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Sherlock Holmes had recently discovered sex. He seemed to be all over the idea - talking unendingly about the porn he had witnessed on John's laptop and the variety of sexual positions and situations that had previously been a total mystery to him before. He told John that it was as if the world had opened up a new layer of itself to him - no longer did he wonder why it was that his school-mates had been so obsessed with all things sexual; it all made sense to him now. And now, as a life-long professed asexual in his mid-thirties, he had a lot of lost time to make up for.
John understood this. Really, he did. And it had been he himself who had suggested that Sherlock go out and have experiences with different people, to find out more about himself and his sexual orientation. He had even given him condoms to use in his pursuits. Knowing this, John did not feel he had the right to express the jealousy that surged through him when the other man would pull on his coat, wrap his scarf around his neck and take off into the night, without John, in search of the next conquest. He came home at all hours smelling of different people, and with lipstick on his collar and strange stains on his clothing, and John kept silent, and tried not to sulk. It was difficult.
But thankfully Sherlock never discussed what happened on these outings. John was happy with that. He really didn't want to know. Really. He had thought himself about possibly going out and trying to pull, perhaps to even try to start things up with Sarah, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. All he can remember is the smell of Sherlock, the look of the orgasmic bliss on the other man's face, the feel of his skin on John's and his cock rubbing John's face. He had for the longest time considered himself mainly straight, and now he found himself hung up over a man - and not just any man, but his strange, aesthetically beautiful flatmate. It was bizarre beyond description for a man of John's temperament.
It went on for weeks, this time in limbo, and it was getting to John's nerves. He now masturbated to the image of only one person, and he would torture himself waiting up until early in the morning, craning his ear to catch his flatmate coming up the stairs before he could go to sleep. This was absolutely unbearable. Why had he encouraged Sherlock to look elsewhere, when the man had himself thought that it was only John who turned him on? But even in this state of sad loneliness, John didn't think he could have done anything else. He didn't want Sherlock trapped with him, and didn't want him under false pretenses. It would have been unethical to keep someone like Sherlock all to himself when he barely understood his own sexuality.
So for the sake of Sherlock's future sexual and mental health, John suffered, quietly and alone. He did not bring up his thoughts and longings to his flatmate, and things outside the realm of sex remained virtually the same. They attended to cases together, whenever John wasn't needed at the surgery, and spent quiet time together in the flat - as long as the topic of conversation didn't stray into the sexual. When it did - and it did so invariably, no matter how John tried to steer the conversation, John would clam up and end up leaving the room. He just couldn't help himself.
Things finally changed during a case, and in the most public way imaginable. However thankful John was afterward for the cessation of the distance between them, he wished fervently that Sherlock had some kind of 'edit' button that he could use to keep the man from spouting anything he wanted in front of people he considered friends and colleagues (and Anderson).
They had been investigating the scene of a multiple homicide that seemed to have occurred during what looked to all those present to be an orgy. The men and women were all naked, and had been engaged in all forms of sexual congress when someone had arrived and unloaded a semi-automatic pistol into the room. Most of the victims had died nearly instantly, and so their state of arousal had been preserved for the investigators to witness. It was during Sherlock's breakdown of the scene that John suddenly realized the the topic had veered unerringly in the direction of their own personal life.
"...and from my own personal experiences with sex..." The members of the Scotland Yard Homicide Division groaned as one, "...in particular the experiences I have attained through copulation with John - "
John, who had been examining the wounds on one of the male corpses, jerked his head up at hearing this. He glanced around the room, his ears turning red, swiftly being caught up by the rest of his face, as Sherlock went on. "...after all it can be very hard to maintain that level of sexual excitement for any significant period. In fact, in some cases, such as my own, it can be the rule as opposed to the exception. For instance, no matter how many partners with whom I attempt to engage in coitus, I cannot obtain even a tenth of the level of sexual arousal of that which I attain with Dr. Watson. I have yet, even after extensive experimentation, to reach climax even a single time, whether it be with a man or a woman, old or young, beautiful or plain with anyone other than John. It appears that some people are simply wired for only one person and that mu--"
During this exposition, John had looked around the room at the policemen who had apparently been taken as much by surprise as John had. Donovan looked shocked, and couldn't stop shifting her stare from Sherlock to John. Anderson looked disgusted, and refused to peel his eyes from the ceiling. Lestrade looked... thoughtful. John didn't want to think about that, however, and realized he had to stop Sherlock before it got any worse. Not that it was likely possible for the situation to be physically able to get any worse, but he had to try.
"--uh, Sherlock? A moment please? Excuse us, please" interjected John, taking the taller man by the elbow and leading him from the room. The group assembled parted to allow them out of the room, most of the faces registering shock rather than anything else.
"Yes John?" Sherlock asked, when they had come to a stop, and John had commenced simply staring at him. "Problem?"
John put his head in one hand and scratched his scalp absently. Was there a problem? John didn't really know. While one portion of him internally reeled in horror at the utter humiliation of having not only his sex life aired before half of Scotland Yard, but also the fact that his sexual orientation was now in definite question, the other portion of his mind was delighted by what he had learned about the state of Sherlock's sex life.
"What," began John, voice leveled at a whisper, "were you thinking?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"What were you thinking? You just shared enough personal information with the whole of Scotland Yard to keep their rumour mill working overtime for the next hundred years! And we aren't even with the Yard!" He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. "I suggest we get back to the matter of the murders, and please, please keep your....our sex life out of the picture!"
Sherlock looked taken aback and even slightly insulted. "John, are you embarrassed by our dalliances together? Do you regret them? Perhaps you wish they hadn't happened?" John made hushing motions.
"No, no, I don't mean that. I just mean it's a private matter, and Lestrade and his merry men - and women - don't need to know about our sex life!"
Sherlock had one eyebrow raised at this. "If you say so..." he said.
"I do, thank you."
Sherlock turned to walk away, but just before he did so, he leaned back in close to John. "It's true though. I can't get off with anyone else. I want to fuck you, John; will you let me fuck you? Think about it."
John was left standing alone, mouth agape, with a rapidly rising tent in his trousers.
*****
The ride home in the cab was uncomfortable to say the least. They each kept to their own side of the seat, no different than usual, but suddenly the gap between them, which had always been comfortable, now felt like a gap fraught with tension. John kept his head facing forward, his lips a thin, compressed line, his face a vision of military preparedness. He looked every inch the soldier, which is how John usually dealt with stressful situations. Sherlock, however, was swinging his head back and forth, keeping an eye on both the road where they were going and John's profile at the same time. John had met his eyes once, and they had seemed to be bottomless.
"John--"
"Hush."
Sherlock sighed in a put-upon manner and shifted uncomfortably in his seat. With the voluminous nature of his coat, it was hard for John to tell if Sherlock was experiencing the same embarrassing state that he himself was. But that ignorance was not to be for long. Quick as a striking snake, Sherlock grabbed John's hand, the one closest to him, and pulled it across the gap on the seat and settling it under his coat and on top of what John instantly recognized to be Sherlock hard prick. He gasped, trying to pull his hand back, but Sherlock held him fast.
"Sher-"
"Hush yourself. This is what you do to me." John tried to speak up with a denial, but Sherlock leaned across the gap with his upper body and whispered directly into John's ear. "I have seen you. I have seen the way you look at me when I leave in the evenings. I have seen your unhappiness. I know what you want.
John's face was beet red, and he yanked his hand away from Sherlock's cock as if it were on fire. Sherlock let the hand go, but continued talking into his ear. "I know you want no one else, and I know that is how I feel as well. I suspected so from the beginning, but as you yourself said, I had to be sure. I am sure."
Sherlock pulled back to his side of the car and remained there with his eyes pinned on John's profile, seeming to dare him to respond. But truthfully? John didn't dare. He couldn't think of a single thing to say.
*****
Back at 221B Baker Street, Sherlock left John to pay the cabbie as per usual, the bastard, and John clambered up the stairs after him, thankfully managing to dodge any appearances from Mrs. Hudson. Small talk was something that John did not think he was currently capable of engaging in.
The second he stepped in the door, however, it appeared that Sherlock was ready for him. The larger man grabbed John by the lapels and slammed him bodily into the wall, pinning him effortlessly with his hands and his mouth, which Sherlock laid on John's lips for the very first time. John hadn't really realized it before, but they had never kissed - their first experience being a voyeuristic wank, their second being a long session of frottage that never evolved into anything beyond the rubbing of their cocks over each others body. There had been no room for kissing. And for this John was glad, because it made this kiss now all the better for never having done it before.
Sherlock was as tentative with his lips as he was violent with his hands; they softly kissed without tongue for several moments before John's mouth opened with a small gasp, allowing the tip of Sherlock's tongue to flick out and enter John. John didn't think for a moment that this was Sherlock's first kiss; John had probably lost that experience to one of the nameless 'experiments' from the last few weeks. But it was all for the better, as instead of John having to take the lead and show Sherlock how to kiss, Sherlock himself happily led, and John was able to lie back and enjoy the experience.
They pulled apart for a moment, and John was about to speak but Sherlock stopped him by taking him by the shoulders and turning him around to face the wall. John's hands came up to brace himself, and wondered what exactly he had gotten himself into. And exactly how much experience Sherlock now had.
The other man was quickly and efficiently unbuckling John's belt and opening his trousers, pulling his pants down carefully over his fully-erect cock and pulling the whole mess of fabric down around his ankles. Sherlock paused a moment and kissed each of John's arse cheeks in turn.
"Are we okay?" Sherlock asked from where he was lipping along the cleft of John's buttocks.
"O - oh -kay!" stuttered John. No matter how many times he had seen rimming in both gay and hetero porn, he had never had it done to himself before, and he thought that this is where this must be going. He was as excited as he'd ever been, and certainly didn't want to be talking right now.
"Good," replied Sherlock, immediately before he took each of John's cheeks in hand and pulled them apart, baring John's arsehole to his inspection. John could feel the cool air of the room wafting over his hole, and Sherlock added to this by licking a swift stripe across the tiny puckered entrance and then blowing on it repeatedly. John knew he had pulled back and was now just watching him - watching his hole as it tightened involuntarily.
John could feel Sherlock fumbling for something, and he knew what that was when a slick finger began to circle itself around John's opening. He took some time before actually breaching John's body, and by the time he actually did it, John was all but desperate for the intrusion. He pushed his body back onto Sherlock's finger, moaning aloud as his prostate was prodded. He was panting heavily as his head hung between his arms, which were still bracing him against the wall.
John heard rustling behind him again, and peered over his shoulder time time to see Sherlock pushing down both his trousers and pants, and yet not even bothering to take his coat off. He rolled a condom over his cock and then just he registered this, a second and then third finger were rapidly applied to his arse, and he moaned at the sensation which bordered on painful at first, but quickly shifted to a pleasurable fullness.
John was expecting to be taken up against the wall, as he was already in place for such an act. And the very idea turned him on to no end. But Sherlock had another idea. Taking his fingers out of John's hole, he gripped John by the hips and pulled him backwards a couple of feet, both of them shuffling rather comically, since their legs were still bound by the fabric of their trousers and pants. Sherlock backed directly into John's armchair and sat down, pulling John's hips so that he followed him down, and as Sherlock was using his free hand to hold his cock in place, John was immediately breached by the thick, slick head of Sherlock's prick. As his weight pushed him down, John took more and more of Sherlock's dick into his body, right until he had slid all the way down into his lap, filling his hole to the limit with cock. He was literally being held up and in place by Sherlock's prick.
John clamped down with his internal muscles on Sherlock's cock, and both men groaned at once. He placed his hands on Sherlock's thighs underneath him and used them to brace against and he lifted his own body up and down the length of prick inside him. John could feel every single inch as it exited his body and then entered it again.
There was only so long that John could hold up with so much strain on his old shoulder wound. His arms were starting to tremble when Sherlock wrapped one arm around him and took his weight on the arm saying, "Here, bend down. On your knees."
The two of them lowered themselves to the floor, somehow managing to keep Sherlock's cock firmly inside John's arse, buried to the hilt. John was placed down on his knees, and the front half of his body went down on his elbows. He looked over his shoulder to see Sherlock kneeling tall behind him, both of their hips bracketed by his famous coat. Sherlock was staring open-mouthed at the place where the two of them joined together, watching with obvious pleasure as his cock slid in and out of John's arse.
Sherlock seemed to feel him watching, and his eyes lifted to meet John's. The pupils were so large and dark that nearly all of the grey irises were covered. John focused on the feel of Sherlock's cock sliding within him as the detective spoke.
"Why John? Why is it you? Why only you, and no one else? Nothing else suffices. I can't even get hard for women, and any erection I get from men is from thinking about you. I can never come, I never even get close! Why? Do you know why?"
He really seemed to want to know John's opinion, right now of all times. John panted as his body was roughly used, to his intense pleasure, and he finally tried answering. "I don't... don't know, Sherlock. You... you said yourself, some people...wired that way."
Sherlock shifted his hands so that he was gripping around John's waist, and began to simply hammer at John with his cock. Lewd, wet noises rose from where they were joined, and their balls smacked together with the force of the motion. Sherlock finally reached one hand around and gripped John's prick, working the foreskin over the head, the silky skin up and down the shaft with each thrust of his hips.
John was so close to the edge that it took only about five strokes to bring him off. He came with a loud groan, his dick jumping in Sherlock's hand, painting the carpet below them with his seed. His arse contracted rhythmically with his orgasm, and Sherlock continued to thrust into this squeezing, clenching channel until he was also brought to an ecstatic climax. He grunted repeatedly as each spurt of semen left his body and sloshed around inside of the condom he was wearing.
Breathing harshly, the two of them came to a stop, Sherlock leaving his cock inside John for as long as he could, and they only separated when John's body forced his wilting erection out. Sherlock pulled the used condom off his dick and tied off the top, tossing it into the nearest waste bin. He looked back to where John was still on his knees and elbows, and watched as his arsehole winked at him, trying to close itself down from its' stretched state. He leaned down again pulled John's cheeks wider apart again, and John groaned with over-stimulation as Sherlock flicked his tongue back inside John's flexing hole, running the tip of his tongue over the rim of John's hole.
"Oh god..." moaned John, exhausted.
Sherlock chuckled into John's cleft and finally pulled back, having mercy on the smaller man.
"So," he said, sitting down on his haunches, pulling John upright and back so that he was leaning against the larger man with Sherlock's arms around him.
"So," replied John, eyes closed, breathing deeply of his flatmate's scent.
"I don't have to go out to try to have sex with anyone else anymore, do I?"
John's eyes popped open. "...have to?"
He turned back to look at Sherlock, who shrugged. "You said I should, I thought that was what you wanted. But I don't want anyone else, John, I want you. You're mine, and I want you to be mine. And only mine."
"uh...that should be okay..."
"No more seeing Sarah."
"What? Wait!" He looked over his shoulder at Sherlock.
"Yes?" Sherlock stared at him hard.
John sighed. "...okay. Sarah is my employer and only my employer. Satisfied?"
"Somewhat. No looking at other men. Or women. And you bring me breakfast, every morning in bed."
"Now, listen here...okay, maybe just this once."
"Every day."
"Damn you, no, not every day... okay maybe every day. But you have to label your body parts better. No more finding fingers in the butter dish."
"You've twisted my thumb. Okay, deal."
*****