Just a small pre-story note, because it's come to my attention that some people are not familiar with antiquated razor varieties. The folding, "slit your throat" type of razor often used for a professional shave is called a straight razor, and should never, ever be used near someone's genitals. Ever. I cannot stress this enough. The type of razor used in this story, a safety razor, uses the iconic rectangular blades often seen in Halloween decorations, and is the precursor to the mass-market types of razors we use today. I would not generally recommend using them on loose or delicate skin either, unless you really know what you're doing, or have the hands of a surgeon. Hint hint.

"John, why is it that nearly all of the folks in explicit content on the internet have shaved their pubic regions? Barring a few sites I've come across that seem to cater specifically to the natural look, of course." Sherlock sounds genuinely curious; for the moment he's not just making snarky remarks out of boredom.

"Are you looking at porn? On my laptop?" John isn't sure which bothers him more – that Sherlock's appropriated his laptop again, or that his lover is looking at erotica online rather than initiating something with him. Sherlock looks up and recognises the look on John's face.

"Oh no, don't be like that. It's for a case. You know I'm much more interested in intellectual stimulation than simply visual. That cold case Lestrade sent me, the victim had a rather significant collection of internet porn, and a few of the images keep cropping up in other cases - I was trying to determine if there was some correlation. It's been a gigantic waste of time though, the connections were tenuous at best, and entirely irrelevant." He snaps the lid of the laptop shut in a huff, as if irritated that he's wasted his time.

"So, then. What's the appeal? I noticed your collection of pornography seems to follow similar trends, both in men and women."

"Oi! You looked through my porn? I don't even really use that much anymore…" John trails off, a slight flush of both irritation and embarrassment creeping across his face.

"I don't mind if you do, John. We both know my sex drive isn't always as..." he pauses for a moment, delicately searching for the right word, "rampant as yours, especially when I'm working. But that's not why I asked, I genuinely am curious. Are there any benefits? It's not some awkward pre-pubescence thing, is it?"

John squirms uncomfortably. Truth be told, he's fantasised about seeing Sherlock shaved bare a couple of times – his body hair is so sparse and soft to begin with that it wouldn't be a huge difference, but enough to wonder about.

"No, god no, Sherlock. Not at all! I mean, part of it's sheer practicality. It's nice not to have to worry about errant hairs, you know? It's visually appealing to an extent, you get to see, um, more of what interest you. And, well..." he flushes again, a deep crimson that spreads down to his throat "it feels nice."

Sherlock, never one to miss a beat, raises an eyebrow. "You speak from experience?" John coughs. "I had a partner once, back in uni. She preferred it."

The consulting detective remains unconvinced. "I'm rather fond of your body hair, John. All of it. It's masculine, it highlights your features, it's a lovely soft shade of gold in certain lights, it retains your musky odour when you're aroused..." John grins. "Sherlock, that sounded nearly romantic, coming from you."

"I'm just stating facts as I see them, John. From my perspective, the positives of having a natural thatch of body hair seem to outweigh the negatives." Suddenly Sherlock's voice drops and the look on his face slides seamlessly from curious to predatory. "However, I am not currently in possession of all the facts. There are sensory aspects I can't pass judgement on yet."

Poor John is fidgeting uncomfortably in his chair by this point, the idea of a completely smooth Sherlock having just shifted in his mind from idle fantasy to painfully arousing possibility. He attempts to adjust himself discreetly, hoping Sherlock won't notice the slight stirrings in his trousers. No such luck, unfortunately.

"I take it you like that idea? Of course, I have absolutely no experience shaving anything other than my face." Sherlock trails off, his eyes glimmering with mischief in an otherwise calm face. "It would probably be safer if someone with more practice did it for me, wouldn't you agree?"

At this, John all but jumps out of his chair, ignoring the evident burgeoning arousal and leans down over Sherlock.

"I want you to go take a warm shower, let the hot water relax you and run over you for a bit. Then I want you to go into your room and lie down on the bed, with a dry towel under your arse and a warm, moist one keeping you as remotely close to decent as you can be with no clothing. I'm going to fetch a few things from upstairs."

While Sherlock's off showering, John bounds up the stairs to his bedroom, the one he finds himself spending less and less time in lately. He rummages through the boxes containing the few possessions he's kept with him over all this time until he finds the dark blue velvet box containing his grandfather's steel safety razor. It had been handed down to him more as a token than an actual useful object, but he'd used it a couple of times, usually on special occasions. He's taken great pains to keep it in fine working order, and there are two brand new blades, still wrapped in paper, tucked into the lining of the box. John's sure the solid, timeless feel of the thing will appeal to Sherlock's aesthetic, such as it is. He hears the familiar thud in the pipes that signals Sherlock's done with the shower, and continues rummaging until he finds the fancy shaving lotion he bought impulsively a while back but never used, along with a lathering brush, gathers it all up and heads back down to Sherlock's room. On the way through the kitchen, he grabs a small bowl, hoping it hasn't been used to store anything particularly revolting, and pours a small amount of warm water into it.

He's calmed down during the time it's taken Sherlock to shower, but when the doctor steps into the main-floor bedroom, the sight alone is enough to make his breath catch in his throat. They've been sleeping together for a few months now, and he's generally gotten acclimatised to seeing Sherlock in the nude, but something about the way he's lying, head and shoulders propped up by pillows, legs crossed primly at the ankle, and just barely hidden by a damp hand-towel strikes John as one of the most arousing things he's ever seen. Sherlock looks over at him and smiles coyly, and John's acutely aware he can read the hitch in his breathing, the quickening of his pulse, the blood-flow to his slowly thickening cock, even from this distance.

"Are you certain you're composed enough to do this, John? Wouldn't do to have your hands shake..." John smirks and raises his left hand – it's as still as Sherlock's ever seen it. Strange, the way the chemicals and impulses in the human body work.

Taking a few deep breaths to calm himself, John pulls a small chair up to the side of the bed, where the footboard won't get in the way. "Alright, scoot over so your legs are on either side of me – just rest your heels on the side of the bed rail here." Sherlock, uncharacteristically cooperative, somehow manages to rearrange himself smoothly, without the towel ever shifting out of place. "You know, Sherlock, at some point I'm going to have to take that off you." John says softly, his tone amused.

"Obviously. However, I'm not sure I'm enjoying this as much as you seem to be, and I didn't want to give you the wrong impression." John sighs and does his best to restrain a giggle. "Are you concerned because you're not hard, and I'm clearly getting there? There's nothing to worry about – you're just lying here, about to experience something new. I'm aroused because of the idea of it all, I'm looking forward to it all because I already know I'll enjoy it. Just relax." He smiles at Sherlock, who is now sitting up and facing him, still elegantly holding the towel over himself. "Besides, it'll be easier to start off if you're not, uh, in the way. Now lie back and spread your legs a bit."

Once the taller man is settled comfortably, weight spread evenly between his arse and shoulders, John slides one hand slowly up the pale length of Sherlock's thigh. As he gets closer to the hip, he scratches lightly, watching in fascination as he raises gooseflesh across Sherlock's soft skin. He reaches the edge of the towel and gently insinuates a fingertip under it, combing through the soft, damp curls he finds. "Mmm, good. Nice and soft, all that warm humidity. The shaving will go much easier this way..." Sherlock just mumbles in agreement, as though he's cataloguing everything John is saying and doing. He almost certainly is.

John pulls his hand away, almost regretfully, and leans over, squeezing a dollop of shaving lotion into the bowl he nabbed from the kitchen earlier. Using the brush almost as a whisk, he beats the lotion and warm water into a thick foam, working it up into the bristles. Once he's satisfied with the consistency, John's eyes shift back over to where Sherlock is lying, and he studies the slow rise and fall of his chest. Slow, steady, relaxed. Perfect. He rests the bowl carefully on the towel at Sherlock's hip and places his right hand flat across the taller man's prone, bare stomach. Gently, he lifts the towel off, noting the nearly imperceptible shift in Sherlock's body language, as though he's suddenly more alert and aware of his surroundings.

John leans forward so his cheek is nearly resting on Sherlock's long thigh, murmuring against the warm skin. "You're going to need to stay relaxed, love. The tenser you are, the more you fidget, the more risk I run of nicking you."

"Mm, I trust you, John."

John smiles, sitting up straight and carefully adjusting himself in the chair. His physical arousal's subsided somewhat, but he knows that's not going to last. He runs his knuckles very lightly over Sherlock's soft, exposed cock, eliciting a quietly contented murmur, before carefully cupping him with the palm of his hand and lightly shifting the bulk of his flesh out of the way, exposing the soft flesh where Sherlock's thigh meets his body. John strokes the area thoroughly with the shaving brush, leaving thick swirls of lather across in his wake.

Sherlock breathes deeply, categorising the sensations, John's hand on his prick, the soft tickle of the badger brush, even the indescribable fizzle of the foam shifting and popping. John gives him a moment, letting the lather loosen up the fine hairs. Instinctively, Sherlock shifts his weight and lets his knee fall to the side, opening himself further. John begins dragging the solid weight of the razor over the lathered area, working in short, sure, careful strokes. Every time he exposes new skin, Sherlock hisses quietly to himself, almost mimicking the sound of the blade against his hair. They're not noises of discomfort, but rather of anticipation. John's being so incredibly meticulous, nearly worshipful. Sherlock wasn't expecting to feel as overwhelmed as he currently does, so he closes his eyes and goes back to focusing on the experience. The implicit trust in his body language runs through John like a shock.

Painstakingly carefully, John pulls the skin taut and clears Sherlock's inner thigh and the soft flesh at his groin before wiping him clean with the damp cloth. He removes the hand stretching the skin and cupping Sherlock's most delicate parts, both men groaning wistfully in concert. John makes up for the sense of loss by shifting to the other side, and making efficient work of it. Once both inner thighs and the surrounding areas are laid bare, John leans forward, close enough that Sherlock can feel his warm, ragged breath. Impishly, John darts his tongue out, tracing the cleft where thigh joins torso, causing Sherlock to gasp. "See? Sensitive, isn't it?"

"Now that I've got you at my mercy," John says, "I'm tempted to leave a little tuft riiiight…. here." He traces his fingers lightly over the patch of skin directly above Sherlock's cock, no longer quite as flaccid as it had been a few minutes ago. "Maybe a nice little landing strip, or oh, I know! A heart!" Sherlock does his best to hold his lower body perfectly still as he looks up and growls at John.

"Don't even think about it, you spiteful little man." Sherlock's trying to sound stern, but his breath is starting to sound uneven. John chuckles, sweeping the brush thoroughly over the area, right up to the root of Sherlock's prick, and smirks up at him.

"Don't worry, I think those look ridiculous, and I'd rather not get struck with the giggles later."

"Later?"

"I do have to show you the sensory benefits at some point, don't I?"

With a sharp exhale, Sherlock lets his head fall back onto the bed. John's pleased to note how thick and heavy the shaft next to his hand has gotten, he can feel his own arousal twitch in sympathy. He pulls the skin taut and glides the razor over each new patch of skin he covers with the brush. He's tempted to draw the whole process out longer than necessary, but he can feel the tension building in Sherlock's body mirroring his own.

"How thorough would you like me to be?" John inquires. Sherlock's response is a rather ineloquent "Ngnh?"

"Well, the bulk of it's gone, but you do have a bit of sparse hair on your balls, and a little further back…" as if to illustrate his point, John drags one fingers delicately over the tightened flesh of Sherlock's testicles, and then down over his perineum and along the cleft between his cheeks. He's rewarded with a small shiver. "In for a penny, in for a pound, John. Please finish what you've started." Sherlock's trying to sound composed, in control as always, but his voice is rough and deep, there's a faint flush across his chest, and the evidence next to John's hand is difficult to argue with.

The doctor wraps his fingers around Sherlock, coaxing him to full hardness. His cock thickens and flushes, lying flat against his abdomen. John bites his lip and takes a moment, breathing deeply through his nose.

"God, Sherlock. You're gorgeous. Thank you for letting me do this." he whispers.

Putting two fingers between the base of Sherlock's erection and his balls, John pulls the skin tight and coats him gently with more lather, scraping it off slowly with the blade. Neither of them quite realise Sherlock's holding his breath until John finishes clearing the soft skin, but as he wipes up, Sherlock lets out a long, low exhalation.

John leans in again, tracing the puckered line along the centre of Sherlock's scrotum with the very tip of his tongue, drawing another gasp out of him. "I'm sorry… I couldn't wait. You should probably turn over now. Rest your weight on your shoulders, and hold yourself open for me." Sherlock obeys, and seeing him spread himself open like that, so eager, flushed cock bobbing down between his legs does things to John. He groans softly to himself and reaches into his jeans to adjust his own awkwardly trapped erection. His impulse control is all but gone at this point, and he finds himself tilting forward to nip at the luscious flesh of Sherlock's behind before he ever realises he's doing it.

"John, don't make me beg… Hurry up already."

At this point, the tease has gotten nearly cruel for both men, but John wants to be thorough. Thankfully, the hair in the cleft of Sherlock's arse is fine and sparse. John slides the brush up between his cheeks, spending maybe a fraction of a second too long on the puckered bud of Sherlock's anus, earning him another deep groan. He follows the same path with the razor, taking great pains around the ring of delicate muscle, but ensuring he finds every tiny hair. He finds a clean corner of the damp towel and cleans off the last of the shaving foam, following the path he just took with the flat of his tongue, lingering for a moment on the smooth expanse of his perineum.

He rests his cheek on Sherlock's hip, John reaches around and lightly scratches the newly exposed skin with his nails. His voice tremulous with want, Sherlock gives in and tries to coerce John. "If you don't touch me soon, I'll put something in your tea."

"Mm, like what?" John's aiming for playful, but his voice is ragged.

"Formaldehyde. Arsenic. Someone's teeth."

"No, you won't. Because if you do then you'd have nobody to put up with your shenanigans, and nobody to fuck you." With a heavy emphasis on the last few words, John pulls away from Sherlock, standing to divest himself of his clothing. "Now roll over, and let me show you exactly what I was talking about."

Sherlock scrabbles for purchase against the sheets as he rolls over, limbs splayed and engorged cock thrust obscenely in the air. John, now fully naked, crawls into the space between Sherlock's legs. He drags his rough knuckles lightly up and down the insides of both upper thighs at the same time and is granted a sharp hiss for his efforts. Delicately, he begins peppering the skin around the base of Sherlock's erection and the soft valleys at insides of his hips with quick, closed-mouth kisses. Every so often he parts his lips and traces little whorls and swirls with the tip of his tongue, enjoying the feeling of Sherlock's prick twitching close to his face whenever he does so.

Finally John takes pity on the man beneath him, usually so composed and now so close to being undone. He wraps his solid fingers around the hot thickness of Sherlock's shaft and carefully takes one testicle into his mouth, tracing the puckered skin with his tongue, and sliding it smoothly out between his lips as his hand squeezes and slides up the length of Sherlock's cock. When his hand gets to the head, John is pleased to find that Sherlock's leaking earnestly now. He releases his grip and feels the shudder run through his lover, emphasised by a low moan. Without giving him a moment to compose himself, he takes the other side of Sherlock's scrotum into his mouth and repeats the motion, stroking him tightly one more time.

Impatiently, Sherlock starts thrusting his hips upwards, attempting to fuck the snug circle of John's fingers. Taking pity on him, John readjusts himself and places his lips on the moist, swollen head and parts them, allowing Sherlock's cock to slide smoothly into his mouth.

With an anguished whimper, Sherlock reaches down and attempts to grip John's short hair as his hips rise up to meet the smaller man's mouth, again and again. John's barely doing anything at this point, merely forming a tight seal with his lips and stroking the underside of Sherlock's cock with his tongue as he fucks John's throat in a frenzy.

"God, John, John, your saliva… on my balls, on my skin.. I can.. nghh… I can feel it… I want to…" with each word, he forces his cock deeper into John's mouth, thrusting his hips "feel" thrust "you" thrust "against" thrust "me."

That's all the encouragement John needs, he lets Sherlock's cock slide wetly out of his mouth, glistening with pre-come and spit. He crawls up the bed until he's hovering over Sherlock and lowers his hips, gasping and gripping the sheets as their erections meet. He can feel Sherlock sliding against him, damp crown rubbing against his fraenulum. Sherlock opens his eyes for a moment, locking his gaze with John's before reaching down and wrapping his long fingers around the both of them. "I can" he gasps "feel your pubic hair." John recognises the look on Sherlock's face as he catalogues yet another new sensation. "The contrast is… interesting." John lets his weight drop slightly, increasing the pressure on both of their throbbing pricks. Sherlock gets the hint and slides his hand along their lengths in earnest now, his pace quick, uneven, desperate. Even though he's barely been touched, John's gotten so worked up just running Sherlock over, and both men can sense that it's not going to take either of them very long.

John starts rocking his hips more insistently, grinding against Sherlock each time those long, thin fingers reach the heads of their cocks. He groans softly with each thrust, Sherlock punctuating with a sharp moan. The staccato pace of their voices and motions quickens and the sensation of Sherlock trembling beneath him is enough to cause John's abdomen to tighten, orgasm coiling around the base of his spine.

With a jagged cry, Sherlock arches his torso and John can feel the twitch of Sherlock's cock against his, climax spilling warm between them. That's all it takes to push John over the edge, he grinds his hips down sharply one last time, pinning them together as he comes, spurt after violent spurt, all over Sherlock's stomach and softening erection. The taller man shudders and sucks in a gasp, his throat raw and dry.

"I can feel that too, John. Much hotter, much wetter than I'm used to." John giggles quietly and lowers himself onto the bed, so he's lying beside Sherlock. He reaches over and grabs one of the towels from earlier, lightly wiping the mess from between Sherlock's legs. "Also a lot easier to clean you up. Thank you, Sherlock, for humouring me."

"No, John. Thank you for giving me a wholly new and exciting experience. Although, I do have to wonder what the sensations would be like if we were both completely devoid of hair." Exhausted, John flops his head down heavily onto the pillow. "Maybe later, Sherlock. You'll be the death of me yet."