A/N: This was requested by AGirloftheSouth, based on the idea behind "Paradiso" by Kate Lear. I haven't read that one yet, because I didn't want to bias this story during writing and editing (but I definitely will now that I'm finished with this!)

"I think we should get tested."

Sherlock's grey eyes flickered up from his laptop screen to meet John's gaze, narrowing slightly. John set his jaw, curling his left hand into a fist to displace the urge to look away.

"Tested for what?" Sherlock asked.

"STIs," John said, feeling himself colouring but ploughing forward anyway. Living with Sherlock meant being embarrassed occasionally – being his partner probably meant it was going to happen far more often. "I'd like to have sex without the condoms, but I'm a doctor. I can't just ignore the risks."

Sherlock gave him a long, slow look; John held his own against it as best he could, aware his blush was deepening.

"If you think it's necessary," the detective agreed. "I'll accompany you, but you used a condom, so I can't imagine I'm in much danger."

John blinked, the muscles in his brow tightening as he frowned.

"What do you mean?"

"Since condoms are incredibly effective against infections," Sherlock said, "my odds of having contracted anything from you are very low – assuming you had anything for me to contract, which I highly doubt. You are a doctor, as you pointed out. You're not given to incaution."

"I– well, no, I'm not," John managed, nodding slowly. "But wait– Sherlock… How long has it been since you've had sex?"

The detective glanced briefly at his watch; John could almost see the rapid calculation.

"Three days, eleven hours, approximately."

"I mean before that," John said.

"Ah," Sherlock replied, sitting back in the desk chair. "I think we're getting to the crux of your confusion."

"You– wait– what? Sherlock, are you serious? That was your first time?"

"Yes, of course."

"What do you mean, 'of course'?" John demanded. "You said you'd dated!"

"Dating doesn't equal sex, John – and I didn't say that. I said I'd been on dates. There's a distinct difference in quantity implied. One, perhaps two with the same person at the most."

"But – why didn't you say something?"

"What would I have said?" Sherlock asked, giving him a genuinely puzzled look.

"That it was your first time!"

"Why? Would you have wanted to know if it had been my tenth, or fiftieth, or one hundredth? What difference does it make?"

"It was your first time!" John repeated, sitting forward until he was on the edge of his arm chair's seat, trying to wrap his mind around the reality but impeded by a sudden sense of guilt, not to mention the confusion on Sherlock's features.

"And?" Sherlock sighed. "Would you have done it differently had you known?"

"Too bloody right I would have!" John shot back, pushing himself to his feet.

"Why?" Sherlock asked again, drawing back slightly, even more befuddled now.

"Because it was your first time!" John said, aware he was stuck on the same phrase and that Sherlock was probably going to dismantle any notions he had of romance or significance, but unable – unwilling – to let it go. "It should have been– better."

"Did I give you the impression that I didn't enjoy myself?"

"No– but just– I would have been more careful. Considerate."

"To what end, John?"

"First, to avoid any pain. While we were– during and afterwards."

"I'm not adverse to a little discomfort," Sherlock sighed. "It's certainly not the worst I've suffered."

"Great," John said, sinking down into his chair again, covering his face with his hands.

"John, the notion that having sex for the first time is somehow life changing and needs to be marked as a momentous occasion is ridiculous and snivellingly romantic. It doesn't matter."

"Oh yes, thanks for that," John muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose between a thumb and forefinger. His first time with a man had been Sherlock's first time, period. The thought left him a little queasy – he would have been more careful had he known. Instead, he'd been rough, selfish, and demanding.

"I did like it," Sherlock said, and there was a stiff, hesitant note to his voice that made John look up, stunned to see a touch of colour on the detective's normally pale cheeks. "Rather a lot, actually."

He stared at his partner blankly for a moment, then began to laugh, dissolving completely into giggles at the affronted expression on Sherlock's face.

"I'm sorry," John managed, trying to compose himself and failing utterly. He gave in, burying his face in a palm as his shoulders shook.

"I'm glad you think this is so funny," Sherlock said coolly. John shook his head, looking up again, taking a deep breath that helped him regain his control.

"I'm sorry," he repeated. "It's just– you sit there and talk so matter-of-factly about how you don't need testing and how that was your first time, but you're embarrassed because you liked it?"

Sherlock sighed, rolling his eyes, and John held his breath against the giggles that threatened to return. He crossed the room, pushing Sherlock's laptop closed and scooping up his partner's phone before the detective had a chance to stop him.

"You are not blogging about this!" Sherlock snapped, rising and reaching for the phone.

"Of course not," John assured him, passing the mobile back. "I'm shutting it off. Mine too." He deposited his powered down phone on the table, earning a suspicious glare from his partner.

"I'm working," Sherlock said.

"No, you're fiddling around on your blog."

"I need to reopen it after a nine month absence, John. It's not fiddling."

"And it can wait," John said firmly. "You don't have a case right now, and I haven't got work today, so we have the entire day to ourselves."

"What are you suggesting, precisely?" Sherlock asked, arching an eyebrow in a way that wasn't entirely innocent.

"Well," John murmured, reaching up to smooth Sherlock's collar between his fingers, letting them trail down to rest on the top button of his shirt, "I was thinking of balancing the scales a bit."

"How so?"

"I was pretty selfish last time, I admit it," John replied.

Sherlock sighed, pursing his lips, but there was a smile dancing across his features he couldn't quite hide.

"That does make a change in this household," he agreed.

"Well then," John said, wrapping a hand lightly around the back of Sherlock's neck, pulling him down so their lips were almost touching, "you should enjoy it rather a lot more when it's all about you."

John pressed a kiss against the line of Sherlock's vertebrae, right at the base of his partner's neck, drawing a quiet moan from the detective. He moved lower, lips between shoulder blades, trailing his fingertips down to brush over Sherlock's hips and back up. A hand pressed into the sheets as Sherlock exhaled slowly, a hum reverberating against John's lips.

John let his hands roam up his partner's back as he kissed even lower, relishing the change in Sherlock's breathing. He was still fully clothed and Sherlock was completely naked. Each movement that brought into them into contact slid fabric over exposed skin, and the way the detective shifted against the pillow under his hips was proof enough that he was enjoying it.

The light tug of John's teeth made Sherlock's eyes fly open, and the doctor softened the bite into a kiss, smoothing his hands over the detective's hips until he relaxed again. Smiling, John let his hands trail lower, short fingernails raking lightly over the backs of Sherlock's bare thighs, feeling the twitch of muscles beneath his hands. He moved back up, a faint groan slipping from Sherlock's lips when he reached the junction of legs and ass.

"Like that?" John murmured, kissing the small of his partner's back. Sherlock made a contented noise; John dug his thumbs deeply into dense muscle, earning a moan. He wanted desire, not relaxation.

He moved lower again, lips trailing downward, and Sherlock caught his faintly swollen lower lip in his teeth when John nosed the very base of his spine. He pushed Sherlock's cheeks apart lightly, pressing a kiss where he'd just nuzzled. Sherlock gasped quietly and John grinned, letting his tongue dart out to trace a quick line.

Sherlock's grunt shot straight to John's groin, making his jeans even more restrictive; he ignored it. licking again, a longer, slower stroke. Long fingers curled into the sheets as Sherlock tried to bury another groan in the pillow, breath coming out as gasping pants.

John spread Sherlock's cheeks even wider, feeling the twitch in his partner's legs against his arms. Sherlock gripped the pillow, white-knuckled, when John exhaled a deliberate puff of air against the detective's crease. The sight made him shift to rub against the mattress, eyes fluttering closed at the sense of relief, before regaining control of himself.

He refocused, tongue darting out again, fingernails digging into Sherlock's skin as he gave himself a little more space. The detective's head arched back as he sucked in a desperate breath, eyes screwed shut. When John passed the tip of his tongue over Sherlock's hole, feeling the muscles spasm desperately, his partner dropped his head back into the pillow. A low moan accompanied the shift of his hips against the lower pillow; John pressed down firmly, keeping Sherlock where he was. He stroked back and forth, slowly, until Sherlock was whimpering, squirming as he tried to get enough leverage to move. John relaxed his hold slightly, and Sherlock shifted, moaning with desperate relief.

"Oh–" The exclamation was cut off with a sharp breath when John stiffened his tongue, pushing it in gently. Sherlock pressed his head into the pillow and mattress, trying to push himself back, hips tilting towards John's mouth. The doctor pulled away to a startled gasp, tsking gently.

"Patience," he murmured. Sherlock screwed his eyes shut and whined, shaking his head but relenting, rubbing his hips against the pillow. John dipped his head again, pushing his tongue back in; Sherlock bit his lip against a cry, hands fisting into the sheets again.

John stroked in and out slowly, relishing the way Sherlock's breathing broke down completely, leaving him writhing and whimpering incoherently. He chuckled against his partner's skin, earning a soft cry, then slipped his tongue in deeper. Sherlock seized, and for a second John thought he was going to come simply from this, but the detective relaxed ever so slightly.

He was holding him back, John realized. He raised his eyebrows at the revelation but didn't stop, pushing his tongue in as far as he could. Sherlock nearly screamed, the sound emerging as a hoarse grunt when he bit his lip too hard.

John freed his left hand, sliding it between Sherlock and the pillow, to push his partner's erection against his stomach, thumb sliding over the leaking head.

"Oh god–" Sherlock managed, squirming against John's tongue and hand; the doctor began to rub his partner, dragging his hand down far enough to press hard into Sherlock's swollen testicles. The detective gasped, trying to arch into both sensations. John held him down, the muscles around Sherlock's entrance spasming and tightening around him. Another whimper slipped from Sherlock's lips as John pressed against his cock head again, spreading the slick precum, pushing the foreskin up and over. The detective was thrusting as best he could, gasping in desperate breaths.

John pulled out, drawing his tongue in a quick circle, before pushing back in again, stroking the tip in and out. Sherlock moaned, shuddering when John rubbed his erection harder, pushing it even more firmly against his abdomen. He focused on the head, giving Sherlock no respite as he stiffened his tongue again, pushing in as far as he could go again.. Sherlock grunted, stiffening as his internal muscles, spasming around John's tongue, cock pulsing as he came. John eased up, letting Sherlock collapse against his hand and the mattress, damn tendrils of dark curls clinging to his temples.

The doctor pulled away gently to trail kisses back up Sherlock's spine, freeing his hand and fumbling for the towel. Sherlock's eyes were still screwed shut, features just beginning to relax, when John reached his upper spine. He smiled, placing a last kiss on Sherlock's back, tasting sweat and salt, before pulling away.

"Shh," John murmured as Sherlock tried to roll over, one hand stilling the movement.

"You–" Sherlock started, the thick, deeper pitch of his baritone making John shudder and palm himself to displace the sudden sharp desire.

"Didn't I say this was about you?" John murmured, nuzzling Sherlock's ear. "I'm fine. Don't worry. Just rest now. You'll need your strength, I promise."

Sherlock made a sleepy, contented noise, and John wondered if his partner had even heard him. He dropped a kiss against Sherlock's temple and shuffled from the bed to fetch a towel and a warm flannel. In the few minutes it took to return, Sherlock had already fallen asleep on his back, arms spread out to take up as much space as he could, head turned to one side so that one cheek was pressed into the pillow, his hair a dark, messy halo around his head. John smiled fondly, stealing a kiss, then cleaned and covered the detective carefully and leaving him to sleep.

Sherlock drifted awake with a faintly hazy contentment that permeated every millimetre of his body. His mind should have spun into high gear the moment he blinked his eyes open lazily; the fact that it didn't would have been cause for alarm if it hadn't been for the smell of sex and John against the sheets and the more distant aroma of Chinese food wafting in from the living room.

He slipped into a pair of pyjama bottoms and his blue dressing gown, opting to go shirtless. John seemed to enjoy the sight, judging by the slight dilation of his pupils and the small smile. There was a moderate buffet spread out of on the desk, accompanied by an empty plate and fork to which John gestured when he sat down.

"More encouragement to keep up my strength?" Sherlock asked, arching an eyebrow.

"I do have several ideas for what to do next," John said.

"I'm sure you do," Sherlock replied.

"Unless last time was enough for you," the doctor said, a mischievous twinkle in his blue eyes.

"When have I ever given you cause to question my endurance?"

"Good point," John agreed. "And this way, I can get you to eat and sleep."

"So that's what this is really about," Sherlock said, appreciating the blush that tinged John's cheeks.

"Not even by half. Eat up."

"Brush your teeth."

"What?" John asked.

"I don't want to be tasting Chinese food the whole time."

The doctor laughed, following his partner into the bathroom, testing his breath for Sherlock's approval after a good minute of scrubbing. The detective tasted minty, a cool sensation John liked. He deepened and softened the kiss, resting his hands on Sherlock's waist beneath the fabric of his dressing gown. A soft shudder ran through the detective when palms and fingers met bare skin; John smiled into the kiss but didn't break it, turning small circles with his thumbs. He could feel goose bumps against his own skin, and kept the touch slow, not wanting to push for too much. The last time had been intense – and so had the first time, he was willing to bet. Given Sherlock's tendency to ignore his body's needs and desires, John didn't want to overwhelm him.

And he wanted to teach the detective a little something about patience and how rewarding it could be.

He wrapped a hand around one of Sherlock's thin wrists and led him back into the bedroom to lay him on the crumpled, dishevelled sheets. They had the whole rest of the flat to use, and John made a mental note to draw up a list later; for now, he contented himself with watching Sherlock's eyes darken as he ran his hands over pale skin, slipping the detective free of his dressing gown.

Sherlock's head tilted back on a long neck to watch as John dug through the nightstand drawer, dropping three small tubes onto his partner's stomach.

"Which do you want?" John murmured. They were held between long fingers, subjected to scrutiny, before Sherlock sniffed each of them, making a face at the liquorish-scented one. John plucked it from his hand and binned it without question; Sherlock sniffed the other two again, then pressed the orange tube into John's hand.

A smile quirked on the doctor's lips as he put the cinnamon-scented one aside.

"Well?" Sherlock huffed. "Get on with it."

"Patience," John said, leaning down to brush his lips over Sherlock's, pulling away when the detective tilted his head slightly, seeking more. The faintly frustrated sound slipped into a whimper when John pinched both of his nipples, twisting gently. Long fingers fisted into the sheets before roaming over John's legs desperately. The doctor leaned down, darting his tongue over one before sucking lightly. Sherlock gave a soft cry, twisting aside as if to increase and avoid the contact; John eased off, earning a soft moan of protest.

He'd have to get some clips – and the thought of using them with Sherlock lightly bound – wrists and ankles – threatened to leave him breathless. He refocused, moving his lips lower, hands skimming ahead for fingers to hook into the elastic waistband of Sherlock's pyjama pants. John traced two teasing fingertips along Sherlock's cock, feeling it hardening under his touch, then sat back, relishing the way Sherlock's hands tightened on his thighs, as if displacing the urge to grab him and keep him where he was.

With a faint smile, John made a show of undressing; his clothing was becoming restricting and, unlike last time, he wanted nothing between them. The sight of Sherlock's tongue darting over his lips almost undid him; John set his jaw against it, aware of the gleam in Sherlock's eyes that meant his reaction hadn't gone unnoticed.

"Cheeky," he murmured, leaning down for a slow kiss, catching Sherlock's moan as he stroked and teased, the detective's hips tilting toward his hand. It felt odd still, to be touching another man like this, but the way Sherlock looked – flushed, eyes dark, faintly swollen lips parted when John pulled away – was helping him adjust quickly.

"Lift," he said, and Sherlock complied, kicking his pyjama bottoms aside impatiently. John sat back on his heels, running his hands up the detective's thighs, thumbs digging into dense muscles and tendons. Sherlock shifted, trying to displace desire with movement; John turned his touch teasingly light, and the detective's head fell back against the pillows, pursed lips not quite containing the moan.

"God, John," Sherlock rumbled, the depth of his baritone sending a shudder up John's spine as he snapped the cap on the lube, coating his hands carefully. Sherlock was expecting immediate gratification; the way he twitched when John refused to push in right away was proof enough of that – John kept it slow and teasing, rubbing back and forth, stroking, digging a thumb into smaller yet still swollen sacks, until Sherlock's breathing began to break down, a tiny moan slipping out with each exhalation. A hand tangled in John's hair when he slipped a finger in, mouth working against the sensitive skin of an inner thigh.

He stroked in and out slowly, Sherlock finding an unconscious squeeze and release rhythm in John's hair that matched the doctor's movements, and John raised his eyes, moaning softly at the way Sherlock was arched, head pressed hard into the pillows. When the sensation of one finger began to border on relaxing, John slipped a second one in, earning a soft cry. He offset the slight tension with his other hand, stroking Sherlock's erection, focusing on the head, scissoring and twisting gently with his left fingers. He kept the exploration slow and careful – no need for Sherlock to feel like he was being medically prodded – and it paid off when John found the small gland, skimming fingertips over it.

The sound Sherlock made was beautiful, a startled gasp and a moan combined, dissolving into whimpers when John focused there, pulling back right before pleasure became over-stimulation, leaving Sherlock meeting his gaze both hungrily and with relief.

"Shh," John murmured, and Sherlock bit his lip when he slipped a third finger in, dropping his free hand to stroke himself a few time, relief coursing through him.

He knew what Sherlock would be expecting now, and smiled slightly at the surprised cry when he used two fingers to tilt Sherlock's cock up and suck it into his mouth.

This would definitely take some getting used to, but John knew what he liked – and was more than happy to help Sherlock figure out his own preferences. He kept it shallow, uncertain what he could do and what Sherlock could reasonably take; as it was, the detective was already shuddering, fingers fisting restlessly into the sheets and John's hair.

He wanted it to last, but didn't want the intensity to overwhelm Sherlock, to make him reluctant to try again. John eased off slightly, licking instead of sucking, fingers stroking in time with his tongue, the odd, acrid taste offset by the way Sherlock looked, trembling, lower lip caught between his teeth, eyes screwed shut.

"Breathe," John murmured. Sherlock shook his head desperately, then sucked in a deep breath, giving a hoarse cry as John closed his mouth over him again. The fingers in his hair closed hard, tugging, and John made himself stay where he was as Sherlock came, denying any resistant reaction, and swallowed.

Sherlock shuddered hard when John withdrew – both hands and mouth – and the doctor swallowed a groan at the sight of the detective spread out beneath him, looking utterly spent, dark hair dishevelled, clinging damply to his temples, chest rising and falling as his breathing evened out.

He slipped a hand between his legs, closing his eyes as he stroked; the need was harder to ignore than last time, especially when Sherlock's long fingers teased him.

"Come here," the detective murmured, and John crawled back up his partner's body, denied a kiss when Sherlock turned his head aside. "Don't, you'll taste terrible. Come on, John." He fumbled for a condom, and fingers digging into the dense muscle of his ass was all the encouragement he needed; John pushed in carefully, burying a moan in Sherlock's neck. Long legs wound around his as his hips thrust once or twice of their own accord, but this wasn't what he wanted.

"Come on," John managed, pulling apart, ignoring the small puzzled furrow between Sherlock's eyebrows, hands on his partner's hips guiding him. He lay on his back, the small, knowing smile that twitched on Sherlock's lips nearly undoing him. A long-fingered hand reached around, and John couldn't repress a groan when Sherlock sank down, adjusting slightly until John's hips were flush with his ass.

John bent his knees, planting his feet for better traction. Sherlock took up some of the movement, muscles in his thighs flexing and releasing; John's fingers tightened on his partner's hips, Sherlock's covering them. Teeth dug into the insides of his cheeks as he held himself back with some effort – Sherlock had tilted his head back, that small smile still playing on his lips, a faint hum vibrating in the silence punctuated only by heavy breathing and a faint creak from the springs.

He couldn't stop himself when Sherlock dropped his head, a wicked glint in his eyes, and squeezed hard. John thought he heard himself curse, fingers closing convulsively around Sherlock's hips.

"Christ," he murmured as the shock ebbed, leaving him slumped against the rumpled sheets, breathing hard. Sherlock curled forward, making John groan, lips skimming his jawline and fingers carding through his hair.

"I think I could get used to this," John managed, turning his head, catching the sly smile on his partner's lips.

"A good scientist never commits to a theory without enough data," Sherlock commented. "We're going to need to collect more. Rather a lot more."

"And how long do you think that will take?" John asked as Sherlock shifted to clean them, fitting their bodies together and draping the blankets over them.

"Oh, years," Sherlock mused. "At the very least."

"I like the sound of that," John replied, feeling the answering smile against his skin as he closed his eyes and surrendered to sleep.