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“Any relationship can remain on a friendship basis only. At some point in time, though, it may become more, even including sexual relations. It is a natural process between two people, and if you feel ready for the next step, there are things you should consider.” —Wikihow, the how to manual you can edit 1. Consider whether you have been in a one-on-one relationship long enough to get to really know each other. “We’ve known each other for well over three months now; of course, I deduced everything about you at first meeting, so the initial five minutes with us would be the equivalent of at least one year of knowledge if this were the societal norm.” John looked up from his newspaper at this pronouncement. Sherlock was stood in the doorway, removing his gloves. “That sounds about right,” he replied, only half wondering what Sherlock’s point was. Part of him was wondering if there was anything edible in the kitchen that he could actually consider for supper, but most of him was fighting not to shiver at Sherlock’s tone of voice and wondering if Sherlock knew exactly what that particular tone of voice did to John. It seemed to be made up entirely of crushed velvet and cat purr, and it made John think things. “Lestrade and his men consider you a helpful assistant to my work, and I am pleased to have a doctor as my colleague,” Sherlock continued, hanging his scarf and coat on the hook behind the door. John watched him smooth down his suit coat and straighten a crease in his dark trousers with absolutely no objectivity whatsoever. “Always nice to be appreciated,” he replied, pointedly not thinking about the times Anderson had looked at him with open animosity, or the times Lestrade had pushed past him like he wasn’t even there. Worse still were the times that Sherlock breezed off in pursuit of a clue or a criminal without a backward glance, forgetting everyone, including John, in the thrill of the chase. Sherlock stepped up to the fireplace, gave John an assessing gaze (the one that always made John feel like he was a microbe in the middle of a Petri dish) and then turned his attention to the skull on the mantle. He brushed his long pale fingers over one empty eye socket, and then turned to face John again. “I introduced you to Sebastian as my friend.” There was that tone again, and something at once cold and hot raced up John’s spine. He thought back to that meeting, before the Chinese smugglers, before Sarah, and he remembered the smarmy leer on Sebastian’s face as he’d repeated “friend?” Immediately defensive, John had corrected Sherlock with “colleague”. Now that he was thinking about it, John remembered Sherlock looking both coolly detached and hurt at the same time (John didn’t think his own face could pull off something like that), and now it made a bit more sense. It also made him feel a bit bad for not explaining to Sherlock that he just didn’t want Sebastian making dirty assumptions about something that was, frankly, none of his damned business. Well, Sebastian wasn’t here now. “You are my friend,” John declared. “I think, maybe, the best friend I’ve ever had.” Sherlock turned around so quickly he almost knocked the skull from the mantle. Anyone else would have been uncomfortable under the focused stare and almost-frown, but John knew the difference between disbelief and anger; he’d seen both on Sherlock’s face, and his own, many times. So he just kept his expression bland and stared back at Sherlock. Sherlock broke the silence first. “Tea?” he offered. John smiled and went to the kitchen to make some. 2. Bring up the subject when you two are together in a private setting. It seemed like half of Scotland Yard had turned up for this one, John thought. Not that he wasn’t enjoying the show himself, but still, they could probably do with a little less gawking and a little more arresting. Either way, Sherlock was in his element, and John was content to step back and let him take them through it. So he shrugged into his “unassuming John Watson” pose, ignored the still warm gun tucked in his jacket pocket, and focused on Sherlock instead. The consulting detective (only one in the world, John reminded himself with a grin) was moving around the room like a dancer, easily sidestepping the overturned furniture, the blow up doll, the petrol cans and the serial arsonist who was currently being attended to by an ECP. By the time Sherlock had finished up his explanation of the arsonist’s desire for attention from his primary school teacher and her uncanny resemblance to Betty Swallows, the Amazing Anatomically Correct Plastic Companion, and how the man had shot himself in order to evoke sympathy from his unrequited love when torching a few warehouses with sex dolls filled with petrol hadn’t done the trick, Lestrade was grinning, Anderson was eyeing up Betty in a frighteningly non-procedural way and Donovan was trying to determine if the arson device belonged in an evidence bag or a body bag. The ECP and a second paramedic had patched up the perpetrator’s shoulder (take down shot, neat, not life-threatening, but enough to save Sherlock from being set alight after being doused in gasoline from one of Betty’s many orifices; John was pleased with himself), and a young detective that John didn’t recognize was cuffing the man and reading him his rights. “Brilliant,” John said, looking forward to Sherlock’s usual surprised smile that was always the result of John voicing this sort of opinion out loud. Instead, Sherlock was suddenly right in front of him, gloved hands gripping his shoulders, reeking of petrol. John saw that Sherlock’s eyes were a bit red and he was about to suggest a quick eye-wash from the emergency staff before they left, when Sherlock smiled and declared loudly, “If this was a date instead of a crime scene, John, your reaction would indicate that we should go back to the flat where you would offer me a coffee but in fact would be alluding to engaging in sexual congress.” Behind them, Anderson snorted and Lestrade was suddenly overcome with a coughing fit. “As this is not our first date-slash-crime scene,” Sherlock continued, “I would agree to your suggestion.” Donovan started to giggle and Sherlock swept out of the room before John could respond. He tried glaring at the other people in the room, but the only one who seemed cowed was the arsonist, and John didn’t think he really counted. “Good night,” John said, already recovering from the shock and wondering if Sherlock had meant any of that. 3. Decide what kinds of sexual behavior you would consider. Take your time throughout the thought process. John thought it was lucky he hadn’t been asleep when Sherlock barged into his room, or he might have shot him in a fever dream of Afghanistan. Instead, he had been lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling, and wondering if Sherlock was ever going to put away his violin and get some sleep. Not that the Mendelssohn was ear-splitting awful—in fact, quite the opposite, lovely and soothing. But as much as John was enjoying the impromptu concert, it only made him think about his friend even more. ‘I play the violin when I’m thinking,’ Sherlock had told him at their first meeting, and now John would give anything to know just what it was that Sherlock was thinking about. John barely had time to register that the music had ended when Sherlock appeared in the doorway, looking tall and imperious even in just a dressing gown, t-shirt and striped pajama bottoms. “Sherlock? What—?“ was all John managed to get out, his thoughts turning to a potential case, or some experiment gone awry. And then Sherlock was climbing into the bed and on top of him and crashing their mouths together. “Sherlock—“ John struggled under his surprisingly heavy flatmate while Sherlock bit at his lips and tried to put his tongue in John’s mouth. His hands were pulling at John’s pajamas, top and bottom, and he was making an ersatz moaning noise the likes of which John hadn’t heard since his one and only trip to a triple X theater with Mike Stamford back in uni. John felt himself growing hard despite himself—he knew he wanted this, wanted more, wanted Sherlock. But it was this fact that had him finally getting a good grip on Sherlock’s arms just below the shoulder and shoving him back as hard as he could without releasing him. “Stop it.” He glared at Sherlock, who was now sitting up, legs spread across John’s hips. John could feel Sherlock’s distinct lack of interest lying soft across his own cock, and he tried to reign in the infamous Watson temper, knowing it would be useless in this at best and a complete disaster at worst. “What are you playing at?” he demanded. “Really, John? Isn’t it obvious?” Sherlock purred and smiled and continued to be completely unconvincing. He was trying to get at the tie on John’s pajama bottoms again and John slapped his hands away and then grabbed his arms again, a bit lower to hold his hands away from him. He continued to glare and Sherlock continued to pretend, turning his head, licking his lips, doing his best to appear provocative and sensual. “See anything you like?” he murmured. John shook him, not roughly. “What I see, Sherlock, is that you’re one hell of an actor. But the only thing you’ve convincingly portrayed here is someone who hasn’t done this before.” John felt the muscles under his hands twitch and stiffen even before the thunderous expression on Sherlock’s face told him he’d hit the mark. “Oh, hell! Why should that matter? You want this—it’s obvious. And I want--“ He seemed to cut off the words with effort, and then continued. “If it’s of mutual benefit, then I don’t see—" “You see, Sherlock, of course you do. You’ve seen through me at any rate, that’s plain. You see,” John couldn’t help the teasing smile that tugged at the corner of his mouth. “But you don’t observe.” Before Sherlock’s affronted glare could huff itself into words, John hauled him down into a messy hug, tugging on Sherlock’s dark curls and then pressing his face into them to keep Sherlock’s head nestled between his neck and shoulder. “You clearly aren’t sure about doing this,” John told him, tempering his hard words with affectionate warmth. “But you’re going to have to be—you’re going to have to decide if what you want--“ He didn’t elaborate on what Sherlock wanted from him, remembering that the man in his arms felt that everything else was transport, including his own heart, and that despite what he knew to be the accuracy of his deduction, it wouldn’t be welcome now. “—if what you want,” he continued, “is worth trusting me in this.” Sherlock struggled to sit up and John let him. With unusual care, Sherlock disengaged himself from his place on John’s lap but remained sitting on the bed. He watched John cautiously throughout this procedure and John returned the steady gaze, knowing he was being analyzed, not for the first time, and, with any luck, not for the last. John shifted himself to sit completely upright and put both hands to either side of Sherlock’s head, relishing the contact with the coarse curls for a moment before pulling Sherlock’s head down to his level and giving him a light kiss on his right temple. “When you’re ready to do this, honestly, then, I promise: I’ll be here,” John assured him. And then he pushed him away. “I--All right. I should not have disturbed you--,” Sherlock whispered. “It’s fine, Sherlock,” John assured him. “Good night, John.” Sherlock touched the side of John’s face for a moment; his hand was cold and soft; and then he was gone in a rustle of silk. The violin started up a few minutes later and John fell asleep to Träumerei by Schuman. 4. If it's your first time, relax. This is meant to be fun, not stressful. If it doesn't work out the first time, you can always try again. Sherlock was back in John’s bed three days later. There was a knock, and then the door slowly opened, revealing Sherlock in the doorway wearing his pajama pants and dressing gown, but shirtless this time. John just waited quietly, pointedly not looking at Sherlock and a minute later he entered the room. There was a terrible silence then, thick with want and need, fear and confusion, mistrust and desire. Some of it was one-sided. Some of it was for each other. Some of it was for themselves. Sherlock took a deep breath and when he released it, it was a painful-sounding groan. John just waited. Sherlock sat down on the end of the bed, fiddled a bit with the collar of his dressing gown, and then gave John a beseeching look and whispered his name. John opened his arms. The bed wasn’t very big, and it only took a couple of inchworm like maneuvers for Sherlock to extend his body so that instead of sitting hunched at the foot of the bed, he was stretched out beside John. Gingerly, he rested his head on John’s chest, and blew out another sigh when John’s arms came down around him. For a few moments, John let Sherlock get comfortable in his embrace, knowing that each step tonight was going to be a slow and careful one. But he also knew that in the end it would be worth it. He felt some of the tension easing out of Sherlock, felt his shoulders slump a little and his head where it lay on his chest grew fractionally heavier. Turning just a little, he dropped a kiss into Sherlock’s hair and started rubbing soft circles over Sherlock’s body. The silk dressing gown moved with his hands, creating gentle friction. Sherlock tilted his head up and John pressed his mouth to the small satisfied smile he saw on the other man’s face. Sherlock immediately returned the kiss, and they spent several minutes tasting and testing one another, finding the right angles to deepen the kiss, following each other’s leads as tongues and gentle bites were introduced. Reactions were gauged with sighs and smothered half-giggles and the sly shifting of legs. John peppered Sherlock’s face with tiny kisses to distract him while he slipped his hand up under the robe and slid it down, revealing one pale shoulder. Sherlock wasn’t distracted. He pulled away from John’s mouth abruptly, eyes widening slightly. John returned his gaze steadily, licked his lips and waited. Sherlock gently released himself from John’s embrace and stood up from the bed. John did his best to appear understanding and hide his frustration. He knew that the progress from friends to lovers was going to be a slow one, but he had thought—no, hoped—that tonight was going to take an altogether different route. Sherlock had felt warm and right in his arms, and had seemed to be enthusiastic in his appreciation of John’s kissing technique. But now—well, John supposed he could be patient. Sherlock gave an almost careless shrug, and the dressing gown slipped to the floor, leaving him standing in just the matching silk pajama pants which hung loose at his hips and did nothing to hide his obvious arousal. He wrapped his arms around himself, shivered and never broke eye contact with John. John pushed the blankets down the bed in invitation and Sherlock came back into his arms. They kissed again for several minutes and John was pleased to note the way that Sherlock responded, meeting lips with lips and tongue with tongue and then taking on some initiative of his own, tasting John, mapping the inside of his mouth and humming happily for a moment even as his breathing quickened in tempo. It was a heady and arousing fog John found himself coming out of when he noticed that Sherlock’s hands had stilled on his chest, and his mouth, while still clearly engaged in meeting John’s kiss for kiss, had taken on a hard quality. “Stop it,” John said, nipping sharply on Sherlock’s earlobe. “This isn’t an experiment.” Sherlock looked surprised and worried and ready to argue. “You don’t have to think it through,” said John, nibbling on his ear again until he heard Sherlock hiss out a shaky breath, and then he covered the other man’s mouth again with his own. John worked his way around Sherlock’s body slowly and took his cues from Sherlock’s kisses, learned by sight and sound and taste. Sherlock pulled back slightly and squirmed when John ran his fingers over his stomach—ticklish, then; noted. But his tongue was in John’s mouth a moment later with a quiet moan when John moved his hands up and brushed his nipples with his thumbs. John grinned and did it again, and when Sherlock gasped and tipped his head back, he took advantage of the position to burrow his way under Sherlock’s chin to nip and suck at his Adam’s apple. He could feel every sound coming out of the other man with his lips pressed there, so he stayed in place, teeth and tongue working for long enough that he knew his actions were going to leave a mark. He kept one hand busy stroking across Sherlock’s hairless chest, reveling in the sensation of soft pale skin sheathing tight corded muscle. He lifted his hand to avoid any ticklish spots and then clamped down on Sherlock’s hip, pressing hard when Sherlock huffed out his name and pulled on his hair to rejoin their mouths. He could feel Sherlock’s cock pressing hard and stiff against his thigh so he trapped it there with a leg wrap and let his hand drift from hip to arse, still keeping firm pressure, stroking and squeezing. There was another moment of hesitance on Sherlock’s part when John pushed the hand on his arse under his pants. But it was fleeting at best, and then he mimicked John’s actions and they pushed at one another’s clothes until they were down around ankles and the increased heat from flesh on flesh as their cocks pressed fervently into one another made John curse and Sherlock mutter “Oh, hell,” in a tiny breathless voice. Before a weak cry of protest had barely left Sherlock’s lips, John had pulled his hand off of Sherlock’s bum, sucked his fingers quickly (Sherlock’s cock twitched and his hips snapped forward a bit at that, and John noted the reaction for further study later) and then slipped them into the crease of Sherlock’s buttocks. He didn’t move them right away. Like he knew he had to do with every step tonight, he waited, simply rocking his hips a bit (quite aware that this was as much for himself as for Sherlock) and letting Sherlock decide and adjust. Sherlock gave John a half smile and pressed himself closer. John turned slightly so that Sherlock was lying more on top of him than beside him and he spread Sherlock’s legs a little with his own. In this position, he could easily start moving his fingers up and down the crack of Sherlock’s arse, maintain the slippery distracting friction between their cocks, and leave it up to Sherlock where he wanted to put his hands. Those long strong fingers were currently pulling on John’s hair while Sherlock alternated kissing him with abandon and burrowing his face in his neck. Both suited John just fine, but he realized that each time he traced Sherlock’s entrance with his fingers, Sherlock would break away from his mouth. He let that be his guide, so that when Sherlock was ready, he’d smile up into Sherlock’s mouth, kiss him even more breathless and move his fingers a little more. The only indication of change when John pushed one finger deeply into Sherlock was a hitching of his breath, a slurred approximation of his name and a sudden pistoning of hips that he realized was completely instinctive on Sherlock’s part. Sherlock’s hands were suddenly flapping helplessly to either side of John’s face even as Sherlock was gusting hot breath into his mouth. John captured one flailing arm and caught up the hand at the end of it with his own, squeezing the fingers tightly and getting an answering squeeze. Sherlock braced himself with his other hand on the pillow next to John’s head, curling his body to make it easy for John to reach everywhere. He shifted his hips up to meet that lone questing finger, whereupon John doubled his efforts, literally, pushing a second finger up into him and curling them inside of Sherlock with a doctor’s expertise. He could feel Sherlock’s whole body shudder then, and the sound that came out of his mouth could only be described as a growl, so John did it again, all the while ghosting kisses over Sherlock's shoulder and neck, tasting the salt of sweat over the smooth hot skin at his throat. A third crook of his fingers and Sherlock cried out “John,” and pushed back hard. His mouth was moving sloppily over John’s cheeks, ears, neck, and in between kisses his voice tried to form words that came out slurry and wrecked. “Shhh,” John murmured. “It’s good. We’re good.” Sherlock’s body rocked in the cradle of John’s own, creating not quite enough friction between their groins before shoving back with a greedy whine. John let his fingers slide out of Sherlock and grinned when the other man’s eyes snapped open. He let his fingers tease softly around Sherlock’s opening while he pulled Sherlock’s right hand away from the bed. More of his weight shifted onto John as Sherlock squirmed and panted hot breath into John’s face and appeared entirely focused on getting John’s fingers back into him, so John stilled all movement until Sherlock’s wide grey eyes were fixed on his own. He didn’t give Sherlock time enough to start thinking, or regretting. He just very deliberately licked a broad stripe up Sherlock’s palm, sucked hard and sloppy at his fingers (surprising himself when his pleasured moan matched Sherlock’s exactly) and then pushed Sherlock’s wet hand down to where their erections were pressed together. “John—“ Sherlock’s voice was hoarse, cracked; his eyes suddenly looking everywhere but at John’s face. “I haven’t—" John wrapped Sherlock’s hand around the both of them and left it there, bringing his own hand up to caress the side of Sherlock’s face. “I don’t know—" Sherlock stammered. “Yes, you do,” John told him, moving his hand slowly over Sherlock’s cheek, tracing over Sherlock’s lower lip with his thumb. Sherlock’s hand held his cock in a bruising grip and the urge to thrust was strong, but John kept himself still, kept his eyes on Sherlock’s face. Sherlock was shuddering all over but his focus was coming back to John’s face and a second swipe over his kiss-swollen lips with John’s thumb had him following the movement with his mouth. John felt the hand between them move then, slowly, almost hesitant, and he replaced the thumb at Sherlock’s mouth with his lips and his other hand started to move and dip again. Things got a bit hazy after that. Sherlock’s hand movements progressed from clumsy to awkward to something that made John shout and rapidly piston his hips. Sherlock arched up to welcome John’s fingers back into his body and John unerringly stroked over his prostate again and again, meeting each thrust of hips with his own. And then Sherlock did something with his thumb across the pre-cum slick tip of John’s cock and John added a third finger and a twist of his wrist and Sherlock was crying into John’s mouth and biting his own lips and coming all over his hand and John’s cock and their thighs. John didn’t think Sherlock was aware of his hand movements at that point, but combined with the force of Sherlock’s orgasm, it was enough to have John swearing and slipping his fingers out of Sherlock’s arse, clamping them down brutally on his hips to hold him in place while his own orgasm shook him. His cock was jerking and spasming in aching overstimulation when he found the presence of mind to knock Sherlock’s hand away from them both and then he contented himself with simply breathing in the scent of sex and sweat and Sherlock, pressing his flushed face into Sherlock’s hair while the other man panted and gasped for air somewhere on his scarred shoulder. 5. Review your personal standards and stick with them until you have further thoughts about being sexually active. “Well, that worked out rather even better than I’d suspected it would,” said Sherlock. He was sitting propped up against the headboard, looking a bit smug, but mostly disheveled. “Tell me you didn’t look up ‘how to seduce your flatmate’ on the internet,” John muttered, but it was a half-hearted gripe at best. The fact that he was murmuring the words mostly into Sherlock’s thigh where his head was resting while Sherlock’s long fingers were swirling his hair into even more spectacular just-been-shagged spikes didn’t lend any credence to his grumbling. “Of course not,” Sherlock’s protest was strong enough that John knew he was lying. “Good deduction, then. Well done, you,” John replied; he was too spent to argue about it, and besides, Sherlock was right; things had worked out quite well. They were both quiet for a while. Sherlock kept playing with John’s hair and John cupped a hand around Sherlock’s knee. He wondered if this would be the only time he’d get to be with Sherlock this way. He considered the events of the evening and had very little performance anxiety about any of it, but still-- “Shut up,” Sherlock said. “I didn’t—“John started to protest, and then sighed instead. “Thinking a bit too loud, was I?” His fingers clutched reflexively when Sherlock tugged on his hair, but when he appeared to be about to lose some of his scalp if he didn’t move, he sighed again and let Sherlock re-arrange their bodies so that John was now laying on his other side, head on a pillow, with Sherlock spooning up behind him, both arms tight around him. His large hands splayed themselves across John’s chest, and John covered them with his own. He felt Sherlock nuzzling at his neck and had just realized that there was no way for him to look at Sherlock when the other man spoke quietly, his breath stirring the hairs at his nape. “If I was to say thank you at this point, I feel that then I would need to thank you for many things, starting perhaps with a comment you made in a taxi, or perhaps shooting a ‘frankly awful’ cabbie, and I suspect that it would take far too long for me to catalogue all of the situations and then express the sentiment to go with each one of them.” Sherlock’s voice was a rumbling whisper; John could feel words and kisses falling on his skin in equal measure. “It’s not in my nature to expend energy needlessly, as you well know. And also—“John could feel the smile on his shoulder and wanted desperately to turn around and see it, but then Sherlock nibbled a bit and licked a little and he was distracted. “—also, you seem to have worn me out far too much to even contemplate such an endeavor.” John tried to smother the giggle in his pillow and wasn’t entirely successful. But he had to admit he was feeling a bit “worn out” himself. So he just squeezed Sherlock’s hands and shifted to press his back more fully to Sherlock’s chest with a contented groan. “But, John, what I do need to say—what I need you to understand-- before we both succumb to what romance novels might call a “post coital haze”, is this: I pride myself on my control; control of my environment, control of my thoughts, control of myself. And if I were ever to find myself in a situation where I felt I had to give up that control, well…” Again, John resisted the urge to turn while Sherlock simply breathed into the crook of his neck. At the same time, John realized that he could feel Sherlock’s chest pressed flush to his back, and that his heart was beating faster than any “post coital haze” should be producing. “Evidence would suggest that I would only give up that control to the most trustworthy of persons,” Sherlock said, “And I certainly wouldn’t do it for a one-time ‘experiment’.” John released the breath he didn’t know he was holding and quickly flipped himself out of Sherlock’s embrace, twisting around to look at him at last. He didn’t have to see the look on Sherlock’s face to know that he was uncomfortable, or possibly slightly terrified. His words were enough to be going on with. He wasn’t sure if Sherlock had suddenly found his heart on his sleeve and had no idea what to do with it, or if he had just realized what tonight had meant and now he had described it in the only way he knew how, not knowing if John could or would understand what he was feeling, what had just happened. John understood. And with that understanding came the realization that any frothy declaration of love right now would be disbelieved, mocked in defense, and quite possibly undo all the hard work they had both done to get here. He thought about conversations past, and the times when he knew that he and Sherlock had understood each other completely. As he searched for the right words, he pressed the palm of his hand to Sherlock’s cheek, felt the dull heat of a blush there, and kissed him very lightly on the forehead. Sherlock crinkled his nose in response and his eyes narrowed in confusion. John tried to convince himself that this wasn’t adorable. “Problem?” Sherlock’s demanding tone was a bit too tremulous to be imperious. “No,” John said firmly. “No, I’m not saying that; no.” The next kiss was mouth to mouth and just as firm as his tone. He cupped both hands around Sherlock’s head and smiled when he pulled away and Sherlock tried to follow. With his hands still in Sherlock’s hair, he kissed both of his eyes closed and steered his head to rest on his chest. When Sherlock had settled and his arms and legs were tangled with his own, John made the final comment of the night. “I’m just saying, it’s all fine.” |
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