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"These all-nighters are getting to be a bit much, don't you think?"
"It wasn't an all-nighter," says Sherlock absently, watching Lestrade's team as they scurry about, bagging and tagging the last bits of evidence. The collar of his coat is turned up against the wind, his long, pale hands jammed into his pockets, his face impassive. He looks like a sentinel of death.
"It's six-thirty in the morning, Sherlock."
"Sunrise in London on the twenty-eighth of February is scheduled to take place at six forty-nine a.m. BST, and not a moment sooner. The sun has not yet risen, therefore this has not been an all-nighter and your argument is invalid. Are we having breakfast now?"
"That depends," John says. "Are you actually going to eat, or are you going to sit there with your arms folded, calculating whether I'm chewing my food more on the right side of my mouth or the left?"
Sherlock's lips quirk with a faint smile. "I'm going to eat," he says.
"Good."
"And you always chew more on the left."
"Oh, shut up."
They're in the steamy early-morning warmth of a café, hands wrapped round thick white mugs of tea, when Sherlock says, musing aloud, "It didn't make sense."
"What didn't?"
"The case. James Erskine. He'd already been robbed and beaten once by a stranger who answered one of his adverts; if he'd had any brain at all, he would have stopped then, not gone on until he met someone who killed him."
"Cheers," John says to the waitress who's just slid loaded plates in front of each of them. He tucks in at once—he's starving—and when she's gone, says through a mouthful of bacon and mushrooms, "Well, he was a sex addict. He couldn't help himself."
"I know he was a sex addict," says Sherlock, irritated. "That's the ridiculous bit. Being addicted to cigarettes or alcohol or--or other substances is quite understandable; they actually alter the brain's chemistry, but sex--" He pronounces the word as if it's something he's found stuck to the bottom of his shoe. "I mean, an orgasm is only a few involuntary muscle spasms. It's like being addicted to a stomach cramp, or a twitch in your eyelid. Stupid."
John chews, thinking about that. Yes, in a technical sense, Sherlock is correct, but to reduce the blinding ecstasy of sexual climax to 'a few involuntary muscle spasms' seems a bit clinical even for him. Unless--
"Erm," he says. "You have actually had an orgasm, haven't you? At some point in your life."
He's not sure what sort of response he's expecting, but it isn't the one he gets: all at once, Sherlock becomes suspiciously interested in his food, and as he bends over to fork a massive heap of scrambled egg into his mouth, John is almost certain that he sees a flush in his cheeks that doesn't come from the red neon OPEN sign in the window beside them.
"Sherlock?"
"It's complicated," Sherlock says.
"How is it complicated? Either you've had one or you haven't. Mind you, I can't see how you wouldn't have--I mean, boys being what they are--" John thinks of all the nights he spent in furtive, fevered wanking between the ages of twelve, when he discovered masturbation, and sixteen, when he finally landed a girlfriend who was willing to have sex with him. He tries to imagine Sherlock doing the same thing, and realises that he can't picture a teenage Sherlock doing anything under the covers at night but reading scientific journals by the light of a pocket torch.
“Well, I did try,” says Sherlock. “For research purposes, of course. But I could never focus for long enough—it's such a repetitive activity, you see, and there were so many distractions, so many other thoughts in my head—”
“You're not meant to be thinking about anything but how good it feels,” John points out.
“Yes, if there's only space in your brain for one thought at a time,” Sherlock says in scathing tones.
“Never mind that,” says John. He's really interested now, leaning forward over his mostly empty plate. “What about wet dreams? Nearly everyone has those.”
“Eighty-four percent of all men.”
“Let me guess,” John says, “you're in the sixteen percent?”
“Someone has to be.”
“And with a partner...”
“No.”
“Thought not.”
A rather uncomfortable silence descends over the table at that point. Sherlock applies himself assiduously to his breakfast again, and John sits watching people walking past, on their way to start the day: office workers in smart suits and dresses, labourers in uniforms, students in denim and trainers. He wonders how many of them had some sort of sex last night, with another person or on their own, indulging in a pleasure that's as alien to Sherlock as Sherlock is to the world around him.
“Sherlock,” he says abruptly.
“Yes, John?”
“Do you want to know what it's like?”
“Are we still talking about orgasms?”
“Yes, Sherlock, we're still talking about orgasms.”
“I suppose so,” Sherlock says. “It might explain a few things about human behaviour. Or not.”
“I have an idea,” John says.
Half an hour later, he's sitting on the edge of his own bed, head down and arms resting on his thighs, wondering if he'd suffered a moment of temporary insanity back at the café. It had seemed perfectly plausible at the time: as a doctor, he's done everything one can imagine to other men's private bits, from threading catheters up their urethrae to extracting foreign objects from their rectums, so inducing an orgasm in his best friend—purely for scientific reasons, of course—should be no different. Only it is different, and awkward, and it gets even more awkward when Sherlock appears in the doorway.
John looks up, clears his throat. “Are you ready to—hang on a minute, is that my iPod?”
Sherlock nods.
“What's it for?”
“I thought music might help to block out other distractions,” Sherlock says. “I've made a special playlist for the occasion. You can delete it afterward, of course.”
The idea of Sherlock selecting tracks for a 'My First Climax' playlist is so absurd, and yet so perfectly appropriate, that John has to laugh. When he does, some of the tension drains away.
“All right, if that's what works for you,” he says, and pats the half of the bed he's not sitting on. “Come lie down and get comfortable.”
Sherlock obeys, folding his hands on his chest and arranging his face into a mask of stillness that makes John feel a bit as if he's about to jerk off Rameses the Great, if Rameses had had a pair of white Apple earbuds stuck into the sides of his funeral headdress. He stifles another giggle and reaches for the zip on Sherlock's slim-cut black wool trousers.
“Lift up a bit,” he instructs, and Sherlock, who apparently can hear him even through the faint, faraway sounds of a Vivaldi concerto, helpfully raises his hips so John can slide down his trousers and pants. Sherlock is such an extreme sort of person that John is expecting his sexual equipment to be equally extreme in one way or the other—either a massive porn-star cock or a shrivelled micropenis—but it turns out to be quite ordinary-looking, lying there quietly as if it's never even thought of being aroused.
Which isn't too far from the truth, John thinks as he gets down to business. Sherlock twitches a bit at the first contact, but then his face smooths out again and he's still, trusting and relaxed under John's caressing hand. It's not very different at all from doing it to himself, John discovers: he's rubbing the flat of his palm over Sherlock's cock, squeezing gently after every few strokes, and it's working more slowly on Sherlock than it would on him, but it is working; he can feel twitching and stirring against his fingers, and a very subtle shifting of Sherlock's narrow hips as the warm rush of blood inside him begins to work its magic. After a bit he's hard enough for John to wrap his whole hand round the shaft and do it properly, in long, slow strokes alternating with faster, shorter tugs, and John hears his breath begin to come faster—or is it John's own breath? No, it's definitely Sherlock's.
“Everything all right?” he asks, seeing Sherlock's brow furrow with something that could be worry or pleasure or pain, and Sherlock wets his lips and nods.
“Don't talk,” he says thickly.
“All right then,” John says under his breath, and goes back to work. Sherlock is moving under him, making tiny, barely controlled movements that aren't quite thrusts, and then through the earbuds, the music changes from Vivaldi to Bach. Even that minor distraction is enough to make him soften a little in John's hand, and John coaxes him back, gliding up and down, until he firms up again. It's not an unimpressive erection, John thinks; still not outrageously large, but long and thick enough to make a nice substantial handful, and full and smooth and flushed with arousal. Elegant, like the rest of Sherlock. He gives it a squeeze, and Sherlock lets out a small, involuntary gasp, then subsides.
Hmmm, John thinks. Sherlock's clearly enjoying this, but just as clearly nowhere near coming; he senses that they could be here all day and get no further than they are now. He's going to have to step it up a bit. Leaning over, he slides a drawer in the bedside table open with his free hand—he's hoping to do this without Sherlock noticing, but of course Sherlock notices everything, and he turns back to find Sherlock's pale gaze fixed on him, as keen and sharp as if he's at a crime scene, rather than lying there with his trousers pulled down and another man's hand wrapped round his cock.
“What are you doing, John?”
“I thought perhaps some extra stimulation,” John says, holding up a pot of petroleum jelly for Sherlock to see.
Sherlock's eyes widen a bit, but he takes it in stride.
“Well, if you think it's best,” he says. “Only do be careful. Overly vigorous prostate massage can lead to—”
“I know what it can lead to,” John says, slightly annoyed. “Doctor Watson, remember? Trained professional? I've reached up a thousand soldiers' arses; I'm fairly certain I can reach up yours without damaging anything. Just—just listen to your violins, all right?”
“All right,” Sherlock says, and closes his eyes again.
John's certain that this is going to be just the same as those hundreds and hundreds of rectal exams, but as soon as he slides his finger into Sherlock's hole, he discovers a key difference: without a glove, it's not only hot and tight, but also has an amazing velvety texture that clings and grips like a living thing. In an instant, he flashes back to the girl he dated at uni who wanted to try anal sex, and he curses himself for turning her down, because it is obvious, no, blatant, that fucking this would feel better than the best thing ever invented. He can sense his mind approaching the next logical station on that train of thought, but before it can get there, the tip of his finger presses into Sherlock's prostate, and Sherlock makes a noise that John has never heard come from his mouth before—a noise that he suspects never has come from Sherlock's mouth before. It's a moan, a loud desperate moan, and Sherlock's whole body stiffens and arches along with it as his cock jerks in John's hand.
“Ahh!”
“Sherlock?”
“I'm all right—I just—didn't expect that.”
“Do you want me to keep going?”
“Yes,” Sherlock chokes out, and then moans again as John combines a caress of that sensitive spot with a good, firm pull on his shaft. The earbuds fall out of his ears, and the music gets louder for a moment before he gropes for John's iPod and shuts it off. All his bored restraint has vanished in an instant; there's a glistening drop of moisture at the tip of his cock and a fine film of sweat forming on his forehead and upper lip, and when John strokes him, he writhes—yet another thing that the incredible Sherlock Holmes has probably never done before.
John is fascinated by this loss of control, and also aware that it's getting him aroused whether he likes it or not; he's gone all the way from zero to hard-on in less than a minute, and his only consolation is that Sherlock's eyes are still closed and therefore not able to see the telltale bulge in his jeans. The hand that's partially inside Sherlock is slippery and beginning to cramp; the other hand is at an awkward angle, but there's no way he's stopping now; he's got to see what happens next. He tugs faster on Sherlock's cock, and Sherlock starts to pant, his chest heaving helplessly as his hips push up along with each stroke.
“John,” he gasps, “I can't—I don't—”
“Shhhh,” John says, because he hasn't got the breath for any words, and then Sherlock cries out as hot liquid spurts and then dribbles over John's hand. It's on Sherlock's smooth bare belly, and also on his formerly crisp dress shirt, and John wonders briefly, even as he wishes for a release of his own, what the cleaners will make of that.
“Oh,” Sherlock says softly, and then is quiet. John waits a moment, then eases his finger back out of Sherlock's arse and lets go of his rapidly softening cock. He feels as if he ought to button Sherlock up again—he looks too vulnerable lying exposed that way—but he can't pull Sherlock's trousers back up without cooperation, and Sherlock is in no state to help anyone with anything just now.
Including this, he thinks, looking down at his own crotch. He clears his throat.
“Sherlock, I'll be back in a moment, all right? Just lie here and relax.”
“Mmmhmmm,” Sherlock mumbles, seemingly half asleep, and John grins and heads for the bathroom door. He's almost there when Sherlock speaks behind him.
“Erskine was still an idiot,” he says.
“Why?” John asks.
“Well, it's good,” Sherlock says, “but it's not worth dying for.”