A/N – This is my first Sherlock fic, though I have written for various other fandoms before. I have only had a chance to read a handful of other Sherlock fanfics before now, so if I have accidentally mimicked other prior fics, I apologise deeply :P

…PS – Don't you wish there was a 'Smut' genre on , rather than 'Romance'? 'Romance' doesn't necessarily cover it ;)

Please review if you get the chance ;)

Emma

X

"John! JOHN!"

The doctor with ash-brown hair twitched faintly, finding himself on the dim periphery of dream and reality, and only vaguely aware of the blurred, grey view as he opened his tired dark-blue eyes to the early-morning gloom. The curtains of his room permitted a small haze of post-dawn luminescence, and he squinted vaguely at his groggy surroundings before groaning and burying his face into his pillow, tucking his arms underneath it and hugging it close to his head, cherishing the coolness of the fabric against his hands and forearms.

Delightful, deep and luxuriant breaths and half-remembered images crept up on him once more, and he started to slip back into his pleasant, if rather mundane dream, when –

"JOHN! SOMETHING'S WRONG!"

John didn't quite bolt out of bed, but as soon as he was consciously aware of Sherlock's insistent baritone yelling, he was awake, briefly rubbing his eyes of sleep, getting out of bed in the feather-grey fog of London at 7:AM. The consulting detective's loud voice seemed obstinate and childish, rather than urgent and life-threatening. He had known him long enough to tell the difference. He shrugged on his dressing-gown over his pyjamas, after feeling the chill of the flat permeating him as soon as he vacated his snug bed.

The doctor made his way to Sherlock's room, half-asleep, rapping his knuckles on the door.

"Sherlock? What is it?"

"JOHN, GET IN HERE! YOU'RE A DOCTOR!"

Sherlock's voice was now atypically high-pitched and seemingly frantic.

With a faint but instant tremor of panic, John opened Sherlock's door, finding a room almost totally dark except for a weak lamp beside the bed that shed a watery golden light. The dark curtains were drawn tight; no natural illumination pervaded the room. John had never had a reason or an invitation to go into Sherlock's bedroom before now, and this was his first time entering it.

Sherlock lay in his bed, curled on his side, facing away from John under large, bedraggled white sheets, which settled from his bare, lean chest, down to his ankles. The dark duvet had been kicked completely off of the bed. Sherlock was breathing heavily – clearly in distress.

"John! Something's happened to me," Sherlock muttered, immediately turning his head to meet John's gaze, his grey-green eyes stupendously bright and intense in spite of the frail light that illuminated them.

John had often thought that they reminded him of the Devil's eyes – animalistic, inhuman, beautiful and infinitely dangerous. Not that he was a particularly religious person – but he could imagine that the Devil might be able to –

Ah, forget that.

Again.

"What's up?" John asked simply, sleepy dark-blue eyes focussed on the pale, frightened ones before him. Sherlock turned with a small groan and laid flat on his back, looking more fazed and disturbed than John had ever seen him.

Ebony locks of curly, clean hair formed a soft halo about Sherlock's head. Dark, natural twists with…

This was normal.

His skin was an almost translucent white, pale and pure and…

This was normal.

Slim, narrow shoulders, keen, grey-green eyes…

This was normal.

When, however, the younger man, lying on his back in his bed, with merely a sheet to cover his modesty, cleared his throat and announced, "Something's wrong with me," and raised one long, pale finger to point, John finally shifted his gaze, and noticed that this was FAR from normal – at least in his dealings with Sherlock.

The ashen-haired doctor rolled his dark blue eyes, laughing with disbelief and without humour.

"Sherlock…You are kidding me."

Sherlock's brows crinkled. His perfect cupid's-bow lips twitched and he frowned at John, his expression totally, honestly innocent and confused.

John stared back at him, open-mouthed. "Seriously, Sherlock? Seriously?"

The raven-haired detective just stared back at him, nonplussed. "Something's wrong with it. It's gone…odd," Sherlock pouted. "…What's your problem?"

"Sherlock…How old are you? Have you – don't you –"

John sighed heavily and pinched the bridge of his nose. "…Sherlock – you are not telling me that you've never had a hard-on?"

"A what?" Sherlock's smooth, pale face was crinkled in genuine confusion as he frowned at John.

"…For fu-…" John took another few deep breaths, and fixed Sherlock with a gimlet eye. "There's nothing wrong with you. If you expect me to stand here and explain it to you, then you've got another thing coming."

Sherlock glared at John with pure vitriol, his grey-green eyes sharp and angry. "Aren't you going to help me?"

John laughed, partly from bitter amusement, and partly as a reaction of shock. "There's nothing wrong with you! I refuse to believe that this has never happened to you before. For God's sake, Sherlock, if you're just trying to piss me off…"

"John!" Sherlock spat, propping himself up in his bed and glaring at the doctor.

"Jesus Christ, Sherlock…" John muttered to himself, rubbing his tired dark-blue eyes and turning to leave. "I'm going back to bed."

"But John!"

"Take care of it and don't bother me again."

"Take care of it?"

John paused, then turned back to fix Sherlock with a black look that suggested his patience was very nearly spent. Taking a deep, fortifying breath, he spoke once more.

"There is no way, on God's earth, that I am going to explain this to you. It's one thing being ignorant of the solar system, but this is ridiculous. Google it if you have to, but leave me out of it."

Sherlock glanced towards his laptop, upon a table under the window.

"Laptop's miles away," he murmured petulantly.

"Figure it out then. You're supposed to be clever," John muttered, his words coming out harsher than he had intended.

Sherlock looked a little hurt, and then glanced down at his problem uncertainly.

"Well…what am I supposed to do?" He murmured quietly, partly to himself.

There were a few seconds of electric silence.

The doctor sighed once again, his blue eyes cold and dark.

"Just touch it."

"…Touch it?" Sherlock's expression was still unfathomably childlike and mystified.

There was a very long, tense pause.

"…I swear to God, I will kill you one day," John hissed as he strode across the dim room with military focus, promptly knelt beside the bed, and shoved one hand roughly under the sheet, taking Sherlock in hand in one movement. He was a doctor, and this was hardly the first time he had touched another man, though not quite under these circumstances.

The detective flinched only very slightly, staring at John with an odd, deadpan expression on his face. John met his gaze briefly, blushing faintly, then began to work his fist up and down Sherlock's shaft gracelessly. He averted his eyes and fixed his long-suffering stare at some indistinct point on the mattress.

Sherlock's breaths instantly became more laboured, and he tensed sharply. John glanced at him, saw him lean his head back, his curly dark hair flattened against the headboard. He watched the detective's pale throat bob as he swallowed thickly, and porcelain eyelids closed lightly over those incredible grey-green eyes.

'Like that,' John was about to say, and leave the room, having instructed the eccentric detective, when Sherlock's mouth opened and he let out a vast, shaky exhale, arching slightly into the doctor's grip. John paused for a split second, then continued, his own stomach tightening and his body responding helplessly to the frankly, totally arousing sight of the detective.

Eyes still closed, Sherlock's hand blundered to John's wrist under the sheet, squeezing it tight. John wondered if it could really be possible that Sherlock was telling the truth, whether he had ever even had an orgasm. If so, he wasn't going to last long.

"John," came a baritone groan, and the detective shuddered hard, swallowing once more, and licking his cupid's bow lips instinctively. His grip on John's wrist tightened, and he began to thrust into his doctor's fist.

Sherlock allowed himself the slightest, indulgent half-smirk of predatory amusement that crinkled his face as John faced away from him. He replaced his childishly innocent mask within a moment.

Seconds later, Sherlock cleared his throat.

"Okay, that's fine."

His voice was calm, expressionless.

John was about to voice his vague sentiments of confusion and indignation, when Sherlock pushed his hand roughly away and grabbed his own mobile phone from the edge of the mattress, and began typing quickly.

John opened his mouth, and before he could ask anything, Sherlock murmured, "Making some notes."

"Sherlock –"

"Goodnight John."

"But…don't you…"

"Goodnight John."

Sherlock's expression was typically blank, emotionless. He focussed on his phone, typing a few sentences before turning over abruptly and yanking his bed sheet over his head and snuggling in alone.