By the time John had summoned the wherewithal to decide that he wasn't going to allow himself to be scandalised (about six seconds, but it seemed far longer), Sherlock had a head-start on his diatribe.

" –after all, you're fairly-well versed in various sexual proclivities, at least in theory if not in practice."

John's imminent migraine seemed to suddenly pulse more softly, as if quietening enough to allow him to fully absorb the blasé pronouncements that were surely pending. He became aware of the readied pressure of his fingertips on the smooth edge of his laptop, unconsciously ready to click it shut. He spoke evenly.

"I know enough to know that you don't own one, Sherlock. Because if you did, you'd probably have no qualms about leaving it in the kitchen for me to trip over."

Sherlock's eyes widened and he thrilled with a welcoming, surprised intrigue. This was an interesting response.

His doctor was always apt to provide him with fascinating snippets of his personality, exposed as little threads in his words and actions, that Sherlock was secretly and painstakingly collating as a rough tapestry in a spare room of his Mind Palace. It was a work in progress, and it might indeed, never be completed. He had never been particularly good at needlework, so it was fairly unkempt and rustic-looking. It had a few glaringly-bare sections, though they were bolstered and added-to fairly regularly, increment by tiny increment.

This latest little morsel, revealing that his doctor would be more perturbed by the fact of a large physical obstacle in his path than the presence of a masculinity-threatening sexual device, deserved a silvery thread -hair-thin, but glittering notably. He tucked it in between two other, thicker threads near the bottom right of his interminable, messy masterpiece. They each represented two different surprising/semi-arousing instances that merited future recall. One was the time that John had jokingly called him 'babe,' whilst doing an impression of somebody on television. The other time was when John had used his teeth to remove a stubborn splinter from Sherlock's fingertip, when the tweezers proved too fiddly.

"Anyway, those things cost a fortune," John said airily, scrolling through his emails. "You might be flip with your money but you'd be more likely to, I dunno, borrow someone else's. You'd be too lazy to set it up yourself, and you wouldn't ask me to do it."

Sherlock managed not to sound as if he was choking on a confusing bolus of shock, wonder, and adoration.

"Wouldn't I?"

"It's a lot of effort to go to just to piss me off."

There was a thoughtful silence, as a sticky breeze sluggishly pushed through the open window, bringing with it the taste of cars and heat and exhausted energy.

Sherlock shifted on the sofa, his bare feet and hands making clammy sounds on the leather upholstery.

"Do you honestly think that every action I perform is done in order to 'piss you off?'"

"Yes." John replied simply. Sherlock frowned, but John glanced at him and grinned reassuringly.

"…So…you don't think I would indulge in something like that purely for my own pleasure?"

"You don't seem to get much physical pleasure out of anything. Food, sleep. You don't like being touched. You don't date. Stands to reason you wouldn't waste your time on orgasms."

Put like that, Sherlock thought, it might have seemed that way to the average human being. He spoke again, voice lowered with a mixture of both caution and curiosity as he fixated his gaze on the ruddy blushes of his soldier.

"…I eat and sleep."

"Well yeah, but mostly because you know that if you didn't, you'd drop dead. You don't enjoy it, it's a chore."

"…I enjoyed that pig leg you got me."

John's wonderful, irritated gaze flicked accusingly at him, and Sherlock beamed internally.

"That pig leg cost me two hundred quid, Sherlock. It's supposed to be a delicacy, not a bloody stand-in cadaver."

"You have to admit that we solved the case because of it. Without that prussic acid…pig flesh is, biologically, remarkably similar to human flesh, you know. And you got it just when I was at my wit's end. You must have had a sixth sense. It really helped me a lot, John."

Sherlock offered the doe-eyed, innocent look that he had perfected when he was a child, and which still seemed to work, at least on his doctor.

"…You're lucky I love you," John murmured, so quietly as to make Sherlock wonder that he had said anything at all.

I know, Sherlock thought warmly as he reclined back on the sofa. He smirked and opened his mouth to tease John about his declaration, but the doctor got there first, glaring at him fondly with the addition of a stern, pointed finger.

"Not a word, Sherlock. Not a single word. You know what I mean." With a small, private grin, he finally closed his laptop with a conclusive click, and switched the TV on before turning his attention to the detective, who looked no less shagged-out than he had when John had returned home, with mussed, glossy hair and shining skin.

"Go on, then, tell me the story."

Sherlock grinned happily. "It's not very long, though."

"Speak for yourself." They both proceeded to snigger with soft, immature laughter.

"…And it might seem a bit abnormal, " Sherlock tried, fighting back further dirty chuckles.

"Then you should show it to a doctor." They both collapsed further into gusty giggles.

Recuperating somewhat, John's eyes softened and Sherlock's deep-crinkled grin eased into a sweet smile.

"You're not helping yourself with puerile jokes like that, John."

"It's not helping living with a fucking Adonis either, but people will talk, what can you do," John shrugged, affecting a look of nonchalance and irritation, believable but for the slight staining on his cheeks.

Sherlock gaped at him, his damp brow creased slightly in bafflement, and his pale eyes flickering as he physically tried to sort through and decipher that information. He was halted quite abruptly by John's insistent, flat tone.

"You promised me a smutty story, Sherlock. You failed to shock me, so now you have to man up and tell me about it. If it really happened at all," he added jabbingly, humour in his indigo eyes as he stared the indignant detective down.

"Of course it happened!"

"Well then. Away you go," John instructed, flicking his hand with an impatient gesture. He made a show of settling more comfortably into his chair, crossed his arms, and raised his eyebrow expectantly.

Sherlock pouted as if he had decided not to entertain his doctor after all. A few long, intense seconds into a silent staring match, and he relented, took a deep breath, and began.

Naughty me – lots of smut next chapter, promise!