemed to be that he was a doctor who also knew how to kill, and that somehow he put up with all of Sherlock's quirks. So it didn't explain why one day, after a case, Sherlock ended up shoving John against the wall of their flat and leaning down a bit to kiss him, and then five minutes later being shoved against the same wall herself, this time without trousers, and being fucked within an inch of her life by her very willing, very enthusiastic flatmate.

There was something exhilarating about having sex with John that Sherlock had never really felt before with anyone else. It was like a switch had been flipped and suddenly she couldn't get enough. Of course John didn't know how Sherlock had previously thought about sex, but he seemed to believe she had been a virgin before they'd met. John was technically wrong, she supposed, but he was right in thinking that he had brought something special to the table himself. Not his talent, which was about average, or the size of his prick, which was also about average, but something else entirely. Sherlock didn't quite know what it was yet, but eventually she'd figure it out.




"Average?" said John with some dismay in his voice, looking up from his newspaper. "Thanks, Sherlock. Exactly what a man wants to hear about his sexual prowess."

Sherlock shrugged. "Most everyone is average. That's why it's called average. Nothing to be too terribly ashamed of."

"With you? Yeah, it is." John put down the newspaper completely. "With you, 'average' means 'boring'. I don't want to feel like you'd rather be reading Fungus Monthly than wasting your time in bed with me."

"Did you not understand the compliment? I was saying I rather enjoy having sex with you, despite your average abilities and endowment. Were it anyone else, I wouldn't even be inclined to touch."

"I guess," said John. He picked up the newspaper again, but his mouth was sulky around the corners as he read. Sherlock noticed this, but was quickly distracted by a website banner advertising chemistry equipment, so she didn't realize John had moved to stand beside her until he was literally right at her shoulder.

"Yes, John?" she asked, looking up. John had that look on his face like he might do something dangerous. It was Sherlock's favorite of all his looks -- it always promised good things to come.

"Stand up," said John, so Sherlock did. He leaned up and kissed her, keeping his lips chaste and closed against hers. Sherlock kissed back in turn until John pulled back.

"Is that it?"

John's eyebrows scrunched together. "I don't want to be 'just average' to you. Now, I might fail, but there is a very strong possibility that if I take you to bed now, and pull out all the stops, that you might decide to change that opinion."

Sherlock laughed, but not unkindly. "You're welcome to try," she said, and John shut her up by kissing her again, much harder this time. Sherlock felt the start of arousal creep up on her, and she steadied herself by placing her hands on John's shoulders, already feeling a little off-balance.

John drew back, panting a little. "Do you have enough patience to make it to the bed, or do you want to do this here?"

"Bed, I think." Sherlock pretended to think for a second. "If you're planning to, as you say, pull out all the stops, then we probably ought to make ourselves as comfortable as possible, don't you think?"




They ended up on the topmost floor of the flat in John's bedroom. Usually they used Sherlock's bedroom since it was closer to the living room, but John had dragged Sherlock up the second flight of stairs quite insistently indeed. Once there, Sherlock had reached for his clothes to start undressing him, only for John to topple them both onto the bed and then clamber on top.

John surprised Sherlock by picking up exactly where they'd left off downstairs, kissing her heatedly and hungrily but making no move to remove any of their clothing. Sherlock could feel his hardness rubbing against the front of her trousers as he rutted against her, yet for some reason, the kissing stayed kissing for nearly five full minutes before Sherlock put her hands on his chest and pushed him away.

"Is your cunning plan to have us both die of sexual frustration?" she asked, feeling slightly put-out. She could feel how wet she was growing, and she needed something to be done about it now. "You won't win this debate by default, John."

John just grinned wickedly. "No, trust me, I know what I'm doing."

With that, John sat back on his knees and began to unbutton Sherlock's blouse. The cool air hit her skin as he parted the fabric, causing her to shiver. They briefly struggled to get her blouse and bra off, then John unclasped her trousers, pulling them down her hips and legs and tossing them to the side.

"I'm sure I'm not the first person to tell you you're beautiful, but god, I mean it," said John, a wry quirk at the corner of his mouth. (He was perhaps the first partner Sherlock had ever had to not be repulsed by her sexual history. It took a very open-minded person to even live with Sherlock in the first place.)

Sherlock grinned back up at him. "Actions speak louder than words, John," she said.

John bent down again, taking Sherlock's hands and pinning them over her head. His lips met hers, and it was a novel sensation, lying nearly naked underneath him, feeling the wool of his jumper against her breasts. They lost themselves in kissing again, so much so that Sherlock gasped, completely surprised, as John's other hand worked its way inside her knickers. Keeping his palm flat on her pubic bone, John's index finger brushed over her clit, massaging it gently.

"John," gasped Sherlock again, moving her hips. God, it felt so good. Even better than when she did this herself.

John's fingers moved lower, dipping into her soaking cunt. Just the tips of the index and middle finger at first, and then his hand curved, trapped by the lace of her knickers, and his blunt index finger slid all the way into her in one smooth motion.

Sherlock made a noise and pushed herself against his hand. "Oh," she said, "John, don't tease."

John gave a small laugh, but it was breathy and tinged with lust. "Getting there," he said, curving two fingers into her, then, sliding them cleanly in and out, and lowered his head. Sherlock thought he was going for a kiss, but instead he pressed his mouth to her left nipple, sucking on it momentarily before giving it the tiniest of bites.

"Oh, god -- John. John." Sherlock bucked and writhed underneath him -- the ministrations of his tongue, which had moved to her other breast and was flicking at the nipple slowly, and his thumb, which was moving against her clit while his fingers were buried completely inside her. How one person could possess this degree of hand-eye coordination was extraordinary. He was taking Sherlock apart and it had been less than ten minutes since the whole thing had started.

John pulled away from her breast to look her straight in the eyes. "Are you close, Sherlock? God, you're so needy, I've never seen you like this before. Are you going to come?"

Sherlock could barely string words together at this point, but she tried valiantly to answer the question. "I -- I -- " John kept stroking her clit, keeping his free hand on her hip to keep her still. "I'm going to -- to come," she managed, "don't stop -- "

John withdrew his hand in one swift movement and Sherlock heard herself crying out, suddenly empty and wanting. "What -- " she said, disappointed and angry. All the tension in her body seemed to just fly away into nowhere. "John -- I was so close, you bastard -- "

"I know," said John, voice sounding a bit faraway. "But it's going to be better this way." With that, he hooked his fingers in her knickers and pulled them down to hang down around one of Sherlock's ankles, leaving her completely exposed, and ran his tanned hands along the insides of her thighs. "You're beautiful even down here, you know. I could look at you for hours just like this. I've never seen a prettier sight."

John's warm fingers on Sherlock's thighs were stroking softly, making her start to shiver again. She understood, then, what game John was playing, recognized the indulgent tone in his voice. She was more than capable of playing this game, too.

"That's not what people usually say," said Sherlock, spreading her knees open even farther, exposing herself further. John tracked the movement with his eyes.

"What do people usually say?"

Sherlock canted her hips upwards. "They don't usually say anything, they're too busy fucking me to care."

John laughed. "I've got all the time in the world. Let's have a look."

John slid backwards on the bed until he was lying on his stomach, face eye level with Sherlock's cunt, propping up her backside with his hands. He did nothing but look for several long seconds, and Sherlock was starting to feel unfairly scrutinized when John finally leaned forward and pressed the lower half of his face against her and inhaled, the tip of his nose buried in her curls. Sherlock let out a strangled noise and tried to pull back, but John's strong hands pinned her hips to the mattress.

"You smell amazing," said John, each exhale sending tingles up Sherlock's spine. "You always taste amazing, too."

John extended his tongue and slowly, agonizingly slowly, drew a long, wet line up from her cunt to her clit. Sherlock's gasp sounded like the breath had been punched out of her, and John chuckled against her before putting his lips to Sherlock's clit, kissing it just like he'd kissed her mouth only minutes before.

"Oh, god," moaned Sherlock, kicking a heel along the length of the bed, "fuck, oh my god."

It wasn't as if they hadn't done this before, but this time Sherlock was in no rush to skip ahead to intercourse and John didn't seem in much of a hurry, either. The light pressure and suction felt almost like she was being tickled, except it was in an unbearably sensitive area. Sherlock was bucking against John's mouth, wanting more, and in response John parted his lips to lick at her, making slow, gentle circles with his tongue around and over that sensitive nub.

Sherlock's hands scrabbled for purchase on the sheets, finding nothing but smooth linen. She was well aware she was moaning, swearing, making all sorts of impossible noises (it had been a good thing John had taken them to the upstairs bedroom), and she clapped one hand over her mouth to keep herself from screaming. John lapped at her gently, alternating between broad strokes and short licks, so tender it was almost painful to endure. And all the while he was looking up to meet Sherlock's eyes and moaning, not obscenely, but still loud enough to let her know this turned him on just as much.

Sherlock's mind was racing desperately, trying to think of something, anything, to prolong this pleasure. The molecular formula of hydrocodone -- the rate of decomposition of a body left underwater -- John's maddening tongue tracing letters across her clit -- the correct procedures for chemical titration -- John's fingers slipping back into her wet cunt -- oh god, oh god, please please please --

"God, you're fucking beautiful," John said, raising himself up a bit to look at Sherlock, keeping his fingers working inside her even as he pulled his mouth away. His voice was shaky and rough. "Can you hear yourself begging? Do you have any idea what that does to me?"

"John, please," sobbed out Sherlock, turning her face away into the pillows. She was riding on the very edge, and she needed to come so badly it felt like she might die. "Please."

"Please what?" John continued to thrust his fingers deeply in and out of her, but his free hand came up to stroke her thigh reassuringly. "Tell me what you want, Sherlock, or you won't get it."

Sherlock grasped a handful of her own hair and pulled, twisting the strands hard in her fingers. "Please, John, I want your mouth," she managed to choke out, "please let me come."

Sherlock couldn't bear to look at him any more, so she felt rather than saw John moving back down between her legs. His right forearm came down heavy across her hips and he said, lips brushing her skin, "Try not to scream."

Then his mouth was pressing against her again and his tongue was flicking across her clit and his fingers were buried in her to the hilt, and Sherlock's entire world narrowed down to the space between her legs. She felt the pleasure building and she rose up to meet it, rocked herself against John's face, trying to get more -- more heat, more pressure, more speed -- and finally she tipped over the edge, crying and swearing and babbling, eyes screwed shut so tightly her vision went white. John kept his mouth on her the whole time, licking her through the aftershocks, until finally he pulled away and let Sherlock collapse in on herself, trembling.

She felt John's hands on her face, thumbs swiping across her cheeks and picking up a stray tear or two, and let the world fall into blackness for a few blissful seconds.




When Sherlock finally came back to herself, feeling boneless and exhausted, it was to the sight of John stripping off his clothes and throwing them off the side of the bed. He had started to lose his tan from Afghanistan, but he was still fairly fit, and Sherlock took a second to admire the way his muscles shifted under his skin as he twisted, the way his cock curved impressively against his stomach.

"Welcome back," said John, catching her watching him. He grinned as Sherlock tried to raise herself up on her elbows and mostly failed. "Had a good time?"

Sherlock waved a hand loosely through the air. "You were there. You tell me." She rotated her hips again and was pleased to see John's gaze darting downward briefly.

"I think," said John, "that you had a very, very good time indeed." He crawled up the bed to kiss Sherlock deeply, and she could taste herself on his tongue. His cock slid against her smoothly, leaving a trail of pre-come across her belly -- he felt so hard against her it had to be painful.

"It's your turn." Sherlock reached down, fisted his cock, gave it a few pumps. John's cock felt wonderful in her hand, thick and smooth, and she knew a place where it would feel even better. "Fuck me now, John. Please."

"Mm, yeah, I will," said John, closing his eyes. "In a second."

"What do you mean, in a second?" John didn't respond, just leaned over her to reach into the nightstand, and dug around in a drawer. Sherlock didn't know what he was looking for, since they'd stopped using condoms ages ago, and she always got so naturally wet they never needed lube. A vibrator, for her to get herself off during intercourse? A blindfold, a set of restraints?

No, what John brought out of the drawer was a bottle of lube and a small, closed velvet pouch. Sherlock sat up and reached for the pouch -- it was heavy, and she could guess what was inside, but she couldn't be sure until she opened it.

"Go on, take a look," said John, grinning widely.

Sherlock tugged on the pouch strings and emptied it into her hand, and felt her eyes widen. In her palm was an expensive-looking glass plug, about four inches long, thick yet tapered. The color of the glass was hard to describe, a sort of light greenish-blue, almost the color of the sea.

"I couldn't help myself," said John. "It matched your eyes -- I had to buy it right away."

"It's lovely," said Sherlock, turning it over in her hands.

John broke the plastic seal on the bottle of lube. "Give it to me."

Sherlock lay back and let John slick up his fingers with lube, easing one slowly into her arse. She gasped involuntarily -- it felt strange and wrong and she clenched around his finger tightly before reminding herself that it always felt weird at first. John moved his finger in and out a few more times before adding a second, stretching her, and Sherlock heard herself making tiny whimpering noises as John worked his fingers inside her arse and the sensation went from don't to don't stop to more.

Finally John withdrew his fingers and picked up the plug. "Ready?" he asked, waiting for her to nod. "Deep breath." He started to work the tip into her, and Sherlock wanted to pull away because there was no way it would fit inside. John just said, "Shh, almost there," and with one final push he slid the plug right into her.

"Good girl," said John, "try to relax." He was pressing the heel of his hand to his cock, as if he was already trying to keep from coming. "How does it feel, good? Bad?"

Sherlock felt her internal muscles fluttering, trying to get used to the intrusion. "Feels full," she said, panting, "god, it feels so strange -- John, I need you inside me now." She nearly snarled the last part, reaching for John and pulling him down onto her.

John laughed into her ear, rubbing his cock against her once, twice, and then finally finding the right angle and shoving straight in, and Sherlock nearly screamed. She was already full, so full, and now that John was inside her too, Sherlock felt like she might burst. She wrapped her legs tightly around John's waist, tilted her hips up to meet his thrusts, angling so that he slid in deep, every time. Each thrust knocked the wind out of her, leaving her gasping and panting, too far gone for words.

John was keeping up a steady stream of talk, punctuated by soft grunts. "God, Sherlock, you feel amazing," he gasped, "you're so good and tight, you're fucking gorgeous." He lowered his mouth to hers in a sloppy kiss, smearing his lips across her cheek and down to her neck. His teeth scraped across her jugular and Sherlock hissed as John worked the skin there, knowing it would bruise within the hour.

John slowed for a few moments in order to lift Sherlock's legs onto his shoulders, weight pushing her down so she was bent nearly in half. The new angle meant each of his thrusts filled her up completely, deeper than she'd thought was even possible, and the sensations were just so intense that Sherlock was sure she was making an unholy amount of noise as John fucked her relentlessly.

John was still talking, though his sentences kept trailing off into incoherence. For Sherlock's part, she couldn't have strung two thoughts together if she'd tried. Her entire being was nothing but the physical -- the feeling of John's lips on her neck, John's cock buried deep inside her cunt, the plug an unforgettable pressure in her arse. Sherlock never came from intercourse, so it took her completely by surprise when she felt that distinct pleasure building between her legs, weak but unmistakable.

"I'm going to -- " she gasped out, "John, I'm going to come -- "

John raised himself up, still moving shallowly inside her. The expression on his face was utterly wrecked. "Turn around," he said raggedly, "get on your knees for me."

They shifted positions again, and Sherlock spread her knees wide so John could kneel between them, his strong hands gripping her hips. John plunged back in, and this time Sherlock had enough leverage to thrust back against him, desperately forcing herself as far as she could onto John's cock. They'd lost all words by now, and the only sounds in the room were John's sharp breaths and Sherlock's high-pitched moans, and the wet slap of skin on skin.

Sherlock felt the pressure starting to build again -- she shut her eyes and braced herself, feeling her internal muscles begin to quiver uncontrollably. "Harder," she cried out, "John, I'm going to -- "

John gave her a few more pounding thrusts and then Sherlock was coming for the second time that night, entire body quaking and shivering, too overwhelmed to even make a sound. Her limbs gave out from under her and John's weight pinned them both to the mattress -- Sherlock couldn't do anything more than clench again and again around John's cock and the plug. Behind her, she hear John groan like it had been ripped out of him, and then felt the pulse of his orgasm inside her. They lay like that for a while, trembling, too exhausted to even consider moving.




"That," John said several minutes later, pulling out of her to roll onto his back, "was fantastic." He stared at the ceiling for a few more seconds, then turned his face to Sherlock. "That was honestly the best sex I've ever had in my life. You're amazing."

"Mm," said Sherlock dazedly. She was finding it difficult to make words. "It was good. You're ... good."

"Just good?" John sighed, but he didn't sound all too frustrated. "It's a step up from average, at least. What can I say, I did my best. Want me to help you get that out?"

Sherlock realized belatedly she still had the plug inside her. "No, it's fine. I ... I like it. You have admirable stamina," she added, which made John laugh. He reached out to her, making a gap with his body for her to snuggle into. Sherlock didn't usually care for cuddling, either, but she nestled herself closer, resting her head on John's chest. His arm came around her back and stroked lightly.

"I've figured it out," said Sherlock. "The thing that makes sex with you spectacularly brilliant when by all rights it should be painfully boring and ordinary."

"Have you?" John laughed. "Well, let's hear it."

"You love me," said Sherlock. John's movements stilled completely and his whole body seemed to tense up. Sherlock continued, "We have above-average sex because you love me."

John was silent for a second, then he forced himself to relax, exhaling loudly. "Surprised it took you that long to realize," he said, "feels like it's been ages since I knew." He resumed stroking her shoulder gently. "It's fine if you don't. I'd rather you not say anything than lie to me just to be nice."

Sherlock wriggled against him, making herself more comfortable in his embrace. "I seem to have also come to the conclusion," she said carefully, "that I love you as well."

"Oh," said John. "Okay. That's -- wow. You love me." He sounded stunned, and pressed a kiss into her hair. "I never would have guessed. Really?"

"Yes," said Sherlock, feeling drowsy and sated and well-fucked, on the verge of sleep. "Aren't you special."