.

Diplomatic Relations
John navigates the narrow boundaries of Sherlock's sexuality.
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock and am making no money from this work of fanfiction.

Also, note the rating. I'm not kidding - this is SLASH.

.

Sherlock prefers to receive, sexually speaking. It doesn't make him subordinate in the relationship – in fact he mostly holds the reins, all things being equal – he just likes the sensation of it. Maybe it's that he's a little lazy. He likes to let John do all the work, while he dictates exactly how he wants it, how hard and how fast.

John, bless him, doesn't seem to mind.

And to be honest, when Sherlock does the, er, steering, as he does do on occasion, there's a little too much sensory stimulus. It's difficult to concentrate properly. And he can get a little careless when he's caught up in the moment; they learned that the hard way. It ends up being a bit of a wash, because he gets irritated by the whole thing - he wants to keep the strokes firm and even, and also see to John's enjoyment (which John is very good at when it's his turn), but mostly Sherlock wants to focus on his own pleasure, and it's difficult to do that properly with everything else going on.

.

"Alright?" asks John, when he's about half way in and still gently pressing forward. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock frowns. "No talking." He knows this annoys John, who likes to say that good communication is the key to good sex (Sherlock can't imagine what dime-store sex psychology John has been reading; obviously corresponding genitalia is the key to good sex).

But John follows orders like the good soldier he is, working carefully in, and he doesn't ask again but he does notably slow down, and one of his hands snakes around. Checking that Sherlock is still enjoying this, no doubt.

Sherlock finds John's need for reassurance irritating. John says he can't enjoy himself if he thinks he's hurting Sherlock, which is patently ridiculous. 'I'm not a ruddy woman,' he'll protest, when John takes too long with the prep (he loves the prep) or when he won't go as hard as Sherlock wants it.

(John knows he's not a woman; they're generally a lot more eager to please).

"Faster," Sherlock demands, wriggling backwards.

John catches his hips and holds him as he presses all the way in. "Don't hurt yourself," he mutters, seating himself fully in a good hard stroke. Sherlock grunts in satisfaction, squirms a little to feel it better. Clenches down around John.

"Christ, Sherlock!"

"Go," Sherlock demands. "Go on, now. Hard."

"Not too hard," John says. "Oh Lord, give me a minute. Ugh." But he does pick up the rhythm, while Sherlock drops his head happily down onto the pillow and braces himself against the strokes.

"Come on, John," he says, muffled against the pillowcase. He likes this part best, because for a moment the adrenaline spikes and it sends his mind someplace clear and cold, like the morphine but slightly more socially acceptable. The pounding, the aching stretch, and the rocking motion; all of it triggers a dopamine high. Not to mention John's careful fingers pinching at his sensitive tip, or sliding down to grip him at the root, making him jack himself off. Sherlock moans, bites the duvet cover. If any part of John got close enough, he'd bite that as well.

They learned that the hard way, too.

"Good?" says John.

"Mmm-hmm. Keep going."

"Lift up a little."

Sherlock doesn't want to; he likes to hump against the bed, although he knows it makes the angle more difficult for John. "Harder," he says instead.

"I go any harder and you'll sit funny for a week," John warns.

"Do it."

John pulls back a little, presses him forward so his weight's over his hands. Rearranges himself between Sherlock's spread thighs. Adjusts his grip.

Sherlock closes his eyes and waits.

.

John has never met a real genius before. He thought he had: it's such an overused word, these days, that practically everyone is some kind now. He's been called one himself, more than once, after a surgery that brought someone back from the very brink, or a particularly acute diagnosis. Fortunately he never believed it. He's good at what he does, he hopes; perfectly capable of using his training and his experience to very good effect - but he's no genius.

So it would be unfair, he thinks, to ask Sherlock to act like a normal boyfriend (not that they're boyfriends) - Sherlock's not normal.

He's better than normal.

Sherlock helps people.

And John, who came back to London with nothing worth having, nothing to fight for, is helping. Most days, that seems like enough to be getting on with.

He knows he spoils him. Can't help it, really. But a man like Sherlock shouldn't have to scrape away at every little thing, like the rest of them. Shouldn't have to worry about getting his own food (the best way to get Sherlock to eat, he's discovered, is to cook something for himself, set it nearby wherever Sherlock is currently stewing over a case, and then, with elaborate pantomime, pretend that he has forgotten something in another room. When he comes back there's a decent chance that his sandwich will have a bite out of it; sausages or crumpets, which Sherlock particularly likes, apparently, will be gone. Salads however will go untouched. It's not that John thinks he's fooling Sherlock, it's more like he's found a loophole in a trade embargo; Mycroft would understand it perfectly).

Shouldn't have to worry about getting to sleep (John usually finds ways to - wear him out).

John is a surgeon so he's not squeamish; he knows how to handle a body, how to go about probing and prodding. His job is to stick a finger in gaping wounds and root around inside, to push needles into broken bones, to cut away skin so that he can see the damage underneath. He knows you don't have to be too careful. But Sherlock's pale little bum, offered up so willingly, is a special case; he is always unfailingly gentle.

He does have to remind himself, frequently, that it's no good dating someone expecting them to change. The phrase that comes most often to his mind is, you knew what you were getting into.

For example. Sherlock will not initiate kissing, ever. That's up to John, if he wants to, usually right when Sherlock is limp and relaxed and John, done fussing over cleaning him up, will come up to claim his lips. Sherlock will respond slowly, like swimming through taffy. But he gets less tactile with every minute after orgasm, so John has to be quick about it.

He's fairly sure that Sherlock doesn't even know how to kiss properly; he wouldn't dream of mentioning it, of course (Sherlock is a tad defensive on the subject of his sexual experience, or lack thereof) but even after all these months, Sherlock won't do more than react to John's gentle pressure. Sometimes he'll open his lips to let John's tongue slide into his mouth, but he won't put his own tongue, just the tip of it, past the edge of his teeth. Also, although he accepts John's oral attention to his various other body parts with fairly good grace, he has never once even pretended to consider returning any of these favors.

John doesn't try to guess at what goes on in Sherlock's head; he doesn't know if Sherlock just thinks the idea is unpleasant, or if he's ashamed of looking inexperienced, or what. They've never talked about it. He understands that everybody has their own limits of what they're comfortable with, and Sherlock's are apparently quite restrictive.

Also. In general, it would not occur to Sherlock to have sex when he doesn't particularly want to. Just because John might want to; what does that matter? And John has a much more regular sex drive than Sherlock does – pretty much always up for it, actually, with a few notable exceptions – but he doesn't want to be always pushing for it, and Sherlock is quite emphatically not in the mood fairly often ... weeks at a time, in some cases.

And it is always cases that jam them up.

Sometimes, if it's been a few weeks, John will discretely duck out some Friday night to the pub, pick up a woman if he gets the chance. After all, he's not actually gay, and it's nice to have the bouncy bits around every once in a while. Occasionally he likes to get off without all the backseat driving.

He doesn't flatter himself by pretending that Sherlock doesn't know (of course he knows, he knows everything) but as he's careful (very careful) about protection, he suspects Sherlock rather prefers this arrangement. Prefers not to be burdened with John's messy human needs.

It's all a bit Victorian, really.

Outside of the actual sexual act, Sherlock prefers that the relationship be exactly as it was: there is an absolute embargo on any petnames, any nonplatonic expressions, any affectionate touching ... affection in general is a bit of a tight spot for Sherlock. A manly clap on the shoulder is about the most he'll allow. There is to be no offers of comfort; absolutely no hugging. Beyond the actual intercourse there is to maintained a general level of intimacy equal to any other two straight, repressed English flatmates who might privately be, at most, rather fond of each other.

John is not a greatly affectionate person (he's British, for God's sake) but he must admit to chafing a little under this strict interdiction. There are times when he would like to offer to Sherlock a little taste of what ordinary people take for granted. Times when he would like very much to take one of Sherlock's sensitive, long-fingered hands between his own, chafe it gently against the cold, maybe interlace their fingers within the pocket of Sherlock's long coat. He tries to imagine sometimes what it would be like, at the end of a long case, to draw Sherlock's arm around his shoulder, and stand there together against the chill.

He suspects that Sherlock knows this, and that such advances would be unwelcome, so he does not try to initiate them. He does have dreams sometimes – ordinary, domestic dreams – of spoon feeding Sherlock his breakfast, bite after bite. Stroking his curly hair off his forehead. Once, memorably, of kissing him in a taxicab, which turned out to be an ambulance headed for hospital.

He doesn't want to know what his therapist would say.

Actually, he doesn't want to know what she would say about any of it, really. Sometimes John wonders if he's gone crazy - him and his mad flatmate, trapped together in an endless folie a deux.

Because John loves this. Not to say he loves Sherlock (which he does, although he wouldn't put it that way - they're still friends first). He's just not entirely sure why Sherlock would chose him to sleep with, out of the 8 million inhabitants of the London Metropolitan Area.

Sometimes John worries that it's because he doesn't really know any other people.

He always feels like he's stumbled into some kind of prize he doesn't deserve, that someday somebody will politely pull him aside and explain that there's all been some kind of mistake. He can't help feeling that Sherlock will up and disappear on him, vanish from his life as quickly and completely as he appeared in it. There will be a case, or – God help him – another man (not Jim, please God, anyone but Jim), or maybe he will just get bored with it (and if anyone could get bored of sex, it'd be Sherlock). Because he doesn't need this, not like John does; he was celibate for years before they started up, he could do it again. Some day he'll give John the old heave-ho, thanks very much, old boy, dreadfully sorry. He won't think twice, not hesitate, never even consider that he's breaking John's poor heart. It just won't occur to him.

Because they're not equals, Sherlock and John. They never have been. John knows he doesn't have any claim on the great detective, no hold on him whatsoever – he doesn't have anything to offer him, besides his affection, which to Sherlock must seem like a pale, paltry thing to consider.

He's sure that Sherlock, if asked, would agree.

But secretly he's hoping that he never has to hear it out loud.

.

Sherlock knocks over a chair in the dark. "Bollocks."

He's come in late, after a case that went badly right from the start. Counterfeiters, of course – it would be. He'd finally had them trapped in the basement of the Savings and Loan, neatly wrapped up for Lestrade, right up until the second they'd gone out through some undocumented ventilation shafts. Now it's left for the London PD to round them up again, while Sherlock is sent home to fume.

It's perhaps 2 or 3 AM - Sherlock does not typically afford close attention to the precise time - when he comes stomping up the stairs. He grumbles his way around the flat, shedding items of clothing as he goes; his coat slung over the arm of the sofa, scarf dropped on the rug, shoes kicked spitefully into a corner.

"John," he shouts, up the second stairwell to John's bedroom. "Are you awake?" No answer.

He is irritated on number of levels: at the counterfeiters (an air vent escape? Really?), at Lestrade for saying, Honestly Sherlock, we can take it from here, meaning they may never catch the criminals - and at Anderson for looking so smug, when he didn't even know they were dealing with counterfeiters until Sherlock told him so.

What he wants more than anything is for John to shag the frustration right out of him, so tomorrow he can start over fresh.

He's down to just his pants as he climbs up to John's room, having left both his shirts on the stairs to be trod on tomorrow. Impatiently he pushes open the door, flicks on the lights. "John?"

John groans, wordless.

"Oh good, you're up."

"Didja get'm?" John manages, rolling over.

"The police will round them up, not to worry. Shove over." Sherlock shimmies out of his trousers and leaves them on John's floor.

He half sits up, squints at Sherlock. "You a'right?" His eyes run over Sherlock's arms and legs, checking for injury; it's one of his many fears, that Sherlock will decide that treating wounds is 'boring' and not mention one that slowly turns septic.

"Fine, yes. Better if you would learn to cease this senseless worrying."

"Come here, you daft loon," says John sleepily, lifting the blankets. Sherlock slips in at once, still wearing his shorts.

"Don't go back to sleep," he says. "I want us to have a go at it."

"Sherlock, it's the middle of the night," says John, rubbing at his swollen eyes. "Decent people are asleep."

"I don't see how that's relevant. I'm ready now. " He guides John's hand to illustrate his point.

"Oh, er, yes, you are." John takes his hand away. "Did you even consider bringing yourself off?" he asks, amused.

"I should think not," says Sherlock, somewhat haughtily. John sighs. Of course; why would he do it himself, when he can get John to do it for him?

"Sherlock, it's late. Just lie down and close your eyes, and it will go away."

Sherlock frowns. "Must we really play these games? You'd be back asleep much quicker if you just got straight to it."

"Sorry, Sherlock, it's not happening."

"Fine then," says Sherlock, "I'll do you." He pokes John impatiently in the shoulder. "Roll over."

John snorts. This is his own fault, he knows; last time Sherlock missed a case (he was knocked out with a tire iron - gave John a good shock, staggering into Baker Street with a bloodied head) he was spoiled shamelessly for the next week, worse than a new puppy at Christmas.

But a man's got to have a some self-respect. "Goodnight, Sherlock."

He expects Sherlock to go back to his own room, perhaps start not-at-all-passive-aggressively playing his violin directly below John's head for a few hours. Sherlock doesn't even like John's bedroom – it's too tidy, too plain; he always says it's god-awful.

"You don't want to?" says Sherlock, instead. He sounds … concerned. They both realize that this is the first time John has turned him down since they started this – thing, whatever it is. There's been times he hasn't been able to (stress at work really throws his whole system into disarray, to say nothing of the effects of alcohol), but he's never outright declined to try.

"Is this because I let the thieves escape?" asks Sherlock. "Because that is hardly fair, John. I can assure you they will be apprehended."

"Honestly, Sherlock, is that really what you think?"

John can feel fine grey eyes piercing through the dark; no doubt he has tilted his head in that particularly alien way. "Obviously not," he says, finally.

"Right, then." John firmly pats his hip, leans over to plant a smacking kiss on Sherlock's cheek – Sherlock squirms and grimaces – then settles with his back to Sherlock in the bed.

Within seconds, he is asleep.

For a good ten minutes Sherlock grumbles and fidgets, wishing John would wake up again. It's too hot under the blankets, and the sheets are itchy, the thread count nowhere near as high as his own.

Finally he rolls around to frown at the back of John's head. John shouldn't be ignoring him, even if he's asleep. It's not right. He nudges himself closer. John turns over, and Sherlock finds himself pleased. Maybe he likes to have John where he can keep an eye on him.

Cautiously he reaches out to tickle John's ear on his side, so that John turns his head on the pillow. It works – now John's slack, unconscious face is aimed his way. Sherlock studies him thoughtfully; John is perfectly well-formed, but he's not what you'd call an attractive man, exactly. His features are regular and ordinary. Sherlock is aware of course that his own looks are very much admired, and knows that it's quite common in romantic pairings for one partner to be more attractive than the other. But Sherlock finds that he is quite fond of John's face, really; it looks steady and dependable, which he is; honest, perhaps a bit thick – which he is – and kind.

Sherlock inches his own head gradually over onto John's pillow. He can feel the line of John's body against his own; John is built compactly, and is surprisingly dense. He would just fit under Sherlock's chin, if they ever laid that way.

John nuzzles forward in his sleep, nudging his nose into Sherlock's cheek. Stale, faintly sweet breath washes over his face. "Really, John," protests Sherlock, softly.

John moves restlessly away again and Sherlock traps him in place, one arm around the back of his shoulders, frowning. "Don't wriggle," he hisses at his sleeping companion. John grunts, quietly.

Cautiously, Sherlock reaches under the covers for John's hand, which is half-tucked underneath him. It takes some work to tug it out without waking him, but Sherlock manages over the course of the next twenty-five minutes.

Then he settles back with John's sausage-like fingers clasped between his own.

Soon he is dissatisfied again; he slides his long body partway underneath John's, pulling on him impatiently and rolling them together until John is draped over him like a heavy, slightly sweaty blanket. Sometimes John has him on his back like this; Sherlock doesn't like it as much – the penetration's not as deep – but John occasionally insists. Says he likes to watch.

It's sticky and hot and Sherlock doesn't really like it – he doesn't – but he lays awake a while longer, trying to get used to it. He supposes there might be a certain appeal, feeling crushed under the weight, being close. Not as good as sex, but John doesn't have to be awake for this.

He doesn't think he really sleeps, drifting in and out, keeping John tight against him and counting down until the time he can reasonably wake him up again. He thinks of things he'd like to tell him. Thinks of things he wants him to do. But John's asleep, his face pushed into to Sherlock's collarbone, the outline of his lips against his skin.

Sherlock supposes he can afford to wait.