Sherlock's asexual; everyone knows that, it's quite common knowledge for anyone that's bothered staying around him for more than a few hours. John notices when Mycroft and Sherlock bicker in Buckingham palace.

'Don't be alarmed, it has to do with sex.' The older Holmes is verbally poking at Sherlock's bruises.

'Sex doesn't alarm me.' Sherlock answers quickly. Too quickly, John noticed, so he's lying.

'How would you know?' Mycroft asks, rhetorically.

It clicked in John's head, then. Sherlock had answered too quickly to be telling the truth, so Sherlock may not be asexual, he might just be afraid. John wondered what had happened to his flat mate to make him so frightened. It was unlike Sherlock to react so obviously.

Sherlock didn't want Mycroft to bring up the subject around John. He answered quickly, and then let that line of conversation stop. Which, in and of itself, was also odd for the detective, who always needed to get the last word in. They're back at Baker street before John brings it up, though he's thought about not much else since. Sherlock's digging through the closet in his room, and John walks in to sit on his bed, looking as unthreatening as possible. Using his most un-threatening, but unrelenting voice, he asks the question that's been nagging him.

"Sherlock? Does sex… alarm you?" He takes advantage of Mycroft's earlier words. Sherlock pauses for a split second, shocked, and then pointedly does not turn around and keeps digging through the closet. Nobody else would have noticed the shift, but John knows his friend well enough to read the hesitance.

"Don't be absurd, there is a difference between alarmed, and disinterested. In case you haven't deduced, John, I am asexual."

"And that's fine." John softens his voice, "but if you are… alarmed, if you want to talk about it, or- It's fine. It's all fine. I just,- I'm here for you. If you need me. For anything." Sherlock continues to ignore him, and searches through his wardrobe. John gets the point, and leaves, putting on some tea in the kitchen. Thoughts are swirling in his head as he put the kettle on and stretched to draw cups from the top cupboard.

"Sherlock?" His voice is raised a little, "would you like some tea?"

"Yes, thank you." John startles at the voice so close behind him. Sherlock was leaning against the table, analyzing John. He can practically hear the gears turning in Sherlock's brain.

"Right. Toast?" John asks.

"No, thank you. The tea is fine." There's a moment of awkward silence before Sherlock speaks.

"You weren't joking? When you said that if I wanted to talk, you would listen?" There's uncertainty dripping from his voice, so John turns to look at him, eyes unwavering.

"Yes, of course. Always."

"How did you know?"

"Buckingham palace, you-" Sherlock interrupts him.

"I answered too quickly."

The kettle's boiled now, and John turns his back to prepare the cups, Sherlock's with sugar.

"Did you want to talk about it then? I'm a very good listener." John hands Sherlock the cup of tea. "Do you want to sit down?"

"No, no. This is… This is fine." He holds the teacup in his hands, and doesn't set it down, but he doesn't take a drink, either. His eyes are moving quickly, and John waits while Sherlock thinks of a way to begin.

"Whenever you like, Sherlock. Take your time." A few minutes pass before Sherlock speaks.

"When I was in boarding school, I was quite young. Younger than most of the students, I was ten and they were all at least fourteen. The headmaster had been quite fond of me, but the students were rather cruel. One day, I got out of the showers after gym, and all of the towels were gone. I looked in the lockers, but of course they had taken my uniforms, too.

"I waited until the next class began, and the halls would be empty, and I tried to sneak back to my room. But the Headmaster caught me just outside the nurse's station. He pulled me in, and asked what had happened. And then he locked the door…" Sherlock stopped, and paused for a moment. He opened and closed his mouth several times, but nothing came out. His hands still held the cup and saucer, shaking to badly that John feared Sherlock would drop them. Gently, he reached out and took the dishes from his flat mate. John sat silently, as patient as ever, and waited for him to continue.

"He pinned my arms down, and he- he didn't stop. When I asked him to, when I screamed and I cried, he didn't stop. When he finished, he put some sweatpants on the bed and left. Nobody believed me when I told them. Said he was an upstanding gentleman, and I shouldn't make up such horrid stories. Even Mycroft, even now, probably doesn't believe that it happened."

John opens his mouth to say something, anything, but to his surprise, Sherlock keeps talking.

"I got into quite a lot of trouble, after that. I ran away from home quite often. When Father became Ill some years later, Mycroft went off to uni, and I was sent to live with my uncle Rudy when I became 'too much to handle'." He's obviously quoting someone, and it makes John angry.

"My Uncle Rudy is a sick man, John. And he only kept one bed in his house, no wife or children of his own. And he- he had violated me in the same manner the Headmaster had. For three weeks, until Father had stabilized. I told Mycroft, when I got home, and he said that I was sick for accusing both the Headmaster and my uncle of something so disgusting. We didn't speak for many months afterwards.

"I started wondering the streets more often. I found trouble to keep me from being bored, and one of my first times using heroin, I overdosed in a flophouse. I was weak, and delirious, and one of the men there took advantage of it. It was Mycroft who found me, naked and bleeding in that room some hours later. I don't know how he knew, I can only assume that he had paid one of the other homeless men to keep him informed.

"I went on to uni, until it happened again. By this time, I had been so used to the taunts and scorn of my peers that it didn't bother me. But when Victor appeared to find me interesting, I was excited. I let him get away with much more privilege than I should have, because I thought he was my friend. He only really wanted the drugs, and my body, in that order. The cricket team became angry with me, and beat me a little, and when I got home Victor was stung out, wanting sex. He had always been rough, but this was worse. I didn't bother protesting much. I left uni after that, despite my family's objections."

"It's not your fault." John says. "None of that was your fault, Sherlock. You know that?"

"Of course I know that." Sherlock says, looking at the floor and away from John.

"And the next time I see bloody Mycroft, I'm going to tear him a new one. You told him you'd been raped, twice, and he ignored you!"

"Sherlock, listen. Really, listen." John takes that extra step forward, so he has Sherlock within arms reach. He gently cups his hand to Sherlock's pale cheek, and turns his face upwards, to look at him. "That will never happen to you again. I won't let anyone hurt you like that ever again. You're safe with me, always."

"I know." It hurts John that Sherlock's been hurt so much. The man he had trusted most had not only ignored his younger brothers pleas, but had literally handed him over to another monster, to be raped for weeks. God, Sherlock. His lonely, brilliant, damaged Sherlock, being hurt time and time again, with nobody to protect him. That was going to change now.

It was Sherlock who walked away first, while John cooked dinner. He knows that with the remains of the drug Irene Adler had injected into his system, Sherlock could do with the food. He plays his violin while John cooks up something simple. He returns with two plates in hand, and Sherlock sets down the violin. They eat while Sherlock yells at the telly, just like normal. Nothing's tense now, like John was afraid it would be. When they've finished eating, and the dishes, John brings Sherlock into the brighter kitchen light to test his cognitive ability. Mostly just to irritate the genius under guise… And okay, maybe to be so close to him is nice.

John's face is close to Sherlock's own, measuring the dilation of the pupils, and then suddenly Sherlock leans forward, closes his eyes and kisses John. It takes him by surprise, but then he's engulfed in the smell, and the feel, and the taste of Sherlock, and he's kissing back.

"Make them go away, John. The memories, the nightmares. I know you can make it better, please." Sherlock mumbles against John's lips, down his neck to suck at his pulse point.

"You sure?"

"Yes, quite. Come to bed, John." He nods, taking a hand around Sherlock's waist and walking with him, leading him to the bedroom with sounds, soft kisses.

"If you feel uncomfortable with something, or if you want to stop, say something." John states, sitting down on the bed, to strip Sherlock's jacket. "Promise me, Sherlock, that you will say something if you change your mind."

"Yes, I promise. I promise." Sherlock assures. John kisses the detective again, passionate but gentle and it sparks Sherlock's interest more. He tries not to think about all of the practice John's had, but lets the more experienced man take lead. Sherlock runs his hands across John's clothed back, moving to undo the buttons on his shirt. It was as if the temperature in Sherlock's room had sky rocketed. John helps him with the buttons, and pushes it off of is shoulders.

Sherlock's skin is pale and creamy, slight but built, with soft muscles just begging for kisses and nibbles. John wants to touch him.

"This alright?" John asks, hesitating to touch the other man

"Yes. God yes." He replies breathily.

John moves his mouth down, slowly teasing the skin and laving at his nipples. Sherlock moans pressing into the touch. He stares at John with blown pupils. John stops to remove his own sweater, and the white tee-shirt beneath it. Sherlock stops, to analyze Johns scars. There are several across his chest, one across his upper arm, and of course the one on his shoulder that spreads in tendrils to the size of Sherlock's palm. He sits up, to gently run his fingers over the scar, tracing all of the twists. John lets him, waiting patiently while Sherlock readjusts, and kisses the scar with the barest brush of lips.

When he turns his face to John again, he kisses him passionately, the swirl of tongues battling. John leans him back again, returning to kiss down his torso. He goes lower, nibbling on Sherlock's hipbone, and licking at the juncture where trousers meet pale, flawless skin.

"God, John." The words are drug past Sherlock's lips unconsciously. "Don't stop."

John humms his agreement, "I've got you, Sherlock. Don't worry." His hands pause at the detective's trouser buttons. "This okay?"

"God, yes."

With a smile, John pulls his partners trousers down, and pulls his length from his pants, where it sits half-hard with the first drips of pre-come gathering. John licks the underside of his cock, drawing a stifled whimper from Sherlock's lips, red and swollen from the kisses. John draws the tip into his mouth, swirling his tongue around the head before bobbing down, taking it in until he can feel the head touching the back of his throat. Reining his gag reflex, he bobs up and down, in a steady rhythm, until Sherlock is a moaning, trembling mass beneath him. John pulls Sherlock's pants off, and they join his shirt and trousers on the floor. He uses his hand to tease the head of Sherlock's cock and takes his sack into his mouth, laving gently.

John hand slips lower down Sherlock's back, to the swell of his arse, to his puckered hole. He messages it gently with one finger, keeping an eye on Sherlock's face, watching for a negative reaction. He pauses for a moment before he nods at John to keep going.

"Turn over." John insists, gently pulling on Sherlock's hip until the man is laying on his stomach, and looks over his shoulder to glance at John. He's nervous, John realizes. Of course he's nervous. Sherlock watches with curiosity as John spreads his cheeks apart, and bends his face down, to replace his finger with his tongue. Sherlock moans, thrusting back. John works the detective open with his tongue, laving and sucking, and drawing the most delicious noises from the normally stoic man. When he penetrates the first ring of muscle with the tip of his tongue, drawing a litany of 'John, John, John,' from Sherlock's mouth. The man writhed beneath him, gasping and moaning at the blonde's administrations. And John is incredibly glad that Sherlock is such a thoroughly clean person.

When Sherlock's hole is feeling loose enough, John rises to search for some lube, which he finds in Sherlock's hands. The pair meet gazes, and John can read the hesitation in his flat mates eyes.

"Is this okay, Sherlock? We can- we can go back to the other, if you want-" Sherlock cuts him off, as always.

"No, I want this. Just- be slow. Please." John nods, and slicks his finger, and Sherlock's hole thoroughly before gently pressing his finger in, working the man loose.

"W-wait. John, stop." The blonde stops, pulling back immediately.

"You alright?" Sherlock turns to lie on his back again, a little paler than before, but he nods his head.

"Yes, I'm fine. I just- I need to see you. Hear you talk, to know it's you. I know I'm safe with you, John." John smiles, raising himself up to kiss Sherlock thoroughly again.

Sherlock spreads his legs, offering himself to John's tender administrations. With Sherlock's words in mind, he returns to preparing his lover, talking in a sex-rough voice that sends blood straight to Sherlock's hard cock.

"You're so bloody brilliant, Sherlock. All of you. You're so beautiful, and brilliant. God, you're so brilliant, it's such a turn on. When you're pacing about the flat in that suit, which cups your ass perfectly, by the way; it drives me crazy. You have the nicest ass I've ever seen, Sherlock." He can fit two fingers now, with more lube. Sherlock's eyes have closed, and he moans when John brushes against his prostate, sending waves of desire rushing through him.

"You're so smart, Sherlock, you're fantastic. Bloody brilliant, at everything." He keeps praising Sherlock, giving the occasional lick to the leaking head of Sherlock's hard cock, just to earn that extra little moan.

When John's sure that he can enter Sherlock without any pain, he unbuttons his pants and pulls them down, along with his tight briefs. Sherlock's rather smug, he had a bet with Mycroft about what underwear John would wear.

John wets his cock, and settles between Sherlock's spread legs. "Is this okay? Are you ready?"

"Please, John." Sherlock's so hard now, he's sure he'll go mad if John teases him any longer. "Fuck me, please."

John slides slowly in, pushing past the first ring of muscle with ease, until he's fully seated within Sherlock.

John growls low in his throat. "Mm, you feel so good. You ready?" He's asking if Sherlock's adjusted yet, and he nods, readily. John thrusts shallowly first, adjusting in miniscule amounts until he's brushing Sherlock's prostate. The man bucks at the sensation, with a particularly loud groan.

"John! Do that again!" John doesn't stop and then they're both so close, he's worried he might come before Sherlock, which is entirely unacceptable. John keeps one hand on Sherlock's sharp hip bone, and the other strokes his cock until Sherlock shudders, and comes in spurts across his chest and stomach. With a few more thrusts, John follows after.

He flops down beside Sherlock, and sighs. "That was brilliant." He leans to kiss Sherlock again, because the man looks so bloody good all blessed out, post-orgasm.

"Yes. You're quite good… Thank you, John." Sherlock mumbles, sleepily. John makes himself rise and fetch a damp cloth to clean himself and Sherlock with, shucking the soiled condom into the trash. He returns to clean the come off of Sherlock's stomach, and rubs at his softened cock just a bit more than necessary to draw a whimper from the detective. When they're clean, John pauses, wondering if he was welcome or not. Before he can leave, Sherlock grabs his hand, pulling him toward the bed.

"Don't be dull, John. Come here." So John stretches behind Sherlock, on his back so his shoulder doesn't ache the next morning. Sherlock turns over to curl around the shorter man, with his head on his chest and John wraps his arms around Sherlock, holding him close. They stay like that the entire night, and do it again the next morning, when both men wake up aching and hard again. After that it becomes 'their' room, instead of Sherlock's.