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The first time Sherlock and John sleep together it’s too much of a rush for John to really pay attention to the details. He wants it to be long and drawn out and romantic. He’s thought about this often enough and in his head it’s always been like that. Slowly, tenderly, taking Sherlock apart bit by bit. Reducing him to a babbling mess of want and need. If John and Sherlock were going to have a first time – and it might possibly be Sherlock’s first time ever- then surely that is how it should be. But it just doesn’t work out that way. This is John and Sherlock after all. When have things ever turned out the way John planned when Sherlock is involved?
John is not a selfish lover. It’s not like he ignores Sherlock’s needs or anything. He’s just too caught up in the moment, in the fact that this is actually happening to absorb all of the details. His brain is disengaged and maybe that’s a good thing because if it weren’t he’s not sure if they ever would have gotten this far. It’s afterwards, while Sherlock is curled up asleep beside him, that John can think. He mentally replays the evening, going back over every second of it. He wants to commit everything to memory; the way Sherlock tasted when they kissed, the way Sherlock’s face looked as he lay beneath John. The sound of Sherlock’s moaning.
And that’s where his thought process ends. Because he can’t remember what that sounded like. Surely he can’t have forgotten something so important. John tries and fails again to remember. Surely Sherlock must have said something, made some sound. He’d certainly been talking enough before they kissed. That was part of the reason John had kissed him in the first place, to get him to shut up for five seconds. But try as he might John can’t recall hearing Sherlock say anything from the moment they made it to the bed to the moment they finished and John pulled out of him.
He turns to look at Sherlock’s sleeping form. He’s must just be remembering wrong. He doesn’t have a mind palace to draw upon. Maybe he’ll have to get Sherlock to teach him how to build one. He likes the idea of it if it means he can recall sex with Sherlock in detail, at will, whenever he wants. And he knows exactly what Sherlock would say to that too.
Typical. A great psychological resource and John just wants to use it as his own inbuilt porn hard drive.
John strokes Sherlock’s face and makes a mental note to pay more attention next time. Because there has to be a next time.
~
John may not have Sherlock’s powers of observation, but he would have to be completely blind not to notice the second time around. Or completely deaf, more to the point. Because Sherlock does not make a single sound. Not a moan or a whine.
It’s not that he’s quiet. John could deal with quiet. Yes, he had been expecting Sherlock to be as open about voicing his opinion during their lovemaking as he was in every other aspect of their life. But alight, he could concede he may have misjudged that. If Sherlock were merely voiceless he could have accepted it as yet another way in which Sherlock Holmes surprised him. Maybe it was even complementary, that he could render the great detective speechless.
John’s ego is not so small that he requires a constant chorus of praise and adoration. Nor does he think so highly of himself that he expects his touch to induce a plethora of orgasmic moans and whimpers of desire. If Sherlock had been merely quiet he would have been fine with it.
But Sherlock wasn’t quiet. He was eerie in his total silence.
This is…well, beyond unusual in John’s experience.
In the past his lovers, and there has been quite a number over the years, have always been at least somewhat vocal. Christ, Jeanette had been loud enough to give him a headache.
It crossed John’s mind that Sherlock might not be enjoying the experience. Admittedly that was one of the worst thoughts of John’s life. The prospect that Sherlock might not be enjoying their time together, might not want to be with him, was enough to make John feel slightly ill. Now that they had opened the door to this new part of their relationship, John could not face the prospect of closing it again. The thought that he might be forcing Sherlock to do something he did not want made John feel more than slightly ill.
But no. Sherlock is definitely enjoying himself. It is clear to see in the way he looks at John, felt in the way Sherlock reaches for him. This is of course without even mentioning the rather indisputable matter of Sherlock’s erection and subsequent ejaculation.
Enjoyment is not the question here.
Maybe it’s because all John’s previous experience has been with women. Maybe men just don’t make much noise when they have sex with each other.
One furtive internet search is enough to put that theory to rest. John retreats to his room while Sherlock is occupied with old case files and does some research of his own. He watches videos that make his skin burn with desire. His nerves spark as he watches lithe, dark-haired men who aren’t Sherlock writhe beneath blonde men who aren’t him. The sounds that reach John down his headphones are enough to have his heart speed up to what is surely not a healthy rest rate. He quickly exists the sites, clears and re-clears his browser history. This exercise may have clarified some things but now it’s left him half-hard and more confused than ever.
So it’s not a male thing. It’s a Sherlock thing. Of course it is. Yet another Sherlock thing to add to the lengthy and ever increasing list of things John is discovering that sets his lover apart from the rest of humanity.
John decides this needs further investigation. He doesn’t need to be as brilliant as Sherlock to conduct his own experiments.
~
He varies his method, and sees what he can coax out of Sherlock.
Soft and soothing, stroking Sherlock gently, slowly, smoothing pale white skin with the palm of his hand. Sherlock wriggles and squirms and runs his tongue over his soundless lips.
Teasing, light, tempting, the flicker of fingertips over ribs, the trace of John’s tongue on Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock leans into his touch, needy and wanting, pleading John with all but his voice.
They get into a completely infantile tickling fight on the sofa and Sherlock laughs louder and longer than John has ever heard him before. But the second John’s hands start to move south, as soon as his touch moves beyond playful, the giggles die in Sherlock’s throat.
John tries to surprise and shock sound out of Sherlock. That works, once. He gets a gasp out of Sherlock from sneaking up behind, and wrapping his arms around Sherlock’s waist. But it’s more out of reflex than anything else, and perhaps more than a little to do with how cold John’s hands are against the bare inch of midriff where the taller man’s shirt has ridden up.
Other than that, he remains the same; impossible to keep quiet anywhere but in the bedroom where he remains rigidly and stoically silent.
John gets to the point where, to borrow some a line of the detective’s own vocabulary, he has exhausted this line of enquiry. Results are inconclusive.
~
It comes out eventually, as John knew it would have to.
They talk frequently afterwards and it’s in one of these spent states of post-climax exhaustion and fulfilment that some irrepressible part of John’s brain decides to voice his concerns.
“How come you never say anything?”
Sherlock frowns at him, as though mildly worried for John’s state of mind.
“We speak all the time John,” he’s half amused, half incredulous, the way he is when John is missing something that is so very obvious to Sherlock. “In fact you’re constantly telling me I need to speak less and listen more.”
“I don’t mean now.” John struggles for a moment. There’s no point in trying to backtrack and sweep this issue aside. Sherlock will never let it drop now. “I mean while we’re…you know…having sex.” John has no idea why he’s come over so coy all of sudden. Any trace of amusement vanishes from Sherlock’s face.
“Oh. That.” He says, flatly.
“Yeah. That.”
Sherlock is quiet long enough for John to know he’s not going to get a proper answer.
“Does it really matter, John?”
“No,” John sighs “Not really. I’m just…curious.”
“Leave it alone.”
“Sherlock-
“Just leave it, alright?”
Another pause. John shrugs and smiles, trying to show that this next part at least, is meant partly in jest. “It’s a little bit creepy to be honest.”
Joke or not, Sherlock’s frown turns indignant.
“Thanks a bunch!” He huffs and turns his back. Standard consulting detective sulking pose.
John chuckles and edges closer. He massages at Sherlock’s shoulders, ignoring the half-hearted attempts to bat him away.
“Oh come on,” he works gently at muscle, easing out the tension. Sherlock’s spent too long hunched over his microscope. “You know I didn’t mean it like that.”
Sherlock pouts and grumbles for a few moments more before relenting. Maybe it’s proof of how much he wants this conversation to be over that he lets John win him round so easily. John can take a hint. He lets it slide for now.
~
They probably could have gone months without the issue being raised again. Would have, if it were not for the night when John kisses Sherlock and tastes blood.
It’s an impulsive move. John already has two fingers deep inside Sherlock, stretching him, preparing him. The familiar warmth is beginning to pool inside of him. Sherlock curls one hand around John’s forearm trying to get him to move faster and the sight is so damn arousing John can’t help himself. He leans down and places his mouth over Sherlock’s with a groan. Sherlock greets him eagerly.
It takes John a few heated moments to recognize that metallic tang. He probes with his tongue, hesitantly, then pulls back. Alarm bells are already ringing by now. John brings his free hand to his mouth and touches it, shocked when it comes away with a hint of red. He knows he is not bleeding. Which leaves only one option.
“Oh God, Sherlock…”
He’s quick to withdraw his other hand, Sherlock shuddering at the loss. John’s shaking as he strokes at Sherlock’s lips, trying to get a proper look. Sherlock tries to push him away, shaking his head insistently.
“Sh-stop it, John.” He yelps, voice gone high in panic. John doesn’t miss the slight lisp. Sherlock has bitten through his own tongue to keep quiet.
John backs off, horrified. He doesn’t even realise Sherlock is moving, hurrying from the room, until he hears the bathroom door slam shut and the lock click into place.
~
John can’t think of anything at all to say. He’s tried apologising. He’s tried pleading with Sherlock, begging him to just talk, just to let John know he’s ok. He’s been here for half an hour. He’s listened to Sherlock run water, rinse out his mouth, and the quiet, breaking sound of someone crying who doesn’t want to be found out.
John slumps down and rests his back against the closed door.
“I’m sorry.” Sherlock whispers, so quiet John almost misses it. He turns round so quickly his neck cricks. He’s of course still staring at a closed door, but he can’t help himself.
“What?” he tries to keep his voice below a shout. He doesn’t want to make Sherlock think he’s angry. More silence. Clearly he’s scared Sherlock into muteness once more.
“Sherlock, you’ve got nothing to be sorry for.”
There’s shuffling from the other side of the door then a quiet click as the blot slides back. John wants to shove the door open and rush to Sherlock but he takes it slowly. Small movements, like approaching a cornered animal. Or a very small, frightened child. He gets to his feet and cautiously opens the door. Sherlock is sitting on the floor much the same as John was, knees pulled up to his chest, leaning against the bathtub. John takes his place beside Sherlock.
He needs to know. If it upsets Sherlock this much, John wants to know. But he’s also not going to force him. This is clearly too painful to be dragged up right now.
And that is of course when Sherlock decides to tell him anyway. Contradicting John’s every thought and assumption. As per usual.
“Sebastian always said I sounded like a whore.”
~
John didn’t think he could get so angry. He wants to throw something. He wants to smash something, grind it beneath his fist. But right now all he’s holding is Sherlock. The most important, precious thing in the whole universe.
John doesn’t want to hear about Sebastian but he listens anyway. He doesn’t want to hear how he taunted Sherlock. He doesn’t want to hear the names he used in replace of Sherlock’s name.
Slut.
Whore.
Bitch.
Freak.
They roll so easily from Sherlock’s now he’s gotten started. He lists them like facts, like certainties.
John doesn’t want to know about how Sebastian would hurt Sherlock until he cried out and then mock him when he did.
But he doesn’t interrupt. He just holds him and listens.
With each passing second he thinks he can’t get any angrier and remain stationary. But he can. And he does.
~
It takes two weeks of tentative touching and chaste kissing and a murder case before they both feel ready to try again.
~
They’re fresh back from the police station, haven’t even showered yet. That aftershock of adrenaline helps.
John’s unbuttoned Sherlock’s shirt and is kissing at his collar bones.
“We’re going to try something new.” He mumbles against Sherlock’s skin.
Sherlock’s been edging into his default silent shell but now he takes a shuddering breath.
“Wh-what did you have in mind?”
John moves his thumbs in soothing circles. He can feel Sherlock’s pulse quickening in his neck.
“You’re going to talk.”
“John-“
“No, just listen.” He nips lightly at Sherlock’s earlobe. “You’re going to talk to me about the case. Take me through how you solved it.”
“You were there, John.”
“Not for all of it. Maybe if you hadn’t buggered off without warning me.” John knows Sherlock will be smiling now. “And we both know I’m not so quick as you are at these leaps of logic. Humour me.”
“I-I don’t know how to start.” Sherlock’s voice is already beginning to break. John is going to enjoy this quite a lot.
“Start at the beginning. How did you know we were looking for a woman?” He starts to kiss down Sherlock’s chest, paying special attention to his already sensitive nipples.
“B-balance of probability.” One hand tightens in John’s hair. “There were no physical injuries. Statistics…ah…show that m-men are more likely to shoot, stab, strangle. Physical attack…women are more likely to kill via…poisoning.”
“I know you don’t work through probabilities alone, Sherlock.” John scrapes his teeth lightly over one hardening nipple. He swipes his palm over the other. “How else?”
“oh God…Lipstick. Everything else in the kitchen had been washed up that morning but…John…One mug had been put back dirty.” Now John’s getting to know exactly how Sherlock sounds when he’s aroused. His tone and pace alter, faltering where he never normally would. “You saw that kitchen, John. It was practically sparkling. Compulsively clean. They’d nev-never miss something like that.”
John hums encouragement. He’s moving steadily lower towards Sherlock’s navel.
“Narrows it down. Someone the v-victim trusted enough to have tea with.”
John drops to his knees. It’s a wonder his fingers still have the dexterity required to undo Sherlock’s trousers, shove them and his pants down out of the way. He strokes gently at Sherlock’s cock, listening to him splutter and gasp. John smirks and looks up to see the effect this is having on Sherlock’s features. It’s quite remarkably beautiful, really.
“It could have been his girlfriend. How did you know it wasn’t her?”
Sherlock just trembles and gasps. John uses his nail ever so lightly to trace a line from the base of Sherlock’s cock to the tip. Sherlock shudders, struggling to remain upright as his knees go weak.
“Go on.” John prompts.
“Right shade, wrong brand. All the girlfriend’s makeup was…top brand. Expensive. That lipstick was far too cheap for her.”
“Clever boy.” Murmurs John. “my good, clever boy.” He's long past the point of caring how brainless he sounds compared to Sherlock.
“She-she injected him while he was distracted. Hospital grade painkillers. That n-a-narrows it down again. Someone with accesses to hospital supplies.”
“Bit of a risk isn’t it?” John moves one hand to Sherlock’s backside, squeezes gently. He uses his other hand to still his hips from bucking. “Toxicology report would pick that up.”
“Oh John…I can’t keep this up…Not in such a small dose. He was highly allergic.”
“Keep talking.” John places a kiss on the head of Sherlock’s erection before taking it fully into his mouth. Sherlock all but shrieks. He does nothing but whimper and groan for a good few moments before picking up his litany again.
“Fuck…Narrowing it down more…someone with knowledge of his childhood medical history…”
Whilst John sucks and licks, bobbing his head up and down, Sherlock lists clues and deductions and chemical compounds.
Listening to this should not be such a turn on for John. He is listening to how a woman killed her own brother. But god, this is Sherlock. Sherlock could recite the entire fucking periodic table and it’d still sound sexy.
John’s got to hand it Sherlock. He keeps it up masterfully.
When he comes into John’s mouth it’s with a scream that could be an expletive or John’s name, or both. John does not care one bit either way.