Sherlock

Incredible. Sherlock looked at himself in the slightly warped bathroom mirror above the sink, then turned to regard his entire body in the full-length mirror with a focused, clinical interest. His pulse was still elevated and his knees still felt weak from the force of his orgasm. He was still a little vexed about his lack of stamina, but considering how long it had been since he'd let himself experience a sexual climax and that it was the first time being touched by John — by anyone, but particularly because it was John — it was understandable. He'd endeavour to do better the next time.

His hair was in disarray after thrashing about on the pillow. He could clearly see every spot where John had touched him. Kissed him. And the spots where now-dried traces of Sherlock's semen remained. He liked the thought of their respective DNA co-mingling on his skin. His body felt used, but in a good way. He hadn't expected this much satisfaction from allowing it to fulfil this particular biological imperative. He wished he had done it sooner — he had collected so much data already. It was simply incredible.

Though there had been that regrettable moment when he'd become afraid, though he would never admit it aloud to anyone, not even John. The irrational panic resulting from his mind clouding over and the inability to process and analyze thoughts at a normal rate. He'd never experienced the kind of slow, maddening arousal that John had brought about with his hands and mouth. When Sherlock was a teenager, in those desperate, almost shameful moments where he gave in to touching himself, he did it as quickly and efficiently as possible and even the pleasure of climax was marred with irritation at his body for demanding something he had no interest in giving.

But with John had been entirely different. At times the slow build had been excruciating, but at the same time he hadn't wanted it to end. He was already re-running the event through his mind for the second time since he entered the bathroom. He felt no shame or annoyance, which was a nice change. As long as John was agreeable to having these experiences with him, Sherlock saw no need to discontinue this exploration. But only if it was John. When Sherlock re-ran the events in his mind and tried to insert someone else other than John, he felt repulsed. Yes, the odds were definitely still stacked against him in terms of finding someone suitable. How fortunate that John Watson had come into his life. An expression, naturally, as Sherlock believed in neither fortune nor chance.

He turned his head to the side and was delighted to see the dark, mouth-shaped bruise forming on his neck. The shape of John's mouth. He would be sure to "forget" his scarf next time he saw Mycroft. It was less about boasting and more about traumatizing his brother. But then again, this would give Mycroft a whole new set of worries to obsess over and the Holmes brothers did enjoy their obsessions, curling around them possessively and cultivating them with the most dedicated of attentions. No, he wouldn't give Mycroft that gift. Let the bugger figure it out for himself. Because he would. He always did.

It even felt different when he took himself in hand as he went to relieve himself. John had held his cock in his hand. Taken it in his mouth. Claimed it as his own. This was one bit of control Sherlock did not mind ceding. John could have it. As often as he liked. It relieved Sherlock from having to worry about it and could therefore focus on more pressing matters. Yes, this was working out better than he'd hoped.

He washed his hands and further analyzed the foreign feeling he was experiencing. Belonging. He felt like he belonged to someone. Belonged somewhere, period.

All his life, Sherlock had been constantly reminded that he did not belong. Anywhere. Mummy always looked at him oddly, like she didn't know where he came from, despite the fact that she had given birth to him. She loved him, as a mother should love her son, but it had always felt that her love came with a string attached. Love "in spite of" instead of love "because of."

His schoolmates had never tired of reminding him that he did not belong. They reminded him with their taunts, and then when he learned to ignore them, with their fists. Even after he made it clear that he did not care (a self-preserving deception at first, but eventually he came to believe it wholeheartedly).

In uni, the taunting gave way to quiet shunning. He was always alone. Always destined to watch rather than participate. He didn't mind. He'd trained himself not to mind. His constant observation only served to hone his deductive skills. Leading him deeper into the Work.

Mycroft treated him like a never-ending problem that needed to be managed.

By adulthood, Sherlock had acquired a unique skill set that was unerringly accurate and in high demand, yet he was always made to feel like an intruder at Scotland Yard. Particularly on the crime scenes. The "freak," as Donovan had coined it from the first time she met him. Give the freak his five minutes so we can get on with it.

He knew he didn't belong. What continued to baffle him, however, was why people seemed to consider it their personal duty to constantly remind him of that fact. As if he could forget. Boring little people with their boring little cruelties. But he had found a way to make his otherness work for him. To elevate him above the rest. To not belong meant that one was destined for a higher calling. The siren song of the Work.

People talked about John as if he tagged along behind Sherlock like a puppy, but in reality it was more like John had adopted Sherlock. He saw something in him that even Sherlock himself didn't entirely understand. Why me, John? You say it's because I'm a genius, but everyone knows that. It's something more. What is it?

But for once, the answer didn't really matter. In fact, he wasn't sure he wanted to know at all. With John, he felt he belonged. For the first time he knew what it felt like to be a part of something instead of observing it from the outside. John, the healer-soldier who had killed for Sherlock in their first days of acquaintance. People had come to expect to see them together. John validated his work. And even if John didn't understand Sherlock, he certainly accepted him. And now Sherlock knew his body would never feel the same again. It had ceased to be solely transport — now it would something he could give to John. It made sense — the doctor had already put himself in charge of its upkeep and maintenance, anyway.

He startled out of his thoughts, suddenly aware that he was chilled in the cool air of the bathroom. And John was waiting for him. Likely wondering how Sherlock had processed the whole event and whether he would return at all. Sherlock took a deep breath and opened the door, returning to John's room.

He hovered in the doorway. The doctor was reclining on the bed still, trying to affect a pose of nonchalance and failing miserably. Sherlock smirked slightly in a show of pity and walked to the bed, finally shedding the rumpled shirt hanging off his shoulders as he did so. He slipped under the covers to combat the chill and moved close to John, feeling the doctor tense then relax as Sherlock pulled him close.

"Sherlock," John murmured awkwardly, "you know, you don't have to —"

Sherlock silenced John's attempt to give him an out with a long kiss that rendered his friend mute with surprise. Sherlock touched his cheek and kissed John gently at the outside corners of his eyes, lined by laughter, experience, pain, and the unmerciful desert sun. His kind, knowing eyes.

John was dumbfounded by this show of tenderness, which was good, because it would soften Sherlock's next comment: "Now will you please take off that ridiculous jumper? You are positively scratchy and I believe I will break out into a rash." He pouted minutely for added effect.

John chuckled. "All right, all right …" He pulled the woollen garment up over his head, where Sherlock plucked it off his arms and tossed it aside with a grunt of satisfaction. Sherlock then tugged at the covers, getting John to shift and slide under so they were not separated by the barrier of fabric.

Sherlock kissed John again and his fingers began to nimbly unbutton the other man's shirt. Data. John was a treasure trove of data and it was all there for him.

"Oh, Sherlock," John sighed in pleasure as Sherlock's lips and tongue began to explore his neck and collarbones, "what the bloody hell are we doing?"

Sherlock looked up, nonplussed, his pale eyes blinking at John in the dim light of the bedroom. "Being human, John," he said matter-of-factly. "I'm frequently told this is an area in which I am deficient. Isn't this what humans sometimes do when they care about each other?"

"Well," John said hesitantly, "yes, but —"

"Right, then it's settled," Sherlock interrupted. "Glad we cleared that up. Now kindly shut up? You are being very distracting. As usual."

"As usual? I don't understand … hey … OI!"

Another sharp glare after the bite to his nipple and John quieted, his eyes twinkling with amusement. Well, surely this wasn't unexpected. Lack of experience in any area had never stopped Sherlock from taking the lead. He was already cataloguing, analyzing, and sorting data as he kissed, licked, and stroked his way down John's body. Aware he was mimicking when John had done to him earlier, but he wanted to experience it from the other side, and also to know what John reacted to versus what Sherlock had found most memorable. He could then cross-reference those results and apply them in future encounters for an even more satisfactory outcome.

"By the way, I plan to do a lot more than just ogle your bum."

Sherlock was going to nip him crossly again, but then he lifted his head, cocking it to the side in query. "What, wait, why? Oh, that. Yes. You should."

"You want that."

"Yes. I want all of it."

"All of it? What does that entail?"

"Do I have to bite you again?"

"Yes, I mean, no, I mean, I rather enjoy that sort of thing, but just go ahead with what you were doing before."

"Thank you." Sherlock's tone indicated that his suffering was never-ending.

The only sounds John made after that were soft murmurs and moans of pleasure. Sherlock catalogued each one. The power of sex was dizzying, even for him. John was laid out naked before him, and he quivered as Sherlock took him in hand, the doctor's chest heaving softly in anticipation. So this was it. This drove everything. Governments had fallen (or nearly fallen) for this; sonnets, plays, movies, telly programmes, operas, and pop songs were written in its honour; lies concocted; crimes committed; hearts broken; lives destroyed; the highest joys and the lowest sorrows. All for this. And Sherlock was finally beginning to understand why. Just a little bit. For once he wasn't entirely outside looking in.

Incredible, he thought as he let John's cock sink deeply into his hot, wet mouth, causing the other man to cry out softly in ecstasy, his fine, strong surgeon's hands burying themselves in Sherlock's hair and tugging urgently. Simply incredible.

A/N: Thank you so much for the lovely comments/reviews! It's such a thrill and I'm so pleased you like it. This little story is basically complete, but a sequel of sorts is starting to brew, so we'll see where that goes.

Update: The sequel (in progress) is up. Titled "Reboot." I hope you enjoy it!