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The thing about Sherlock is that, when he says he's married to his job, what he means is that he's an obsessive, highly-functional sociopath constantly on the hunt for the next high, which means that he's not good relationship material, and he's more than observant enough to know that about himself. And he's more than selfish enough to not want to deal with the whinging and moaning that comes with a bad relationship.
He does, however, like sex.
He hates to be bored.
And most of the sex he's got on offer is pretty damn boring to him. He's done bars, clubs, one night stands, whores and rent boys, and he knows exactly how it's going to go from the first look to the last gasp. So most of the time, instead of bothering with another person, he just pulls an experience he enjoyed out of his memory and wanks.
The thing about John Watson is, he's not gay. He's really not. He was an army doctor for God's sake, and one thing army doctors do is short arm inspection. Which means he's seen more cock than the editor at Playgirl magazine.
So, he knows, for a fact, that cock in general does not interest him.
But, cock, in specific Sherlock's cock, does.
Or more precisely, surprising Sherlock does. And he's fairly sure, that if some morning, instead of just walking into the loo for his morning piss whilst Sherlock showers, that if he were to hop into the shower stall and fuck Sherlock blind, he'd have the satisfaction of seeing a look of utter, dumb shock on Sherlock's face.
Because, of course, the thing is, since John isn't gay, and Sherlock knows he's not gay, the absolute last thing he'll expect is John shagging him rotten.
This brings us to John's current problem. He does not know for a fact if/when Sherlock does go in search of sex with another person, the person in question is male or female.
Because, though he does want to shock Sherlock, he'd appreciate Sherlock not jumping out of the shower, screaming rape, and then shooting his bits off. Which is generally how straight guys react if you hop in the shower and start fondling them. (Or so John has heard. Really, he's not gay. And he's never tried this before. Really.)
He speculates that Sherlock is bi. Maybe gay. Probably not straight. He hopes. Not asexual. He really hopes. Though he's afraid Sherlock may indeed be a virgin, and he's nervous that if that is indeed true, he might have an entirely different problem on his hands should he hop into the shower with him.
Unfortunately, he can't just invite some pretty young things over and watch how Sherlock reacts to them. Not the least of the reasons why is that he doesn't know any pretty young things, of either sex, to invite. Though the fact that he could place naked models of both sexes all over their flat, and not even get a raised eyebrow out of Sherlock because he'd consider it boring is a close runner up.
So... What to do...
Another thing about Sherlock Holmes is that he's almost impossible to surprise. He is, however, capable of both amusement and lust.
And these days, he is finding it hard to avoid bursting into a tizzy of laughter as John tries to figure out which gender he prefers.
The correct answer is that he couldn't care less. Sherlock will shag anything that can hold his interest, not the least of why is because it's so damn hard for someone to keep him interested for more than ten minutes at a time.
From the age of fourteen to nineteen, Sherlock found sex insanely interesting. (He was also quite fond of drugs during that period. Still is for that matter, but his idiot brother and Lestrade have made pursuing that hobby more difficult than he'd like. Meanwhile, he still loves sex, but he's not a fan of the sticky and problematic emotional things that go with sex, so he no longer seeks it out.) As a result, he's done it all. And he doesn't mean that the way some men do, as a cry of bravado. He means it in the literal sense of a man who has immense focus, an off the charts IQ, a photographic memory, piles of daddy's money to burn, no disgust reaction, to anything, and an unquenchable need for different. You name the act; he's done it at least once.
It really is a crying shame that Irene isn't around. He sees her about three times a year, and that is never boring. He immensely enjoyed demolishing his reputation as 'The Virgin' and tends to think it's a good thing they only get the occasional dirty weekend, because that much raw sexual energy in one place is decidedly overpowering.
Meanwhile, he debates leaving a stash of gay porn around for John to find, because really, if the man doesn't make his move soon, he will get bored, and that will ruin the whole thing.
John does not snoop just as a matter of course.
But the door to Sherlock's room is open. And he can skulk outside and look in.
It's a mess. Which is odd. Usually a mess in Sherlock's room goes with bored Sherlock. He tosses things about with abandon when he's not got something to keep him interested. But they've been on a case lately, so he shouldn't be bored. When he's not bored, his room is immaculate. But his room is an absolute, flaming disaster. You bloody well have to have a photographic memory to find anything in that mess.
John scans the room for clues and sees...
Well, God and fuck! It's a wank mag, casually tossed on the bed, half covered by the blanket. And from the looks of it a well-used one. And...Yes! Lads!
Tomorrow morning, John will make his move.
Sherlock pauses for a tenth of a second before entering his room. Did John go in? Did he see? He's not sure. Nothing is out of place, and that argues for John not having entered. But since the mag is visible from the door, that says nothing about whether or not John saw.
He closes the door and begins to tidy, curious, waiting to see what might happen. Twice during the night he hears John moving through the flat. He wonders if he will come in. Will he have some sort of excuse to knock on the door? How will he go about doing it? Will there be awkward small talk?
He's rather enjoying the anticipation and falls asleep, still wondering how and when it will happen.
He wakes earlier than usual, still thinking about John. He debates letting John top. While it's true that John has a significantly more flexible definition of heterosexuality than most straight men, Sherlock knows that it doesn't extend to bottoming or sucking. Those two acts are very clearly gay, and something John won't do.
So, frotting, hand jobs, or bottoming? He's, of course, done them all. And he's not precisely reticent about bottoming. He rather likes it. (Likes topping, too. And on one extremely memorable occasion, back on the third Tuesday in July of '94, did both, at the same time, which he absolutely adored but hasn't gotten around to finding the right group of people to do it again.) Whilst it is true that he's bad with live people and relationships, he's clearly aware that of the two of them, he's the dominant partner, and he's somewhat aware of the sexual politics of topping and bottoming and how that affects relationships.
He's been thinking about it for an hour when a rather horrifying thought occurs to him. John is, at least in his own self-image, straight. And from what Sherlock can see, most of the time he really is. For example, he's never seen John check a man out. It just doesn't happen. Though he does tend to get soppy when a pretty woman gets too near.
So, it's entirely likely John has never done this before, and has no clue as to how it really works.
Well, not no clue. The man's a doctor, after all. But some of the finer points of how one goes about preparing one's partner for penetration differ a bit depending on if said partner is male or female, and no matter how turned on you are and he is, you don't just hop on a bloke and stick it in.
He figures that if he keeps a tube of lube on him at all times, that will go a long way toward destroying the illusion that John has managed to surprise him. Leaving The Joys of Gay Sex out is likely to have the same effect. Signing John's email address up to a collection of well-chosen spammers might work... At any other time, Sherlock knows John would immediately delete any emails of that nature, but maybe, right now, he'd take the time to actually read something along those lines.
It was worth a shot.
Half an hour later, John is signed up with seven gay porn sites, and all of them send copious amounts of spam. Though, as Sherlock remembers how much bottoming dry hurts, he grabs a small bottle of lube.
Sherlock, smiling, imagining the look on John's face when he sees the first message from First Time Twinks, heads toward the shower.
John has been awake since six. He usually gets up at seven thirty and hits the bathroom a few minutes later. Sherlock wakes... He doesn't actually know when Sherlock wakes. He's not entirely sure that Sherlock sleeps for that matter. He does know, however, that the sound of the shower turning on every morning at seven thirty is what usually wakes him up.
He springs out of bed as soon as he hears the water. He's at the door, hand on the knob, when he realizes that if he goes in there three minutes earlier than normal, Sherlock will twig to something being up. So he stands there and waits until 7:34, which he figures is about his usual time, and forces himself to walk, calmly, into the loo.
Normal routine is to go in, piss, brush his teeth, and be out getting breakfast before Sherlock is done. Then, after breakfast, he gets his shower. They do no talk to each other while this happens. For the most part, they pretty much ignore each other.
He gets in, warm, moist air caressing his skin. The first part of his usual routine is made more difficult by an erection so hard he could use it for a cricket bat. He does, after a minute, manage to get it down enough to pee through.
He forces himself to count to sixty as he brushes his teeth. He wants to rush. Wants to just hop into the shower, grab Sherlock, pull him close, and slide against all that wet, pink skin.
John finally finishes with his teeth. He strips out of his T-shirt and pants, leaving them in a heap on the floor, and slips into the shower.
Sherlock stiffens a little. His back is to John, so John can see the immediate tensing of his arse and shoulders.
"You're letting the cold air in."
John could almost laugh. Of all the ways to respond to a naked man hopping into the shower with you, Sherlock picks that. He snaps the shower curtain shut, and places his palm on Sherlock's low back.
For all of his fantasies of shagging Sherlock stupid, now that he's actually here, in the shower with him, he's kind of stuck. He doesn't exactly know what to do next.
Sherlock hasn't said anything. He hasn't turned around. And John is beginning to feel stupid. This was a horrendously bad idea. And, for the life of him, he can't think of any way to get out of it. A vague, half formed fantasy of pretending to sleep walk dances into his head, but he's been standing there for a full minute, his hand on Sherlock's back, and there's no bloody way he can get away with that.
Which means he can go forward, or he can slink back to his room, hide, wank, and then go find a new flat, somewhere far, far away, like Argentina, where he'll never run into Sherlock again.
His hip twinges, and he knows he's got to move soon, or his nerves will shoot this to shit.
He reaches for the soap, a vague idea of lathering up the both of them and just grinding together dancing in his mind when he notices a bottle next to it. A bottle that doesn't belong there. He picks it up. Waterproof lube?
His head falls against Sherlock's back. "You knew I was going to do this?"
"Not this precisely, but yes, I knew."
"I am going to surprise you one day."
Sherlock smiles, though John can't see. "You can try."
John steps back, breaking contact, and Sherlock turns around. "You aren't stopping, are you?"
"Not much point to it, now is there?"
Now, this does surprise Sherlock; he'd not thought that John's sexual identity was so rigid that if he blew the surprise he'd actually leave. Sherlock turns, grabs John by the hips and pulls him flush, grinding against him.
"We both get off. That sounds like a perfectly good point to me." And, even if John is having second thoughts, John's cock certainly seems interested. It's hard and pressed against Sherlock thigh. Another thought about John topping hits Sherlock, he's a good six inches taller than John. But that isn't going to matter at all if he can't get John to stay in the shower and fuck him.
He does not kiss John. (Sherlock's not much of a kisser, anyway. It's pleasant enough, but he's sure that the people who get more than pleasant out of it are experiencing some sort of emotional sensation he's not equipped for.) He's utterly certain that would constitute as too gay, but he does reach forward and begin to stroke him. His hand is tight and, while wet, not slick. Water is a particularly bad lubricant when it comes to sex. He takes the lube out of John's hand, pours a little into his, and begins to stroke.
John's eyes close, and he looks almost pained. Sherlock can see his pulse is accelerated, his nostrils have dilated, and his skin is flushed beyond what just the heat of the water would do. He decides the look is intense pleasure and not pain. He strokes a little faster, but loosens his grip.
John's eyes open, and he grabs Sherlock's wrist. "This isn't how I planned this."
Their eyes meet. "And what did you plan to do to me?"
John whips him around, forcing his chest against the cold, tile wall of their shower, uses his knee to wedge Sherlock's legs apart, (Sherlock makes sure to spread his legs far enough apart to take care of their height difference.) and then presses in close, his cock sliding between Sherlock's arse cheeks, stroking over his perineum to press deliciously into the base of his testicles. All things considered, that's really not a bad plan.
Sherlock likes the aggressive posture and speed of John's strokes. He debates saying something like, 'Use your hands,' because he knows he's not going to climax just by rubbing against John and the wall. It's certainly pleasant, but it's not fabulous.
And while he knows John isn't the most observant man in the history of men, apparently even he can read body language well enough to figure out what the tilt of Sherlock's hips means.
His cock is nudging against Sherlock, looking for entry, and Sherlock knows he does have to speak, because otherwise this is going to hurt a lot more than he likes. (Sherlock is fine with some pain, but fucked with a barely slick cock and no prep is quite a bit past 'some' pain.)
"John, more lube, and use your fingers first. I'm not a woman; you can't just shove on in."
Even with the rush of the water, he hears the click of the lube bottle opening, and then, a few seconds later feels slick fingers, one of them gently sliding into him, and five more stroking his cock.
"Ohhh. Fuck. Just like that." Sherlock is not quiet with it comes to sex. He's never bothered to keep any of his emotions under wraps and is not about to start now.
The hand on his cock knows what it's doing. The stroke is strong, sure, tight enough to feel good, loose enough it's not going to get him off. All in all, it's good, solid foreplay. The finger in his arse, well, the term fumbling in the dark comes to mind. The problem with straight boys is that they rarely do this to themselves, so they have no clue how to do it to someone else.
"Start with one finger, in and out, gently, you're just loosening things up. Then two, then three, then your cock."
He can imagine John nodding, and he can feel John rubbing against his hip as he works the finger in, getting more of an idea of what he's doing.
"Ah." There he goes. The good thing about John being not only a doctor, but a doctor who has probably done literally thousands of prostate exams is that Sherlock does not need to explain what John should be trying to touch.
This is, without a doubt, the single most insane thing John has ever done in his entire life. It is also the most clinical sex he's ever had. Sherlock's instructions are almost entirely passionless. He's not blushing (at least not so John can see) and from the sound of his voice he might as well have been instructing John on how to make tea as bugger him.
And then it all shatters into seventeen million pieces because Sherlock moans. And that moan hits John straight in the cock. It's a deep, sexual sound, like want and desire and need all translated directly into a vibration that crept up from Sherlock's groin and leapt straight into John's brain.
By that point, John doesn't care about the somewhat clinical directions. He just wants to see if he can make Sherlock sound that way again. He twists his finger, slipping it over his prostate, while tugging gently on Sherlock's balls and that causes a new moan to escape him.
Okay, so this might not be surprise, but it's a damn sight better than Sherlock's manic on a case mode or petulant bored.
Sherlock is grinding against his hand, so he figures that's a good sign that it's time for finger number two. That gets another of those aural desire moans. John notices he's rubbing against Sherlock's hip in an utterly shameless way as his cock more or less jumps up and down begging to get inside because he's never gotten it anywhere near anything that hot or tight before.
Sherlock reaches down and palms John's balls, rolling them gently. The added sensation just about makes him come then and there. He lets go of Sherlock's cock, and takes his hand, and places it firmly back on the shower wall.
"Do that again, and you'll make me come, and really, I'd rather not do that, yet."
Sherlock nods and then moans again when John goes back to stroking his cock and adds a third finger.
That doesn't last long. Sherlock is moaning on each exhale, and John is fairly sure there's not a single blood cell in his body that isn't in his cock or headed that way. He removes his fingers, puts more lube on his cock, and then slowly eases up, and, well, just, fuck. No words move through his head as the incredible tight, hot sensation of being gently pulled into Sherlock wipes them all out.
When words do come back, he realizes it's like the tightest mouth ever gently pulling him in with its lips. And he really, really likes it.
Sherlock is saying something about making sure John gets off first or at the same time, but he's far gone enough that he can't really follow the explanation.
He's thrusting hard, noticing that Sherlock is moaning on the inhalations as well as exhalations, and rubs him faster. White hot tingles shoot through John as he feels Sherlock tighten around him.
John is leaning against his back, hand still cupped around his cock, and for the moment Sherlock's brain is almost quiet. (It's never actually quiet, but at moments like right now, only ten or so things are bouncing around in there as opposed to the usual fifty.)
It occurs to him that he should attempt sex with real people more often. This calm is actually rather nice, and he rarely achieves it when masturbating. That thought brings up possible ways he could experiment with this, to see if there was a way to maximize the impact of both regular sex and masturbation. And with that the calm ended and his mind was buzzing again with its usual chorus of ideas.
John straightens up and pulls away. Sherlock turns around, and hands John the soap.
"That was lovely. I'm thinking next time we try this in bed, with me in your lap, that way will allow for deeper penetration and less knee strain for me due to our height differences."
John's eyes go as wide as saucers, and the soap falls from nerveless fingers. Sherlock smiles, turns John around, and begins to scrub his back.