Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“I think I need your advice.”

John closed his laptop and shifted in his chair to frown at his flatmate, who was pacing the room behind him. The last time Sherlock had asked him for advice was . . well, never, probably. Sherlock liked to think he knew everything already. “Something up?” John asked.

“I - yes.”

“A case?”

“No.” Sherlock’s lips tightened into a thin line. “I’m afraid you’ll find this awkward,” he admitted.

“Can’t be any worse than finding severed limbs strung up in the bathtub. You set new standards for ‘awkward’ on a regular basis.” John eyed Sherlock more closely. “Are you - you're embarrassed?”

“Of course not.” The detective immediately sat up straighter. “I just hate asking for advice.”

“Fine. So what do you need to know?”

Sherlock glanced at him, then fixed his gaze pointedly on the mantel. “When . . . when you find you’re sexually attracted to someone, how do you turn it off?”

John blinked. “That’s your question?”

“It’s the one area you’re more experienced than I am.”

“The one area? I hate to disappoint you, but there’s more than one, Sherlock.”

“Whatever.” Sherlock waved a hand in the air. “The one area that matters right now.”

“I see.” John twisted further in his chair to study his flatmate. “So let me get this straight - you’re attracted to someone.”

“Yes.”

“And you’re finding it a distraction.”

“Exactly.”

“And you don’t want to be attracted to - to anyone, or just not to that particular person?”

Sherlock’s fingers drummed on the desk. “I don’t want to be distracted like that,” he said after a few moments. “My brain is a highly-tuned instrument of deduction, and the excess hormones are affecting my ability to work. But I’ve been trying to ignore it for nine days now and nothing I’ve tried is working, which is why I’m asking you for advice. Surely you’ve met women you felt an attraction to but couldn’t act on?”

“Deduce that all yourself, did you?” John grinned, then immediately realized how that might look. “Sorry, I know it was a serious question. But I don’t know how to answer you, really.”

“I tried cold showers, but that’s just a temporary solution.”

It took a moment for Sherlock’s earlier words to catch up with John’s brain. “Wait - you said nine days. Specifically nine. What happened to set this all off, then?”

“You pulled my hair.”

John froze.

Which Sherlock noticed, he must have, but he kept his eyes on the mantel and ignored it. “I don’t usually have that kind of reaction to anything, but it was in that warehouse. You must remember. We were rounding a corner and you yanked me backward by my hair and kept me from stepping out in front of the second gunman.” His hand tightened over the fabric of his chair. “I’ve certainly been feeling more sentiment for you than is prudent over the course of our acquaintance, but that moment tipped things over into physiological reactions as well.”

“I see.” And he did, probably better than his brilliant detective flatmate could have guessed. For Sherlock to be freaking out this badly, the attraction must be an uncommon occurrence. “You know it’s kind of ‘not done’ to ask the person you’re crushing on for advice on getting over them, right?”

Sherlock ducked his head. “Sorry. Forget it.”

“No, I -”

“Forget it.”

“Sherlock.” John waited until the detective finally turned to look at him. “It was an observation, not a complaint. As I see it, you have three options.” He ticked them off on his fingers. “One, we both pretend this conversation never happened, and you go on being miserable for however long it takes for you to stop being infatuated with me. Two, you go out and find someone else to get off with, and hope that it helps you get over what you’re feeling now.”

“John, I can’t -”

“Or three,” he continued, “You just make a pass at me already and see if it’s reciprocated.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him. “What’s the benefit in that? Either it isn’t, and I have even stronger neurochemical reactions after being rejected, or it is and I get distracted more often than ever.”

“Habituation - you know enough psychology to be familiar with the idea, I’m sure?”

Sherlock nodded.

“Go with the theory that the more you shag someone you’re not really that attracted to, the more the attraction wears off.”

“You’re offering -” Sherlock looked lost. “But I can't ask you to . . .”

Silence hung between them, until John realized Sherlock wasn't going to finish his sentence. “It's not exactly a hardship,” he said calmly. “I love sucking cock.”

Another long pause while Sherlock processed that. “But you're not gay,” he finally said. “You never fail to contradict people when they assume that about us.”

“Also true.” John suppressed the grin he was sure would be plastered across his face if he weren't trying so hard to hide it – Sherlock flustered was absolutely adorable. And deliciously sexy, actually. John stood up and prowled toward the detective, amusement heightening as Sherlock tensed a bit more with every step he took. Sherlock tense was almost as good as Sherlock flustered.

And was still dead sexy. John stopped and looked Sherlock squarely in the eye. “I love the taste of cock, I'm not gay, and I've never been with a man. And if you can work out how all three of those statements can be true, I'll let you choose what we do next after I suck you off right here against the living room wall.”

It was rare for Sherlock to be absolutely, completely speechless. This was one of those times. It was fucking beautiful. John stalked closer, backing Sherlock up one step at a time, until Sherlock had his back pressed against that hideously old-fashioned wallpaper and his eyes were as wide as saucers. John placed one hand flat against Sherlock's chest, just enjoying feeling the heat of him through his expensive dress shirt. The quick jump of his ribcage as he sucked in a breath was intoxicating.

“Well?”

Sherlock swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing in a way that made John want to tongue and suck at it just to see what noises his flatmate would make. “Ah – porn?” Sherlock ventured, his voice tight and high.

“Only ever confirmed my existing appreciation, I'm afraid.” John leaned in and indulged a little – just a tiny kiss on the side of that pale neck, where the trapezius muscle flattened out to connect to the collarbone. Sherlock's answering whimper was all the encouragement he needed. “Next guess?”

“I – is your appreciation theoretical?”

“Mmmmm.” John nuzzled closer, inhaling a lungful of Sherlock, and darted the tip of his tongue out to compare Sherlock's taste to his smell. “Very definitely practical. Next?”

Sherlock made an incoherent sound. “Can't think, John, not when you – oh God.”

John withdrew fractionally and blew across the patch of skin he had just laved with the flat of his tongue. “Don't think – deduce. Come on, you're the one who is always extolling the virtues of your gigantic brain – use it.”

“You're using some obscure version of the phrase 'being with' a man?”

John smirked into Sherlock's neck. “Never kissed a man, never touched another man's cock, never touched another man even in the way I'm touching you right now. And yet I know for sure I love the taste of cock in my mouth. And I want to taste yours - I’ll be very upset if you can't get this.”

Sherlock's hips rolled, seemingly of their own accord, and John grasped the opportunity to grind into him. It felt fucking fantastic, and from Sherlock's answering groan, he knew he wasn't the only one to think so.

“Come on, the answer's right there, Sherlock.”

“I – I don't – wait.” Sherlock's eyes snapped open and his hands came up to push John's shoulders away from him – not a rejection, just enough that he could make eye contact. “You keep specifying a 'man.' Was one of your exes transgender?”

“Very good!” John dropped a quick kiss on Sherlock's mouth, then reached for his trousers. “Dated her at uni, for almost a year.” He dropped to his knees and tugged Sherlock's trousers and pants down, relishing the way Sherlock's knees quaked. “She only let me suck her off once or twice, but it was absolutely glorious.”

Sherlock was flush against the wall, trousers halfway down his legs, looking more than ready for John to ravish him in any way he wanted, but the look in his eyes said he was only a second away from asking more irrelevant questions. Fuck that; I'm done talking, John decided. He leaned forward and slid his mouth down over Sherlock's cock.

And immediately had to grab a double handful of Sherlock's delectable arse, because Sherlock's knees buckled and he began to slide down the wall. John held him up and kept his hips pinned flat as he bobbed up and back down again. It had been too long, too many years. He must not have forgotten everything, though, because Sherlock was moaning at a volume which was sure to have Mrs. Hudson making pointed comments about the lack of soundproofing the next time she came up to their flat.

John couldn't be arsed to care, however. Not with Sherlock in his mouth. He withdrew just enough to flick his tongue over Sherlock's slit and play with the tip, then worked himself down as far as he could take. It took a few rounds to work up a good rhythm, but within minutes, Sherlock was fisting his hands in John's hair and John was having to hold Sherlock’s hips firmly back against the wall to keep him from thrusting harder than John was ready for.

“Easy,” he whispered on his next round of teasing licks. “Just let go, Sherlock.”

“Oh God, John, I feel like I'm going to-”

“Yes, come for me. Please.” John impaled his throat again on Sherlock's cock, and at the same time he shifted his hand so he could dig his thumbnail into Sherlock's perineum. The detective came apart with a shout.

John swallowed what he could and kept himself still until Sherlock's muscles unlocked and he sagged to the floor in an ungainly pile of bony limbs. Only then did John sit back on his heels and allow himself to look Sherlock over, thoroughly. He looked debauched and a bit alarmed and completely boneless.

“Christ, John, that was . . . yeah.”

John snorted. “Yeah.”

“I can't believe we – I never noticed–”

“That your -” - John was about to say infatuation - “- interest – was reciprocated?”

“Something like that.”

“I suppose I haven't been the most forthcoming about my sexual history.” He darted a glance at Sherlock's face, still flushed with the after-effects of his orgasm. “Then again, it's not usually the kind of thing flatmates necessarily discuss, you know?”

“Neither are murders, normally,” Sherlock answered. And then sobered. “Would it be Not Good of me to ask?”

John licked his lips and thought. “For other people, perhaps, but I don't mind. You're curious about me and Marissa.”

Sherlock gave a tiny nod.

“She was . . . nice. Fucked-up home life like me, good student, and the first person I'd ever known who truly didn't give a shit what other people thought of her. Which was good, because most people seem to be idiots.”

“I've long held that opinion,” Sherlock said dryly.

“Yes, well.” John shifted so he could sit flat on the floor and lean back against Sherlock's armchair. “Dating her was like dating any other woman, apart from the obvious anatomy issues.”

“I've observed that most people wouldn't find that a minor issue.”

John shrugged. “It was mostly no big deal. The biggest thing was she didn't like me touching her cock, which is why I only got to blow her once or twice. But she loved me inside her – my cock, my fingers, my tongue. We made it work.”

Purely by chance, John happened to look up as he finished his comment. And so he saw the way Sherlock bit his lip and shivered.

“That.”

“Hmmm?” John figured he knew exactly what Sherlock was referring to, but -

“You said if I guessed the answer to your little paradox, you'd let me choose what to do next. And I want that.”

“You said you never guess.”

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. “Deduced, then.” His expression was immediately replaced by one of hesitation. “That is, if you still want to -”

John reached out and grabbed one of Sherlock's hands and placed it directly on the bulge in his trousers. “Does this look like I still want to?”

Sherlock's mouth fell open.

And John gave him no time to recover. “Here's what I want you to do,” he said in his best no-nonsense-Sherlock-seriously-I-mean-it voice. “I want you to go take the fastest shower of your life. I want you to think about whether this is really what you want. And if it is, I want you to come upstairs when you're done. Just in your towel. Because I'll be lying naked on my bed and thinking about just how many ways I want to get inside of you. But you need a few minutes to ramp back up and I need a few to cool down if we want this to last more than two minutes, and I have no intention of letting you dither your way out of my bed unless you actually don't want to be there.”

Sherlock swallowed hard. “I – I don't have much experience with this, John.”

“Yeah, I figured.” John shot to his knees so he could press a quick-and-dirty kiss to Sherlock's lips. “I'm pretty sure most of my dating experience will transfer over, though, and I've got enough for the both of us.”

Chapter Text

John tore up the stairs and gave a silent prayer of thanks that he kept his bedroom orderly most of the time. It only took a minute to tidy up the rest of the way, strip the quilt off the bed and toss it (neatly folded) in the closet so it wouldn’t get anything on it, and to dig out the lube and condoms he optimistically kept on hand for the rare occasions he ever had a date come back to the flat. Which had been . . . oh, twice, maybe, but it was good to be prepared.

Sherlock took forever in the shower. John toed off his shoes and socks immediately, but decided he’d rather wait and worry while clothed, thankyouverymuch. Was Sherlock having second thoughts? It wouldn’t be like him - Sherlock rarely admitted being wrong, and second thoughts would very definitely fall into that vein - but then sex wasn’t particularly like him, either. John stared at the ceiling and felt rather like he had when he was a teenager: horny, desperate, and terrified that he was going to fuck everything up. Self-doubt was great for killing an erection, as it turned out.

With effort, John dragged his thoughts back around to Sherlock. Who was currently naked. In the shower. After having come with his rather spectacular cock in John’s mouth. Oh, yes, that was perfect for rekindling that lick of heat inside him. Was he washing as fast as possible, John wondered, or was he taking his time to enjoy the feel of his hands over his own body and imagining John in there with him? Was he still as fixated on that blow job as John was?

John abruptly realized the flat was silent - Sherlock had turned off the water. He jumped off the bed and shucked his clothes hurriedly, tossing them into the closet and closing the door rather than folding them neatly to re-wear or tossing them in the hamper to wash later. By the time Sherlock appeared in the doorway, white towel draped around his waist, John was back on the bed and just as naked as he had promised.

“I was worried you might have changed your mind,” Sherlock admitted.

“Me too.”

Sherlock licked his lips and pointedly looked away from John’s nude body and the bed. “I - I don’t know -”

His hesitation was writ clearly across his face, and in a flash John realized. It wasn’t about the sex. It wasn’t nervousness about fucking or shyness over John seeing his body. It was pure fear of emotions. Sherlock didn’t like being out of control, didn’t like not knowing more than everyone else in the room, and this was very definitely out of his area of expertise. And the sooner John took over, the sooner Sherlock could start to relax and enjoy it.

John rolled up to a kneeling position. “Trust me?”

Sherlock met his eyes and nodded once.

“Good. Right then.” John stepped off the bed and went to stand toe-to-toe with Sherlock. He had to look up uncomfortably far to keep eye contact, but it wasn’t hard to reach up and fist his hand in Sherlock’s damp curls, dragging his head down for a sharp kiss. Sherlock tensed the moment John’s hand tightened in his hair, but then he visibly relaxed and absolutely melted into the kiss.

“I’m going to be a bit rough,” John growled against Sherlock’s throat, “but you’re going to love it. Let me lead for a while and I’ll give you a wealth of data on what this can be like. You can analyze it all in your mind palace later.”

“Fuck yes.” Sherlock swallowed hard, and John couldn’t resist nibbling a bit at that Adam’s apple bobbing right in front of his face. Sherlock was desperate already, managing to radiate tension while still clinging limply to John’s shoulders, and John decided enough was enough.

“Bed.” He whirled Sherlock around and gave him a shove, causing him to stumble gracelessly and faceplant sideways over the edge of John’s mattress.

“Mmph.”

John tore the towel off him without preamble, baring Sherlock’s tightly muscled backside. Figures he’d have no extra padding there either. John tossed the towel in the general direction of the closet and leaned in closer, brushing the insides of his thighs against the back of Sherlock’s. He let his palms drift lightly over the planes of Sherlock’s back, feeling out his skin’s textures from the nape of his neck to the gentle curve at the small of his back and then lower, to cup Sherlock’s arse with both hands.

“How the hell do you still have such perfect skin?” John asked. “With the number of times I’ve had to patch you up after cases, it would serve you right if you were a constant mass of bruises and scar tissue.”

“Good reflexes,” Sherlock mumbled into the mattress.

“Bullshit. You’ve just been lucky.” John kneaded again, possessively, then trailed one fingertip to the top of Sherlock’s crack. “So are you over your crush on me yet, or shall I keep going?”

Sherlock wriggled backwards, pressing his arse up against John’s questing finger. “Not a crush - you make me sound like I’m twelve. Damn it, John, just fuck me already!”

John grinned and trailed his finger up and down a bit more. “So demanding - I see you haven’t learned the value in waiting yet. Or in listening.”

“I don’t want to wait, I want to- mnngh!”

John drew back, admiring the perfect bite mark he had just left on Sherlock’s right shoulderblade. Nothing that wouldn’t fade in a day or two, of course, but sharp enough to focus Sherlock’s attention on him. And to leave nice, visible proof of John on that pale skin. “You promised to let me lead,” he warned. “And I want to draw this out a bit.” He reached for the lube, slicked up his finger, and let it slide up and down the length of Sherlock’s crack. “You like this?” he asked.

“God, yes,” Sherlock groaned. “More.”

“How about here?” John circled the tight skin of Sherlock’s hole, wriggling his finger in little teasing thrusts.

“Yes, John, please!”

John added a bit more lube and eased his fingertip inside. Sherlock was warm and oh, so deliciously tight - and now he was making the most amazing noises. John’s cock was very definitely hard now, straining and eager, but John forced himself to focus on Sherlock’s body first.

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard those sounds coming from you before,” he said.

Sherlock just keened and thrust his hips backwards, impaling himself further on John’s finger.

“Easy,” John murmured. “Let your body get used to the feeling - there’s no race.” He slid his finger in more, millimeter by millimeter, until it was fully inside Sherlock and Sherlock was quivering around it. A thought struck him. “Have you ever done this before?”

“Define ‘this,” Sherlock replied, his voice an octave lower than usual.

“Ever had anyone’s fingers up your arse?”

“Then no.” He squirmed again, which must have also provided some much-needed friction against his cock (judging by the immediate groan). “I - mmf - I’ve only gone as far as what we did before, downstairs.”

“Good.” John didn’t bother to hide the expression he knew must be showing on his face. “I rather like being your first. How does it feel?”

“Feels fucking fantastic, what do you think? Please, John!”

John took pity on him and lubed up another finger, sliding it in alongside the first. Sherlock tensed at the intrusion, but relaxed almost immediately.

“Oh God - I need -”

John twirled his fingers inside Sherlock and there - Sherlock’s abrupt cry let him know he had found the right place.

“Fuck, John! That was-”

John brushed his prostate again, and Sherlock’s words were engulfed by another low moan. It only took whisper-light touches to make Sherlock cry out, and John filed that information away for future reference. He set up a rhythm - a firm stroke down Sherlock’s back with John’s other hand, then a deeper thrust with his fingers, then repeat. Sherlock was perfectly happy to be vocal, was practically sobbing by the time John couldn’t stand the wait anymore. He withdrew his fingers and grabbed for the condom.

“No, don’t stop, don’t-”

“Relax,” John said, slicking a palmful of lube over the latex once he had it properly in place. “I’m going to go slow, and you can tell me ‘stop’ or ‘wait’ at any time and I will. Let me set the pace, Sherlock, and I promise you won’t regret it.”

Sherlock dropped his forehead to the mattress, body all tense lines and sharp, bony angles. John lined himself up and nudged, just barely enough to slip the tip of his cock past the outermost ring of muscle.

“Christ, you’re so desperate for me. Good?”

“Good,” Sherlock mumbled. “More.”

John obliged, sliding slowly in until he was buried to the hilt and they were both quivering with need. He forced himself to hold perfectly still, though, waiting for a sign that Sherlock was ready -

“I won’t break - get on with it!”

John huffed out a breath of what would have been laughter if he hadn’t been buried balls-deep in his flatmate’s arse. “Brat,” he said. “Fine, I’m moving, but hold on.”

He grabbed Sherlock’s hips for balance, but there was no need. Sherlock was moaning obscenely, now, arse in the air and bent over John’s bed in what couldn’t have been a comfortable position, long-term, but John didn’t give a fuck at the moment. All he could focus on was the smooth slide of slick heat against his cock and the tense flutter of muscles - inside and out - as Sherlock battled to take more of him. He changed his angle slightly and was rewarded with a hoarse shout as he grazed Sherlock’s prostate.

Yeah, there was no way he was going to last like this. John reached around and palmed Sherlock’s cock, pulling Sherlock’s body further back from the bed so only his chest and shoulders were laying on the mattress. Sherlock was panting now, hanging onto fistfuls of John’s sheets as he leaned back against the counterweight of John’s thrusts. John let go for a moment, just long enough to squirt another dollop of lube on his palm, then returned his hand to Sherlock’s cock for a long, tight stroke down his length. Sherlock shouted incoherently and buried his face into the bedsheets.

But that wasn’t what John wanted - he wanted to hear him come. John leaned forward and grabbed a handful of Sherlock’s hair and yanked Sherlock’s head backward at a ninety-degree angle.

“No hiding - come for me, Sherlock. Let me hear you. Christ, I’m so close -”

Sherlock let out a strangled yell, thrust into John’s fist, and came. The spasms against Johns cock pushed him over the edge, too, until finally they were both sagging against the mattress and in danger of losing their balance.

John extricated himself carefully, tied off and tossed the condom in his bedside trash, and hauled Sherlock up to lie beside him on the bed. They both sprawled there on their backs, not moving or talking, until Sherlock finally rolled himself to his side and propped his head up on his elbow.

“I think you should know, John - that was really rather gay.”

John’s laugh sputtered out of him before he could stop it. “I did realize that, yes. Worth it, though.”

Sherlock’s smile remained, but his eyes sobered. “So you really don’t mind - with me -”

“No.” John captured one of Sherlock’s hands with his own, stroking the backs of Sherlock’s knuckles with the pads of his fingers. “And I really don’t mind the label either, truth be told, although being public about this will make things messy if you really do expect you’ll get bored with me soon.”

“I -” Sherlock licked his lips. “You’re not boring, John. You are the least boring person in the entire world.”

“But am I a distraction? That’s the part that bothered you most, right?”

Sherlock frowned thoughtfully. “It still does, but not as much as it did - well, before. It seems the difference between anticipation and appreciation allows for a significant change in the quantity of my thought processes necessary to analyze . . . well, you. Us.”

“So what do you want to do?”

“Cock, fingers, and tongue.”

John blinked. “Mmm?”

“You said your ex liked your cock, fingers, and tongue inside her. We’ve done two of the three. Which means there’s one more left for next time.”

John traced his tongue over his lips in what he hoped was a suggestive manner - and it was, if the way Sherlock’s eyes immediately locked onto his mouth was any indication. “I suppose that could be arranged,” John said slowly. “Provided you make a good-faith effort not to piss me off too much between now and then.”

“Please, John, when am I anything but accommodating?”

John snorted and pressed a quick kiss on Sherlock’s lips. “I’m not going to answer that.”