The sun was filtering weakly through the window when John opened his eyes. He came awake quickly, as he usually did, and kept his body perfectly still as his brain caught up. Daylight, check. Sore back and shoulders, check. Slept while sitting upright, then. Warm weight of something in his lap-

He managed to avoid jumping, but only barely. Sherlock's bare feet were still resting lightly across his thighs, and one of Sherlock's heels was grazing his erection. His horribly embarrassing morning erection. Which he had no control over, Sherlock had to know that, Sherlock might notice (of course he noticed) but ought to realize-

The low background noise present in the room suddenly resolved itself in John's mind as Sherlock talking. Mumbling to himself, really, but very definitely forming words. If he watched Sherlock's lips he could make them out.

". . . always been afraid to say anything," Sherlock muttered. "Doesn't take a bloody genius to realize I've noticed. So either you're absolutely completely straight, or you're unobservant. I haven't had practice hiding this kind of thing before, obviously, so it's logical I've slipped up once or twice. Maybe more than that. The question still stands, then: why haven't you acknowledged my interest?"

Interest . . . not completely straight . . . unobservant . . . hiding what? John was suddenly glad Sherlock couldn't see him, because he was almost certainly gaping blatantly at his muttering flatmate.

"It's true you've never sought out men in the time I've known you," Sherlock continued. Addressing me but talking to himself. "Normally I'd conclude that between that and the statistical probability, you're strictly heterosexual. You never seem offended at the constant implications about us being in a romantic relationship, though, which I'd expect if that were the case. You do complain, and you do correct people - not as often as you used to. Is that relevant? It feels relevant but I'm missing objective data. You complain but only when in the presence of someone who might constitute a future sexual partner or who would likely be present when you meet such a partner. Objection to the implication you're 'taken,' therefore, rather than that you're inclined toward men. Obvious. Not interested in picking up a male partner, though, it keeps coming back to that-"

Sherlock broke off suddenly, and John realized with a start that his hand was now gripping Sherlock's ankle a good bit too tight.

"John." Sherlock swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. "I assumed you were asleep."

I was. John expected Sherlock to sit up, tear off the headphones and sleep mask and gloves, and retreat to his room - but the detective just frowned. Right. John's hand contracted around Sherlock's ankle a bit more, almost but not quite involuntarily.

He hadn't consciously meant it to be an encouragement for Sherlock to continue, but Sherlock seemed to be taking it that way. There was a long pause, then Sherlock licked his lips (when did that suddenly become so riveting?) and let out a long breath.

"-Keeps coming back to that issue of a label," Sherlock continued, a hint of wariness in his tone. "Which leaves three possibilities. The first, and most statistically likely, is that you're completely heterosexual and you're just unusually tolerant. Most heterosexual men feel at least a little threatened when they're made aware that another man is showing interest, though, so you'd be anomalous in that regard. Especially given that we live together. Second possibility is that you are somewhere middling on the Kinsey scale but you're not interested in me specifically. Disappointing, if so, but if that's the case I'll endeavor to work around it. Emotions aren't my strong point, as you well know, but there's no need for something like this to drive you away from the flat."

John squeezed Sherlock's ankle, letting his fingers wrap around to the achilles tendon and caress for the tiniest moment before falling still again. This openness - Sherlock being honest about feelings - it was heady and confusing and even as John felt like he ought to be standing up any second now and walking away, letting his flatmate keep his secrets, he found he couldn't. His body wouldn't obey him.

Sherlock paused in his monologue, holding himself perfectly still for a long moment. "I don't want you to leave," he finally admitted in a small voice.

John squeezed again, more firmly. I'm not going anywhere. Sherlock wouldn't hear him if he spoke the words aloud, of course, but touch seemed be just as valid a form of communication and felt more eloquent than words would have anyway.

"The third possibility." Sherlock cleared his throat. "Third is that I've hidden my interest better than I expected, and you've been making mistaken assumptions about how I feel about you. Or how we could feel about each other." He licked his lips, looking lost even under the barriers of the headphones and the sleep mask. "This would obviously be the most beneficial, from my point of view, because it leaves open the possibility of something developing. Also the most dangerous, because it relies on successfully navigating the interpersonal demands of a 'relationship' and I don't-"

John slid his palm carefully up to encircle his flatmate's lower shin, and Sherlock broke off abruptly with a tiny shock of a breath. The sound caused John's cock to twitch, which made it nudge against the sole of Sherlock's foot, which turned the hissed intake of air into a stuttering exhale. Sherlock's entire body was suddenly tense and very, very still.

So John did the only thing he could do - he palmed Sherlock's other leg as well and tugged his feet apart a bit, so he could get his thumbs around to massage the tender spots just behind Sherlock's Achilles tendons at the base of his calves. He couldn't see his eyes, but that was probably just as well - if Sherlock had been able to actually watch him, read everything he was certainly failing to hide on his face, he'd never have been able to do this. To take the first step.

Well, can't claim the first step - second, maybe. John tried to think back. Could he honestly say he never noticed Sherlock's interest? Or had he noticed and tried to explain it away? Sherlock is just like that, he probably didn't know any better, he's got no concept of personal space -

Fuck. The more amazing thing was that Sherlock had never picked up on John reciprocating. Or maybe John had been sending ambiguous signals too. He twisted his hips a bit, swiveling his body so he could face Sherlock more head-on (or feet to knees, but still). The change meant he could slide both hands all the way up to Sherlock's thighs, if he wanted to. Did he want to? Sherlock's robe had fallen open sometime while John had slept, which meant his boxers and the sleeves of his robe were the only things keeping him from being completely bare in front of John.

"John." Sherlock's voice was almost a whisper.

And just bloody fuck it, because John was done being hesitant. Sherlock was lying practically naked in front of him, feet across his lap, and didn't seem inclined to run away. And even better, Sherlock actually liked him - enough that he was vacillating like a teenager trying to work up the nerve to ask a girl out on a date. Except John wasn't a girl, and this wasn't a date, and they were very definitely not teenagers anymore. (Well, Sherlock still sulked like one sometimes, but in this sense they very definitely weren't.)

John scooted closer, rolling up to a V-shaped kneel, which put the soles of Sherlock's feet even with his hips and left the backs of Sherlock's calves draped across his respective knees. The position also showed quite a bit of what was under those boxer shorts. Not enough to actually see, not quite, but the slanted morning light from the windows threw shadows which might - or might not - have delineated the lower curve of Sherlock's bollocks. John suddenly had a very strong urge to just run his hand up the inside of his flatmate's thigh, all the way up, high enough to find out for sure.

He opted for a middle ground instead, massaging Sherlock's calves gently and running his fingers upwards to tease the sensitive skin behind the detective's knees. Sherlock twitched, but otherwise held perfectly still, almost not breathing at all.

"Keep talking," John said. It was too soft for Sherlock to understand - had to have been, with those bloody headphones - but Sherlock must have heard something and he was Sherlock which meant he figured out it less than a second later.

"You want me to keep going," he said, his voice a good half-octave lower than usual. "I will if you will."

John let one hand trace higher, spearing his fingers through the rough hair on Sherlock's thigh.

"-and-I-don't-'do'-relationships," Sherlock said very quickly. "Your behavior would seem to indicate the third option has a fair possibility of being correct, therefo-oh John!"

John sat back with a smirk he knew Sherlock couldn't see. So those shadows weren't just shadows after all . . . He ran his hand up Sherlock's leg and up to his boxer shorts again, brushing just his fingertips under the loose fabric. This time it prompted a gorgeous groan, one which had his own cock hardening embarrassingly quickly (not that it hadn't had a head start). Sherlock talking was sexy; Sherlock groaning with his head thrown back and his legs spread was on a whole fucking different planet.

"Please." Sherlock was panting in earnest now, despite the fact that John hadn't touched more than his legs and two brief brushes over his bollocks. "John - please, everything is down to touch now, the leather cushions against my back and the bit of the draft from the window and iad sfânt dumnezeul meu, Ich muss deine Finger fühlen, just that little bit with your fingers-"

At least part of that sounded like German. Sherlock was babbling, very little of it in English, but enough that John understood he very much approved of John touching him there, anywhere, really, hopefully with the end result of releasing all that sexual tension they'd been carrying around for ages (had it really been that long?) and actually fucking doing something about it. John was more than happy to oblige.

It took no time at all for Sherlock to understand what John wanted - the moment he touched his fingertips to Sherlock's hips, the detective tilted them upward and let John draw his pants down and off his legs. He was already wonderfully hard, his cock a surprisingly vivid contrast to his pale skin and dark pubic hair. John kept expecting him to tear off the gloves, rip off the blindfold, start demanding things in that imperious way of his, but Sherlock seemed content to let skin-on-skin be their primary method of communication. It felt odd, strangely restrictive, but at the same time it was freeing. No worries about what Sherlock might deduce from his facial expressions, no shame over his own less-than-perfect body, and - best of all - complete and total free rein to ogle Sherlock's all-but-nude form for as long as he wanted.

Which would have been all night, if Sherlock had let him. And if his own erection hadn't been so insistent about not being ignored. He could have done something about it - could palm himself and stroke himself off in no time at all and Sherlock wouldn't be able to see - but John didn't want to waste his chance. Who knew if Sherlock would ever be up for this again?

No, much better to draw it out. John tugged his own shirt off, careful not to move his hips and give himself away through any change in angle against Sherlock's calves. Sherlock's first hint would be John leaning over, flattening his chest against those long thighs and dragging a single long lick up the crease where Sherlock's thigh met his pelvis-

Sherlock squeaked at the sensation. It was an abrupt sound, quickly cut off, but it was very definitely a squeak and for some reason, it made John giggle. And then once he started, he couldn't stop. The curls on Sherlock's thigh dragged against his chest, snagging in his own barely-there chest hair - more than Sherlock's, for sure, but still nothing to be particularly proud of - and the unexpected friction just made it worse. Christ - here I am, sprawled on top of my flatmate, who must have no bloody clue what is going on, licking him-

"John?" Sherlock's voice called quietly, uncertainty threaded through the question. "What are you-"

Fuck it. John choked back another giggle and lunged forward, managing to get most of Sherlock's cock in his mouth all in one go. It wasn't something he'd ever done before, never really thought about it one way or the other, but he'd have bet quite a bit of money that Sherlock hadn't done this before either. Definitely not with the nail-painting toe separator thingies, at least. And damned if he hadn't been missing out, because Sherlock tasted nice. Warm and only slightly sweaty and a little tang of something-

The sheer primal force of Sherlock's moan forced every last giggle from John's body and replaced them with something just as powerful, but much more urgent. Sherlock's breathing was already at the "just run a marathon" stage, harsh and loud in the silent flat, and John couldn't resist teasing a bit with his tongue just to see what it would do. A shift of his jaw, drawing Sherlock's cock more fully into his mouth, then a flat lave up the underside with what he hoped was the right amount of pressure . . . Sherlock's hips jolted forward, hard enough he would have bucked John off his body if John hadn't already been subconsciously preparing for it by shifting his weight upward and pressing his flatmate down into the cushions.

"None of that, now," John murmured around the length of the cock in his mouth. Sherlock couldn't hear him, of course he couldn't, but he obviously felt the vibrations because the abstract sounds coming out of his mouth increased in intensity. They started to form words, a jumbled mishmash of languages, helped along by John's occasional darts and flicks with his tongue and teeth and lips. He let his hands get into the game, too - flat pressure against the tops of Sherlock's thighs, holding him down, then a thumb dipping between those long legs to massage the underside of Sherlock's bollocks and press gently against his perineum.

That alone nearly broke them both. Sherlock went abruptly silent, his words cutting off mid-stream and being replaced by a harsh panting John was sure would become hyperventilating in a minute if he wasn't careful. His own cock was painfully hard, pressed against Sherlock's lower leg, and John knew he wouldn't last half a dozen strokes if he allowed himself to be distracted by his own body for even a moment. He had to focus on Sherlock first, had to-

"Please," Sherlock begged, head tossing from side to side against the cushions as best it could despite the bulky headphones. "John, please. I want you to come on me. Want to know how it feels, how warm it is, want that little part of you. Please. Je te rêve comme ci . . ."

"Fuck." John sat up, dragged his trousers and pants down to his knees, had his cock in his palm in five seconds flat. He shuffled forward between Sherlock's spread legs, lined himself up, and pumped three, four, five times-

And then he was coming, all over Sherlock's bollocks and cock and stomach, and it was absolutely fucking glorious. Sherlock was groaning, too, nudging forward with his hips against the empty air, chasing something, anything, any contact. Impossibly thick and hard and John would have never in a million years thought Sherlock would allow himself to be seen like this, but here he was. Quivering and gasping for breath and desperate.

John fought back his post-orgasmic exhaustion. Right now, he had more on his plate - had Sherlock already slicked up with come, hard and ready. He grabbed Sherlock's cock with a bit more force than he had intended, but it just made Sherlock's back arch more, made the polyglottic stream of syllables that much more rapid. Ejaculate wasn't always the best lube, tended to dry out and get sticky too quickly to be much use most of the time, but John rather suspected this wouldn't take long enough for it to matter. His come was still warm as he slicked it over Sherlock's cock from crown to base and slid his hand back and forth. Two normal strokes, then a third with a bit more pressure and a twist at the tip, the way he did it himself when he didn't want to draw it out, repeating the pattern again and again-

Sherlock's entire body froze up as he came. John gentled his grip, but kept ahold of Sherlock's erection until the last spasms had passed and Sherlock fell back against the cushions, suddenly boneless.

"That was . . ." Sherlock mumbled something in a language John had no hope of understanding, but the sentiment really needed no interpretation.

"Yeah," John agreed, slumping back against his own corner of the sofa. Not that Sherlock could hear him. They lay sprawled there for several minutes before Sherlock finally dragged in a deep breath and struggled up to his elbows.

Oh. John leaned over to help. Their mingled come was cooling stickily between them, but John managed to help Sherlock get the gloves off and from there, Sherlock took care of the headphones and sleep mask. He lay back down with his hands laced behind his head, his bright eyes focused with far too much perception in them for John's liking.

"I suppose this is where you say this was a mistake?" Sherlock asked. It was suspiciously similar to his normal bored tone - similar but not quite. John gave a silent thanks that he'd been around long enough to know the difference.

"Depends on your definition of 'mistake,'" John replied evenly. "Do you regret it?"

"No."

"Want to tell me to move out?"

"No."

"Then no." He dared a hand on Sherlock's ankle again - something that had felt unbearably intimate a few hours ago, and now shouldn't have been infused with anywhere near the amount of meaning it felt like it suddenly had. "I hadn't done that before, as you very well know, but that doesn't mean I didn't enjoy it. Or that I wouldn't do it again if you ever . . ." His courage failed him. "You know," he finished lamely.

"If I ever felt like having another sexual encounter with you?"

"Something like that," John mumbled.

Sherlock's lips twisted upward into a hint of a smirk. "Will you insist on 2.5 children and a dog and a house in the suburbs? Will you demand I give up all my experiments and start doing my fair share of laundry and dishes?"

John blinked. "No, no, God no, no point, and I'm not that stupid. You're not really a 'relationships' kind of person - I get that." He took a deep breath and forced himself to look - really look - at his flatmate. "If you just want to be - fuckbuddies or whatever - that's good. It's fine with me. And if you want me to stop dating other women and make this a kinda-sorta exclusive thing, that's fine with me too. I don't want to change you. Christ, Sherlock, never change."

Sherlock was silent for a full five seconds following that, his mouth open in surprise. ". . . You really mean that," he said finally. "You don't expect me to . . . I don't know, improve myself or something?"

"Sherlock, I like your sulkiness and your brilliance and the way you berate Anderson and the way you play ungodly terrible violin sonatas at 3 AM in your dressing gown. A tame Sherlock Holmes would be . . . I don't know, but it wouldn't be you. You're the only man I've ever wanted to break my successful streak of heterosexuality for - don't ruin it."

Another several seconds of silence, and then Sherlock was surging up and crushing his lips to John's. The kiss was inelegant, messy, and both their chests were now covered in slimy, lukewarm ejaculate, but John couldn't remember having ever been happier. He let Sherlock just kiss him for a long time, until they were both breathless and at least half hard again.

Sherlock broke away first. "You still smell like alley, John," he said, his voice low enough for John to feel the rumble of vibration in his bones. "I suggest you take a shower." He snaked a hand between them and ran one thin finger up the length of John's cock. "I can join you, if you like. In the interest of . . . thoroughness."

Yeah, it was going to be a good day.

That's it for today's episode :-) Some of you may have noticed my updates seem to have been slowing down a bit - that's because I seem to have gotten myself writing several fics at once. Feel free to take a look at what else I've been doing in case you missed some!