Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“John, may I ask you a somewhat uncomfortable question?”

John looked up from his book in surprise. They were sitting companionably in their respective chairs by the fire, sipping the tea Mrs. Hudson had brought up earlier. It was cozy and homelike, and the perfect time for Sherlock to make his first move.

It was supposed to be temporary, John here at Baker Street, though Sherlock was certainly not going to make a fuss. Even a somewhat distant John who spent more time at his surgery than he did with Sherlock was better than no John at all, or worse, a John who wouldn’t see or speak with him. A John who was so angry, he’d—but no, that was done now. It had been six months since he and Rosie had taken up residence in John’s old room. A part of Sherlock hoped that if he never said anything, temporary would become permanent, but at heart he knew their departure was inevitable. If nothing else, Rosie would eventually outgrow her cot.

John sold the flat where he’d lived with Mary—too many memories, he’d said. Sherlock welcomed him back eagerly (trying to hide just exactly how eager and pleased he really was, and he believed, mostly succeeding at doing so), all the while knowing he wouldn’t have them for long. And then he’d be alone, again.

He was grateful for John’s presence in his life, but it had most definitely been easier before he knew what he was missing. He’d scoffed at sentiment and human companionship for most of his life, and now he longed for it, missed it when it was gone.

Sherlock had spent the last six months soaking up as much of John as he could, filing the good bits (and most of the other bits as well) away in the room he kept for John in his Mind Palace: John in the mornings before his tea, all sleep-rumpled and grumpy. John when he was several drinks in, cheerful and overly affectionate. John when he was yelling at Sherlock for something or other. John when he was with Rosie, loving and solid, kissing her on the cheek and making her giggle. He’d even started building a small room for Rosie herself, who recognized both his face and voice now, and had started babbling at him in her indecipherable baby language. Sherlock badly wished he could understand her, and was seriously contemplating learning sign language, as he’d read a fascinating article that claimed babies could communicate before they learned to form words. He thought it would be a grand experiment. (He hadn’t anticipated the fascination of having a brand new mind to study and observe when Rosie was first born. He couldn’t underestimate it now.)

But while he’d been soaking up all the John-ness that he could, he had also begun to notice, well, things. John was, of course, not the same as he’d been when he’d lived with Sherlock the first time. It had been years and so much had happened . . . but nevertheless. He was right about this; he just needed more data to confirm his hypothesis.

“Yeah, all right,” said John, putting his book down and gazing fondly at Rosie, who was on her back under that absurd baby playmat with the dangly bits (Sherlock had replaced several of these with more scientifically accurate versions of the animals and insects represented, but neither John or Rosie had been pleased, and they had been removed).

Sherlock had been thinking of the best way to start this conversation now for days, and he hoped the words he’d settled on would get him the information he needed. He’d thought up a hundred different ways to trick this information out of John, but in the end had settled on simply asking him.

“When do you think you will begin seeing women again socially? Is a year too soon? If you’re to remain here, there are things we should discuss,” Sherlock said. He’d said this as confidently as he’d done when he’d imagined this conversation, but he felt himself faltering now under the calm scrutiny of John’s gaze.

John took pity on him, thankfully, as John often did in such situations, though he was clearly uncomfortable. “It’s fine, Sherlock. I’m glad you asked, instead of, well, you know.”

Sherlock did, and mentally congratulated himself for having gotten that bit right at least.

John leaned his head back and closed his eyes. Perhaps it was easier for him to speak this way. He always closed his eyes or looked away from Sherlock when speaking of Mary. Sherlock didn’t mind. As someone who had only recently begun to accept and experience his own baser human emotions, he often found himself overwhelmed by them. If John needed to look away in order to say important things to Sherlock, then by all means.

John spoke.

“Actually, I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately,” said John. “I don’t think I’m going to do it anymore. Er, date, that is. I think that part of my life is over. I’m done.”

Sherlock was genuinely surprised. He’d known before he asked that John wasn’t yet ready to start up that whole ridiculous rigamarole again, but he hadn’t been expecting 'never' as his answer. He’d thought maybe two more years, three at most, and the revolving door of women would start up again, but this was unexpected. Sherlock didn’t know what to say. He hadn’t prepared for this, and John looked so deflated. As if he’d come to a conclusion he didn’t like, but accepted it nonetheless.

Sherlock re-calibrated. This unexpected development was to his favor, and might actually confirm his current hypothesis (and support an eventual solution) even more soundly than two or three more years of grief-induced celibacy, followed by endless parades of unsuitable women. He still needed more data.

“But what about . . .” Sherlock trailed off, unable to complete the sentence. John opened his eyes, which made it worse. The corners of his mouth tilted slightly upwards. He knew Sherlock was uncomfortable with this avenue of conversation, and he wasn’t going to rescue him this time. He was going to watch Sherlock squirm.

“Surely you haven’t changed so much in the years we’ve lived apart, John,” Sherlock managed, recovering himself. “You’ve always been,” Sherlock paused a fraction of a second to search for the right word, “ . . . voracious.”

John was definitely fighting off a smile now. He was going to make Sherlock say it, he was going to—

“I’m sorry,” said John, his face the picture of innocence, “I don’t think I quite catch your meaning.”

“You have certain needs, I know this about you. You require food and sleep at regular intervals, you require a little bit of danger, and you require a more human element.”

John betrayed nothing, gave Sherlock nothing.

“That is, to say . . . sex.”

“Sex,” repeated John. Infuriating.

“You heard me perfectly well!”

He was flustered. This wasn’t going well. He would never get the data he needed if John wouldn’t comply to his perfectly structured social engineering!

“Er, Sherlock, I know it’s not really your area, married to your work and all, but you do know that sex and dating aren’t mutually exclusive?”

“Yes, John,” Sherlock huffed, knowing he was only giving John what he wanted.

Rosie chose that moment to let out a piercing shriek, and John checked his watch.

“Somebody’s ready for bed, aren’t you, my darling?” said John to the baby as he bent and scooped her up from the floor. She cuddled into his neck and began blowing spit bubbles. John was entirely unfazed.

Sherlock knew from experience that if she wasn’t seen to at this stage, the shrieks would increase in frequency and duration until she was red in the face and very hard to manage. John had shown him how to put her to bed soon after moving in, knowing there might be nights when it was just Rosie and Sherlock. He found the process comforting, and he didn’t even mind the singing. Sherlock wished he was going up with them now.

As John passed him, he put a hand lightly on Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Don’t worry about me. I’m a big boy. If I need, you know,” he mouthed the word ‘sex’ so Rosie wouldn’t hear, “I can just go down the pub, or use one of those hook-up thingies.”

“John, she is an infant, she doesn’t understand you. And sex shouldn’t be—”

“Good night, Sherlock,” said John, leaving the room before Sherlock could finish.

“Good night, John.”

He retreated to his room. He had some thinking to do.

- - -

It took Sherlock almost a week to work up to the next bit. It was crucial he get the wording just right. If John accepted his proposal, he would need to betray nothing but casual enthusiasm and nonchalance, as if offers like his were made every day, and it was nothing to make a big deal of. If, however, John rejected him, Sherlock would need to keep every bit of his no doubt fierce disappointment locked away tight. He would need to act as if the offer were still on the table, but he wasn’t fussed John hadn’t accepted.

He didn’t believe John would reject him; he’d thought out the variables as far as he could, but there was always something. He had to be prepared. The consequences to his friendship with John, should he foul this all up, could be disastrous.

It was another quiet night at Baker Street (Sherlock was more and more coming to appreciate these, since John was here again). John had just finished putting Rosie to bed, and Sherlock had made him a cuppa while he sang and read to her and gave her a quick cuddle. John looked pleased when Sherlock handed it to him. Sherlock did occasionally make tea now they were living together again, but he didn’t do it very often.

“Er, thanks,” said John, taking a sip and getting comfy in his chair.

They sat in the quiet for a while. Sherlock didn’t want to rush it.

Finally, he spoke, setting down his own half drunk cup.

“John, I have a proposal for you.”

His hands were folded in his lap, and his legs were crossed. He was the picture of nonchalance.

“Yeah?”

“Yes, and I would appreciate it if you would hear me out completely before you say anything.”

John’s eyebrows went up. “All right.”

“It has come to my notice of late that you are more than usually sexually frustrated. No, don’t even try and deny it. You are irritable. In the last two months, your shower time has doubled, and when you see an attractive woman on TV, especially one in a sexual situation, you have taken to ‘calling it a night’. You did this three days ago at seven o’clock. From this, I can only conclude that your masturbation habits have significantly increased. Your internet bookmarks would also indicate increased sexual frustration.

“But why only these last two months? What has prompted this change in behavior? I hypothesized that you were ready to move on physically, but not emotionally, but I will admit it came as something of a shock when you confessed you felt you would never be ready. When we previously cohabitated, when you would develop all of these indicators, you would simply go ‘on the pull’, and you would be back to your cheerful, annoyingly affable self until whatever girlfriend of the month got fed up with me and ditched you, but that has not happened here for obvious reasons.”

John’s eyebrows had climbed nearly to his hairline as Sherlock spoke, but he hadn’t interrupted, so Sherlock continued.

“You told me last week that I was not to worry, that you would take care of your own needs, but the evidence does not support that being a probable outcome. You require sex and human affection to be happy, but you rarely favored so-called 'one night stands' when you were single, and I don’t believe experiencing the benefits of an emotionally fulfilling, monogamous relationship has given you more of a taste for them. Rather the opposite, I would think. You are monogamous by nature. Additionally, you have just recently confirmed to me that you have no intention of dating in the future. Therefore, it seems unlikely that you will be able to obtain the level of sex you require, if dating and relationships are not an option, and your chances of a one night liaison are slim to none.”

Sherlock swallowed and met John’s eyes.

“As you know, recent events have led to my reevaluating some things. Though I have cultivated my logical mind extensively, I have been repressing certain parts of my biology and my emotions, as I believed them a liability, and a waste of time. As you are also aware, I have realized this attitude has been quite harmful to me, and have been taking steps to correct it.”

John tried to speak, “Sherlock . . .”

“Please, John, let me finish. I’m almost to the point.”

John sat back.

“I propose a mutually beneficial arrangement. You are in need of sex and companionship, and that is an area of my life that until now I have almost completely ignored. I admit that I find myself curious to explore it. Nothing else in our relationship would change. When you find yourself in need of the release that sex provides, I will oblige you. You will feel happier and more fulfilled, and I will satisfy my curiosity. If either one of us becomes dissatisfied with the arrangement at any time, we can stop and resume the normal course of our friendship.”

For a moment, there was nothing but a blank silence that felt markedly different from the quiet peace from just minutes before. John’s face was indescribable. Sherlock knew he hadn’t been expecting anything of the sort to fall from Sherlock’s lips and was probably still trying to formulate a response. Sherlock fought hard to maintain his outward calm, though his insides were roiling. It was nearly unbearable.

“That’s it; you may speak now.”

But John did not speak, not yet.

Finally, he sighed in exasperation. “Sherlock, what the hell. Are you seriously proposing that we, that we have sex?”

Sherlock couldn’t hide the hurt that crossed his face. “Of course I’m serious, John. Why would I joke about such a thing?”

John had risen from his chair, obviously unable to contain himself, and began pacing about the room, his hands clutching his hair.

“You do realize this is the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“There’s no need to be hurtful, John.”

Some of the real pain in Sherlock’s voice must have reached John, because he stopped pacing and stood staring at Sherlock, still clutching his hair.

“I assure you I am in earnest, and if you genuinely have no interest, by all means decline and no harm done. But I know my physical form does not repel you, and I would not have made such a proposal if I did not think there was a chance it would be accepted, no matter how often you proclaim your heterosexuality to anyone who will listen. I think such labels are beyond us now, don’t you?”

John continued to stare at him.

“I’m not expecting a decision right now. But please do actually consider the offer, and don’t dismiss it out of hand. Can you at least tell me you’ll think about it?”

John’s hands were now fisted at his sides, and his hair was stuck up on the sides of his head. He looked somewhat deranged.

“Yeah,” said John, “I can do that.”

“Good,” said Sherlock. “I’m for bed now. Molly promised if I popped in early enough tomorrow she’d let me have a look at the man with the parasitic twin.”

This statement triggered John in just the way Sherlock had been hoping it would. Scolding Sherlock for inappropriate behavior was familiar territory.

“Oi,” said John, “be respectful now! He’s not some spectacle for you to ogle. He’s a person whose life has just ended. And don’t go asking Molly if you can bring back bits of him to examine, either. I do not want to find any small formerly parasitic men stashed in the butter dish.”

“Yes, mummy,” said Sherlock, rolling his eyes, then beat a hasty retreat for his room before John could see his carefully constructed mask of calm completely shatter.

He spent the rest of the night lying awake in his bed, imagining every possible future scenario for John’s answer, telling himself surely John wouldn’t have reacted so outlandishly if Sherlock’s proposal hadn’t hit a nerve.

- - -

The next week was made of agony. Normally Sherlock would take out his frustration on the mantelpiece, or the walls, or on John, but all three would be counterproductive in this particular instance. Lestrade delivered zero cases, and nothing of any interest whatsoever had come in over email. The parasitic twin distracted him for a small period of time, but even the small, perfectly articulated skull attached to the dead man’s back could not entirely overcome the roiling in his gut.

When would John give him an answer? How long could he possibly need? How much longer was Sherlock going to have to wait?

And all the while he had to act infuriatingly normal, as if he wasn’t waiting at all times to hear John say, “Why yes, Sherlock, I do think we should have a shag. Your bed or mine?”

Sherlock endeavored to be as normal as possible. He vaguely insulted John’s intelligence, blew something up in the microwave, and screeched incomprehensible tunes on his violin (Rosie was very amused by this, and joined in with screeches of her own), but his heart wasn’t in any of it. How long did a person need to THINK? Surely this decision would have taken minutes at most for Sherlock.

John, meanwhile, seemed to be acting as if their conversation had never happened.

Sherlock was sat at the kitchen table seven evenings later, looking into his microscope when John came into the kitchen. He had yet to look up from his mold cultures, when John spoke.

“Did you mean it?” asked John.

Sherlock gave John his full attention.

“Of course.”

John met his eyes.

“Then yes. Er, my answer that is. Is yes.”

Chapter Text

“So how’s this going to work then?” asked John later that night.

“Surely you don’t wish me to explain the mechanics to you.”

A tight grin from John, a smirk back from Sherlock.

“No, you absolute tit. I’m serious. If we’re going to do this, there should be rules of some sort.”

“Yes, I’ve already considered this,” said Sherlock, steepling his fingers under his chin. ”I don’t believe the arrangement should require strict guidelines, but I do have some stipulations.”

“Which are?”

“One, that each sexual encounter should be fully desired by both parties. Two, either party can initiate. Three, we will only engage in sexual relations at night when Rosie is asleep, or when she is out of the house.”

John smiled. “Yes, that one probably could have gone unmentioned, but I suppose it’s nice to have it said aloud anyway. Did you have more?”

“Only that both of us are clear that this will be a sexual relationship only, it will not affect our friendship, and that either of us can end it at any time should the arrangement become undesirable.”

John just looked at Sherlock for a moment, and then he spoke.

“I’ve done the whole friends with benefits thing before, and it can work, if you’re honest with your partner from the start about your expectations and your boundaries, and if you’re honest, you know, during.”

“Friends with benefits?” asked Sherlock, then immediately waved it away, “No, never mind, understandable from context.”

Sherlock went on, purposefully not answering John’s implied question, hoping John would leave it.

“Do you have any issues with my stipulations?” he asked.

“No,” said John, “but I would like to add one.”

“All right,” said Sherlock, and he looked down at his lap.

“Any ‘encounter’ will not end until both of us have come.”

Sherlock’s cheeks instantly began to burn.

“We cannot know the circumstances of every sexual encounter we will have, John. It might not be wise to set such a potentially unmeetable rule.”

“Hey, Sherlock, look at me.”

Sherlock did, begrudgingly, his face still flushed. Could John see?

“I know you framed this as a mutually beneficial arrangement, and I would very much like that to be the reality, but I also know that you don’t have much experience with this sort of thing.”

“John, I am no virgin.”

John held up his hand.

“I didn’t say you were. What I meant is that you, by your own admittance to me seven days ago as you sat right in that very chair, have been functionally celibate for most of your adult life, and we both know that relationships of any sort have never really been your area.”

“John—”

“Sherlock, I’m serious.” He met Sherlock’s eyes. “If we’re going to do this, it’s going to be for both of us, and that means we both get off, every time. Agreed?”

A pause while Sherlock considered. John was not letting him look away. He wondered what John would think of him, what his reaction would be if he knew that Sherlock was already holding something back from him. That the parity John was striving for was already hopelessly lost. Had been lost for months. If he knew what Sherlock truly desired of him. Sherlock was certain he knew what John would say, how he would react, without having to ask. It would mean no arrangement. It might mean no John at all.

“Agreed.”

“Good,” said John. “That’s good.”

There was a protracted silence. Now it was John who wouldn’t look at Sherlock. He seemed to be fascinated with the space directly over the mantelpiece. He crossed his legs.

Sherlock cocked his head to the side.

“You wish to have sex right now. You’re aroused.”

John closed his eyes and tipped his head so it rested on the back of his chair.

“Never any tact,” he sighed.

“That wasn’t a ‘no’. This arrangement will never work if you can’t even speak to me about it.”

Another large sigh from John.

“It’s just, now doesn’t seem exactly the best time.”

“How would you know? You’ve not even asked me.”

And with that, Sherlock was up from his chair and kneeling in front of John, who opened his eyes wide.

“Yes or no?” asked Sherlock, his voice low in his throat.

“Yes,” said John, very quickly.

Sherlock grabbed John’s calves, right in the space below the hollow of his knees, and pulled him forward so that he was slouched down in the chair, and Sherlock was nestled in the vee of his legs.

He touched John.

The warmth of John’s skin through his trousers, as Sherlock’s hands smoothed up John’s legs. The coolness of his belt buckle, warmed underneath from the heat of his body, and the quiet buzz of his zipper coming undone. Sherlock’s belly rested against the squashy upholstery of John’s chair, as he unwrapped John like a present. He slid the trousers down John’s thighs along with his pants, smoothed his palms up John’s abdomen to push the tails of John’s shirt up and away.

The saliva pooled in Sherlock’s mouth. He wanted.

“It’s been some time since I’ve done this,” said Sherlock. “Tell me to stop if you don’t like it.”

John’s breath was coming in short gasps, and his penis was hardening even as Sherlock watched. It was very nice, John's penis. Thick and sturdy, like John.

“Really don’t think that will be a problem,” said John, right as Sherlock took him into his mouth.

“Oh, fuck,” said John, and Sherlock felt as one of John’s hands curled into his hair, cupping the back of his head. Goosepimples spread from the contact point all the way down to Sherlock’s tailbone, down his arms practically to the tips of his fingers. He moaned onto John’s cock, and John thrust up into Sherlock’s mouth in response. Sherlock gagged a little, but didn’t pull off.

He’d been waiting so long for this, to be allowed to taste, to smell, to touch.

Everything was John, but more.

Later, he wasn’t sure how long it lasted, only that he had been completely absorbed in his task, though he guessed it hadn’t lasted very long. It had been over a year since John had anything more than his own hand to work with, and the warmth of Sherlock’s mouth, the movements of his tongue, his lips (tight suction, up and down, swirling around the head, lapping up drops of pre-come), would feel wonderful. Sherlock liked the idea of making John feel wonderful.

He certainly smelled wonderful, Sherlock remembered that. Everything about that instance of fellatio was wonderful for Sherlock. John was warm and musky from being under his clothes all day. The wiry fuzz of his pubic hair tickled Sherlock’s lips and cheek. The smooth glide of John’s foreskin under his tongue, the thick fullness of John pulsing as he came right in Sherlock’s mouth, the bitter tang of his semen afterwards. All lovely and new.

“Fuck,” said John, again. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know,” said Sherlock, wiping the corner of his mouth with his fingers.

John took a deep breath, then pulled up his pants and tucked himself away.

“All right, your turn,” evidently wanting Sherlock to stand so he could return the favor.

Sherlock blushed. He’d never blushed in his life before today, but he was blushing now. He was practically curled up into a ball at John’s feet, and was finding it unexpectedly difficult to look him in the eye.

“That’s not necessary, John.”

“Oh, no. Remember the rules? I come, you come.”

“Yes, John, what I mean is that I have already done so.”

Sherlock’s own penis had hardened in his pants, throbbing with every new angle, every thrust of John’s lovely cock in his mouth. When John had tugged rather urgently on Sherlock’s hair, trying in vain to pull him off before he came, Sherlock had moaned and come in his pants, completely overstimulated.

John’s eyes glanced quickly downward to Sherlock’s lap, and then back up again. Sherlock’s erection had now clearly gone, and in its place was a blooming patch of wetness.

“Oh,” said John. “Well, next time, then.”

He rose, necessitating Sherlock to rise as well, which he did with as much grace as he could muster, his pants sticking to his skin. It was extremely uncomfortable.

They both stood there awkwardly, not speaking, but clearly both wishing it were otherwise.

“Well, then,” said John at last, “thanks for that.”

Was Sherlock now supposed to say, “You’re welcome”? It seemed an inappropriate response to a sexual encounter that had made him prematurely ejaculate while still wearing his trousers.

He ended up saying it anyway, then headed to the loo to clean himself up in as dignified a way as he could manage.

- - -

Their second encounter occurred the next night. Sherlock was sat on the sofa watching a nature documentary about honeybees when John joined him.

Normally when they watched telly together, John sat a respectable distance away, but now John was sitting rather close.

“Good one?” he asked Sherlock.

Sherlock nodded, somewhat wary of looking at John after what they’d done the night before. He was still partially afraid that John would be able to tell what he was really thinking, even though he knew logically John didn’t have that capability.

After a bit, John spoke again.

“So, er, about last night . . .”

“It’s fine, John.”

“You don’t even know what I’m going to say.”

“I assume it’s about your lack of reciprocation. The inequality, as you see it, is bothering you.”

John sighed, “Well yes, of course you would know what I was going to say.”

There was more silence.

“Up for it?” asked John.

Sherlock’s heart quickened.

“Yes,” he said.

“Right, don’t move. Just keep watching your program,” said John.

Sherlock immediately wanted to move.

He felt John scoot closer towards him; John was warm against his side. The nature documentary was featuring a man who was being followed through the desert by a swarm of so-called killer bees. The man was being stung through his protective suit. Had been stung fourteen times so far.

John unfastened Sherlock’s trousers, pulled down the zip, and put his hand down Sherlock’s pants.

It was a struggle to keep his eyes open, not to make an obscene noise, to be as still as possible and record this moment forever for his Mind Palace.

John’s hand cupped his penis. The warmth and friction and John of it all caused his penis to harden. John’s hand moved, grasping Sherlock’s penis firmly; the up and down motion made Sherlock’s breath hitch. Everything was beginning to pulse.

This went on for a bit.

John’s hand left his penis and Sherlock almost cried out at the loss, but it soon became apparent that John had only stopped in order to move Sherlock’s loosened trousers further down, leaving Sherlock’s erection exposed to the open air. He could feel his testicles resting just under the band of his underwear.

“Hand cramp,” John said, once again grasping Sherlock’s penis. This time Sherlock couldn't help it. He let out a sort of whimper that turned into a sharp intake of breath as John ran his thumb over the slit, gathering up the pre-come that had begun to leak out, and using it to lubricate his thumb as it continued making circular motions. When it passed over Sherlock’s frenulum, Sherlock thrust up with his hips and let his head fall back onto the sofa. His face and genitals were warm with blood.

John seemed to understand; he increased his pace and tightened his grip. Sherlock’s breathing was heavy and loud. The bee documentary droned on in the background.

It didn’t take long after that for Sherlock to achieve climax. John had pulled out a tissue from his pocket and caught the mess before it landed on Sherlock’s shirt. Sherlock’s vision was full of stars, and he was warm and sleepy. He lifted his hips automatically when John pulled his trousers back up and tucked him inside.

When Sherlock came back to himself, he remembered the terms of their agreement. John seemed to be intently focused on the bee documentary, but before Sherlock could say anything, reached down to unfasten his own trousers, and pushed them down. The tip of his erect prick was peeking out of the top of his pants.

Sherlock reached out for it, giving John’s penis the same treatment John had given his own, until John came into Sherlock’s cupped palm.

Sherlock wiped his hand on the same tissue John had used earlier, and they sat in silence for a while, neither of them watching the telly, but eyes fixed on it nevertheless.

“I’m going to head off,” said John, eventually. “Night, Sherlock.”

“Good night, John,” said Sherlock.

They hadn’t looked at each other once.

- - -

Much to Sherlock’s surprise, their third encounter didn’t happen until a week and a half later. He assumed upon reflection that John’s needs had been temporarily satisfied, and that he would initiate again when he needed to. Now that Sherlock had orgasmed—twice—with John, he was finding himself reluctant to be the initiator. There seemed a power in orgasms with John that orgasms by himself, or with his long ago partners, did not hold. Sherlock knew all too well what that power was, and shrunk back from it. He would wait for John.

It was on a Saturday night. John had gone out for drinks with Lestrade, and Sherlock had been left in charge of Rosie. He secretly cherished these nights alone with her, playing and trying to communicate with her, holding her and smelling the top of her baby soft head. He need not worry about anyone observing him as he allowed himself to experience the feelings she brought out in him. She was a safe space.

After he’d put her to bed, he’d puttered around the kitchen for a while, checking his samples, and then retreated to his own bed in defeat. He hadn’t really slept in a couple of days, just cat naps on the sofa now and then in between experiments, so he allowed himself the luxury of a long, hot shower, and then crawled into bed naked, his preferred sleeping attire when the weather allowed. The bed did feel quite lovely. Mrs. Hudson had been in sometime today and changed his sheets. They were clean and smelled of fabric softener. He breathed deeply and was out in a matter of minutes.

Several hours later, he was awoken by a tentative knock at his door, and a crack of bright light shining over his eyes. He blinked and saw John standing in the doorway, a sheepish expression on his face.

“Er, sorry, Sherlock. Uh, I knew you would be sleeping.”

Sherlock rolled towards the doorway, trying to focus his eyes on John.

“What is it, John? Is Rosie all right?”

“Yeah, she’s fine; just checked on her. Thank you for tonight.”

“You’re welcome,” said Sherlock, closing his eyes.

When John didn’t leave, he opened them again. “Was there something else?”

To his surprise, John had managed to make it to the side of his bed without Sherlock realizing. He was now kneeling so that his face was aligned with Sherlock’s, his chin resting on his hands as he gazed wide-eyed at Sherlock. His breath smelled faintly of beer and toothpaste, and he was clearly quite tipsy.

“Erm, hello,” said Sherlock.

“Hi,” said John, letting out a small, delirious giggle, and then whispered, “Can I fuck you?”

A jolt of adrenaline shot through Sherlock’s system and he was instantly alert, though he tried not to betray it on the outside. Looking calmly back at John, who looked rather adorably hopeful, he simply said, “All right.”

He watched as a slow, lewd smile appeared on John’s face, and then John was up like a shot, stumbling clumsily out of his clothes in his haste. Off came the shoes, socks, trousers, and jacket. Before he took off his shirt, he pulled a small packet of lubricant and a condom out of his chest pocket and threw them onto the bed with Sherlock, who had not moved in the slightest. He was mesmerized by this tipsy display of casual nudity. At last only his pants remained, and he crawled onto the bed. Sherlock rolled so that he was on his back, facing John, who promptly yanked down the single layer of bedding that covered Sherlock’s naked form.

Sherlock’s first instinct, despite his comfort with nudity, was to curl up into a ball and cover himself from John’s gaze. John was already quite aroused, judging by the bulge in his boxer briefs, and he was looking at Sherlock as if he were a particularly delicious meal.

Before Sherlock could make up his mind, John had grabbed a hold of Sherlock’s ankles, pulled him down the bed so that they were closer together, and settled so that Sherlock’s thighs rested atop his own. The position laid out Sherlock’s genitals for John’s perusal. Sherlock had never felt so exposed. He hissed in surprise as John brushed his thumb gently over Sherlock’s anus. A spike of lust shot through with nerves ran through him as the muscle automatically contracted. John’s gaze was calm and proprietary as he contemplated his next move.

“On your front,” said John, giving the side of Sherlock’s arse a light smack, with the easy confidence of the slightly drunk.

Sherlock complied, rolling over and resting his head on his arms, and waited for John. His heart was pounding in his chest. It had been a long time; he’d forgotten the horrific vulnerability of bottoming for another man.

He felt as John reached up for a pillow and propped it under Sherlock’s hips, raising Sherlock’s arse slightly into the air. His legs automatically shifted apart, and the cool air from the open window blew across his bare flesh.

John’s hands had come to rest on the globes of his arse, and he could hear John’s breath coming faster and harsher. One thumb again brushed down his tailbone and across his opening, while the other caressed the smooth, pale skin of his arse cheek.

“Tell me to stop if you don’t like it,” said John, echoing their first encounter, and that was all the warning he got before John’s mouth descended upon him.

Sensations of warmth and wetness narrowed his entire focus to that one spot on his body. He gasped a great lungful of air and then let it all out in a protracted, uncontrollable groan of pleasure. He’d never felt such a thing in his life. The surprise of it, the way John seemed to be ignoring entirely the vulgarity, the taboo nature of it, only heightened the feeling of John’s tongue as it stimulated one of the most densely nerved areas in Sherlock’s body. He was overwhelmed by it.

He found himself soon drifting on waves of electrified nerve endings, as John’s mouth on his anus seemed to be stimulating his entire body. Goosebumps covered his skin, his prick was stiff and dripping onto his pillow (onto Mrs. Hudson’s freshly clean sheets, his mind supplied), and for the first time in his memory, he lost track of the world. It all faded away, and everything was John and his mouth and the sensations that were being wrung from his body, beyond his control.

He almost didn’t notice when John pulled away briefly to slick up his fingers, so lost to the sensations of his body was he, but he did notice when John said, “Just one for now,” and pushed his index finger into Sherlock.

Soon he was up to two fingers, and then three. The feeling of fingers inside of him had been slightly disturbing at first, but he quickly grew used to them, remembering when John brushed his prostate how pleasurable anal intercourse could be, with a competent partner. He just lay there passively experiencing it, having turned his body over to John to do with it what he willed. It was a vaguely familiar feeling, similar to the high he got from drugs, but this was different. Warmer, more fleeting, but somehow also more real?

John withdrew his fingers, and Sherlock heard as he pulled his cock from his pants, rolled on the condom, and slicked it up. Sherlock wished he could turn around and see it, watch as John pushed himself inside of Sherlock, anticipating the stretch and the pleasant burn of it. He moaned and raised his hips up slightly, widening his stance and raising up on to his knees, effectively presenting himself to John.

“Fuck,” said John, grabbing Sherlock’s hips and clumsily bringing his erect penis to bump against Sherlock’s opening. The blunt head of it was warm and slick, and it made Sherlock want to laugh. But John managed it in the end, pushing into Sherlock in one smooth, hard thrust. It didn’t burn as much as Sherlock remembered, probably because of the analingus.

As soon as John entered him, the mood in the room shifted. John’s patience had run out, and something frantic and not a little aggressive had taken its place. His hands moved from their grip on Sherlock’s hips. He leaned forward over Sherlock’s prostrate body, right hand coming down in between Sherlock’s shoulder blades, the other on the bed next to Sherlock’s shoulder, and proceeded to fuck Sherlock into the mattress. Sherlock had never before quite taken the meaning of the phrase, but he understood it now as John’s prick claimed him forcefully. All of the blood in Sherlock’s body seemed to have gone to his erect penis, now uncontrollably leaking all over his pillow, and to his swollen opening. The sensations were almost painful, they were so heightened; he could feel himself tipping over the edge. He could feel every inch of John.

“Fucking fucking fuck,” said John, his vocabulary shot.

“John,” Sherlock managed to gasp, and like he had before, John seemed to understand instinctively what was happening, bringing the hand near Sherlock’s shoulder around and under to grasp Sherlock’s penis. Sherlock went off almost instantly, emptying semen over John’s hand and his pillow, his arse contracting around John’s still pistoning prick.

The force of Sherlock’s orgasm seemed to push John over the edge. With a few more forceful thrusts, he came, shooting into the condom, his breath heaving as he knelt over Sherlock. Both of them didn’t move, couldn’t move, as they came down. The encounter didn’t seem to have gone the way either of them expected. Sherlock could feel John’s penis softening inside him.

With a monstrous groan, John heaved himself up and eased himself out of Sherlock’s arse. He pulled the condom off and disposed of it in the bin by Sherlock’s nightstand.

Sherlock just lay there, still breathing heavily, his eyes closed. He didn’t even realize his hips were still in the air until John pulled the soiled pillow out from under him, and covered him with his sheet once again. Sherlock sunk down into the mattress, the muscles in his thighs and groin aching. His arse had a heartbeat.

“All right, Sherlock?” asked John, and put his hand lightly on Sherlock’s back. Tingles of comfort spread out from the contact, but John removed his hand and they went away.

With effort, Sherlock replied, “Yes, John, quite all right.”

It was easy to drift off, float away into the dark.

John didn’t know what to say. He got up, pulling his pants back up his hips, and stopped to pick up the rest of his clothes.

“Night then,” he said.

But Sherlock was already half asleep. John closed the door.

Chapter Text

As it turned out, there were weeks in between the tipsy bed sex and the next time John decided he needed sexual release with another person, but Sherlock wasn’t surprised this time by the delay. John seemed wary, almost ashamed of what he had done with Sherlock while slightly intoxicated. He was very polite to Sherlock for days afterwards, even when Sherlock was being extremely annoying on purpose to test him out. Sherlock supposed he needed to build up his courage again. Or perhaps, he was just not in the mood? Sherlock knew John was attracted to him, but attraction was fickle. He didn’t take it personally.

What did surprise Sherlock was that after one premature ejaculation in his pants, one hand job, and a frantic middle of the night bout of penetrative intercourse, Sherlock’s libido had awoken after a very long period of dormancy. Sherlock was horny, to use the common parlance. Everything gave him an erection. Or rather, everything about John.

When John got up in the morning and stretched on tiptoe to reach the mugs Sherlock had placed just out of reach for this very purpose, his t-shirt riding up and showing his belly and the dimples on his lower back, Sherlock got an erection. John stepping fresh out of the bathroom in the morning in nothing but bare feet and a robe gave Sherlock an erection. One particularly threadbare white t-shirt of John’s was so old that in just the right light, Sherlock could see John’s nipples, and he got an erection. John sucking on the tip of his pen whilst doing the crossword gave Sherlock an erection. John kissing Rosie on her neck and then giggling made Sherlock wish John would kiss him on the neck, and then he got an erection.

He found himself constantly leaving rooms in order to get rid of erections. It was highly inconvenient.

Long periods of time were thus spent leisurely pulling himself off to thoughts of the way John’s penis tasted in his mouth, or the way John’s tongue felt in Sherlock’s arsehole, or occasionally, what it might feel like for John to kiss him.

They hadn’t said anything about it or made it part of the rules, but kissing appeared to be off limits in their arrangement. Too intimate, a different sort of interaction, Sherlock surmised. He was fine with it.

John broke their stalemate after Sherlock had been particularly brilliant solving a case involving a missing five year old girl. She’d disappeared from her bedroom at the top of a seven story building with windows that didn’t open, and her parents in the next room. The police, of course, had been baffled, the parents distraught. Sherlock only took the case when he had satisfied himself that neither of them had done it.

The girl was safely returned to her parents by noon the next day, and John had been with him for the last stretch of it. John watching Sherlock be brilliant never failed to make the man giddy, even after all these years. Lestrade finally had to shoo them off of his crime scene when the giggling got out of hand, and they bundled into a cab home.

It was in the cab that things got heated. John’s giggles turned to furtive glances, and before Sherlock knew what was happening, John had picked up Sherlock’s hand and placed it on top of John’s crotch, whereupon he felt John’s erection hot underneath. His hand remained there for the rest of the ride home. He wondered, had John reacted liked this at the end of a case before, or was it new, a result of their arrangement? Had others been the recipients of John’s amorous attentions post-case? Sherlock didn’t think so. Too many nights had ended with just the two of them, eating Chinese food or some-such.

He didn’t think the cabbie noticed what was going on, but John was out the door in a flash as soon as the cab stopped, leaving Sherlock to pay the fare, which was usually Sherlock’s move. He couldn’t be arsed to care, frankly, as he was nearly 100% certain he was once again about to be fucked into the mattress.

By the time he got upstairs and had hung up his coat and scarf, John had finished pouring out a couple of fingers of whiskey into glasses, and handed one to Sherlock. Both of them downed the whiskey at once. The glasses safely on the kitchen table, John held out his hand. Surprised, Sherlock took it, and John led him into Sherlock’s bedroom, where Sherlock found John had already been. The bedding was turned down, and a bottle of lubricant and a condom graced Sherlock’s nightstand.

John turned to him and said, “Please?”

“Yes,” said Sherlock, and stood there, waiting for John to take the lead, which it seemed he was all too happy to do.

Sherlock was content simply to watch John as he began to remove their clothing, first Sherlock’s, then his own. John took his time, savoring each item’s removal, and Sherlock thought he understood. John was enjoying the anticipation, teasing himself. Completely naked at last, John once again took Sherlock’s hand and led him to the bed. Sherlock sat on the edge, but when John attempted to push him back onto the bed and climb over him, Sherlock stopped him. There was something he wanted first. He pulled John close and bent his head, taking John into his mouth. It had been weeks and he hadn’t forgotten the taste of it.

“Oh,” said John, clutching the hair at the back of Sherlock’s head. “I’m so worked up right now, I’m not going to last; you’ve got to stop that.”

Sherlock popped off and looked John in the face, hoping his unhappiness was conveyed.

“Don’t look at me like that,” said John. “Do you want me to come in your mouth, or do you want me to fuck you? Because I really want to fuck you.”

He strengthened his grip on Sherlock’s hair, and tilted back Sherlock’s head. Sherlock’s mouth dropped open, and he felt himself go limp.

“You like that?” asked John. Sherlock just closed his eyes in response, and leaned into John’s hand. “I’ll remember that in future.”

“Up,” he said, “Onto the bed, your back to the headboard.”

They ended up face to face this time, both of Sherlock’s hands braced on the headboard, one knee hooked over John’s good shoulder, the other clinging to John’s back, as John pounded into him. It wasn’t gentle, or nice, but it made Sherlock's blood sing.

Sherlock liked this position. It didn’t feel quite as good on his prostate, but he liked seeing John’s face as they coupled, liked being able to look down and see it actually happening. Every time John’s penis disappeared inside him, Sherlock got a little thrill. It was like an incredibly sexy magic trick.

John seemed to like it, too. He was coming, burying his face in Sherlock’s neck.

“Shit,” Sherlock heard him mutter. “Didn’t mean to come first.”

He lifted himself off of Sherlock, disposed of the condom, and came back to bed.

“Right,” he said, “I have an idea.” And he maneuvered them so that he was lying on his belly, both of Sherlock’s knees resting on his shoulders this time. Sherlock only realized what was about to happen just as John’s mouth began to slide down his aching prick.

He would have lost it right then if all those weeks of prolonged masturbation hadn’t improved his stamina. He’d given plenty of blow jobs, but he’d never been on the receiving end before. It felt lovely and warm, and John seemed to be enjoying himself. Sherlock had already been pretty close to his climax when John pulled out, so it didn’t take long before he was fisting John’s hair, trying to get enough oxygen into his lungs to warn him. John didn’t pull away, and Sherlock came with a silent scream, that floaty feeling once again descending upon him.

The next few minutes were a blur of vague movement, and he only somewhat recalled the feel of something warm and wet sponging him off, of someone rearranging his limbs. The first thing he was truly aware of was John putting his clothes on rather hurriedly and saying, “Hey, got to go pick up Rosie. Indian for dinner?”

“Mmm,” replied Sherlock, still struggling to make words.

And then he was gone.

Sherlock remained floating, but it didn’t feel so pleasant or warm anymore. He felt unmoored and rather alone. An ache welled up in his throat and he tried to push it back down. For God’s sake, get it together, he thought. He lay there for what seemed like hours, but probably wasn’t very long at all, and tried to recall the incredible high he’d just been on, and not this horrible, bitter feeling that had replaced it. Where was the satisfaction, the comfort, that he’d experienced before?

He thought maybe a hot shower would help; he probably hadn’t bathed in days.

By the time John returned with food and with Rosie, Sherlock was clean and wearing his pyjamas, and his emotions had leveled out, though he was still feeling a bit down. The Indian food helped, as did the cup of chamomile John handed him afterwards.

Whatever that was, he hoped it never happened again.

- - -

Everything was wonderful. Everything was terrible.

The wonderful part for Sherlock was that something in that post-case encounter had broken some sort of barrier in John’s mind, and he now had no trouble whatsoever initiating sex with Sherlock. He was turning out to be quite insatiable, in fact, and while he usually had the sense not to try anything when Sherlock was busy with a case or an experiment, there had been a few times when Sherlock had had to swat him away.

“Not now, John,” said Sherlock, who was clearly busy standing at the window with his violin, composing in his head. As if John didn’t know this perfectly well.

But John had slithered up behind him and whispered in his ear, “Do you want my mouth?”

This incident had concluded with John “eating him out” (sexual vocabulary could be so vulgar), his pyjama pants pulled down to his knees, while Sherlock knelt in his chair, still clutching his violin. Sherlock felt he’d gotten the better end on that one. John had brought himself off with his own hand, and Sherlock had come out of it with both a spectacular orgasm, and a new piece for solo violin, which he called “For John and his Tongue.”

So perhaps there were compromises to be made after all.

But the bad was really quite bad, and Sherlock was not doing well.

The way he’d felt after sex with John after the cab incident hadn’t been a one-off, but a precedent. Sherlock’s body had come alive during the course of this arrangement with John, but more often than not, the soaring highs of the sex and orgasms were followed by low lows and feelings of discontent and unhappiness.

He didn’t know what to do. He was beginning to think it was him, that something was wrong.

After one particularly bad episode, which had followed a surprise bout of mutual fellatio (John had tackled him on the sofa after his shift at the surgery, yanked all of his clothes off, and manhandled him into it), Sherlock had even begun to think that for him, perhaps sex and drug addiction might not be that indistinguishable after all. For Sherlock, both experiences had the hallmark of being largely made up of misery, cravings, and not a little despair, punctuated by brief bursts of intense pleasure and chemically induced happiness.

Of course, despite John’s expectation of honesty, he didn’t tell John any of this. He wouldn’t know how even if he wanted to. How would that conversation go? Oh, yes, John, I know this was all my idea, and I love having sex with you. It is extremely pleasurable, but it’s also making me very unhappy and might we stop doing it? Except, please, may I put your penis in my mouth until you orgasm? Thanks very much.

And John, John seemed to be thriving under their arrangement. Sherlock had noted a distinct uptick in his mood since they began giving each other orgasms. His masturbation and pornography habits had decreased markedly, as had their water bill. The sex itself was often rough, and never tender, but Sherlock found he rather liked it when John took control. They didn’t go out on cases together as often as they used to, but Sherlock knew John had Rosie now, and his pride wouldn’t allow for Sherlock to foot the bills when caring for his daughter. The job at the surgery was a necessary evil.

John was still more closed off with Sherlock than Sherlock would like, but when he really stopped to think about it, the vague hope that things would go back to the way they’d been before Mary died, before the Fall even, had shriveled on the vine. Sherlock may not have been experienced, but he wasn’t naive. He knew that sex with John wouldn’t be a magical restorative. He’d forfeited John’s blind trust and adoration long ago. If what he had with John now—a solid friendship, a trusted flatmate and sometime partner, and for now at least, someone who gave him spectacular orgasms—he would take it.

Until, that is, he couldn’t anymore.

- - -

It had been months and months since the start of their arrangement. Rosie was now toddling around the flat, and they’d had to baby-proof it, which turned out to be a nightmare for Sherlock. He watched in a state of extreme distress as John threw out most of his experiments, saying they were “toxic”, and removed all the breakables and sharp objects at toddler height. He wouldn’t hear it when Sherlock tried to explain that Rosie was smart and Sherlock would teach her not to touch his things. In the end, they’d compromised and bought Sherlock a separate refrigerator for his experiments, which they kept padlocked.

He’d banged his shins on the baby gate more than a handful of times, as he crashed around the apartment. But it was a fair trade-off for having the Watsons in his life.

He’d also made it a regular habit to visit with Eurus at least a couple of times a month. This, for some reason, always made John fidgety, and his homecomings had taken a more lascivious turn of late, with John frequently removing all of his clothing and pinning him to the nearest available surface, or simply pulling down his trousers and shagging him right there on the rug.

One afternoon, in the middle of a case (involving drug smugglers, imported hedgehogs, and a decapitated head found in Hyde Park), Sherlock was contemplating his notes back at the flat, which were currently pinned up all over the wall behind the sofa, as he was wont to do. It helped to spacialize his thoughts, to form tangible connections. He heard the front door slam, then John came stomping up the stairs, clearly agitated, breaking Sherlock’s train of thought entirely.

“Sherlock!” he shouted.

“Yes, John, up here! Do be quiet, though, I’m trying to think.”

John was in the sitting room now. “I don’t care if you’re bloody well trying to think, you great fucking numpty.”

John was very close to him now, but Sherlock refused to look at him.

“Oi, are you listening?”

Sherlock grunted in acknowledgement, trying in vain to pick up the thread of the case again.

“I just got off the phone with Greg,” said John, his breath heaving. Sherlock knew if he looked, John’s face would be squashed up in anger, his fists clenched.

“Do you know what he told me, Sherlock? Hmm?”

“I’m sure nothing very much of interest,” drawled Sherlock.

“He told me that some tall, posh nutter had been caught attempting to break in to the known headquarters of a certain dangerous gang of London criminals. He said the nutter was caught by a patrol car while trying to climb a barbed wire fence, and taken into custody. He said they only released him—you—after Lestrade vouched for you.

“Does that sound familiar? Sherlock?”

“Nobody was there; I was never in any danger,” said Sherlock.

“YOU DON’T KNOW THAT,” shouted John.

The next thing Sherlock knew, he was being pushed onto the sofa face first. One of John’s hands gripped his hair, pressing his right cheek onto the back of the sofa, the other was unbuckling his trousers, pulling them down his thighs.

“Don’t. Move,” said John, right next to his ear, and the pressure eased from Sherlock’s scalp. His knees burned from being shoved along the upholstery.

Sherlock’s breath came in gasps, his chest heaving inside his clothes. John had once again co-opted his nervous system.

And then he was back, the hand was back in his hair, and he felt slick fingers at his opening. John pushed in two right away, and Sherlock moaned at the pleasure and pain of it. He didn’t take long to get to three, not even a minute, and then a blunt pressure was pushing at him, entering him, and John began thrusting.

“Fuck, Sherlock! You can’t do this anymore!”

Thrust, thrust. Hands tightening on hair. A moan, long and low, pulled from Sherlock.

The thrusts slowed in pace, but did not stop. They were harder now, and John stayed inside him longer, before pulling out and entering him once again.

“Goddammit,” said John. “Fuck . . . fuck you.” Another hard thrust.

Yes, thought Sherlock. And then, Oh! He isn’t wearing a condom. Thrust.

Then John was pulling Sherlock’s face off the back of the couch. “Hold on to it,” he said, so Sherlock did, gripping the cushions as hard as he could. John tugged his head back so far that it rested on John’s shoulder, and his torso was arched back to align with John’s. He could hear John’s breath in his ear, and the exquisite pressure on his scalp sent ripples of pleasure from his head down his spine, all the way to his ankles.

But neither of them could maintain that position for long. John couldn’t get enough leverage to fuck into Sherlock as hard as he wanted, and Sherlock’s back and neck were beginning to ache.

He shoved Sherlock down onto the sofa again, this time lengthwise, and climbed on behind him. Soon, he was back inside Sherlock again; this time every thrust hit Sherlock’s prostate at just the right angle. His fingernails clawed at the sofa cushion. Sherlock saw stars. There was an exquisite swirling, a building up of tension rising up from his anus through the rest of his genitals, spiraling out in bursts, and then Sherlock was coming, his penis completely untouched.

If he made any noise, it was unintelligible.

“Jesus Christ,” said John, feeling it happen, “Oh, Jesus Christ.”

The pressure on Sherlock’s scalp abated at last, and he was floating aloft on a sea of stars. John’s hands were clamped down on his wrists, and he was bent over Sherlock now, gasping for breath as he achieved climax. He felt John’s hands squeeze, and a novel sensation of warm wetness appeared inside of him. John was still thrusting, but more weakly now, as he rode out his pleasure.

Sherlock always tried to stay in the moment, to enjoy the soft afterglow of mindless comfort while it lasted. John was still on top of him, his lips mouthing curses of disbelief into Sherlock’s shoulder. His suit jacket caught and held the moisture of John’s breath. When John was able to sit up, Sherlock felt the loss of John’s weight, and a hand trailed softly down his spine. He shivered, moaned, wanted to tell John to keep going, but of course the gentle pressure stopped, and John slipped out of him. John’s thumb brushed over his swollen opening, and he realized semen was slowly dripping down his inner thigh. A deep inhale of breath from John told Sherlock he liked what he saw. He slowly, carefully, dipped his thumb into the still open sphincter, and gently massaged his ejaculate into Sherlock’s rim. Sherlock couldn’t help it, he twitched in surprise, but the movement shocked John out of whatever reverie he’d been enjoying, and he quickly withdrew his hand.

He got up from the couch and fastened up his trousers. “I’ll be right back,” he said, “don’t move.”

Don’t move, thought Sherlock. Don’t move. Those words at the heights of passion had inflamed him, but now they stuck in his throat. As if he were the one who ever went anywhere. Sherlock would be boneless for the next thirty minutes at least, and John would be out the door, running some errand, meeting a friend, off to work, to bed, to pick up Rosie, to make a cup of tea.

John had met the terms of their arrangement to the letter. They had fucked until Sherlock’s brain was inoperable. But he knew how this would proceed. No matter if John stayed for a little while, he would still go, and Sherlock would sink to the equal pits of lowness that he’d flown high from just moments before. A well of bitterness lodged in his gut, and he felt like crying.

John appeared at that moment, holding a wet flannel in his hand, looking sex-flushed and infuriatingly content. He obviously intended to wipe Sherlock down, as he always did, but Sherlock couldn’t bear another moment of it.

With great effort, Sherlock rolled to his side. “Leave it,” he said.

John stepped forward. “Let me just help you a second,” said John.

A burst of fury jolted through him. “I said leave it, John.”

John stopped in utter shock. “Sherlock—?”

“Please,” said Sherlock, forcing himself upright, and pulling his trousers clumsily up his legs. As he stood, John held out his hand, proffering the wet cloth. Sherlock took it, and as quickly as he was able with his fettered body still twitching in places, he stumbled into his room and closed the door.

Quietly devastated, he stripped down to his skin, wiped himself off, and curled up under his covers, where he would wait it out the best he could.

I can’t, he thought. I can’t.

Chapter Text

John didn’t know exactly what it was he’d done wrong, but he knew it was something. If he were honest, it could be any number of things. Thinking about Sherlock and this bloody arrangement left him with a knot of anxiety somewhere in the back of his throat. He knew it was guilt.

He and Sherlock hadn’t really been okay in a long time. A lot of that was on Sherlock. John’s fists still clenched in remembered rage whenever he thought of that long drop from the top of St. Bart’s, rounding the corner to see Sherlock’s broken body lying on the ground, and the dread and certainty that the brightest thing in his life was gone forever, for no good fucking reason. But that had been years back, time long gone. Which was just an excuse. Not even a year ago that old anger had been set loose on Sherlock once again, and in his most self-reflective moments, John knew the incident in the morgue wasn’t really about Mary’s death. Or rather, it was, but that was only one part of it. 

John knew he needed therapy, but he just couldn’t bring himself to go. A part of him guessed that if he opened up the lid on everything he kept tight inside himself, he would explode, but what he feared was what came after that explosion. He didn’t want to know what kind of person would be left afterwards. 

He knew he’d been letting some of that old anger out on Sherlock lately. And he knew it was coming from the same place it always had. This was where his self-reflection normally stopped, just before he would actually learn anything he couldn’t put back under wraps. 

But Sherlock was not okay. And John had let it happen. This time it was on him. 

He’d never seen Sherlock look so small as he did after John had overpowered him and fucked his brains out on their sofa in the middle of the afternoon. He’d been angry when he’d done it, of course, frustrated once again that his stupid poncy flatmate had risked his life unnecessarily, and without John there to protect him. The sex had been fueled by that frustration, and the anger had made it better. John had never been one for kinky sex with previous partners, but he could no longer deny that something about sex with Sherlock brought out a desire to dominate. He was sure it wasn’t as healthy as it should be. 

After Sherlock had retreated to his room and not come out until the middle of the night (John had heard him turning on the shower, though it didn’t seem to take nearly as long as Sherlock’s showers usually did), John had done some research. It didn’t take long to learn that his approach to sex with Sherlock was fucked up. If he was going to dominate Sherlock in bed, there were things he needed to do, they needed to do together, which they (he) had absolutely not done. There had been no discussion of limits, no safewords, and the consent on Sherlock’s part had been iffy at best. There had been no aftercare, and with a pang of adrenaline that started in his gut and seemed to run all along his arms down to his fingers, he wondered just how often Sherlock had been crashing after their encounters. That was almost certainly what had happened the last time. There had certainly been no equalizing of power afterwards; that would have involved actual communication.

And to make it even worse, John was entirely sure Sherlock had no idea about any of it. Sherlock had told him right from the beginning that his main motivation in all of this was to explore his sexual side for the first time, and he’d been asking for John’s help to do so. John had not obliged. John had taken over.

With an awful feeling in his gut, John was forced to admit that what he’d done that afternoon was much closer to abuse than it had been to sex. He’d taken advantage of Sherlock’s vulnerability and his desires, and used them to punish Sherlock. That sex hadn’t been about mutual pleasure or release; it had been about John, and John’s anger, and John’s inability to communicate. 

John read long into the night, websites all about informed and enthusiastic consent, about dominants and submissives, about subspace and aftercare. 

He fell asleep on top of the covers close to dawn, promising himself as he slipped away that he and Sherlock would be talking in the morning. John had a lot to say. 

___

When he woke up several hours later, John stretched, and with a feeling of simultaneous dread and excitement, headed down the stairs. Sherlock wasn’t in the sitting room or the kitchen. With not a little trepidation, he knocked on Sherlock’s closed bedroom door. 

“Sherlock, are you in there? I would really like to talk with you, if that’s all right.”

He waited for a response, but there was nothing. 

___

After several hours, John became increasingly worried. He cracked the door to Sherlock’s bedroom, and indeed Sherlock was still abed, turned on his side. John took a deep breath and entered.

“Sherlock, are you all right?”

There was no answer. John padded softly around the other side of the bed. Sherlock’s eyes were open, and he was staring into the middle distance. He looked as if everything Sherlock had been carved out of him. Fuck. He couldn’t still be dropping, could he? John was in so far over his head here.

“Sherlock, I’m very worried about you.” 

Sherlock made the weakest of shrugs. John reached out and laid his hand on Sherlock’s forehead, stroking with his thumb. The movement caused a full body shiver from Sherlock, and for a moment, the light came back into his eyes, before fading away again. Sherlock tried feebly to push John’s hand away, but he didn’t seem to have the will for it. 

“Right,” said John, “be back in a bit.”

Once he had collected the necessary supplies, and brought Rosie down to Mrs. Hudson’s, he moved back into Sherlock’s bedroom, placing them on the bedside table.  

“Budge up,” said John. Sherlock didn’t move, or say anything, just kept staring at nothing. 

“Right,” said John, and began manhandling Sherlock to the center of the bed. When there was enough room, John stripped down to his boxer briefs, lifted the covers, and climbed in next to Sherlock. 

He didn’t lay down at first. A bit unsure (he had no idea what he was doing), he began stroking his fingers through Sherlock’s unkempt curls (a bad sign in itself, that lack of grooming). Sherlock liked having his hair pulled during sex; John thought there was a good chance he would respond well to having it played with in a more gentle way. After a couple minutes of petting Sherlock’s head, he thought he sensed Sherlock becoming slightly more aware, and figured now was as good a time as any. He’d never cuddled with a man before, and Sherlock was tall and a bit gangly, and at the moment completely out of control of his limbs. 

John scooted himself down under the covers all the way and pulled Sherlock’s head to rest in the crook of his neck. John himself liked this part of his lover’s bodies; he always found the warmth and the smell comforting. Sherlock seemed to agree. Gradually, his whole being turned to John like a flower to the sun. He nuzzled John's neck and his breathing became not faster or slower, but more peaceful. John sighed into his hair.

“That’s right, I’m here. I’ll be here, you just do what you need to do,” said John, feeling a bit like he was rambling, but sure that it didn’t matter. Sherlock just needed to know that he was safe and cared for. He needed to be held close and touched while he came back from wherever he had gone. 

John kept one hand nestled in Sherlock’s hair, and the other began stroking down Sherlock’s back, the skin gradually warming up under his palm. He did this for a long time, he wasn’t sure how long, and he couldn’t remember what he’d read the night before about coming out of a drop. Was it supposed to take this long? Sherlock had been dropping since the night before. How concerned should he be? 

Despite his worry, he was surprised at how nice this felt, holding Sherlock. He was very aware of the places their chests were touching. He could feel the small bumps of Sherlock’s nipples rubbing faintly against his stomach as Sherlock breathed. Sherlock smelled like soap and sweat. The hairs on his legs prickled gently against the finer hairs on Sherlock’s legs. John hadn’t really registered until then that Sherlock was fully naked. He must have fallen into the bed after his shower, too apathetic to even put on his pyjama pants or a pair of briefs. After living with him for years, John knew a frightening amount of strange and intimate details about Sherlock, including that he preferred to sleep naked when it was warm, and that during the winter (when he deigned to sleep at all) he preferred the opposite, to be bundled up under layers of cloth and blankets. It was November; he should be well bundled up. Now, John could feel Sherlock’s soft prick nestled against the top of his thigh, and the intimacy of this shot a lance of instinctual fear through him. His face was hot and his first thought was to pull away, to leave. 

But he couldn’t leave Sherlock. He forced himself to breathe slowly, and concentrate instead on providing comfort to his friend. The skin on Sherlock’s back was warm and soft. John could feel the slight ridges of the scars he still hadn’t asked about, despite seeing them multiple times now as he fucked Sherlock from behind in this very bed. He moved his hand lower, smoothing it over the creamy skin at the top of Sherlock’s arse, but he soon moved it back. He thought he’d have a hard time keeping his thoughts to comfort rather than sex if he got too much nearer Sherlock’s luscious arse. (His cock thickened hopefully, just a bit.)

All thoughts of his cock dispersed when he realized that his neck was wet. Sherlock was crying, silently, it would seem, and had been for quite a while. 

John pulled back so that he could see Sherlock’s face, which despite the tears, looked much calmer and human-seeming than it had twenty minutes before. This seemed a cleansing cry rather than a distraught one, and John took it as a good sign. 

“John?” asked Sherlock, and his voice broke a little from disuse. 

John moved his hands to cup Sherlock’s cheeks, swiping the tears away with his thumbs. 

“There you are,” said John. “Feeling better?”

Sherlock didn’t say anything, just nodded, his eyes locked on John’s. John knew they weren’t out of the woods quite yet. 

“Do you think you could sit up for me?” asked John. Sherlock nodded weakly and began trying to hoist himself up. He still looked a bit shaky, so John helped a bit. John sat back against the headboard of Sherlock’s bed, propped up by several pillows and in reach of the bedside table, and pulled Sherlock so that they were sitting back to front, Sherlock’s head resting on John’s chest. His legs came up to bracket Sherlock’s body. Sherlock’s curls threatened to go up John’s nose in this position, but he didn’t move. Skin to skin contact was good for premature babies, so why not Sherlock as well?

John reached over to the plate he’d left on the bedside table and grabbed the buttered toast with jam he’d made earlier, now gone a bit soggy and no longer warm. He wasn’t bothered by this. Sherlock often found himself eating soggy, cold toast because John would leave it for him while he was playing his violin or in his Mind Palace, or gazing into his microscope. As far as John was aware, Sherlock might not even know toast was supposed to be warm and crisp. 

John handed him the toast and Sherlock took it without thinking, immediately beginning to eat. John brought his arms to wrap around Sherlock’s chest, and rested his cheek on the top of Sherlock’s head as Sherlock contentedly munched away. When he finished his first slice John handed him the second, and this went on for a bit. When he had finished, licking his fingers to get the lingering jam, he leaned fully back onto John, his head turning so that his cheek was against John’s chest.

“Sherlock,” said John, talking into his hair, “can you sit up all the way and drink something for me?” 

“Yes,” said Sherlock, in what sounded as much like an exhale as a word. He pulled away from John and turned towards him, his movements still sort of sluggish, but no longer in a way that concerned John. He just looked tired. John manhandled him again so that they were facing each other and Sherlock’s long legs draped over John’s thighs. John handed him the small mug of hot cocoa that was still at least somewhat warm. 

“Don’t chug it, sip it,” said John, who knew that look in Sherlock’s eyes. 

John kept as much skin contact between them as he could, which meant resting his hands on Sherlock’s lean thighs, caressing the skin with the pads of his thumbs, all while Sherlock’s penetrating gaze began awakening in front of him. Sherlock had always had a sweet tooth, so he was focused on the cocoa at first, but as he slowed down his consumption of the drink, and the sugar and chocolate began to take effect, John knew that the full frightening power of Sherlock’s mind was coming back online. He stared at John with thoughts and ideas in his mind, trying to puzzle out John’s behavior. John wasn’t sure he wanted to know what Sherlock was deducing. 

He handed the mug back to John, who placed it again on the bedside table, and then there was silence, a rather awkward and painful one that involved Sherlock trying to bore into John’s mind with imaginary laser beams coming from his eyes. John swallowed and spoke.

“Sherlock, we need to talk about what’s been happening to you,” and though John was still speaking he saw Sherlock’s face do something indescribable that he couldn’t get a read on. He continued, “You’re my best mate, Sherlock, and our friendship is really important to me.” John looked down, he couldn’t look at Sherlock while he said these things, he just couldn’t. “ You are really important to me, and you’re not okay. You weren’t okay last night or this morning, and I think it’s my fault.” John tried to swallow the painful lump that had appeared in his throat. His hands squeezed Sherlock’s thighs affectionately.

“We don’t have to talk right now. Right now, I just want to know what you want to do. Do you want to sleep? Or do you want to get up for the day? I left Rosie with Mrs. Hudson, but I can go get her if you want to see her.” John knew Sherlock sometimes liked to have lazy mornings with his daughter when he thought John wasn’t paying attention. He’d often caught Sherlock holding her close and smelling her head. Rosie was a safe subject, so John finally brought his gaze back to Sherlock’s, whose face was betraying nothing. He only looked at John as if he were listening attentively for maybe the first time in his life when a case wasn’t involved. 

Finally, Sherlock spoke: “Sleep,” he said. 

“All right,” said John, pulling the pillows out from behind his back and placing them in the middle of the bed, fluffing them dramatically. “Lay down,” he told Sherlock, helping him back under the covers. 

“Are you going to leave?” asked Sherlock, his voice deep and clear for the first time all morning. 

“Er, no,” said John, “I’ll be right outside.”

Sherlock closed his eyes in response and took a long breath. John’s brain caught up. 

“Oh,” he said, surprised. “Did you want me to stay here? With you?” 

Sherlock’s eyes opened just enough so they could see one another. “Yes.” 

“Okay,” said John, his heart beating like a rabbit’s, and a curious warmth spreading outwards from his chest and up through his face and hands. “Big spoon or little spoon?”

“Little,” said Sherlock, and John obliged as Sherlock rolled over. He scooted up behind Sherlock and tucked their knees together, pulling the other man close to his front. John was pressed so near to Sherlock there was nowhere else to place his nose but the spot where Sherlock’s ear met his neck. It was extremely comfortable. He’d never spooned someone taller than himself before. He wondered what it would feel like the other way around. Sherlock was so big, he’d be able to wrap himself almost completely around John, but with John as the big spoon, his largeness made this feel special, too. It made John wonder, that for someone so larger than life, so loud and brilliant and at times abrasive as Sherlock could be, that there was something inside of him John had unearthed that needed nurturing, and care, and comfort. 

John would never have guessed if you gave him all the time in the world that Sherlock would not only submit to being the little spoon, asking for it, even, but submit so often and enthusiastically as he had to John over the past several months. It was beginning to feel like a miracle, now that John was actually thinking about it, to have found that Sherlock liked being held, the feeling of being small in someone else’s embrace. 

He felt when Sherlock drifted off; the soft, even rhythms of his breath lulled John into a sleepy haze, one where he wasn’t quite awake but not yet asleep, either. The image of Sherlock kept flashing into his mind: Sherlock closing his eyes in defeat, knowing that John would leave him. It was the last thing he saw before sleep took him.

___

When he woke up, Sherlock was already awake and staring at him. 

“That’s not creepy at all,” said John, rubbing his eyes and face blearily. 

“You didn’t leave,” said Sherlock.

“Said I wouldn’t.”

This didn’t seem to impress Sherlock. 

“Why are you here?”

“Sherlock, I can’t do this right now. Can we go get some tea? I’ll make you a nice fry-up.” John checked his phone on the nightstand for the time. It was almost noon.  “Mrs. Hudson only has Rosie until two, and then she’s got tea with Mrs. Turner.”

Sherlock was still staring at him. “I am not leaving this bed. If we go out there, you will not tell me what I wish to know.”

“Sherlock.”

“You wish to end the arrangement. It has become unsatisfactory for you.”

“No, that’s not—” stammered John, “How did you even deduce that’s what I wanted to talk about?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and opened his mouth but John quickly put his hand over Sherlock’s mouth. 

“As much as I love watching that magnificent brain of yours deduce things, now is not the time. And anyway, there’s always something. You’re the one who told me that.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “What did I miss?”

“Quite a lot of things, in this instance,” said John, “but I’m afraid most of that is on me. I’m so sorry, Sherlock, I’ve been a right arse to you. No, I’ve been worse than that. I don’t—”

John paused for quite a long while, wanting to say so much more than he was able. 

“You asked me for this arrangement because you wanted it to be mutually beneficial. You wanted to explore a side of yourself you hadn’t before, and I didn’t let you. I took over, every time, and I ignored all the warning signs, because of my own . . . well, because of things that aren’t your fault, that I let get in the way.”

John hadn’t realized he’d closed his eyes until he felt Sherlock’s hand on his cheek. John opened his eyes to see Sherlock looking at him with a sort of sad determination that was only amplified by the surreality of the situation. Sherlock and he were in bed together, Sherlock naked and John only in his pants, and Sherlock’s face was mussed with sleep lines, his lips and eyes puffy. And yet he was utterly serious. 

“I liked when you took over,” said Sherlock, and John thought he must have intentionally deepened his voice. That, or he was much more affected by this conversation than John had anticipated he would be. Wouldn’t be the first time he couldn’t predict what Sherlock was going to do or say. 

“Yes, but that’s the problem,” said John, pulling Sherlock’s hand away from his face, but he didn’t want to let go, so they ended up sort of holding hands. Sherlock’s were large and dry and warm. “Do you know about BDSM?”

“I told you I’m not a virgin John, I’m perfectly aware of kink. BDSM in full stands for Bondage and Discipline, Dominance and Submission, Sadism and Masochism. I fail to see how any of that applies to us, although I wouldn’t be opposed to some experimentation.”

John squeezed his hand. “Are you aware that you’ve been submitting to me for months? And getting sexual pleasure out of it?”

Sherlock opened his mouth but nothing came out. A first. 

“I didn’t realize that’s what was going on until last night, when you were so upset with me. I could tell something was wrong beyond even your normal levels of annoyance, and as soon as you walked out of the room, I knew I’d crossed a line. And the more I thought about it, I realized that most of the time when we have sex, you sort of, I don’t know, turn yourself over to me, and I’ve just horribly taken advantage of that. Do you understand?”

Sherlock was frowning. 

“What happened to you last night was called subdrop, and it happens when the submissive person enters subspace and isn’t properly cared for afterwards. That’s why you’re always so out of it after you come; you were in subspace. I noticed it almost right away, but I thought you were just, I don’t know, overwhelmed. Have you? Been dropping?”

“Yes,” said Sherlock. “I thought it was me, I thought that’s just how it was for me, with sex. And you did everything I asked of you. Why do you want to end the arrangement?” Sherlock had been holding onto this hand the whole time, and now John felt Sherlock’s thumb begin to stroke over his wrist. “If I can have just the pleasure without the rest of it, I want that.”

John pulled his hand away from Sherlock’s and rolled over onto his back. “Because the reason I didn’t notice you were miserable, and in pain, it’s really fucked up, Sherlock, and I’m afraid it’s just going to keep happening. I can’t do that to you, not now that I know.”

The sheets rustled as Sherlock abruptly sat up, and John found his head being moved so that Sherlock could see his eyes. 

“Tell me what you mean. I told you we’re not leaving this bed until you tell me what I want to know, and I want to know this.”

Sherlock wasn’t letting him retreat, the bloody git, and John’s heart was pounding from the conflict of it. He didn’t want to tell Sherlock, but part of him just wanted it over and done with, and that part could sense rest and relief might be possible if he did what Sherlock asked. 

John sighed and closed his eyes. Sherlock didn’t force him to open them, thank Christ, but he did place his large hand firmly on John’s chest, letting him know he was still there, waiting.  

“The truth is that I’m angry, Sherlock. I’m very angry. What I did to you last year in that morgue was unforgivable. I don’t care how much you blamed yourself for Mary’s death, or how I blamed you at the time. What I did to you, you should not have had to bear.”

“You are angry with me?” asked Sherlock, his hand still a steady pressure on John’s chest. 

“Yes,” he said instantly, but realized he didn’t mean it. “I mean, no. No, I'm not angry at you. I was, for a very long time. Now, I’m just . . . angry.”

“Why were you angry with me?”

John tried to say the words.

“You said you’d forgiven me,” said Sherlock, “for the Fall. For jumping, for not telling you I was alive. You said you’d forgiven me. Were you lying? When did you stop being angry with me?”

“Oh, I stopped probably around the time my wife shot you in the heart. There just didn’t seem to be room for it, or time to waste on it anymore: the trying not to be angry, and telling myself I wasn’t. But I was, before that, always a dark undercurrent of anger when I looked at you, even when I was so happy to see you, to be with you. After, I just wanted you to be there, to be alive, and for it not to be my fault. If I was lying to you, I was lying to myself as well. For a long time.”

“You didn’t answer me: Why were you angry with me?”

John had to stop and collect his words, to let the pain in his throat recede before he could speak. He rested his hand on top of Sherlock’s to let him know he was still there with him, he just needed a moment. 

“The thing you have to understand, Sherlock, is that I didn’t know the real story—why you’d done what you’d done and how—for two years. All I knew, for two years , is that I’d watched my best friend, my favorite person in the world, jump to his death right in front of me. That he’d, that you’d , made me watch as your body fell, and your head and your bones and your beautiful mind, and all the rest of you hit the ground and broke forever. And you left me.” 

John had to stop. He was on the verge of breaking, just thinking about that day, the worst day of his life.

“And you weren’t coming back.” 

Sherlock squeezed his hand, and John felt the other come to rest on his forehead.

“Open your eyes, John. I’m here, now.”

“No,” said John, forcefully. “Let me finish.” Sherlock removed his hand from John’s head, but left the one on his chest.

John continued. This was the part he didn’t want to say, as hard as the other had been, because he didn’t want Sherlock to know, he didn’t want to admit it out loud.

“I went to see Ella a lot, after you died, to try to deal with the grief, and the anger. She didn’t help much; I didn’t want her to help. I’m afraid I wasn’t very good company for that first year. People were sympathetic at first, but after a while I could tell they didn’t understand: why I was still grieving, why I couldn’t get over the death of my flatmate, even if we were close friends who worked together. Even if you had killed yourself right in front of me. Besides, you were a liar, weren’t you? A fraud? I should just move on, get on with my life. You weren’t worth it, they were telling me. You weren’t important enough to justify my behavior.”

John took a ragged breath.

“Only, I started to think, what if you were?”

He felt Sherlock’s fingers clinch on his chest, and this time he grabbed Sherlock’s hand with both of his and held it close. 

“That’s why I was so angry with you, Sherlock, because when I say you were the most important person in my life, I mean that I’d never felt about anyone the way I felt about you. I was drawn to you, in awe of your intelligence, couldn’t stop looking at you. It was the dangerous aura about you, I thought, the way you’d saved my life and gave me purpose, gave me excitement and puzzles and danger. I was jealous and a little heartbroken when I saw you disdain normal human life, when you were so drawn to Moriarty, because I thought that meant you disdained me.  I would have taken a bullet for you, back then, Sherlock, stepped right in front of the gun. Did do, didn’t I? That first year. But I wouldn’t have understood why. Why you had to be protected at all costs, even with my own life. 

“And that’s love, isn’t it?”

He took another pause, this time acutely aware that he’d just bared his most closely kept secret to the one person he’d never wanted to know it. His hands were shaking, he was sure Sherlock could tell. He had to go on. 

“I didn’t realize until after you were gone what all those things meant, together, and you were gone, so what did it matter anyway? I was angry with you for leaving me before I knew my own mind, and for not loving me the way that I loved you, and how none of it fucking mattered anyway, because you were never coming back. But you did come back, didn’t you? And suddenly the thing I wanted most—you were there, and you were smiling like a tit, without a care in the world for how you made me feel or what you’d left behind. Good old John, he’ll be here when you’re reading for him, no need to consider his feelings. I punched you. A lot. I’m not proud of it. But dammit, Sherlock.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I know. I know. I have forgiven you, I really have. I told you, that night Mary shot you, it all stopped mattering. If you went away, I couldn’t do that again. You needed to stay, and that was it. And if you jumped off a building for me, lost your reputation, spent two years wandering over God’s green creation just to keep me safe, so you wouldn’t have to feel like that, like I did the night that bullet went into your chest, well—I just, I suddenly understood it. Understood you.”

They were quiet for a bit. Then Sherlock asked, “Why are you still angry?”

“I don’t know! I don’t know, okay, I just know that I am. These feelings, they just sit down there in my gut, and they never go away, and you almost die five times a week, and I really couldn’t take that, Sherlock, I really couldn’t handle that.”

He took a deep, calming breath.

“Last night on the sofa, I just—you made me so angry, doing what you did, and I just have to let it happen, those things that you do. When I saw you there, not a care in the world, no thought for how your reckless actions might have turned out . . . I needed to claim you. I needed to feel you willingly submit to what I wanted from you, what I needed. I knew you liked it, the roughness and the control, but I wasn’t doing it for you, Sherlock, I was doing it for me. And that’s fucked up.”

John sat up, rubbing his face vigorously with his hands. “I don’t want to do that to you again. I can’t.” John looked Sherlock in the face for the first time in what felt like hours. Sherlock had the same look on his face that he’d had that day in the sitting room, after the morgue, with bruises all over his face, and hell written across his features, and yet he only wanted to comfort John. 

“When you asked me to start this arrangement, it was like you'd asked me to fulfil my worst nightmares and my best daydreams at the same time. To be with you like that would be to acknowledge that I wanted you; to acknowledge that I wanted you would be tantamount to admitting that I loved you, and could never have you; and that if I could have you, it would kill me, like looking at the sun straight on. But I couldn’t say no to you, to that. And I fucked it all up. I’m so sorry, Sherlock.”

“I lied,” said Sherlock. 

“What?” 

“I lied—about my motives, about why I wanted this arrangement from you. I lied.”

John could only stare at him. What was going on? Sherlock could lie like the best of them, better than almost anyone, but—

“I wanted to be close to you. I wanted to experience sex, but not just to experience it, but to experience it with you . I saw an opportunity to offer you something you needed, and to get what I wanted as well. I took it.”

“How—how long?”

“If you mean how long you have been the most important person in my life, that would be since the pool. Since that importance took on new context? Your wedding. When I realized it went beyond reason? Appledore. If you mean how long have I wanted to express my feelings sexually? Since Eurus. Does that answer your question?”

He couldn’t stop looking at Sherlock, who had a manic gleam in his eye, as if trouble were brewing. John loved that look, and hated it, too.

“I agree that the arrangement needs to end,” said Sherlock. “I propose a new arrangement.” 

John started. “What? What kind of arrangement?”

“The one afternoon kind. I propose that you lie still on this bed and let me do what I wish to you, until two o’clock when you have to go get Rosie.”

“Sherlock, what—”

“Yes or no, John?” 

“Yes,” said John, instinctively. He supposed he deserved to have the tables turned on him, but this wouldn’t solve their problems. Far from it. 

Sherlock, the bastard, knew what John was about to say, and forestalled it. “Please, John.” He looked at John with such open conviction it was almost painful. 

“Okay,” said John, “One afternoon, right now.” 

Sherlock pulled John to the middle of the bed and urged him to lie down, on top of the covers. “I want to see you,” said Sherlock. 

This was when John realized Sherlock was still very much naked, and John had no idea what was about to happen to him. 

“Hands up next to your head. No, loosely, like that, and leave them there unless I tell you otherwise.”

“Sherlock,” said John, “We at least need a safeword, a way for me to opt out if I don’t want to do this anymore, and ‘no’ won’t work.”

“Fine. Yes, you pick.”

“Let’s keep it simple: Green is for go, yellow is for proceed with caution, and red is for a hard stop. Got it?”

“Yep,” said Sherlock, popping the ‘p’. He had begun removing John’s one remaining item of clothing. Down came the pants, and John was naked before an extremely enthusiastic Sherlock. John took a deep breath. What now? 

Sherlock loomed over him on all fours. “Hello,” he said. “Close your eyes.” John obliged, not sure for once whether or not he didn’t want to see what was happening to him. He felt as Sherlock lowered himself so that he was nearly pressed top to tail with John. Sherlock’s still soft cock brushed gently against John’s belly button, which was fairly distracting on its own, until Sherlock began placing soft kisses on John’s upturned face: His nose, his cheeks, his brow, the side of his face, his chin, and then down to his neck. Sherlock moved so that his weight only half landed on John, and half on the bed, and this gave him easy access to John’s neck and the underside of his ear, both of which Sherlock proceeded to lay claim to with sucking kisses, licks and gentle nips in turn. He trailed kisses around the circle of John’s neck until he reached the other side and started the whole process again. 

Was he being catalogued? If so, he didn’t mind. Sherlock’s lips were soft and pillowy, and his breath tickled John’s skin. The alternating of his teeth and tongue was perfectly timed. John had known Sherlock had a talented mouth from the handful of times John had let Sherlock suck him, but this was a full-scale, no holds barred, frontal assault. John’s body was Sherlock’s for the afternoon to do with what he wished, and it seemed what Sherlock wished was to taste every inch of John that he could. 

“Sherlock,” he managed to say, but Sherlock only made a “mmm?” noise into his neck. “Sherlock!” said John, louder. 

“Color?” asked Sherlock, finally lifting his head, then lowering it immediately to a new target. His lips were already swelling and his face bore the marks of John’s stubble as he drew John’s left nipple into his mouth, gently scraping it with his teeth.

“Green,” said John, “green, green, please green.”

He couldn’t even remember what he had wanted to say.

The next hour or so of John’s life was strange but lovely. Sherlock had indeed tasted every inch of John’s skin, bit by agonizing bit, and more than that besides. Most of the places Sherlock placed his mouth were to be expected: John’s nipples (Sherlock spent a long time there), his stomach, his navel, his hips and thighs, his fingers and hands. He had also been strangely fascinated with the skin on the inside of John’s elbows and knees, and had spent several leisurely minutes with his face shoved in John’s oxter. 

About halfway through, Sherlock had flipped him over onto his belly, and spent ages running his long fingers up and down John’s back, placing closed mouth kisses at random intervals. He’d cupped John’s arse cheeks and squeezed, before running a finger down John’s crack to caress John’s hole. When John reacted positively to this, Sherlock had retrieved the lube from his bedside table and set about finding John’s prostate in record time. On the fourth or fifth brush against it, John had to concede: “Yellow,” he grunted out. Sherlock stopped what he was doing instantly. “Yes, John?” 

“It’s just, I’m going to come right now if you keep doing that for one more bloody second, Sherlock.”

“Hmm,” said Sherlock, “I still have plans for you.” He pulled his fingers out of John’s arsehole, wiped them on the sheets, and placed a sweet kiss on John’s right arse cheek.

“Flip over,” said Sherlock. 

The cataloging continued for a long while. John nearly came several more times, two of which were during Sherlock’s interlude with his prick, perhaps the longest ten minutes of John’s life. When he was sure he couldn’t take much more of it, Sherlock abruptly straddled him, slicked up John’s cock, and lowered himself down. This all happened very fast; John hadn’t even noticed Sherlock preparing himself, and now Sherlock’s tight passage was gripping him, and he thought he might die. 

“Sherlock,” John breathed, trying to gain control, “I’m really—I’m going to come, very quickly.”

“Good,” said Sherlock, slowly lifting his hips and lowering them back down, a leisurely rolling rhythm that went against all of John’s instincts. He wanted to flip Sherlock over and go at him hard, but this slow fucking forced him back into his skin. He felt every inch of his cock inside Sherlock, as the gentle pace of it teased his orgasm out of him. Soon he was nearly gasping with it. Sherlock brought his body down closer to John’s and grasped John’s hands, which were still above his head. “Come for me, John,” said Sherlock, a low incantation in John’s ear. 

John came. His orgasm left him with the force of a freight train. It was long and urgent, and Sherlock’s lanky body held him close while he rode it out. 

Bits of him were still twitching in the aftershocks when he felt Sherlock kiss him on the lips, slow and hungry. He couldn’t recall Sherlock coming, but he must have done as his cock was now softening, and streaks of semen decorated John’s abdomen. He opened his eyes with some effort, and Sherlock kissed him again, short and to the point. Then he moved himself off of John onto his front and opened his legs in invitation. 

“It’s all right, John,” said Sherlock. “I don’t mind.”

A steady trickle of John’s semen was eking its way out of Sherlock’s pink and swollen hole, and this inflamed John just the way it had the night before. This time, he allowed himself to give in to the indulgence of it. If Sherlock had no objections to this kink of his, John wasn’t going to complain. 

When John had satisfied himself of rubbing his semen gently into Sherlock’s nethers, he crawled up Sherlock’s prone body and collapsed onto the bed next to him, exhausted. 

“I’m not dropping,” said Sherlock. “I didn’t float with the stars.”

John assumed he meant subspace. “You were in control that whole time, Sherlock, it wasn’t going to happen. If it were the other way round and I'd been licking your every pore, we’d have to make sure I treated you right.”

“We can both have what we want, John.”

John's heart kicked up a frantic beat.

“I can’t promise you I will be safe all the time, or that nothing will ever happen to me. I can try to be more careful and considerate of how my actions make you feel, but bad things are going to happen, and I might not be okay. You’re always going to be just a little angry about it, I think. But maybe you won’t be quite so angry as you have been.”

“And why is that?” asked John, already knowing the answer. 

“Because I’m going to give you what you want.”

“What’s that?”

“You don’t ever have to date anyone else ever again.”

John laughed.

He pulled Sherlock close, tucked his head into the crook of Sherlock’s neck, and breathed. 

“And what do you want, Sherlock?”

Sherlock brought his mouth in close to John’s ear, his deep voice low and sure: “I want you to stay.”