Chapter Text
John had never felt so sick; his stomach clenched with cramps and his whole body shuddered with painful shivers from the cold which seemed to rush through his bones. He attempted to lift his head but the pain rushing through his neck made him whimper and collapse back onto the pillow.
The doctor cursed himself for missing the opportunity to have his flu jab at the surgery; he had insisted he was too busy and he had never suffered from flu previously so didn't believe he needed it. That was until he was run down from rushing around London on a case with Sherlock whilst missing meals and sleep; he had collapsed into bed on Friday evening and slept through until Sunday morning when he had awoken in agony.
Moving his arm slowly, he gripped his mobile and sent Sherlock a text as he felt unable to speak. Pressing send and dropping the phone onto the mattress, he sighed deeply; he really wasn’t well.
Sherlock entered the bedroom immediately, his eyes scanning John’s body before he walked closer to the ill doctor lying on the bed.
"Why are you ill?" Sherlock asked with a confused look. "You're never ill."
"Think it's flu. Didn’t get my flu jab," John croaked before beginning a prolonged coughing fit which had him gagging painfully.
"Are you going to vomit? Should I get a bucket?" Sherlock asked timidly.
"Probably," John groaned. "Can you grab my medical bag please?"
Sherlock left the room and quickly returned with John's medical bag, a plastic bucket and a glass of ice water. The detective looked nervously at John before placing the bucket beside the bed and handing the water to John along with the bag.
John rummaged inside and pulled out some codeine painkillers; taking them quickly he lay back on the pillow as another coughing fit started. Sherlock startled and stared at John nervously.
"Sherlock. I'm not dying. Stop worrying," John attempted to smile.
"You're never ill," Sherlock whispered. "And I'm a dreadful doctor."
John smiled at Sherlock and patted his hand. "I'll get some sleep and be better."
"Should I do anything? Cold compress? Warm water? Towels?”
"Sherlock, I have flu, I'm not giving birth," John groaned, realising that asking Sherlock for help may have been a mistake.
"I'll phone somebody? What about Mrs Hudson? Or Sarah! I'll call her." Sherlock insisted, standing up to grab for John's phone.
"No…Sherlock, just sit down," John croaked. "Just sit with me."
Sherlock sat beside John awkwardly, seeming to want to keep as much space between them as possible incase they happened to touch. John began to doze when he felt Sherlock stroking his hair softly.
"Wut yew duwen?" John asked with his face buried in the pillow.
"Cataloguing," Sherlock answered truthfully. "I've never had a chance to look at the colours in your hair or the texture. I figured since you were at death’s door you would allow it."
John sighed half-heartedly, expecting the panic of such an intimate touch to ignite around his veins but finding only comfort. He relaxed back into the pillow and slept as Sherlock stroked through his strands.
Sherlock technically wasn't lying about cataloguing. He had never had the chance to be so close to his blogger before and his fingers had automatically buried themselves into the knotted hair before Sherlock had become aware. He had made up an excuse and then began looking over John carefully; his hair was darker now he was out of the desert sun, slightly greying from the stress of London -and living with Sherlock, probably- but it was still more blond than grey. Not like Lestrade.
The hair was soft, twirling around Sherlock's long fingers easily as he played and wound the strands around his digits. He could smell the sweet aroma of John's shampoo and his sweat lingering in the air which made a part of his body react stronger than he had expected. He willed away his erection as much as possible before realising that John was asleep; climbing carefully from John's bed, he rushed to his own bedroom and took himself in hand. He stroked himself quickly and effectively until he felt the first tingles of his orgasm build. He stopped himself immediately and sat on his hands to stop himself going further as his cock bobbed angrily against his stomach.
Sherlock closed his eyes and recited the periodic table until he felt able to continue his daily business. Pulling up his trousers, he checked his reflection and left to sit in the living room and continue updating his blog posts.
"Sher-" John began before coughs wracked his body painfully, causing him to double over in the bed and reach for the plastic bucket which Sherlock had thankfully placed there earlier. Heaving heavily into the tub, John groaned and attempted to take a deep breath.
"Lovely," Sherlock mumbled, his nose curled up playfully. "Well, there's another of your bodily fluids ticked off."
John grimaced and allowed Sherlock to help him lay back down. "Ticked off what?"
"What?" Sherlock asked.
"You said ‘there's another of your bodily fluids ticked off’," John insisted as he closed his eyes and covered them with his arm. "Are you collecting them?"
Sherlock was thankful John had covered his eyes as the crimson blush spread over the detective’s cheeks and throat. Stupid brain wouldn't do what it was told!
"Must have been mistaken," Sherlock insisted. "Would you like to take a shower? You're pretty rancid."
"I don't think I can stand," John whined, "but I need to pee."
Sherlock grimaced again and attempted to help John onto his feet, stopping occasionally to let John take a breath before Sherlock helped him into the bathroom.
"You don't… want me to hold anything, do you?" Sherlock cringed.
"Can you just help me undo my trousers?" John asked, looking down at the drawstring jogging bottoms he was wearing.
"Oh, of course," Sherlock smiled, his fingers working quickly at the knot before moving to allow John privacy. "You should sit down. Don’t want to pick you up off the floor with your… member out."
"It's a cock, Sherlock. A penis, a cock, a dick or prick, not a member," John sighed, rolling his eyes. "We both have one."
Sherlock collected the plastic bucket from the bedroom and waited for John to flush before he entered the bathroom once more, pouring the vomit down the toilet and using the taps to rinse it out before helping John back into his bedroom.
"Sleep some more," Sherlock soothed, checking John's temperature. "I'll make you something to eat later when you're up to it."
John nodded, taking more tablets and settling back into bed. "Fanks, Sh’lock."
"No problem," Sherlock smiled and left the room.
John awoke to the delicious smell of soup being heated. He felt less nauseous than before but his stomach ached from the heaving and hunger. He looked up with a smile as Sherlock carried a tray with a bowl of soup and a loaf of bread.
"Feel up to eating?" Sherlock asked nervously as he lingered in the doorway.
"God yes," John replied with a smile, sitting up with a slight wobble.
"Okay, okay, let me help before you become even more invalided." Sherlock fussed with his free hand, attempting to press John further into the pillows as he sat against the headboard. "Can you feed yourself or should I help? I vaguely remember ‘here comes the aeroplane’."
John laughed and rolled his eyes. "I can probably manage," he chuckled before taking the offered tray and taking a deep sniff of the tomato soup.
He ate in silence whilst Sherlock talked about his day, what had happened on the chat show he liked ( well, he liked to shout at the idiot host) and the new cases which had come in from the blog.
"Mainly, I've just been listening to you breathing," Sherlock admitted, frowning slightly at the look of shock on John's face. "I didn't want you to die… obviously."
"You're being weird. Stop being weird," John groaned. "Stop cataloguing me, or collecting my fluids or watching me sleep… just… relax."
Sherlock fiddled with his fingers nervously and nodded, taking the bowl from John and carrying it back to the kitchen. John sighed at his impatience towards his best friend; he was only trying to help after all. It wasn’t his fault he was being so… Sherlock about it.
"Sherlock?" John called into the living room, watching the detective round the corner at an alarming rate.
"What is it, John? Are you going to vomit again?" Sherlock asked as he rushed back to John's bedside.
"No. Nothing like that. Would you like to watch a film together?" John suggested. "Nothing too challenging."
Sherlock looked over his friend and bit his lip nervously before nodding. John smiled and suggested that Sherlock change into his pyjamas and return to John's room when he was comfortable, asking Sherlock to grab his large black case which was settled under the table in the living room.
The bag was filled with DVDs; a huge selection of different genres, ratings and actors filled the plastic dividers which John had spent years accumulating. He flicked through the pages of shiny disks before giving up and deferring to Sherlock's choice.
"I've never seen this one," Sherlock smiled, holding up a disk and looking at the colourful image on the picture.
"You do know it's a kid's film, yeah?" John asked.
"How?! How did they make the story of Hercules into a children's film?" Sherlock replied, shocked.
"Okay, okay, let's watch that," John smiled, allowing Sherlock to press the DVD into the TV at the bottom of his bed before cuddling further into his sheets.
"Why is Hades so camp?!" Sherlock shouted at the TV screen, his hands gesturing wildly.
John had given up watching the film ten minutes in as Sherlock ranted at the cartoon. The doctor simply contented himself with listening to Sherlock pick out the inaccuracies.
"They couldn't exactly tell children that Hercules murdered his children in a frenzy," John laughed. "Imagine the complaints."
"My parents did," Sherlock frowned. "I’d read The Odyssey before I was ten."
"Yeah, but normal parents," John smiled, watching Sherlock's face fall before adding, "Those without genius children."
Sherlock brightened and smiled at John, snuggling closer to his best friend and sitting silently whilst watching the film.
"Okay, we need to get you in the bath," Sherlock groaned. "Shall I run it?"
John nodded and grimaced at the thought of Sherlock helping him bathe. His cock had reacted far too easily at the close proximity of the detective in his bed and he knew that the pillow would smell delightfully like Sherlock's shampoo and aftershave. John rearranged his half hard erection in his pyjama bottoms and listened to Sherlock humming absently as he ran the water.
"Bubbles?" Sherlock called from the bathroom.
"Please," John smiled; he hadn't had a bubble bath in ages ( plus they might protect his modesty).
"What did your last slave die of?" Sherlock grumbled jokingly from the bathroom.
"Disobedience. I had to spank him to death," John laughed before blushing at the sexual connotations, hoping that Sherlock hadn’t heard or realised.
Sherlock returned to the bedroom and helped John stand, walking with him carefully into the steamy bathroom.
"Do… should I help you undress?" Sherlock blushed nervously.
"Just my top," John asked, his arms still feeling heavy and unwieldy. "I can do my bottoms."
Sherlock nodded and helped John strip his shirt before turning his back so John could undress. When John was naked, he cleared his throat and Sherlock turned back around. His eyes focussed on a point between two tiles which lined the bathroom wall as he helped John climb into the bathtub and lower himself into the warm water with a blissful sigh.
"Thanks, Sherlock," John smiled. "You've been amazing these last few days."
Sherlock blushed and hummed a noise which could have been a thank you, before rushing out of the bathroom on the pretext of getting a towel.
When Sherlock returned, John had managed to control his urges by thinking of a naked Mycroft on a pogo stick. The urge to cackle and laugh hysterically was almost too much to bear, but John bit his lip and relaxed into the warmth of the bath, his head resting against the cold plastic of the tub.
"John," Sherlock started, sitting on the floor with his back against the opposite wall and watching John intently.
"Sherlock," John sighed. "What?"
"How often do you masturbate?" Sherlock asked calmly, his voice never wavering.
"Jesus, Sherlock!" John spat. "You don"t ask people that!"
Sherlock looked confused, his eyebrows knitting together as he attempted to understand why it was such an offensive question. "I know you masturbate… it's a normal bodily function for most men so why are you embarrassed about it?"
"I know it's normal," John laughed, "but it doesn't mean I want to talk about my… habits."
Sherlock shrugged and dropped the conversation, his mind reminding him to check on his latest experiment hidden behind the washing machine.
"Why do you want to know?" John asked quietly, peeking his head over at Sherlock.
"Know what?" Sherlock replied.
"About the… what you asked!" John sighed with impatience.
"Oh. I just wondered if my calculations were correct. it's not important."
John grimaced and shook his head. "Okay, I'll bite. What calculations?"
"How often you masturbate and for how long." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "It's not that difficult."
"Why on earth do you need to know that?" John replied tensely, a prickle of sweat beginning on his brow.
Sherlock blushed slightly and looked away; his traitorous mind was running too slowly to think of a decent lie and he didn't want to admit the truth but he couldn't think of a good enough excuse… his mind began to panic, his heartbeat getting faster as he retreated deeper and deeper into himself.
"Sherlock?" John asked cautiously.
"I think I'm abnormal," Sherlock spat before covering his lips with his hands and closing his eyes tightly.
"Ooooo-kay," John whispered; that wasn't the reply he’d expected. "In what way?"
"Doesn’t- Doesn’t matter," Sherlock mumbled, standing up and marching out of the bathroom. "Shout me if you need help."
"What in the fuck?" John shook his head.
Sherlock had helped John climb from the bathtub, a towel extended to cover John's crotch as he helped the older man shakily exit the water. The pair walked slowly back into the bedroom until they reached John's bed, which had been thoughtfully redressed with fresh bedding.
The doctor sat on the mattress with a sigh as weariness spread through his body once more. Sherlock grabbed a fresh pair of pyjama pants and helped the older man push his legs through before helping him to stand, ensuring he was still wrapped in the towel to cover his modesty.
"Sherlock?" John asked as he climbed under the covers and settled against his pillow, weariness seeping into every pore of his body.
"John, it's fine. Just… go to sleep," Sherlock whispered.
"Stay with me?" John asked nervously.
Sherlock stopped at the door and lingered for a moment before turning around and lying beside John on the bed, reaching over to turn off the lamp on the bedside table. The men laid silently beside one another in the dark before John tried again.
"Sherlock?"
"Oh my goodness, just go to sleep already," Sherlock sighed. "It’s fine. Just forget it."
"Why do you think you're abnormal? Answer me and I'll sleep," John responded quietly.
Sherlock was thankful for the darkness which cloaked his features as his mind whirred; he had never discussed sex or masturbation with John or anybody else -not since Mycroft gave him the talk at age eleven- leaving him at a loss for words.
"I…Well… it's..." he started before exhaling shakily. "Recently, I have found my sexual appetite has increased dramatically."
John turned into his doctor persona and listened carefully as Sherlock spoke. "How dramatic is dramatically?"
"Daily," Sherlock blushed. "Sometimes a few times a day."
John frowned. "That's not that dramatic, a lot of men find themselves aroused on a daily basis. So long as you're not becoming addicted you're pretty much like most normal blokes."
Sherlock's eyebrows knitted together as he spoke, "But how do they get anything done?"
John smiled and shrugged. "Most men don’t have three hundred experiments happening at the same time."
"So… masturbating daily isn’t a bad thing?" Sherlock whispered.
"Not at all," John soothed.
"I stop before I finish, of course," Sherlock nodded knowingly.
"I'm sorry, what?" John gasped. "You… stop? Why?"
"I don't want to waste my semen, John," Sherlock chuckled as though John was mad.
"Whoa, right," John rubbed his temple, "slow down. Are you telling me that at thirty-seven you've never ejaculated?"
"Obviously I have accidentally, in my sleep," Sherlock blushed. "But I assumed that was excess that my body wanted to remove."
"Jesus Christ," John gaped. "You've officially continued the longest edging session in the history of man."
"I don't understand," Sherlock frowned. "Are you suggesting that it's fine to ejaculate?"
"Yes. Very fine. Healthier than storing it," John nodded. "Who told you this information?"
"My father," Sherlock frowned. "He said that if you masturbate, you'll use up all of your sperm."
"He’s wrong," John insisted firmly. "Very wrong."
"I won't use it all?" Sherlock asked nervously. "Or go blind?"
John desperately held back his giggles as he looked over at the thirty odd-year-old man asking the questions he was normally asked by teens.
"No. They replenish regularly and have absolutely no influence on your eyesight whatsoever. You also won’t get hairy palms or have it fall off."
Sherlock nodded but still looked pensive as he stared into the darkness.
"I wank daily," John admitted with a blush. "It hasn't done me any harm."
"And you ejaculate?" Sherlock asked quizzically, his mind already spinning with new knowledge.
"Y-Yes," John nodded. "That's where the pleasure comes from. Are you telling me you've never experienced orgasm?"
"The tingles?" Sherlock asked quietly. "There's a strange tightening in my stomach followed by a fizzy sensation from my testicles up my spine. That's normally where I stop."
"Jesus Christ, you've never even orgasmed," John grumbled as he shook his head. "You're in for a huge surprise, my friend."
"Thank you," Sherlock whispered, attempting to end the uncomfortable conversation before cuddling further down the bed.
The silence swallowed the room until John broke, his curiosity piqued. "How often did you do it before?"
"I didn't," Sherlock shrugged. "Normally my body takes care of it."
"You know that's not healthy, yeah?" John asked. "Was it just lack of drive or did you have negativity about touching yourself?"
Sherlock blushed crimson. "I just…didn't."
"Never?" John asked incredulously.
"Well, I think I must have done as a teenager… I have a vague memory of being told about sex and reproduction by Mycroft," Sherlock shrugged, "and then my father told me that I’d use it up if I masturbated so I guess I didn't after that."
John desperately wanted to invent a time machine to return to the conversation between Mycroft and Sherlock. He would have killed for the opportunity to be a fly on the wall during the discussion of sex and relationships between the two sentimentally challenged Holmes brothers.
"So, if you haven't done it since your teenage years, what’s changed recently to inflame your passion?" John asked, attempting not to blush or cringe at his wording.
"I have no idea," Sherlock admitted.
"Well, do you know what triggers your arousal?" John continued, probing carefully.
"You, normally," Sherlock shrugged.
"Right okay—wait… hold on, what?" John stammered. "Me?"
"Yes, you." Sherlock rolled his eyes as though John was an idiot. "It normally happens when we're in close proximity. Yesterday for example after you fell asleep with me cataloguing your hair colours, I had to go and deal with my aching erection."
John gulped audibly and looked up at the ceiling in silent prayer. This wasn't a normal conversation between flatmates or even best friends; but when did anything to do with Sherlock include normal?
"I-I think we should go to sleep," John whispered cautiously. "I feel a bit… weak."
"Very well," Sherlock nodded. "I'll see you tomorrow."
"Night, Sherlock," John murmured as he felt Sherlock stand from the bed and stride from the mattress to the doorway. Closing it behind him, he left John alone and unsurprisingly hard.
John knew he probably shouldn't do anything about his erection; he was still ill and lethargic but the urge to stroke himself was almost drowning out all other thoughts in his mind as he flipped onto his stomach. He reached for the pillow which Sherlock had lay on and put it under his head whilst putting a second under his hips against his swollen and sensitive erection; he gasped as the tip of his cock pressed against the soft feather pillow, and circled his hips to draw out the pleasure and growing tension in his abdomen. He buried his face into the pillow and smelt Sherlock's own scent; a mix of shampoo, aftershave and Sherlock's own body made John's cock twitch and bob against the cushion below.
John bit his lip and stifled his moan as best he could as he thrust wildly and uncoordinated whilst still in his pyjamas; he could feel the small pool of precum spreading over the fabric and groaned as the slick material moulded itself to his shaft. He reached a hand below and pinched his nipple almost painfully, arching his back as the pain rolled over him and mixed with the pleasurable sensations.
"God," he gasped. "Fuck, yes."
The door opened and Sherlock walked back in, illuminated by the passageway light behind him making him look ethereal and angelic; he stopped in the doorway and gulped. "Oh."
"Shit," John groaned and stilled his hips. "What?"
"I-I left my phone," Sherlock mumbled as he reached for the device on the bedside table. "I'm sorry I interrupted."
"It's fine," John grumbled. "Night."
"Night," Sherlock mumbled and fled the room, closing the door behind him but not before John could see the outline of his hard cock in his pyjama bottoms and the flush over his cheeks.
That sight was enough to send John over the edge; he grabbed the pillow tightly and bit into the fabric as he stifled his groan and thrust a final time before spilling himself into his pyjama bottoms and onto the pillowcase. John let out a long and deep groan as the pent up frustration left him in a rush, leaving only tiredness and lethargy.
The doctor stripped his trousers and threw the pillow onto the floor as he pulled the duvet back over himself and fell into a sated sleep.
Sherlock returned to his room shaken and aroused; he had never had such a reaction before based on an actual erotic experience and his cock twitched and bobbed in his trousers as he pushed his palm against his length.
Damn John Watson, his inner voice screamed, damn him for making me feel so uncertain.
Sherlock had never understood the need for sex or affection; his experience with crime and murder had shown that the risks that people took in order to have that momentary rush were often dangerous and criminal. Love led to jealousy, jealousy to anger, anger to hate.
He sat down on his bed and exhale shakily; he hated feeling confused and unsure. The only way to remedy his uncertainty would be to actually go ahead and finish when he masturbated and catalogue the reactions and feelings.
He stood and undressed, folding his clothes carefully and retiring to bed naked and hard, his cock already flushed almost purple in colour and leaking copiously against his stomach. The detective ran his fingers along the shaft and winced at the sensation of nails against his sensitive glans; he moved away and stroked his fingers over his balls, feeling the texture of them drawn up to his body.
I wonder how many sperm are in there at the moment, he thought, sending him momentarily into quiet contemplation before he remembered what he was doing.
"Focus," he whispered to himself as he cupped his balls and rolled them around in his hands.
Is this going well? His inner Sherlock asked giving a running commentary as Sherlock attempted to grip his shaft with his hand, realising that he had started to soften.
"Shut up," he hissed to himself, closing his eyes tightly and trying to remember how John was masturbating. He dipped into his mind palace and brought up the memory of John on his stomach, his hips grinding down onto the mattress as he sniffed and groaned into the pillow which he had used. Probably just more comfortable he insisted to himself.
I wonder which fabrics would be better for masturbation purposes. His brain asked, silk possibly? High count cotton would be good too. Couldn't have fabric which was too scratchy or painful unless the person masturbating was into a little bit of pain or denial; perhaps if they wore underwear or something between their skin and the bed…
"For God's sake," Sherlock groaned as he threw his head back onto the pillow and pushed his curled up fists into his eyes. "Why is it so difficult?"
His cock was fully softened now and Sherlock glared at it evilly. He stood from the bed, got redressed and moved to the kitchen to continue his most recent experiment on fingernails and bleach.
John awoke the next morning feeling slightly more alert and less like death warmed up; he shuffled out of bed and swayed slightly as he gripped the bedside table, before pulling on pyjama bottoms and his dressing gown and staggering to the bathroom. He used the loo, brushed his teeth and checked his hair and face; deciding he could no longer hide from Sherlock he opened the bathroom door and walked into the kitchen where the detective sat in the same clothes as he had been wearing the night before, looking down his microscope.
"Morning," John mumbled.
"Good morning, John," Sherlock returned the greeting before looking up cautiously. "Should you be out of bed?"
"I feel better," John shrugged. "Was starting to go stir crazy staring at the walls."
Sherlock smiled and nodded. "Oh, there's water in the kettle if you want it, it should still be warm."
"Thanks," John brightened, realising that things weren't awkward between them. "Have you had breakfast?"
"Coffee and a nicotine patch," Sherlock nodded.
"Not really breakfast, is it?" John quipped as he put two slices of bread into the toaster and busied himself collecting jam and butter.
Sherlock was already back in his zone; he ignored the doctor as he pottered around the kitchen, smearing butter and jam onto his toast and moving into the living room where he opened his laptop, checking the emails and correspondence he had ignored during his sickness.
The two men sat in companionable silence whilst John read up on the news of the day and replied to messages which were deemed most important; he contacted Sarah to let her know he was still ill and would be in next week giving him five days to recover. John curled himself up in his chair, mindlessly watching some dreadful chat show before startling when he heard Sherlock talk.
"Velvet."
"Velvet?" John asked craning his neck to look at his friend. "What about it?"
"That would be the best fabric to masturbate with," Sherlock nodded.
"Oh…erm… okay?" John added, feeling his cheeks burn.
"I couldn't stop thinking about it after I saw you masturbating and rubbing yourself against your bed. I wondered which fabrics would be the best to use as an aid and I've just realised that it would be velvet," Sherlock continued.
"You do realise that this is extremely weird?" John asked. "I mean, we do weird all of the time but even for us… this is weird."
"Why?" Sherlock asked cautiously.
"You admitted you couldn't stop thinking about fabrics after seeing me wanking," John blushed. "That's not normally discussed between friends."
"Well, I was trying to masturbate," Sherlock explained as though John was stupid, "but my brain wouldn't stop thinking."
John decided that enough was enough; lifting his hand in the air he stopped Sherlock. "Please, no more. No more discussions of masturbation or orgasms for at least twenty-four hours. My sanity cannot take it."
Sherlock frowned and mumbled something under his breath before rolling his shoulders and returning to his experiment.
23 hours, 59 minutes, 53 seconds later
John was brushing his teeth when Sherlock burst unexpectedly into the bathroom.
"Ah, John," he smiled as he watched John frown angrily. The doctor had imposed an ‘absolutely no barging into the bathroom without prior notice’ rule which once again had been disregarded by Sherlock.
"Vot?" John grumbled as he spat the foamy mint toothpaste into the sink and rinsed his mouth.
"What do you think about when you masturbate?" Sherlock asked expectantly.
John choked on the water he was rinsing with and gripped the edge of the sink tightly. "Fuck’s sake, Sherlock."
"What? You said no more discussions on masturbation for 24 hours," Sherlock insisted, "and it has been 24 hours and…" he checked his watch, "36 seconds."
"Christ," John whined. "Make me a cuppa and we'll talk about it."
John had wrestled with his feelings towards the detective all day and night; on the one hand, Sherlock was a prickly bastard who was selfish and self-centred, egotistical and rude but he was also caring and innocent; his love was hard gained but once you had Sherlock's trust and devotion it was a lifelong loyalty. John decided that he would help Sherlock regardless of the awkward conversation.
The older man slipped from the bathroom and padded to the living room where a cup of tea waited for him on the table beside his chair; Sherlock sat opposite looking excited and buzzed as he crossed his legs and steepled his fingers in front of his nose.
"Right," John sighed. "What do you need?"
"What do people think about during masturbation?" Sherlock asked.
"Well… a lot of things. Sexual experiences you've had, or want to have. Porn you have seen or people you find attractive," John shrugged. "Are you… You've had no experiences whatsoever?"
"John, you found out yesterday I've never orgasmed. What do you think?" Sherlock snorted derisively.
"Oh… yeah… sorry," John stumbled, rubbing the back of his neck. "Erm… well, what arouses you?"
"I don't know," Sherlock admitted. "I've never thought about it."
"Well, let's think about it now," John soothed, his own brain racing as he took this conversation further than he had ever planned.
"I don’t… how?" Sherlock mumbled, blushing pink from the tips of his ears down to his throat.
"Let’s talk about certain things and you can tell me if it stimulates you," John said softly, attempting to keep the waiver from his voice.
"Y-you want to know when I get hard?" Sherlock blushed.
"It doesn't have to be hard, just stimulated. Turned on, aroused," John shrugged. "Think of it as an experiment."
Sherlock nodded his head and hunkered down in his seat nervously; his body seemed to be thrumming with a new sensation he had never experienced before.
"Okay, let's start simple," John suggested. "Kissing?"
"I've only kissed two people," Sherlock admitted, "one for a case."
"And?" John probed.
"It was wet," Sherlock shrugged. "She tasted of fake strawberry lip-gloss and it was unpleasant."
John attempted to hide the shock of Sherlock saying she; he had always assumed Sherlock was interested in men.
"You're surprised," Sherlock cut in. "You expected me to be homosexual?"
"I just… I guess I assumed…" John mumbled.
"I am, if that helps," Sherlock shrugged. "Gay, that is."
"Oh," John nodded, "okay. She was for a case?"
Sherlock nodded in reply and thought back to the second person he had kissed.
"Second was a man named Ryan. We met at a party," Sherlock continued. "He was nice. Tasted of apple cider and menthol cigarettes."
"Did it arouse you?" John asked.
"I was aroused but had no intention of furthering our liaison," Sherlock admitted. "There was a fight at the party and we were soon dispersed. We never met again."
"How old were you?" John asked.
"Erm…nineteen," Sherlock reasoned, "at university."
"Okay, so I take it that's the furthest you've ever gone with somebody?" John asked.
Sherlock nodded in reply before adding, "Except when I touched your hair."
"Oh," John mumbled, "and that made you hard?"
"Yes," Sherlock nodded.
"Right," John mumbled, taking a drink of his tea as a diversion. "What about somebody touching you? Can you imagine it?"
"I can try," Sherlock replied closing his eyes and breathing deeply. "Where are they touching me?"
John realised that this was closely resembling dirty talk but reasoned that if he stayed to innocent topics he should be able to help Sherlock understand his own body.
"Starting with your hands," John whispered. "Try to imagine somebody touching your hands."
"Why would they do that? Why not go straight for my penis?" Sherlock asked, opening his eye slightly.
"Foreplay," John smiled. "Building up the suspense."
"Okay, I'm imagining them giving me a handshake," Sherlock nodded. "What else? I'm not even remotely turned on."
John lowered his head to his hands and exhaled sharply with a chuckle. "Christ. Give me your hands."
Sherlock opened his eyes and looked at John warily before holding out his hands for John to grasp.
"Relax. Close your eyes, I have you," John soothed, as he looked around for some hand cream. He found some and squirted it onto his palm before warming it and running his hands over the backs of Sherlock's.
Sherlock shuddered and bit his lip as John began massaging the cream into his long fingers, into the webbing between his digits and circling his thumb onto the palm of his friend's hand.
"How you feeling?" John asked.
"F-Fine," Sherlock groaned, nodding his head. "Okay."
John lost himself in the regular motions of stroking Sherlock's skin. He moved down to the thin skin of Sherlock's wrist and felt the steady thrum of Sherlock's pulse thudding beneath. The doctor moved back to Sherlock's fingers and focussed on caressing them tenderly.
"J-John," Sherlock mumbled. "I'm starting to harden."
"Okay," John nodded, "that's fine, you're doing well, Sherlock."
Sherlock preened under the praise and took a calming breath. "What next?"
John thought of all of his personal erogenous zones and quickly zipped through the ones which would be less threatening to a nervous virgin. "Ears."
"My ears?" Sherlock opened his eyes angrily. "Are you mocking me?"
"Sherlock," John soothed, "it's a sensitive and sensual part of your body, relax and let me show you. May I?"
Sherlock looked suspicious but nodded, watching as John stood from his chair and moved behind Sherlock's own.
"Relax."
The younger man continued to be sceptical as John brushed his curls out of the way and gently pinched the detective’s earlobe between his thumb and finger, rolling it and stroking the fleshy skin before moving up the shell of his ear. Sherlock shuddered and mewled softly before biting his lower lip.
"You're doing well, how does it feel?" John asked, trying to sound casual but found his voice was deeper and full of lust.
"G-Good," Sherlock nodded, feeling John's fingers slip from his ear.
"Relax," John smiled as he ran his nails down Sherlock's jaw line.
"I-I'm very hard now," Sherlock admitted with a groan.
"Do you think you can finish now?" John asked. "You're aroused enough."
"I can try," Sherlock nodded; his cheeks were flushed and his breathing heavy as John moved his hands away from Sherlock's face and reseated himself, attempting to hide his own erection.
John took a sip of his freezing cold tea and winced at the temperature before putting his hands on his lap.
"I'll just… go then," Sherlock mumbled, covering his crotch with his hands and leaving the room towards his bedroom. He pulled down his trousers and pulled off his shirt as he lay naked on his bed and touched his prick.
"Right," Sherlock said softly. "I can do this."
He took his prick into his hand and began a gentle rhythm; flicking his wrist at the tip he felt the first drips of precum drip onto his lower stomach. He groaned loudly and closed his eyes, imagining the feeling of John's fingers on his own.
Why does John not have calluses? His brain asked. He should have. He was in the army, he spent his days wielding a scalpel, he should at least have delves where it sat.
Sherlock shook his head and focussed on breathing through the distraction; he continued to stroke and caress his sensitive flesh.
Think about John touching your ears.
He forced himself to relax and remember the touches; he groaned and arched into his touch as he focussed on what had happened in the living room.
He could smell tea, the smell of John's deodorant and the remnants of the experiment he had been completing. The smell of bleach and slightly rotting flesh…
Sherlock grumbled and let his head fall back. Whenever he had previously masturbated he had never had an issue with concentrating, he wasn't sure why it was so impossible now.
"Sherlock?" John called from outside the door. "Are you alright?"
"No," Sherlock grumbled. "I can't do it."
"Are you decent?" John asked as he pushed the door open slightly. "Can I come in?"
Sherlock covered his softening prick with the covers before agreeing that John could enter. The two men stared at one another awkwardly until John cleared his throat.
"It didn't work then?"
Sherlock shook his head. "I started thinking of rotting flesh."
"Obviously, as you do." John rolled his eyes.
"Perhaps I'm not supposed to ejaculate? Maybe I'm just not built for it." Sherlock grumbled and folded his arms with a petulant pout.
"You just need to relax and stop thinking so much," John laughed.
"Will you… stay?" Sherlock blushed. "You don't have to touch me… but… you make me relaxed."
John felt a bolt of warmth through his body as he looked down at his best friend and flatmate; he knew this was way, way past friendship boundaries but found he couldn't care any less.
"Of course," John nodded before biting his lower lip, "but I want to do a few things first."
Sherlock raised an eyebrow and nodded as John walked into his bedroom and returned with a vanilla scented candle, some lubricant, matches and his iPod speaker dock.
"Err…" Sherlock started before closing his mouth, he didn't want to scare John away.
The doctor lit the candle and left it across the room so the lingering scent of vanilla was only barely noticeable. He walked back to the bed and placed the lubricant and iPod dock onto the bedside table before sitting beside his friend on the mattress.
"Do you have a preference in what you would like to listen to?" John asked, scrolling through his iPod music.
"I don't… why are we listening to music and not just masturbating?" Sherlock asked, clearly antsy.
"It’ll help you relax more if you're listening to something," John insisted. "I have 101 Classical greats if that'll do?"
Sherlock shrugged and watched as John pressed the play button; the soft sounds of violins floated through the speakers as John turned his attention back to Sherlock.
"Okay, I'll just be here," John soothed. "You do what you need to do."
Sherlock bit his lower lip and grasped his softened prick as he attempted to coax it back to life. His brain was quieted by the sounds of Mozart and he focussed on each note as his cock finally began to harden once more.
"That's it," John cooed. "Oh, do you want me to stay quiet?"
"No," Sherlock mumbled as he wrapped his long and dexterous fingers around his own shaft and stroked up to the tip before returning to the base, a soft sigh escaping his lips unknowingly.
"Have you ever experimented with your body? What feels good?" John whispered, his own voice slightly quivering.
Sherlock shook his head.
"Touch your nipples," John insisted. "Tell me what it feels like."
Sherlock moved his empty hand to his chest and ran a finger around his areola, feeling it tighten and pucker up from the sensation; he groaned and opened his eyes to look at John who grinned knowingly.
"Y-Your other one," John whispered, his own cock becoming bothersome in his pyjama bottoms.
Sherlock brushed his hand across his chest and pinched the other nipple slightly harder, arching his back into the sensation and whining deeply. "John..."
"It's alright, Sherlock, I'm right here," John smiled softly.
Sherlock felt too hot; kicking away the covers he bared himself naked before remembering that John was in the room. He reasoned that John had seen countless naked bodies in both his army days and as a doctor so adding the detective’s wouldn't be that different ( plus, John had stitched him up multiple times). He stroked his shaft and rolled his nipples between his fingers as the music changed to Rachmaninov. He arched into the touch and groaned as his eyes rolled at the pure bliss he felt when he stroked his finger softly over the bump which connected his foreskin and shaft.
John gulped and inhaled deeply as he watched Sherlock kick off the covers and show himself naked, flushed and hard for the first time. John's eyes strayed over the long, lean expanse of Sherlock's body taking in every flaw and imperfection to store in his own memory; the soft smattering of curled dark hair which sat on his chest and nowhere else, the countless white-silver scars which littered his skin which John himself had cleaned and sutured. His gaze lingered on the thatch of curls above Sherlock's prick; John was surprised to see it was wild and unkempt, so unlike the rest of Sherlock's physique.
"Stop thinking," Sherlock mumbled, interrupting John from his thoughts. "I can hear you."
"Sorry," John chuckled nervously. "How’s it feeling?"
"Good," Sherlock huffed. "I can feel the tingles starting."
"Okay, here," John offered, holding the lube and tapping Sherlock's hand. "Hold it out."
Sherlock followed instruction and held out his hand as the cold gel was put onto his palm. He smeared it onto his cock and shuddered at the sudden chill. "Cold," he mumbled.
"I know, sorry," John nodded with a smile. "Now, move your other hand down to your balls and just gently roll and caress them. If you wanted, you could go further and press down on your perineum to stimulate your prostate from the outside."
Sherlock seemingly had difficulty following the instructions as he looked up and blinked at John before his hand skimmed down his skin to the sac between his legs. His dominant hand continued the rhythm he had begun on his shaft whilst his other moved to cup his testicles, stroking and rubbing them which immediately caused him to roll his eyes and arch his back.
"Christ," Sherlock groaned before muttering something in French which John couldn’t understand.
"Mmhmm," John smiled, loving that he could teach the usually confident detective something.
"John," Sherlock groaned deeply. "John, something- oh god- it's… I can't stop it..."
"Shh," John soothed. "It’s okay, it's going to happen so just relax. It'll be alright."
"I don't… I'm – oh Christ!" Sherlock wailed as he threw back his head, his hips suddenly thrusting into the tight ring his fingers had made. "John!"
John smiled and continued whispering to his best friend as the detective bucked wildly, his eyes closed tight and his mouth open wide.
"Oh!" was the only noise which escaped Sherlock's lips before he removed his hand and grabbed John's pyjama t-shirt, holding it tightly with both hands as Sherlock's cock twitched and bobbed before the first thick spurt erupted from the tight skin of his prick.
"Sherlock, you…" John started before realising that Sherlock couldn't hear him. The detective was panting and wailing so loudly that it sounded as though he was being murdered; out of comfort and loyalty John reached down and took Sherlock's cock in his hand, stroking him through his first official orgasm and coaxing out more of the thick white cum which continued to spurt for at least fifteen seconds, covering Sherlock's belly and chest with long, wet lines.
The sounds which were escaping Sherlock's lips were unlike anything John had ever heard; blissful whimpers and low pitched growls fought for dominance as Sherlock shook against John's body, his eyes clamped shut tight. John stroked the remaining drips from Sherlock's cock before letting it softly fall onto the younger man's stomach where it continued to twitch and bob for a few seconds.
"Sherlock?" John asked, aware that the detective was probably on his own planet but he needed to ensure his friend was okay. "Sherlock, let go."
The detective winced and removed his hands from John's shirt and looked up at John's face with a blush. "Sorry."
"Not at all," John smiled. "I just wanted to make sure you were okay."
"Oh," Sherlock said, visibly relieved at John's words. "Mm’ fine."
John looked down at the mess which streaked Sherlock's body and smiled before walking to the bathroom and wetting a hand towel in the sink; he returned to the bedroom and sat beside his flatmate and began to clean off the sticky cum which glistened in the sunlight flooding through the window.
"Jawwwn?" Sherlock drawled as he opened one eye a little. "Words… won’t..."
"I know," John laughed. "It seemed pretty intense." He watched as Sherlock nodded and continued. "You just relax, get some sleep and we’ll talk later."
"Hokay," Sherlock nodded, "sleep."
"Yes, you sleep." John grinned as he finished wiping Sherlock down before pulling the covers back over him and stroking his hair lightly. "G’night."
"Hnngg," Sherlock attempted before he was lightly snoring, leaving a very aroused doctor holding a sperm covered towel. John turned off the music and blew out the candle, before closing Sherlock's bedroom and retiring to his own bedroom to deal with his own arousal.