Six months after Moriarty's death, Sherlock and John had adjusted to the change in their relationship and were living quite comfortably. The publicity that surrounded the Moriarty case had brought clients in in droves. Between interesting cases from Scotland Yard and clients who gave him interesting stories to work with, Sherlock was rarely ever bored. John's life – and, if people were being totally honest, the lives of every person who knew Sherlock – had gotten considerably easier.

Their personal lives had changed very little when they had admitted their feelings for each other. The main differences were that they slept in the same bed, kissed a lot, and had a frankly appalling amount of sex.

God, the sex was fantastic. John had never believed it when people said that sex with someone you love makes it insanely good. He had never had a problem with finding good sex before, but this was something else. Sherlock may have been a virgin when they started dating, but even those first fumbling times were some of the best shags that John had had in his life. Sherlock kept looking at him like he was a treasure, and John drank him up like a man in a desert who had found water. An early discussion in their relationship led to the revelation that neither of them wanted to be penetrated, so there was a lot of thrusting against each other and mouths on cocks. John, who had earned quite the reputation when he was younger for sticking his cock in almost any woman (and that one man) with a pulse, was content to never stick his cock into a hole on the lower half of someone else's body ever again.

The following is the story of how Sherlock lost his virginity.

It was a little over two weeks after the pool and all of their injuries were healing up nicely. John had dutifully climbed into Sherlock's bed every night and they had done nothing but curl up into each other. They were both content with their so far celibate relationship and there were no indications that they were going to move forward any time soon and they were both fine with that. John had some negative connotations about sex with men and what they would do to his heart, and Sherlock had just never done it before.

They had a celebratory snog when Greg told them that Moriarty had died in the blast. That had consisted of the two of them sprawled on the floor, Sherlock on top of John, pressed together as tightly as they could be. It had died down naturally before they had moved on to bigger things, and they were left to lie in front of the fire in each other's arms.

"I'll be ready soon," Sherlock promised.

John shook his head. "It doesn't matter, Sherlock. Most of the reasons why I'm with you have nothing to do with sex."

"Yes, but some of them do," Sherlock had countered.

"Well, yes," John had admitted. "Have you ever considered that I might not be ready?"

"No. You've had considerable sexual experience and you've had a male partner that meant quite a bit to you. You shouldn't be uncomfortable with this."

John flipped onto his side and turned Sherlock so he was facing him. "Yes, he meant a lot to me, and yes, I loved him. I wanted to be with him for as long as it seemed like we would be good together. I was shattered when he put an end to us. It wasn't the same way that I love you and I want to be with you," John said, quickly soothing the worried expression on Sherlock's face. "I was heartbroken, and then I was physically damaged, and then mentally damaged to the point where I couldn't even feel the pain of his rejection anymore. When he came by to tell me he had found his soul mate, I was devastated and relieved. There was a huge part of me that was falling in love with you, but there was also a small bit that couldn't shake him. When he visited it hurt, but it gave me permission to love you wholly like I should have been doing all along." He pecked Sherlock's lips and curled into him. "It hasn't been very long though, and I'm still wrapping my head around all of this. If we did it now, it would be wrong for both of us."

They stayed like that until Sherlock made some grumbling about his back and they moved their cuddle to the bedroom.

It was two weeks after John had confessed that he wasn't ready either that they actually did the deed. There was a lot of talk about how far they were both comfortable going and what acts were off-limits. There were discussions about whether they should plan or let it be spontaneous. In the end, it was as most people would expect from them: post-case.

There hadn't been anything quite as terrifying as the ordeal with Moriarty – though it had only been two weeks – and their cases were fairly standard. Sherlock got called in for a homicide and John tagged along. Sherlock told all of Lestrade's team about his deductions and then someone had shifted a shelf and there was a weapon that completely changed everything. Sherlock flapped around excitedly and drew conclusions at a rate that made John's head spin. John half expected them to go running off after a killer once he had wrapped things up, and that was fine, but the excitement and happiness and sheer brilliance that Sherlock was displaying was making John ridiculously horny. He tried to mask it, but Sherlock being Sherlock just glanced at him and could tell. His gaze turned from excited to lust-fueled, and he left the scene for Lestrade and his people to deal with.

Sherlock hailed a cab and nudged John in, telling the address to the driver. They had barely shut the door in the cab when John lunged for Sherlock. They lips pressed together and John pushed a tongue past Sherlock's so he could lick the inside of the top row of his teeth. Sherlock moaned, and the cabbie banged on the partition between them.

"Lovebirds," he called. "You're fifteen from your place. Keep it in your pants until then."

Sherlock pulled back and looked as if he was going to say something rude, so John cut in and said, "Sorry. We just got carried away. You know how it is when you love someone so much you can't keep your hands off of them." He never pulled away, but only their noses were touching rather than their mouths at this point.

"Sure, but the missus and I can keep our bloody hands out of our pants," he grumbled.

John giggled and brushed a hand across Sherlock's cheekbone. "Sorry," he repeated. He then proceeded to shift so he was leaning into Sherlock without seeming overtly sexual, though his hand was tortuously placed on the inside of one of Sherlock's thighs.

The cab ride may have only been about fifteen minutes, but it felt like a hell of a lot longer than that. By the time they had pulled up, Sherlock had already retrieved a clump of bills from his pocket and was practically tossing them at the cabbie. He then dragged John out of the vehicle and pulled him through the various doors they needed to get through and up a few stairs so they could put the world outside of their bedroom and get on with whatever they needed to get on with.

The kisses once John had shut the bedroom door were horrifically slow. He felt his knees going out and gasped desperately into Sherlock's mouth. He gripped the fine fabric of Sherlock's shirt so hard that he was concerned somewhere far off that it would rip, but he didn't care enough to stop doing it.

Sherlock's ability to kiss may have improved during their time together but the differences in their experience levels soon became apparent. John deftly stripped Sherlock of his shirt and belt without looking. He was undoing the zipper of Sherlock's trousers without his eyes when he felt Sherlock fumbling with the topmost button on John's shirt.

John plucked Sherlock's hands from his collar and used them as leverage to walk him back to the bed and topple him backwards onto it. Sherlock was clearly surprised, but he stayed blessedly silent and let John remove his trousers and socks before taking off his own clothes, leaving them both in their pants.

John scooted Sherlock up the bed so he was in the center and then he crawled over him. He felt fairly self-conscious about his scar. No one other than his doctor had seen it, and even then John had insisted on having a drape so he could cover it up immediately after the man was done examining it. This was different. This was Sherlock. There would be no judgment there.

Sure enough, Sherlock gasped and raised a hand to it, tracing the unmarked skin around it reverently. He then kissed John gently and the tone of everything they were doing shifted.

John flipped Sherlock so the taller man was on top. Sherlock looked a bit stunned when his position changed, but he experimentally nudged his crotch against John's and his eyes rolled back when they touched. He hung his head and John pressed a kiss to his curls.

"Take what you need," he whispered.

With a moan, Sherlock began to move in awkward, jerky thrusts. It was obvious that he had never done this before, and John thought it was glorious. After a few minutes, he pushed Sherlock up and pulled at the elastic on his pants. "Lose these," he commanded.

Sherlock complied, tossing both pairs behind his shoulder and not caring where they ended up. John knew that he would be the one picking them up later but that thought escaped him as Sherlock placed awkward kisses along his neck. John reached down and grabbed Sherlock's behind so he could pull the thinner man close to him. Sherlock let out a great groan, and he started humping John's thigh in short, jerky thrusts that, once again, showed inexperience. John rocked up into the other man, not caring as much about his own pleasure as he cared about touching Sherlock and whispering encouragements to him as he allowed the animalistic side of his brain to shut out the logical side for once.

With little warning other than the unevenness of his thrusts, Sherlock's bowed in and his head snapped back. He let out a sound that could best be categorized as a cross between a moan and a gurgle and then dropped like a marionette whose strings had been cut. He gasped for air and shook, clutching at John like he was about to float away.

"You're beautiful, Sherlock. So gorgeous," John whispered, tracing the vertebrae he could reach with the tips of his fingers.

"John, oh my God," Sherlock moaned. "I think I know why people murder others because of sex."

John laughed harder that he should have at that comment, but he couldn't help it. His body shook, propelling Sherlock up and down with each muscle movement. He was trying to stop but then Sherlock gave him that petulant look he liked to flash around when John was purposely making fun of him but that just set him off even more. He giggled and snorted uncontrollably until he was able to draw a deep breath and rocked up into Sherlock's abdomen.

"What should I do?" Sherlock asked as he realized what John was doing.

"Just stay right there," John panted. "Are you uncomfortable? We can move if you are. I want this to be good for you."

Sherlock rolled so they were on their sides and he placed a hand on John's chest just above his nipple. "Like this for now."

The promise of more sex with Sherlock after this was over short-circuited John's brain. With a strangled moan, he cupped his penis and began to thrust into his right hand as his left went into Sherlock's curls to stroke the back of his scalp and the nape of his neck. Sherlock rubbed his thumbs over John's nipples.

"You're fantastic," John gasped as he rocked into his hand. He buried his face in Sherlock's shoulder and picked up the pace of his thrusts. He was close when they started, and it didn't take long before Sherlock was kissing his head and he was coming.

Everything just kept getting better. They still bickered like an old married couple, but they were so in love. There were serial killers and lazy mornings spent in bed after a case. There were overbearing brothers and said brother's partner stepping in as a translator or a mediator for whatever their soul mate was saying. There was sex where they left each other bruised and hoarse, and there was sex where they rediscovered each other with reverence that ran so deep it frightened them sometimes. There were police officers that hated them and landladies that loved them beyond belief. There was a bucolic cottage with parents that was visited on holidays and there was another bucolic cottage in another part of the countryside with beehives, a lab, a garden, and a room for writing that came many years down the road but was dreamed about for long before.

To those on the outside, there was a man who saw color and an unfortunate man who would never see what his soul mate saw.

In their eyes, there was just Sherlock and John, and for John, not being able to see color was worth having Sherlock as his soul mate.

A/N: Eighteen days, seven cities, and my first post-college apartment later, here is the final chapter. It took from the middle of last December until a few days before I began to publish to complete this story, and I just wanted to give a big thank you to those of you who have been so loving and supportive while I was posting this. For a while, I thought that this particular story would never see the light of day, and the strong positive feedback I've gotten from so many of you has been incredible. I'm so blessed to have beautiful people like you read what I write! I love you all very much! xoxoxo

Addendum: Thanks to everyone who pointed out the formatting faux pas that happened when this initially was posted. I dun goofed.