Hello,
This is a new type of fanfic for me. I usually stick to mainly writing in the HP verse, but this came into my mind and refused to go away. This is my first attempt at *cough* smut *cough*. Be gentle! It's my first time. Criticism and critique is welcomed! As always, if you enjoyed this, please comment! you don't know how much I live on comments ;)

Without further aideu, please enjoy the story! Have a great day~

It certainly wasn't the first time Sherlock had taken a woman home; either to hers or the one he shared with Watson. It was, however, the very first time he had ever experienced a sense of guilt over it.

Tonight's experiment had begun when he and Watson had reached an impasse on their debate on the validity of one-night stands. He whole-heartedly believed that sex was nothing more than an opportunity to 'clear the plumbing', so to speak. He had evidence, testimonies, and several lovely points ready via powerpoint to illustrate the uselessness of a relationship to obtain a physical connection. However, despite all this, Watson still firmly stood behind her belief that you should love the person you're with.

This disagreement had started more than a week ago. Watson had quickly offered up the 'let's agree to disagree' solution. Instead, Sherlock had made it his mission to convert Watson to his side of the argument. It hadn't been until earlier that day, when Watson had slammed down the book she had been reading on the desk in front of her and demanded to know why he was pushing this on her.

To which, Sherlock had no answer.

Another first for the day.

This had spawned his escape for the evening; determined to prove his hypothesis to Watson. It had been at the pub where he had started to get his first stings of self-doubt, a feeling he was both unfamiliar to and highly uncomfortable with. He pressed on.

Usually when he was on the 'prowl' for lack of other words, it never required much effort for him to procure a partner for the night. Tonight it was proving to be rather difficult. He didn't have much in the way of requirements. The only thing he desired in his quest was someone he could obtain something he hadn't known beforehand. Usually it pertained to acts of the nightly pleasure. After obtaining his newfound sobriety however, night time adventures had interested him less and less. The thought that the last woman he had slept with had been an acquaintance of Watson's was one he had to push from his mind. Watson had no place in that particular collection of memories. Just as she also had no place in his actions for the night…except that she had precipitated his motions.

Deciding to make haste, lest his otherwise unmovable conviction be shaken, Sherlock picked out the first woman who made an impression on him and struck up a conversation. He did not hide his intentions. Nor did she reject his proposition.

Which led him to the situation he was currently in; pressing the girl against the wall of her apartment as her hands made deft work of his shirt. Like many of the woman he pursued for such activities, she was aggressive and clearly passionately set for the night. It wasn't until she had turned on one of the small lights in the entrance way and motioned suggestively for him to follow her to the bedroom that a very sudden realization fell upon him.

Sherlock didn't have a type; despite what Watson may have thought of him. Looks meant very little to him outside of the initial attraction. The only thing that had ever really mattered to him was intrigue. Not the passion, nor their bodily attributes or physical appearance, not the act of sexual actively (no matter the pleasure that was derived from it), and most certainly not romance. If a lady piqued his intrigue mentally, it was that which compelled him to delve further into them.

So, you could imagine his surprise when he was confronted with the reality that standing before him stood Watson.

Not his Watson, mind you, but it was very much clear that tonight he had subconsciously picked the closest thing that he could find. The woman stared at him oddly as he nearly tripped over a clearly visible end table out of shock. She was of Asian descent and stood perhaps a few inches taller than Watson. She was fit and lean, and carried herself with that same self-assured air that he admired in his partner. Sherlock shrugged off his revelation as he hurried forward as to not keep her waiting, but already he was feeling a cocktail of emotions that were unusual for him.

His first thoughts as he stripped the girl of her dress were anger. The fact that he picked a woman who reminded him of Watson would inexplicably skew his data. Deciding not to waste the night, even if it wouldn't contribute to his evidence, he pulled the long glossy black hair away from the nape of the girl's neck so he could nuzzle the crevice with his tongue; an act he had performed many times before. This time however, he couldn't stop his thoughts from wandering. The action led him to imagine just how Watson would have reacted to the act. This lead to his second thought of the night.

Confusion.

He had never consciously regarded Watson with any sort of deviant thoughts. She was someone of great importance to him, this was most certainly true. He considered her with the upmost respect and admiration. He would not sink to the lure of creating a sexual persona of her.

And yet, no matter how much he tried to convince his mind of the truth behind his thoughts; there was no one else he saw as he lay there in the bed with a woman he had met a mere hour ago. Her black almond eyes stared up at him with expectation and all he could see was Watson's smoky gaze. The soft skin he felt as his hands moved with her sides and hips became a proxy for what he could only imagine his partner's would feel like. In an instant, a new wave of emotions carried over him swiftly and fiercely.

Lust.

Whenever he had needed to release a certain amount of stress, he would search out a person who shared his sentiments and did not require any sort of extending attachment. Lust and strong desire were feelings that were normally absent. So, to the fact that he was not only experiencing these feelings was rare to Sherlock. Throw in that he was obtaining these emotional triggers from a mere envisioning of his partner? Peculiar beyond reason…even for him.

His bedroom partner took notice of his new found vigor with a smirk. She reached down and began stroking him, causing Sherlock to hitch his breath as the reality of the moment enveloped him.

He knew it was wrong. That is was in some perverse way dishonoring the trust he had in his partner and friendship they had built up. But at that very minute, none of his reasoning was reaching the logical side of his brain. Closing his eyes, the petite Asian woman beneath him on the bed transformed into an entirely different Asian woman. His vision was accurate from the odd white strand of hair that Watson worked so hard to hide, down to the left pinkie toe she had broken as a child and the toe nail had never grown in as result. The woman was so precise that he could have counted her freckles that peppered her nose, had the task fell upon him. Suddenly everything he did to the figure below him, he was doing to Watson.

Thoughts and reasons be damned, Sherlock disappeared into his delusions. He cared for nothing but to how he imagined Watson reactions would proceed. As he caressed her breasts and suckled the nipples into hard peaks, it wasn't the woman that he had arrived here with that he was enticing; it was his Watson that shuttered. The hand of his that crept down her body and played softly on the tender part of her thigh would cause her to wrinkle her nose ever so slightly; as if uncertain how to feel. A look of complete surprise would come to her face as he made his way down her flat, athletic stomach, trailing kisses until he came to a stop at the gentle parting of her legs. Her gasps of shock would dissolve into moans of pleasure with the odd, sharp intake of breath as his tongue was sent to the task of pleasuring her. His hands would be gentle caressing down the small of her back to the gentle curve of her buttocks. Carefully lifting himself up after her waves of pleasure had subsided, Sherlock once more left a trail of kisses up the girl's body, ending at the crook of her armpit. He stopped the woman from mimicking his ministrations.

Such a thing would ruin his illusion. Sherlock had never felt so conflicted with an action. There was no doubt in his mind that he was violating something important to their relationship. And at the same time, he couldn't have stopped it now if he had tried.

Instead, Sherlock lay on his back and guided her on top of him and placed his hands on her soft, slender hips and helped her to set the pace; all the while keeping his eyes closed tightly. He feared that any sight of the person he was actually with may damage his imagination of how he was perceiving Watson on top of him. His imagination certainly had its work cut out for it. Sherlock was picturing everything. The way her face would be and change with every motion; her eyes were half closed in pleasure, brow ever-so slightly furled in concentration, teeth biting down on her bottom lip, her body slick to the touch. She was working hard to avoid going over the edge.

Sherlock almost lost his concentration when the girl on top of him started whispering for him to go faster, harder, and other standard coitus exclamations. For some reason, he just couldn't imagine and overtly vocal Watson; even as he lay there in the throes of passion. There was only one word he could envision her saying. He noted the increase in pace. His illusion opened her eyes, just enough so she could see him, and stared down with a soft smile on her lips. Then, gently on her exhaled breath, she whispered 'Sherlock'.

Unable to abide it any longer, Sherlock gripped the hips of the girl as he came with an abruptness he hadn't been expecting. Breathing heavily, even he was surprised by the extremity his climax had been. The girl on top of him released a content sigh as she rolled off of him.

Moving to his side, she pulled the blanket from the foot of the bed and covered the two of them. "That was unexpected." She stated in a voice that Sherlock could no longer pretend belonged to someone else. "I hadn't pegged you for that kind of lover." When Sherlock offered her no response, she simply placed a hand tenderly on his chest and proceeded to close her eyes.

Just as suddenly as his fantastical imagination had taken over, it now chose to reside back into the crevasses of his mind. Leaving him there, lying next to a woman whom the only link between her and his Watson was their shared ethnicity.

Sherlock didn't say anything. He couldn't. No words would come to his lips. No creative lies were coming into creation. No comforts, excuses, or escape plans presented themselves to him. So, in their absent, Sherlock remained silent; much as he had the entire course of their brief affair.

Waiting until she was sound asleep, Sherlock silently removed himself from her bed and gathered his things strewn across the floor. Leaving her no explanation or farewell, Sherlock simply left. Normally he would have left some sort of elaborate ruse in order for her to save face, but tonight he was rung dry. His thoughts had betrayed him on more than one occasion. Walking down the empty, silent streets of New York in the wee hours left Sherlock alone with his painful thoughts.

Since Moriarty he had been pleasantly left absent of any sort of romantic triggers. He had never thought nor cared for making any other sort of romantic connection. And yet, here he was…creating an elaborate fantasy involving the only other person he had ever felt connected to. He had, perhaps now incorrectly, perceived his relationship with Watson as purely platonic; as all relationship should be in his mind…should have been.

It was a long walk from the woman's home to his own brownstone, but on that night he welcomed the distance and the crisp night air as an opportunity to clear his thoughts. One of the thoughts he couldn't remove from his mind as he walked, was that it didn't bother him nearly as much as he reckoned it should have that he could not recall the name of the woman he had just been with to save his life.

Just as he was arriving home had he finally deduced that the night's 'experiences' had been nothing more than his mind's way of fixating on the debate with Jo-no…Sherlock stopped himself short of the steps and halted himself mid thought. The debate had been with Watson. He couldn't begin to assign her that familiarity. He feared of what it might do to him. It had been his debate with Watson that had fueled his venture outside. He continued walking. He did not, nor had he ever possessed any sort of romantic affliction towards his partner.

Or so he had just convinced himself. The moment he had walked through the front door, he very nearly crashed into an oncoming Watson, all dressed up to go for her morning run. And with her, too came crashing down his resolve.

She certainly wasn't dressed in an attractive attire; shorts over a pair of woolen tights to protect against the chilly late autumn winds, a high ponytail and a thick knit headband, a sports shirt and a baggy windbreaker covered her torso. A standard fare for this sort of morning. He supported her by her forearms as they both regained their balance. Sherlock couldn't restrain the rapid rush of intoxication he felt from their sudden closeness in proximity.

Watson removed her headphones. "Hey." She smiled at him pleasantly. "I wasn't expecting you back from last night's escapades for another few hours. Did you have an early flight to catch?"

Sherlock knew she was teasing him. He had never hidden his sexual exploits from her; in fact he sort of relished parading them in front of her. Her rather Victorian views on sexuality were his mocking point for her. On any other day he would have had a witty retort to play back with, but today they too escaped him.

"I just didn't want to stay." He answered in a way that wasn't unlike sheepishness. If Watson noticed, it didn't show on her face.

"I'm about to go running," she stated, as if her outfit wasn't enough of an indication. "I'll be back in a few hours though. You should go and get some sleep. We can get some breakfast when I return."

"Breakfast would be lovely." Sherlock agreed. He felt as if he was talking through thick lips. What was happening to him?

A nod of affirmation was all that Watson granted him before she started on her way. Sherlock watched Watson jog away until she was no longer in view. He then escaped into his thinking space to approach and analyze his problem. After all, that's what this was. A problem. And all problems have to have a logical explanation and solution. Even peculiarities of the heart…didn't they?

It wasn't until Watson retuned nearly 2 hours later did Sherlock realize the futility of his actions. There was no solution to his problem. There wasn't even necessarily a problem in all honesty. One look at Joan as she walked into their home was evidence enough. He had unabatedly fallen for the only person he considered as a friend.

It was as pure, simple, and devastatingly complicated as that.

Let me know if you wish to have the story continued with the solution that Sherlock conceives for his situation. It can be left as a one-shot, of if there is interest I can continue it ^^ Please let me know!