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Having sex with Sherlock wasn’t exactly a normal experience. Though, what about John’s life with the consulting detective could be considered normal? Not much.

Don’t get him wrong, it wasn’t bad. Bloody fantastic would be more of the word for it. Sherlock—like with any other thing that grabbed his attention—sought to become a master in bed. The Karma Sutra was purchased and added to his mental hard drive, along with any other books he found useful (specifically about same sex relations) and he spent about a week absorbing any reputable internet article he could find. There were a fair few where John had to inform Sherlock that, no, that wasn’t really something he considered sexy, and the article actually sounded like it was written by a woman who had never even touched a man. But mostly, Sherlock’s research was spot-on and enjoyable as hell.

John spent many a night buried deep inside Sherlock, or sometimes the other way around, and he had to say he couldn’t find a single complaint. Well… maybe one.

Whenever it came to a case, John fully expected Sherlock’s libido to shut off for a few days until it was solved. The Work always came first, he knew this. Whenever Sherlock had Work, everything—eating, sleeping, drinking, breathing—became secondary. It didn’t surprise John to learn that extended to sex as well. And mostly, he didn’t mind. Sherlock solved cases in a matter of days, and John could hold out for two days. Sometimes, they went even longer just because their schedules didn’t match up one week, or they were both too tired. Sex was not the thread their relationship dangled on.

Still, when the case went longer than a few days, John became… antsy. After a week, he would be more than a little grouchy. At around ten days, John would openly snap at anyone who dared accuse him of looking tense. And considering that—after a long case—Sherlock tended to pass out and sleep through a full twenty-four hours, that always added another day to John’s frustration. After all, he wasn’t about to shag Sherlock’s limp, half-sleeping body, now was he?

Once again, John needed to learn that not even his thoughts were safe.

It happened after a case that managed to last two weeks. Two fucking weeks, as John liked to call it. Then another day for Sherlock to sleep it off before John got any sort of touch. When Sherlock finally opened his eyes and peered up at John with that look, fingers already opening the belt of his dressing gown, they got down to business quickly.

A short while later (neither really had any illusions of lasting long) they both were spread out on the bed, sticky and panting. That was when Sherlock opened the door: “John,” he said, his breathing evened out again. “Not to ruin the afterglow—”

“Too late,” John mumbled. He was already half asleep and was quite contented to stay like that. Then perhaps wake in a few hours and have another go.

Sherlock just rolled his eyes and kept going. “Before we left the Yard, Lestrade pulled me aside and asked if you were feeling alright.” John’s eyes popped open at that to find Sherlock looking over at him intently. “Well, first he asked if I’d done anything to piss you off recently. A few experiments came to mind, but nothing to merit your rudeness towards others.”

“He said I was rude?” John asked. He suddenly felt guilty for a week of (what he felt to be) justified anger and frustration.

Sherlock gave a lazy shrug. “He said you were off. Some of the other officers noticed too. They’re so accustomed to you being the nice, accommodating one that they were worried.” Those eyes shifted just a bit, too small for anyone else to notice, but John always noticed these kinds of things. He could read Sherlock’s subtle body language like Sherlock could read a corpse. “Have I done something?” He asked softly.

All thoughts of sleep forgotten, John moved over until he and Sherlock were wrapped together again. His fingers stroked their way up and down the younger man’s back as he spoke. “I know that when you have a case, everything else stops.” John whispered, his lips a breath away from Sherlock’s. “I’m lucky if I can get you to eat,” usually by holding plates of food under Sherlock’s nose until he relented. “So I understand that sex is kind of a second priority for you. It’s just that… on the long cases…” he trailed off, already feeling like a complete wanker for this.

“John,” Sherlock sighed.

“I miss touching you,” John pressed, squeezing the other man tighter, as if to prove his point. “It’s not just about the sex. When you have a long case and nothing will distract you, I miss touching. I miss having you in bed with me,” he leaned forward, covering the small gap between their lips and kissed Sherlock. Just a short peck before pulling back and rubbing their noses together. “And after two weeks of it, I just got a little… frustrated. I’ll apologize to Lestrade tomorrow.”

Sherlock shook his head. “No need, I already told him you weren’t feeling well.

“Now, I may have a solution to our problem.”

And that was when things got weird.

“You’re right, John. Whenever I have a long or interesting case, I usually don’t spare any attention for you.” No “I’m sorry,” and John didn’t expect one. He knew that was Sherlock’s way; if he didn’t understand that by now, they wouldn’t be together. “But I do have the ability to separate the physical from the mental, partition out my mind from my body—if you will.”

Sure, John would. If he had any idea of what Sherlock was talking about. “What do you mean?” He asked.

A devilish smile curled those too-plush lips. “I mean, whenever I’m on a case and have to spend time thinking,” translation: sitting on the couch, not speaking, moving or doing anything. “And you feel the need for sex, or just to touch me, you should.”

It took a few seconds for John to try and unravel what he was being told. No, he still didn’t get it. “What?” He asked.

Stroking John’s cheek with the backs of those long fingers, Sherlock kept smiling. “I’m saying that whenever I am on a case and you want sex, feel free to initiate.”

A small jolt of revulsion rolled in John’s stomach. The thought of touching Sherlock while he wasn’t reciprocating… it was next to rape in John’s mind. No, he wouldn’t have that. Absolutely wouldn’t.

The disgust must’ve shown on his face, because Sherlock’s arms tightened around him to halt John’s retreat. “Wrong phrasing?” He asked. “I just mean that, when I’m thinking deeply like that, I’ll still respond to stimuli. I’ll still be there with you; you just won’t be my priority. You won’t be fucking a limp body, if that’s what you thought I meant.”

John swallowed down the bile rising up in the back of his throat. “A bit not good, Sherlock.”

“No, it is good.” Somehow, Sherlock managed to pull John even closer, which was a feat, since they were already pressed chest to chest. “Just because I’m off thinking doesn’t mean I won’t respond to you. I’ll kiss you,” he pressed a small kiss to John’s lips. “I’ll moan,” another kiss. “I’ll even buck up into your touch.” One more kiss, slow and deep until John didn’t feel so sick anymore.

“I can interact and respond while I’m thinking like that—you’ll just have to initiate because I won’t. And everything will still work, the only thing you shouldn’t expect to be exactly the same is that I won’t speak much. Though,” he smirked at that. “You’ve never been much of a conversationalist while you’re balls deep inside of me.”

It was John’s turn to press forward into a kiss. Hearing Sherlock talk like that pressed all his buttons in exactly the right way. And the idea of being able to have Sherlock even during a case was appealing… he just had to initiate.

“I’ll give it a try,” John whispered against Sherlock’s shoulder, already moving into position for the second go that was coming a lot sooner than John imagined.




At first, John was very resolved not to try Sherlock’s suggestion. Then the next case hit. Another long one. After it had gone on for ten days, John broke.

When he finally managed to get up the courage to touch Sherlock when he was thinking, John had to stand in the kitchen for twenty minutes watching Sherlock not move before he could make himself do anything. The queasy feeling in his stomach was back. It was one of the first rules of their relationship: don’t bother while thinking. And Sherlock had just given him permission to break it. Even if he had Sherlock’s permission to… initiate, that didn’t mean he felt alright about it.

Once his stomach had calmed down, John ventured into the living room. Sherlock was as still as ever, sitting on the couch, apparently staring off into space. “Sherlock?” John asked quietly. No answer. “Sherlock?” He tried again. Nothing.

Okay, so he really was off thinking then, John decided. Another minute of standing there and he managed to make himself sit down on the couch next to Sherlock. Another minute, and John reached out a hand to touch his knee. To his surprise, Sherlock’s hand moved over to cover his. One look to the man’s face told John that the lights were on, and maybe someone was home. That someone just wasn’t willing to give too much attention to John right now.

He sat there for another few minutes, his hand resting on Sherlock’s knee. When Sherlock’s thumb started to stroke the back of his hand, John got brave again. Moving so slow that glaciers were passing him, John leaned in to press a kiss to the corner of Sherlock’s mouth. Before he could get there, Sherlock’s head turned into it, so their lips met.

Sherlock was the first to part his lips and push a questing tongue forward. John was so surprised by the reaction that he took him up on the offer and opened his mouth.

The next few minutes were filled with soft, wet kisses and a few moans (most from Sherlock). John even opened his eyes at one point to find that Sherlock had closed his eyes. He looked exactly like he would any other time they kissed like this. The only difference was that he wasn’t thinking about John this time. Could John handle that knowledge? Knowing that he wasn’t the centre of Sherlock’s world like Sherlock was the centre of his?

If he couldn’t handle that already, they wouldn’t have lasted this long.

A few minutes later and Sherlock lifted a hand to John’s shoulder. It pressed forward gently, pushing the other man away. Their lips parted with a quiet pop and the hand kept pushing until John was back on his own cushion of the couch. Eyes open again, Sherlock turned around, his hand groping for his phone to text Lestrade whatever he’d just figured out.

He sent off a few texts and turned back to John. That look was different, he was definitely paying attention now. “The window, John!” He exclaimed, standing up and starting to pace. “Of course it was the window! Obvious! Whoever can see through the window is the killer!” He spun on his heel and extended a hand down to John. “Another case solved. Bedroom?”

John didn’t hesitate in taking the offered hand and the full attention Sherlock now had to give him. He really preferred it this way. The attention Sherlock could direct towards something was staggering, and being the focus of all that was practically an aphrodisiac. Why would John want to put up with half-attention when the full shot was better than any drug known to man?




Lestrade had it out for him, John was convinced of that. The next two cases the Yard handed Sherlock took a combined month and came practically on the heels of one another. And that was amongst the referrals, cases the Yard didn’t have jurisdiction for, so they were passed off to Sherlock. A clutch of small cases that would be no matter on their own, but all together ended up being a bit time-consuming. Time Sherlock wouldn’t waste sleeping or eating, much less having sex.

After three weeks, John was too focused on getting Sherlock to sleep at all to even think about the growing ache between his legs.

So when the fifth case was solved and they just returned from the scene of the sixth (covered in mud and God knows what else) John immediately herded Sherlock into the shower. Face tight in concentration, John was surprised when Sherlock held the curtain open for him.

“Thinking,” Sherlock said when he glimpsed John’s confusion out the corner of his eye. “Need you to clean me off.”

John rolled his eyes. Of course. Stripping out of his equally muddy clothes, John climbed into the shower and grabbed the soap. Even though he wasn’t paying spectacular attention, Sherlock managed to turn around and lift the proper body parts before John had to ask.

When they were both clean again, John returned the soap to the dish and wrapped his arms around Sherlock, resting his cheek against the back of his shoulder blade. Sherlock was still occupied thinking about the pieces of the sixth case, and John just wanted to hold him for a bit. All that running down alleys, wading through sewers… surely hugging in the shower wouldn’t distract too much?

Turns out, it wasn’t enough. John swiped his hands along the detective’s hips, touching him rather tentatively. At the feeling of Sherlock’s firm fingers locked around his wrists, John thought he’d pushed his luck too hard. He did have permission to initiate (though that was very much not what he was doing right now) but John knew full well that Sherlock would stop him if he became distracting.

Instead of pushing his hands away, Sherlock’s grip on his wrist started pulling John’s hand downwards… towards his cock. The first brush of his fingers against that gorgeous length made them both moan for entirely different reasons. Sherlock for the obvious, and John out of surprise. Sure, he was doing the touching, but Sherlock was… asking for some interaction.

One look at the younger man’s face told John that his attention was firmly elsewhere, but apparently that didn’t mean he couldn’t direct John’s hands exactly where he wanted them to go. Long fingers guided John’s hand to wrap around his cock, then retreated back to hold onto John’s firm thighs.

John gave one hesitant stroke. “Is this okay?” He asked.

Eyes still forward, Sherlock nodded. “Go ahead,” he said in a voice that was almost breathy.

A few more slow, cautious strokes, and Sherlock was moaning. Slim hips shoved back against John and did their damndest to rub against his cock in every which way Sherlock knew would arouse him. And boy did it work. It wasn’t long before John was thrusting up against Sherlock’s backside, his hand still firmly wrapped around Sherlock’s cock, pulling the other man off.

Long arms reached back farther and John felt a questing finger brush between his cheeks, fingering his cleft in that delicious way. And this was all happening when Sherlock’s focus was elsewhere? “Jesus,” John mumbled into the shoulder in front of him.

Sherlock started to shake under John’s fingers, and he knew he was close. One more firm tug did it. “John!” Sherlock moaned. Arching back, his hands squeezed John as he rode out his orgasm. John’s own orgasm teetered on the very edge, all he needed was one little push over to join his partner….

“I’ve got it!” Sherlock said suddenly. Then, before John really knew what was happening, Sherlock batted his hand away and climbed out of the shower. Still dripping with water and come, he ran out of the bathroom, shouting something about the case.

John all but collapsed against the shower wall. Christ, if being able to have Sherlock during a case meant that he could be left hard and wanting at any time… maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.

He just managed to pull himself together when the shower curtain was ripped open again. Sherlock climbed back in, eyes wide and smiling, his hand going to John’s cock automatically. His other arm wrapped around John’s back to steady him as Sherlock started pulling him off. “It was the brother,” he smiled between kisses. “The tire-treads outside the garage. We were told that the maintenance man was the only one with a key to the fence, but the brother! His wife was having an affair with the maintenance man. She had a copy of the key so they could conduct their affair! Her husband stole it out of her bag and went to kill the lover! But he found his sister’s husband instead and killed him by mistake.”

And with another case solved, Sherlock swiftly went down on his knees in the bath and swallowed John whole. John couldn’t help the moan that ripped from his chest. He also couldn’t help how quickly he spilled down Sherlock’s throat. But he didn’t really care.

Somehow, this idea of John initiating whenever Sherlock was on a case turned out to be the best idea either of them ever had. Practically as soon as John touched him, Sherlock solved whatever he was working on, and then immediately after, John came harder than he could remember.




After about four months with John initiating during cases and it was practically the normal state of things. They had more sex than ever, and Sherlock’s case turn-over went up. John liked to say that the endorphins helped him think. Sherlock just rolled his eyes and said something along the lines of “Now that I know you’re satisfied, I have the use of the tiny part of my brain that’s worried about your feelings. All the extra thinking space I can get helps. Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Sure,” John nodded and leaned over to steal a kiss.

It wasn’t a perfect system. John knew that, at any moment, he could be pushed away so Sherlock could grab his phone and text (“Another one solved, John!”) and sometimes, even his first efforts were pushed away. But when everything came together, when Sherlock gave over a tiny bit of his attention—leaving the rest firmly on the Work—and kissed John back, moaned, writhed under his hands… well, that was damn near perfect, and John honestly couldn’t ask for more.

John learned little tricks to make sure they weren’t interrupted too often. Before he would even reach over to touch the man, John would always make sure his mobile was in reach. Sherlock texted while they had sex even when he wasn’t working. Just another thing John had gotten used to before this whole madness started. This glorious, glorious madness.

So when another string of non-stop cases hit, John was more than prepared. He spent three weeks making sure Sherlock ate, slipping sleeping pills into his tea (only needed to do that twice) and sitting on the couch next to him, his hands and lips rubbing over the exposed skin of Sherlock’s neck as the other man made soft cooing noises of satisfaction.

One night, when Sherlock was sitting on the couch in nothing but his dressing gown and pajama pants, John slid down next to him and placed a warm hand on his thigh. “Busy?” He asked.

Sherlock shook his head and stood up, his dressing gown rolling off his shoulders. “Leave a pad and pencil within my reach and you’re fine.” With that, he stepped out of his pajama pants and laid down on the carpet in front of the coffee table. “Coming?” He asked.

John smirked back and stood up. He opened his flies with one hand, scooping up a pad, pencil and Sherlock’s mobile with the other. He laid them all right next to Sherlock’s hand and started to undress. Before John even grabbed for the ubiquitous lube that had started taking up residence in every corner of the flat, Sherlock already had the pencil in hand, scribbling away on a map of the most recent crime scene. John didn’t really mind anymore. He didn’t care that, though Sherlock’s eyes were on him, Sherlock’s mind definitely wasn’t. That wonderful brain was ninety-nine percent focused on the actions of that right hand as he drew out the events that took place the night of the crime.

So as Sherlock tried to figure out who had more access to the safe, John pressed two slick fingers forward, gently opening the man up. As usual, Sherlock moaned in time with John’s movements, his free hand coming up to grip the man’s shoulder, spurring him on.

When Sherlock was prepared enough, John slicked his own cock and started the slow push forward. Once he was fully inside, gripped by that wonderful, warm, tight body, he pulled his hips back.

“Oh, John,” Sherlock moaned.

At first, John had arranged them so Sherlock’s legs were wrapped around his hips. Now, the man moved. He actually dropped the pencil and unwound his legs from around John. A little moving, shifting, and moaning, and Sherlock’s ankles came to rest on John’s shoulders. His right hand—now shaking—reached and picked up the pencil again. “Keep going,” Sherlock whispered. For a second, John could’ve sworn he saw a flicker of attention in the blue eyes… then, Sherlock started writing again and it was gone.

The new position allowed John to go in a bit deeper, and he wasn’t about to waste it. He reached down and wrapped his hands around Sherlock’s hips, holding him steady as he started to thrust. John would much rather wrap his arms completely around Sherlock, but that would get in the way of his writing. That was rule number one: don’t distract. John could initiate and have Sherlock mostly whenever he wanted, he just couldn’t distract. He had the idea that his cock firmly taking up residence inside of Sherlock would be a distraction, but apparently not.

Just like always, John went along happily. Thrusting into Sherlock, dipping down to kiss his neck, and whispering dirty little things into his ear. Sherlock, for his part, moaned in all the right spots and even seemed to be enjoying himself, but one look in those eyes told him that—same as always—he did not have Sherlock’s undivided. John had a hard time wrapping his head around the idea of not paying attention to this, but he decided not to let it bother him. Sherlock would let him touch. That was all John needed.

This position let them be closer than normal. John was slid in past the hilt (if that were possible) and he could feel more of Sherlock than ever. It almost made him sad that Sherlock was missing out on this, because really… everything was shaping up to be much, much better than usual. John could feel every bit of Sherlock. Long legs pushing against his chest, hard cock throbbing between their bodies, and warm, soft balls so hot and heavy. And the ankles up near his ears, that was a new level of sexy John hadn’t experienced yet. They would definitely have to try this again when Sherlock was all there.

John really hoped he solved this case soon, because… “Christ!” He moaned.

John dipped down to press another kiss to his neck when Sherlock turned his head. Teeth latched on to John’s ear, a tongue flicking at the shell in exactly the right way. John couldn’t hold back another moan. Sherlock had never done that during a case….

His hips started snapping faster. One arm braced on the ground, the other went down to grab for Sherlock’s cock. The first pump sent his chest jerking like John had it on a string. “John! Fuck!” Sherlock moaned.

One look up told John everything. Sherlock’s hand had let the pencil drop and was now curling, fingers digging into the carpet. His other hand on John’s shoulder gripped harder, nails scratching lightly. And in his eyes… did John dare think that Sherlock was paying attention to him?

Taking a chance, John leaned forward and pressed his lips to Sherlock’s. The younger man met the kiss, responding eagerly. Okay, John thought. This was definitely different.

John was completely convinced that he had Sherlock’s attention. Somehow, he managed to pull it away from the Work. He’d never been able to do that before. Not wanting to let it go to waste, he slid his arm under Sherlock, cradling his neck, bringing their lips together again.

“John…” Sherlock mumbled into the kiss.

John was so close… everything was getting so intense that he didn’t think he could hold on any longer…. He started pumping at Sherlock’s cock even faster, wanting to come at the same time.

Then Sherlock’s mobile buzzed and everything fell apart again. So close to the edge, John hung his head and stopped moving. The only (and the largest) drawback made itself known, and now, all John could do was wait to see what Sherlock did. Would he be allowed to finish? Or was it game over for now?

Sherlock looked more than a little dazed as he reached for his mobile. Shooting off a quick text, he threw the phone—actually cast it away—and looked back at John. He reached both arms up to wrap around John’s neck. “Keep going,” he whispered.

John didn’t need to be told twice. It was so rare that Sherlock let him finish after a break in the case that he wasn’t going to ignore this.

His hand found Sherlock’s cock again and continued stroking. Hips picking up their rhythm, it didn’t take long for John to push them both over. Sherlock shouted his orgasm against John’s lips, while the older man shuddered through his own. He wasn’t sure what did it, but the combination of Sherlock maybe paying actual attention to him, Sherlock pretty much ignoring his mobile, and being allowed to continue, and John’s orgasm hit like a truck.

When John was completely spent, he did his best not to collapse on top of Sherlock. He managed to roll off to the side; still partly on-top of Sherlock, but he didn’t complain. “Oh, God,” John mumbled into the dark-haired man’s neck. “That was….”

“Yes,” Sherlock nodded. “I agree.”

“Was it just me,” John panted. “Or were you all there? You never do that. Not during a case.”

Sherlock wouldn’t look at him for a second. When he finally rolled over and met John’s eyes, John already had his answer. “I’ve found that, even during cases, I can give you my attention for half an hour and nothing else will suffer.” He cast a look over his shoulder towards the note pad. “Perhaps just my notes.”

“Hold on,” John smiled. “Did you just put me before the case?”

Sherlock seemed affronted by that. “Only for a moment. Don’t get used to it.” And like that, Sherlock was up on his feet and texting again, leaving John to melt into the carpet.

Later that night, with another case solved and Sherlock dozing softly against John’s chest, the text from earlier that afternoon tugged at the back of his mind. Sherlock only picked up his phone for a second, not nearly long enough to send any of his normal texts, long letters of deductions that usually insulted the recipient in several ways.

Curiosity got the better of him and John reached over to pick up Sherlock’s mobile. Going into sent texts, he found the one from this afternoon. It was sent to Lestrade, and consisted of only one word: Busy.

Just the one word, Sherlock didn’t even include his usual sign off.

John couldn’t contain his smile when he saw that. He, the lowly, normal man that he was, managed to take Sherlock’s attention away from something, and take it away enough that he couldn’t even remember how to text like he normally would. What had started out as a way to keep John happy when Sherlock was working had ended up with Sherlock realizing that shutting the world off while he was on a case may not be the best way to do things.

John returned the phone to the coffee table and hugged Sherlock tighter. The man moaned. “John?” He mumbled, still half asleep.

“Shush,” John kissed his temple. “It’s nothing, go back to sleep.”

“Alright,” Sherlock said, then dropped off to sleep again.

Over the next few hours, while Sherlock slept, John couldn’t stop smiling. The great Sherlock Holmes was just as human as the rest of them. And John was the one who made him that way.

The End