“Sherlock, look at me.”

John doesn’t sound angry, but Sherlock suspects that he is and is just hiding it rather well. He would know for sure if he opened his eyes and looked at John’s face, because if there was one thing that John Watson was utterly incapable of, it was hiding his emotions in his expressions. Oh, he could keep his voice as steady as his gun hand when he put his mind to it, but Sherlock could always tell what John was really thinking, just by the way he might widen or narrow his eyes, the slant of his mouth, or the worry lines that came and went on his forehead.

But Sherlock isn’t ready to open his eyes just yet. He doesn’t have to see to know that John is lying beside him, naked body pressed shoulder to hip to his own. He doesn’t have to look to know that John has one arm around Sherlock’s neck, his fingers lightly tugging through the curls on the back of Sherlock’s head, and the other arm pressing softly across his stomach while that hand rubs soothing circles into his side. He doesn’t have to observe to know that John’s cock is still hard. He can feel it, smooth and hot and latex-covered, pressing against his hip.

Sherlock shudders involuntarily and swears under his breath, but he’s sure that the quiet of John’s bedroom and the proximity of John’s ears to his mouth have guaranteed that his soft exclamation, “Dammit,” has been heard quite clearly. He can’t help himself, and that makes him shiver again.

It had all been going so well. He had been sharing John’s bed most nights for the better part of three months now, barring those nights when he’d been in high gear on a case and incapable of either sleep or sex. John had told him quite frankly that he understood that Sherlock had to do the things he did in order to be as brilliant as he was, and Sherlock had mostly preened over the compliment, although he did credit John with having more understanding than the average person. But John was also adamant that while he could go without shagging, he was not above demanding that Sherlock rest if it appeared he was doing himself harm while working out whatever puzzle the criminal element of London had set out for him this time. Naps became routine, and Sherlock was not only delighted at spending a few minutes stretched out on the sofa with his head in John’s lap (especially if he got stuck on a clue that was evading an answer, not that it happened often—he was brilliant after all—but still), but even more pleased that if he did drift off, John didn’t try to make him sleep past the beep of the alarm on his phone.

So, John Watson understands him, which is wonderful. Even better is the fact that John is absolutely the most patient man Sherlock knows. His patience extends to shopping, (chip and pin machines not withstanding) not yelling (much) about body parts in the flat (of course, if Sherlock was to be entirely honest with himself, he would have to admit that the yelling over body parts has decreased not so much because John is patient but because Sherlock has been leaving fewer heads and eyeballs and feet in the fridge. But if he was being that honest with himself, then he’d also have to admit to doing it not for himself but for John, because pleasing John has now become very nearly as important to him as pleasing himself, and that’s something that Sherlock is still processing, so he doesn’t think about it too often), and, of course, sex.

For Sherlock, the aspects of sex that had intrigued him all his life were more the power and seduction of it as opposed to the physical act itself. He understood how people could cheat, lie, rape and murder in the name of sex, but he had never felt any need to experience any of it for himself. In less lucid and more drug induced moments he was aware that he did experience mild forms of attraction, but any thoughts about this man’s strong hands or that woman’s expressive eyes were often coupled with realizing that any physical gratification he might achieve would not result in anything besides conflicts of dominance, power or vulnerability. And while he might not be willing to admit to a fear of those things, he was more than capable of simply ignoring the entire concept, even if he couldn’t delete it entirely from the hard drive of his brain. Passes from both men and women were dismissed along with stray morning hard-ons, and Sherlock was content to leave sex to the criminals and the romance authors.

John Watson changed all of that. He had eased himself so seamlessly into the fabric of Sherlock’s life that by the time he had realized that John had become almost as necessary to him as breathing (although far less boring), he also had to admit that he knew that John was attracted to him and wanted to have sex with him and that he might also want to try having sex with John in return.

It had taken longer than he expected, because while the sex part was pretty straight-forward on paper (or a laptop screen or the Google app on his phone, which was far more convenient), he had not taken into account the emotional complications that came along with it, and that had almost bollocksed up the whole thing before it even began.

But John had done that sometimes infuriating but mostly wonderful understanding patience thing again, just like he had done with the 3 am Vivaldi concertos and the sword gouges on the kitchen table and the SIM cards in the rice. Only this time he had done it naked, with Sherlock right there in the room with him, also naked.

And then he’d done it again. And again.

And now. Now, just when Sherlock had begun to look forward to nights spent in John’s bed, to kisses that sometimes went on for hours, to fingering and frottage and mutual masturbation that left him breathless and dizzy and barely able to contain the illogical statements that wanted to fall from his lips onto John’s skin--things like I love you and I need you and I would happily go to Christmas dinner with Mycroft if you were there with me—now…

Tonight John had said “I want more.” John had said, “I want to feel you.” John had said “I’d like to be inside you.”

Sherlock had not been completely sex-stupid when he had agreed. Yes, John was nibbling and sucking and licking at that spot behind his right ear that seemed to be hard-wired directly to his cock. And yes, John’s adept, capable fingers had been deep inside him, cleverly taking him apart one slick stroke at a time. And yes, Sherlock had John’s cock in his hand and it was like hot wet satin, like polished steel, like .44 Magnum velvet. But Sherlock Holmes was nothing if not a master multi-tasker. And if his responses: “Yes. Yes, John. I would—oh! Please, yes...” were not entirely up to his usual mastery of the King’s English, and if he was slurring his words a bit, well, his agreement was quite clear, he thought. Both to John and to his own body.

But now John was holding Sherlock carefully and touching him softly, like he was going to break and Sherlock’s breath was gusting out of him not like he’d had marathon sex but rather like he had run a marathon instead and apparently chain-smoked while doing it. John was still hard and unfulfilled beside him and Sherlock’s cock was barely at half-mast anymore. Because Sherlock had been fine with John applying more pressure with his fingers, stretching him more than usual but not causing him any pain. He had been fine when John opened the condom package and rolled the latex sheath over himself. And he had been more than fine when John kissed him nearly senseless, his mouth hot and sticky and sweet, and lined their bodies up with Sherlock’s legs splayed around John’s body.

John’s cock had nudged gently at his entrance and Sherlock suddenly froze. Whether it was a memory, a long forgotten file from Scotland Yard or a sudden fear for his safety that Sherlock had never experienced before was something he might never know, but the fact of the matter is this: Sherlock’s body closed up shop. End of. The feel of John’s cock, not really much wider than three finger widths but still so much bigger in all the ways that mattered, insistent and demanding and stiff with blood and want had Sherlock suddenly moaning and struggling under John’s body.

Luckily, John was also not completely sex-stupid, and he seemed to understand that all of Sherlock’s writhing and noises were not even a little bit come-hither but were instead more of the come somewhere else variety. He was already moving away when Sherlock groaned out “No-o-o,” and curled in on himself.

It took several minutes of John’s whispered assurances, which Sherlock felt he shouldn’t need and was frustrated to find that he did, for him to risk stretching out again on the bed.

Finally, now, Sherlock opens his eyes, but keeps them firmly focused on the ceiling.

 “John, I’ll understand if—” He doesn’t want to be understanding, dammit! He wants to hit someone. He wants to hit himself. He wants to be out solving crimes and running through the streets of London with John panting and smiling and running after him. He doesn’t want to be lying here feeling defensive and defenseless. He doesn’t want this stupid emotional thing to be overruling the logical fact that John has been perfectly accommodating up to this point. Just because he’s feeling things now, like he’s concerned that he’s let John down, or that he’s afraid that John will stop wanting to have sex with him now, or that he’s terrified that John will leave him. “If you don’t want—that is, if you need to go—”

“Stop it,” John says, but he’s smiling a little so his words come out less harsh than Sherlock has been expecting. “It’s all right. Just, hmmm…” He interrupts the sentence with a soft, open-mouth kiss and Sherlock is annoyed that he didn’t complete the thought and then he’s distracted by John’s lips and tongue and then he’s annoyed that he’s distracted and that distracts him all over again.

“Oh!” John suddenly exclaims and he’s looking at Sherlock like he does at crime scenes sometimes, like Sherlock is the sun and the moon and tea and Hobnobs and Steven-bloody Hawking all rolled into one. If Sherlock was a vain man, he’d bask under the attention, revel in that look.

Maybe he does bask just a little, but mostly Sherlock just squirms under John’s gaze. He wonders if this is what people feel when he looks at them, when he sees them, when he deduces them. He’s uncomfortable for a moment and knows at the same time that he won’t ever stop doing what he does, being who he is. He knows that John loves him because of it, or in spite of it, and either way he stops feeling awkward about it. More or less.

“Yes, yes, I’ve got it now. Oh, yes!” John’s muttering softly and Sherlock can barely make out the words, but he feels his body moving before he can figure out what he’s going on about. John is two stone lighter and six inches shorter than Sherlock, but he moves him around on the bed like he’s a child or a feather or currents of air. John kisses away a grunt of protest and captures his arms as he flails about for a balance he thinks is deserting him and then John is back on top of him again, kissing him hard and rolling them over. Sherlock gasps as their cocks brush and then press and he is on top of John and he just has time to wonder where the useless condom has gone before John’s hand is on his cock and the sudden, delicious pressure short circuits all thoughts for several minutes.

Sherlock wonders what John thinks he will accomplish by this and he’s already feeling the uncomfortable tightness in his chest again, helpless to stop it despite all logic telling him that he’s not restrained, he’s not in any danger, he’s not about to be hurt. His mind is racing as fast as his heartbeat, and while one part of him is actually analyzing everything he may or may not have read on the internet about anal intercourse, another part of him is trying to work out how John’s mouth can always taste like tea and not in that stale PG Tips way but in that dark, rich Yorkshire way, even if he hasn’t even had tea for several hours. Still another part of him is not so helpfully telling him that bottoming for his lover would be like throwing himself very forcefully over a cliff and that the only part of that scenario that he would be controlling would be whether he chose to scream or not before being dashed to his death on some rocks. For some reason another section of his brain has chosen to give him a mini-video of Mycroft standing in a warehouse with a leather bound notebook in his hands and a knowing smirk on his face. “Not trust issues. Control issues,” says imaginary Mycroft. “Really, Sherlock—”

John interrupts his stupid brother—Yes, Mycroft, you are stupid even in my head, thinks Sherlock—with a tug to Sherlock’s hair and Sherlock tries to focus. It’s oddly difficult.

“Sherlock, I’m just—the loo—just a minute—wait—just promise me you’ll wait, okay?” says John.

This doesn’t make any sense to Sherlock but he gives a short nod and then John is disappearing out the door and Sherlock lets abandonment and failure flood his system for two horrifying minutes. Then he wonders if he should get up and check on a series of Petri dishes he has sitting on the mantle. Another few minutes go by and to Sherlock they feel like years. He’s just decided that John has gone to the loo to masturbate and forget he ever met Sherlock Holmes and that if he has to he will promise not to make fun of Mycroft’s weight for a month in exchange for a plane ticket to Iceland leaving right now so that he can study volcanoes and delete every bit of John Watson from his mind when John comes back into the room.

If he’s had a wank, he’s done it all wrong, Sherlock thinks, since John’s cock is, if anything, looking harder than ever, and he’s smiling as he sits down on the bed and pulls Sherlock into his arms and then they are kissing again and Sherlock is confused, which he hates, and beginning to get aroused again which he enjoys, and viciously glad that he can still take the piss out of Mycroft for his over-indulgence in sweets, which he loves.

“Budge up,” John whispers against his mouth, and then he helps Sherlock move by licking at the tiny mole on his throat. Together they are less than successful but then John moves back to his mouth and by the time Sherlock untangles his tongue from John’s and nuzzles at his cheeks, which are just a little bristly, he finds he’s on his knees in the middle of the bed and John is sat facing him.

He isn’t sure where the condom came from, only that John has a fresh one in his hand and when he reaches down between Sherlock’s legs, both of them are happy to discover that Sherlock’s back in the game, as it were.

“I’m going to ask you to do three things for me, Sherlock. Just three things,” John says in a voice that is coarse and thick with need. Sherlock is gulping air as John strokes his cock, smoothing the latex down, coating it with lubricant and he can’t stop staring at John’s hand.

“Sherlock,” John says. And again, firmer. “Sherlock.”

Sherlock finally tears his gaze away from John’s hand. He assesses their relative positions on the bed before looking John in the face, and he realizes that John has his legs spread on either side of Sherlock’s knees. He’s still got a hand on Sherlock’s condom covered erection and both hand and cock are shiny with lubrication.

John’s eyes are wide, pupils dark and Sherlock knows it’s from desire and he wonders if his own pupils are so blown, and he remembers what that looks like from the cocaine, an entirely different type of desire and he hopes for a moment that John understands that this situation is not the same. Not the same at all.

“Three things, Sherlock. Will you?” John asks, and he shifts one leg, bends at the knee until his foot rests flat next to Sherlock’s leg.

“Yes, John.” He thinks that right now John could ask him to take tea with the Queen in nothing but a bow tie and a fascinator, and his answer would be the same. “Yes, John, yes.”

John takes Sherlock’s hand from where it has been hanging at the end of his arm and runs his thumb over his knuckles for a moment, and then presses his palm to the underside of the thigh he has just revealed by bending his knee.

“I want you to keep your hand right here, all right?” John says, and Sherlock hears his voice tremble a little on the last word and then he realizes he has squeezed the back of John’s leg quite hard. He flattens his hand out with effort and looks back at John’s face.

“Yes.”

“Good. That’s good.” John is reclining now, letting his head rest back against the pillows. He’s still keeping eye contact with Sherlock as he waits to see if Sherlock will keep his hand where he placed it. He does.

John’s just barely touching his cock now, maddeningly soft brushes over the head with the backs of his fingers that make Sherlock tremble and groan low in his throat.

“The second thing’s easy,” John says, his voice calm and reasonable and completely undeniable. “I want you to kiss me.”

Several unexpected things happen at once. Never one to turn down an opportunity or a challenge, Sherlock easily leans forward so that he can reach John’s mouth. He is still hyper-aware of his hand on John’s leg, the skin warm and smooth. Tiny blonde hairs tickle his palm as his hand shifts just a tiny bit, but he clutches a little and holds on. This results in John’s leg being pushed up and back as Sherlock moves forward and then John’s hips are shifting up as well, and he’s able to get a better hold on Sherlock’s hard length.

Sherlock’s other hand falls on John’s shoulder and his fingers begin mapping out the scar there as he’s done countless times before and he wonders if he should find it soothing even as he does. His focus turns to John’s lips, curved in a smile and slightly parted, wet and pink and inviting.

When he licks his own lips and shifts forward just enough for their noses to brush, John turns his head, takes a deep breath and gives a sharp pull on his cock that turns the kiss Sherlock was trying to give him on the mouth into an almost pained groan pressed into his jaw. Sherlock realizes just a second too late what John is doing—what John has done, and then the head of his cock is nestled between John’s conveniently stretched open arse cheeks and John has shifted his hips even more and he’s tugging again, careful and demanding and the first hint of tight heat causes electricity to slam through Sherlock’s body and brain.

Oh, God, he thinks, his hand clamped to John’s leg. John, what did you do? he thinks. And his brain, the mind that John Watson says is brilliant, and maybe it is, right now his brain is not so much brilliant as turned up to eleven. His thoughts have gone supernova.

Oh, God, he thinks again, oh God, Christ, John—John in the loo—John reaching under himself, preparing himself—John knowing that proving control is showing control and Sherlock underestimating him again and –oh John, so hot so tight—the slide of lube—John, stretching himself for Sherlock because he knows—knows what Sherlock needs, wants, craves—knows how Sherlock’s mind works and how can he know and he’s being surrounded by John, taken in by John and now John’s mouth is there and still there’s tea—sweet, dark tea steeped perfectly—John’s mouth is perfect and wet and sloppy and more heat and he’s not expecting—how can anyone expect this and John’s other leg is around his waist and his hands are branding him—leaving burning fingerprints on his hips and he’s sliding forward and-Oh Christ yes, John clenching his muscles and there’s no way that sound just came out of him but John’s laughing—is he laughing, why is he laughing? and they are both moving and oh! Oh! Right there and now John’s rocking and he’s in control or maybe they both are or maybe they aren’t but it’s hot and it’s tight and it’s melting and God! Oh, John, how so normal, how so incredible? So right this is right—right there! Ungh, Love? Love! No, more than that, more, the spotlight, the genius, so hot, so John, John—John!

“The third thing?” Sherlock gasps, pressing the words into John’s neck, his hips pistoning and John meeting him thrust for thrust. “Please, yes, John, what is it?”

John tugs on Sherlock’s earlobe with tiny sharp teeth, making something like jet fuel ignite at the base of his spine and John, his voice a growled command and a beseeching entreaty, says “Come for me.”

And then there’s fire and ice in his veins and a sticky mess and quivering muscle between them and clenching and friction all around him and he needs to be deeper, deeper still, needs to be buried in John and he hears his name and sees that John’s eyes are shut tight and then there’s nothing much at all for quite a while.

Much later, Sherlock realizes that he wasn’t prepared for that, and isn’t ready to do it again, either way, for a while. But John is a warm, snuffling weight on his chest and his hands are securing him firmly to the bed and to his side, so that’s good. And so he also realizes that neither one of them got dashed to death on rocks, even if they both did fall.

“Didn’t figure you’d be one for following orders, really,” John’s words ghost over his right nipple, making him shiver.

“Smug bastard,” Sherlock replies, smiling and feeling drowsy.

“That’s us,” says John. “A matched set.”

“Mmm, true.” Sherlock follows John into sleep, and in his dreams, John follows Sherlock through the streets of London.