Chapter Text
John hadn’t thought much about Sherlock acting strange, then suddenly going off to bed. He was often erratic, and his behavior was not new to John. He knew that if something was truly the matter Sherlock would talk to him about it.
And now he was.
Except John wished that he wasn’t.
Because he was asking him about fanfiction and pyjama bottoms and Jesus, John was just trying to enjoy his breakfast.
“You think I wrote fanfiction about us?” John asked, even as he knew his uptick in heart rate was surely making his face flush, giving him away.
“I’m fairly confident you have,” Sherlock concludes, fixing that unwavering stare on him. “Though I’m unsure as to why.”
John took another sip of his tea to try and buy himself some time. He knew, deep down, that it would come to this eventually. He didn’t know how, or when, but when your best friend was the world’s most genius detective, your deepest darkest secrets were bound to come out.
“W-well, you know,” he started, pulling at his shirt collar. “I was just jotting down notes from our previous adventures and I guess my imagination got a little bit away from me…”
“It’s thirty thousand words, Watson.”
“Yeah mate, I’m a writer, y’know? I used to write a blog, and—“
“Approximately ten thousand of those words depict us in sexual encounters.”
And this was what John had been dreading. He dropped his fork, the clanging noise jarring him as well as flinging some bits of eggs unceremoniously into his lap. He tried to collect his thoughts as he grabbed a napkin and picked up the pieces.
“I-I-I, well, uhm—“
“Watson,” Sherlock said, his voice low.
John crumpled up the napkin, looking back up. “Yes?”
“You’ve thought about having intercourse with me,” the detective said. It wasn’t a question, rather just a confirmation of facts.
Mortified, John could only nod, unsure what he could possibly say that could get him out of his. Sherlock’s gaze was calculating, like a predator watching its prey.
Sherlock blinked, seeming surprised by the confirmation. He sat back in the chair, rubbing a hand over his chin. “Interesting,” he murmured, almost to himself. “I can’t say I had ever considered the possibility before, given the nature of our working and living arrangements. However after reading a few of these stories—“
“—a few?!—“
“—I’ve begun to wonder what it might be like.” He stood up suddenly, the chair legs scraping on the tile, and John flinched. “Watson, let’s do it.”
“Do what?” John spluttered.
“Intercourse,” Sherlock replied, frowning slightly as his oh-don’t-be-daft-Watson expression slipped into place. “Though I suppose we can start with frottage if you’d prefer.”
“Excuse me?” John spluttered, still unsure if he was hearing him right.
Sherlock blew out an impatient breath. “Our listeners seemed to have picked up on some kind of connection between you and I, something worth exploring in such a manner. You also have entertained this fantasy, and even written it out in literary form. I’d be very interested to see the results of something like this.”
“Hold on, mate, I’ve—“
“If it’s sexually transmitted infections you’re worried about, I will assure you I am clean, as I’m regularly tested. I’ve also never had intercourse with anybody, meaning my likelihood of having such a thing is—“
John waved his hands to stop him. He was sure his face was beet red. “Wait, wait, wait, you… you’re a virgin?”
Sherlock’s frown came back. “I suppose that’s what you’d call it. Which only makes me more curious, really. Now, would you be the one putting your—“
“Sherlock,” John basically shouted, his breakfast forgotten as his brain tries to catch up to what’s going on. “Mate. I can’t just… take your virginity. Because you read some stories.”
“One of which you wrote.”
“That’s beside the point,” John said, exasperated.
Sherlock rounded the table in a few fluid steps, towering over the still-seated John. “What are you afraid of?” the detective asked. It came out sounding like a challenge, but John knew Sherlock well enough to know that his flatmate was genuinely curious.
Only he would find out his best friend had written fanfiction about them shagging and decide yeah, to hell with it, let’s give it a go!
John swallowed, and Sherlock’s eyes flitted down to his throat.
“It’s just that—you know, you’re my best friend, and…”
“And?” Sherlock prompted, so close, leaning over him.
“I don’t want to screw that up,” John whispered, lifting his hands as if to push Sherlock away, but the detective was already moving back, straightening up. He looked as though he was thinking, factoring in this new calculation.
“Screw it up,” he echoed.
“Yeah,” John said. “Sex is, like, special. And especially since it’s your first time…”
Sherlock snorted. “Sex is quite the opposite of special. It’s a biological drive that most mammals have, usually for reproduction, but in some species sexual encounters solely for the purpose of pleasure are not that uncommon. Humans being one of them, as I’m sure you’re aware.”
John blew out a breath, his heart still hammering. Sherlock was watching him closely, seemingly unfazed by the sheer weirdness of this conversation. “I just… value this. I value us. People have sex all the time, sure, but it changes relationship dynamics, y’know?”
Finally, Sherlock’s face softened. He crossed his arms, gave an imperceptible shake of his head. “I’m afraid I’m terribly confused,” he admitted begrudgingly. An admission of such from the detective was rare, so John knew it took a lot for him to say it.
“By what?” John asked, standing and grabbing his plate of eggs. He scraped them into the bin before making his way to the sink to wash the dish. Sherlock spoke up again while his back was turned.
“Why you would… write those things. Write about me in that way. But not be willing to explore it here, now, with me in the flesh.”
John couldn’t think of a response.
He didn’t know when his attraction to Sherlock had started, exactly. They spent so much time together, it was bound to happen, right? At first he thought it was just an admiration, a camaraderie much like that of the boys in the army, so close physically, supporting each other through harrowing scenarios. But then he started to notice other things, small things, about Sherlock that made his chest squeeze with someone far closer to fondness.
The fanfictions were something he had already been vaguely aware of. Mariana was the one who had first shown him, actually, and the two of them had laughed about it. But not long after he started to think of Sherlock differently, he stumbled upon them again, and… enjoyed them. The tenderness between them that their listeners portrayed was captivating, so realistic John could see some of them playing out before his very eyes.
A case that brushed them just against death’s door, and a few too many drinks later, he was writing a story of his own.
And how foolish he was to include a detail so specific that his magnificent detective would deduce immediately that it was him who wrote the story.
He took in a breath, now, and turned. Sherlock was right behind him, expression unreadable.
“Watson,” he said in that alluring timbre of his. “Please indulge me in a simple experiment.”
John couldn’t move, didn’t protest as the detective pressed closer, his wiry fingers spread on the counter on either side of John’s hips.
“Sherlock,” he replied, his voice coming out wobbly.
“Just say the word, and I’ll stop,” Sherlock continued, and he was so close now John could feel the heat of his body. He swallowed suddenly, a rare crack in his mask of neutrality betraying that he, too, was nervous. “But I have to know.”
John took in a breath to respond, but it turned into a hitched gasp as Sherlock’s lips pressed to his.
It wasn’t much at first, just simple contact, but Sherlock was confident in his movements, something John wouldn’t have expected following his admission that he was a virgin. The doctor slid his hands up Sherlock’s chest, this time not to try and push him away but just to touch, to feel.
Sherlock’s heart was beating hard and fast under his fingers, confirmation that he wasn’t as clinically unaffected by all of this as he was trying to portray. John sighed into the kiss and Sherlock responded with a sound between a growl and a groan, his tongue smoothing along John’s lower lip. His less than perfect technique was overshadowed by his clear eagerness to be performing such an act, and it was making John’s head spin all the same.
Backed against the counter, John had no option but to let Sherlock do as he pleased, probably collecting data and filing it away for later. The detective’s hands suddenly found a home on his hips, deft fingers slipping below the hem of his shirt. John arched his back on instinct, and one of Sherlock’s legs slotted between his own as the taller male’s tongue breached his mouth.
John was still reeling when Sherlock suddenly pulled away, his hands flying off of John’s sides as if he’d been burned. Instead he used them to rake through his hair, and oh god, did he look good like this. His pupils were blown, face flushed, lips still wet from their kissing. John leaned forward, chasing his mouth with his own, but this time Sherlock put a hand between them, resting firmly on John’s sternum.
“You’re aroused,” the dark-haired detective noted, his voice deep and husky.
“Erm, yeah,” John confirmed. “So are you.”
“Quite,” Sherlock replied, looking slightly surprised at this information. “I propose we move this to the bedroom, unless you think that the kitchen counter is sufficient for—“
“Bedroom’s good,” John said, grabbing the hand Sherlock still had against his chest and linking their fingers. “Let’s go. Now, please.”
Sherlock smiled one of those smug, I-knew-I-was-right smiles, and John couldn’t even find it in him to be annoyed about it, instead pulling him by their conjoined hands in the direction of Sherlock’s room.