John was still shocked on multiple levels when he and Sherlock were finally released from Scotland Yard and allowed to go home.

It had been a shock when Sherlock shot the bomb vest instead of at Moriarty. A bigger shock still when the vest didn't explode. Moriatry wouldn't have put himself in that kind of danger, and it was somewhat shocking that it hadn't occurred to Sherlock right away. The biggest shock of all was seeing how many men Lestrade and Mycroft had managed to summon to the site before the gun even had time to go off.

Level Three surveillance, evidently, was powerful stuff.

Sherlock had some cuts from the debris caused by flying pool tile, mostly superficial, and an angry burn on his right palm from trying to tuck away John's gun while the barrel was still hot. John considered himself damn lucky that he hadn't shat himself from fear, much less that he'd gotten away without a scratch.

Lestrade, using strong terms in a brook-no-nonsense voice, threw both John and Sherlock out of Scotland Yard after an intense four-hour briefing that became a shouting match. They marched downstairs in grim silence only to find Mycroft waiting for them in front of a sleek black limousine. Mycroft said nothing to either of them, just opened the car door and climbed into the front passenger seat next to the driver.

The sun was making a half-hearted attempt to rise into a cold, grey London sky. Sherlock sulked in the back seat, long limbs twisted away from John, nose pressed to the window as if trying to see something in the extreme distance. No "sorry you were strapped to what we both thought was a bomb, John," no "thanks for offering your life for mine, John," no "I appreciated the understanding nod you gave when I silently suggested killing the both of us, John."

Bloody typical.

Once they reached Baker Street, John flung himself out of the car and straight up the stairs to his bedroom. While his personal habits had become less stringently military in the last few months, the need for order, for something regular, took hold of him. Every item of his clothing was put into the laundry hamper. He lined his shoes up precisely in the closet and set his watch on the nightstand with the dial facing the bed.

God only knew what kind of chaotic vortex Sherlock was creating below, John thought as he tipped his head and listened. No telly, meaning that Sherlock was going to find some other way to amuse himself. Instead of test tubes chattering against one another or even, God forbid, bullets being aimed at the wall, there was nothing. Silence.

Didn't expect that.

John shrugged, then found a pair of pyjamas that wouldn't be too rough against the patches of skin that had been rubbed raw by the weight of Moriarty's apparatus. He had barely had time to slip into them when he finally heard a sound. Stair. The eighth stair up to his bedroom creaked under any weight, and its protesting squawk meant that John's sanctuary was about to be invaded.

He steeled himself, standing straight with his arms folded as he waited for Sherlock to bluster through the door. What he wasn't prepared for was a knock. It was more like a scratch, really. Almost timid.

"John?" Sherlock's voice was smaller than John had ever heard it, not soft but actually small.

"Yeah." John ran his hand through his hair. "I'm awake, come in."

The door swung open slowly, revealing Sherlock, wrapped in his coat over pyjamas despite the warmth of the flat. He was hunched over, his pallid face marked with two spots of color high on his aristocratic cheekbones. He spoke at the same time as John.

"Sherlock, are you-"

"John, I need-"

John waved him on, frowning. "You first."

"I need a doctor."

Oh Christ, he was going into shock, or the burn was worse than John had first thought? "What's wrong?" he asked as he grasped Sherlock's wrist and examined the reddened palm. There were a few small blisters, undoubtedly painful but nothing that would have Sherlock asking for medical assistance. What, then? Sherlock's eyes were bright but not feverish, half-hooded under lids that were understandably drooping after a couple of sleepless nights. Pulse rapid but not thready, so not shock. "Sherlock - tell me what's wrong."

John couldn't make out the word that Sherlock half-grunted, half-whispered. It sounded like lard but that couldn't have been right. "What?"

Lowering his head, Sherlock murmured, "Hard."

"Hard? Hard to do what?"

Long seconds elapsed. Sherlock finally turned to John but his eyes were so nearly closed that they were impossible to read. He seemed to hunch over even further, as if collapsing in on himself. The flush on his face deepened to scarlet. He opened his mouth, closed it again, then took a deep breath and gave it another try.

"I'm. Hard." He waved his uninjured hand downward.

It took a Herculean effort for John not to burst out laughing. "You don't need a doctor for that."

"I do if it's been six hours."

The mental math wasn't difficult. "Adrenaline high from not being blown to Kingdom Come?" John winced at his own poor choice of words. He saw Sherlock's expression crack just a bit, the tiniest hint of a wry grin twisting at one corner of his mouth. "Okay, sorry, I'm not at my best right now. What you need is...hang on." He picked up his medical bag and rummaged around for a moment. "Pseudoephedrine. Vasoconstrictor, but you know that." Despite an unexpected tremor in his hand he managed to toss the package neatly to his flatmate. "Give it twenty minutes or so, then have a wank. I'll be sleeping the sleep of the not-quite-dead up here, won't hear a thing."

"Can't." The monosyllable sounded as if it had been taken hostage from Sherlock's more extensive vocabulary and left to die in the middle of the Sahara.

John blinked a few times. "Sherlock, I haven't slept in my own bed for two nights, I am not going to gad about London at this ungodly hour just so you can make noises-"

"No," Sherlock groaned. "I mean, I can't."

"You don't mean that you've never had an-"

"No, I'm fine in my sleep, or with other people. I just can't...myself. Doesn't work, never has."

While John took a moment to absorb this piece of entirely-too-personal information, Sherlock opened the package with a thumbnail and took out the pill, then swallowed it dry. Many uncomfortable moments elapsed.

"Well," John said at last, "that explains your encyclopedic knowledge of minutiae - nothing else to do during your teenaged years."

Sherlock's answering laugh was something between a cough and a bark. "How many of these can I take?" He winced, leaning forward a little more.

John's body twinged sympathetically. "I'd say one every eight hours, but we can make it one every four if the swelling doesn't subside-"

"I mean, how many can I take right now?"

It had been a struggle for Sherlock to ask the question, John realized, and his earlier resentment suddenly melted away. "It's that bad?"

Sherlock bit his lip, then nodded slowly. "It's...never been..." He lowered his head, misery and humiliation warring for dominance on his expression.

John was instantly by his side, peering up at Sherlock's face. His right hand, the one that didn't tremble, reached up and cupped one flushed cheek. "Sherlock. Look at me." The only answer he received was a negative shale of the head, so he decided to try humor. In his best imitation of Mrs. Hudson, he chirped, "I'm your friend, Sherlock, not just your doctor."

That earned him another quirk of the lips.

Keeping his tone light despite a sudden dryness in his mouth, John said, "Right, up you get." Sherlock just stared at him. "Coat off, up on the bed."

"No."

"C'mon, you went to public school, I've heard about-"

"No."

"Sherlock, believe me when I tell you that this isn't just going to go away on its own, not after six hours and a bit, no matter how much Sudafed you cram down your throat."

"I'm not going to have you lecture me on masturbation technique!"

"I wasn't planning a LECTURE!"

They were standing inches away from one another, John slightly on tiptoe to reduce the height difference, Sherlock trying but failing to lean away from John. For a moment John could not comprehend the expression on Sherlock's face because he had never seen it: utter confusion.

"You don't mean..."

John drew himself up taller. "What do you think I mean?"

"Hands-on demonstration?" Sherlock's voice rose in both pitch and volume. "You?"

"Unless you're intending to bring in a prostitute, to which I would object on the most strenuous terms, I don't see another solution." John forced himself to look Sherlock in the eye and found both resignation and humiliation in his friend's gaze. "I was in the army, Sherlock. Sometimes this happens."

"It doesn't happen to me." Sherlock sighed, "except right now, it is happening and it is embarrassing and it bloody hurts, John."

John nodded, keeping his breathing slow and even despite his rapidly climbing heartbeat. "Nothing else for it, then. Like ripping off a plaster, only...better." He reached up and slowly helped Sherlock out of his coat. "Get in bed. I'll make it darker in here. I promise not to look, okay?" True to his word, John drew the curtains and turned off the lights, giving Sherlock time to crawl under the covers unobserved. "I've got...just a minute." John went through his supplies again and pulled out a tube of lubricant. "I'll warm it in my hands first."

"Prepared, are we?" Sherlock asked, his tone amused yet strained at the same time.

"Not everyone in the world is an ascetic, Sherlock, so kindly piss off," was John's reply as he joined Sherlock on the bed. "I'll make this quick - just lie back and think of England. Or whatever, whoever." He heard Sherlock's breath hitch as he reached for the waistband of Sherlock's pyjama bottoms. The flesh was swollen to the point of unyielding rigidity. No wonder Sherlock was feeling so miserable.

Sherlock's eyes were squeezed shut, closing himself off from John's left hand. For his part, John was trying not to look at the outline of Sherlock's face in the muted light, to keep his thoughts clinical, or at least separate enough from his actions to prevent...

No, no, no. Not good, not good at all. He might be able to control himself, just barely, as long as he couldn't see Sherlock's face contort with pleasure, so John closed his eyes. Better. Now as long as he didn't hear Sherlock's voice...

"John." Dark, warm.

"Ssh."

"John." Warmer, breathier.

"Trying to concentrate, here."

Unsurprisingly, Sherlock didn't take the hint. "John, talk to me."

"Oh, for God's sake!" Sherlock liked details, so details he would get. "Anatomy lecture, part one. You're hard because blood has filled up your corpora. The corpora are the spongy areas on your penis. There are three of them, in case you're interested."

"Mmm."

John bit back a curse. "Your testicles are rising - did you know the right one goes up first in most men?"

He could almost hear Sherlock's eyes snapping open. "Actually, no, I didn't."

"Yep." John adjusted his grip, oddly pleased when Sherlock let out a surprised gasp. "The head of your penis is enlarging, and it's probably darker than when we started a few minutes ago."

Was Sherlock looking?

"Not enough light in here, I can't see."

Yes, he was looking.

"Sherlock, please focus. I'm getting quite a workout on my left shoulder from this and I don't know how much longer I can keep going, okay?"

"Okay." Sherlock's breathing was heavier now and his hips bucked up every few strokes. "Tell me more."

He had to be kidding. Anyone else would be. But this was Sherlock Holmes, not anyone else, surely not a normal man by anyone's definition. John turned a bit on his right side so his free hand came in contact with Sherlock's sweat-dampened hair. "Perineum feels warm, right?"

"Yes...yes..."

"Tingly?"

"That's not a scientific term." John changed the angle of his strokes and Sherlock actually groaned in pleasure. "Okay, yes, tingly."

"Now we're getting somewhere. Don't try to control your respiration, don't hold anything back. Your blood pressure's going to spike but that's normal, don't worry."

"John, I can't think anymore."

John fought the urge to silence Sherlock with a fierce kiss. He sighed instead. "It's fine."

No point thinking that I'm about to make you come, why would you want to think about something so...boring.

"John?"

Sherlock's voice was liquid sin.

"It's okay, Sherlock," John soothed, not feeling the least soothed himself. God, that voice was going to be the death of him.

"John, it's too much...I can't...oh, John, please..."

Not the little death, either. The big struck-down-in-his-prime-by-lightning death.

"It's okay, it's okay, ssh, just let it happen, you're starting to feel some spasms but it'll be good soon, I promise." John felt Sherlock's head thrashing back and forth on the pillow and continued to smooth his hair, which was now matted with sweat. "Are you all right?"

No words this time, just a soul-wrenching moan. "Ohhhhhhh..."

John tried not to laugh at the thought of how many people would pay a thousand pounds just to see this man go speechless. Sherlock let out another low cry and arched his back, and within a second John felt warm semen flowing over his fingers. Quickly John moved his hand away from the oversensitive organ and placed it low on Sherlock's abdomen. The sweat-sheened flesh was cool over fluttering muscles.

They lay together in a silence that was surprisingly free from awkwardness. Sherlock's left arm was thrown over his eyes and his right lay on top of the blankets, his injured hand facing upward. When John stilled his stroking of Sherlock's hair, Sherlock gave a little moan of disappointment and maneuvered himself until the top of his head collided with John's palm. The catlike gesture made John smile in the darkness, then he chuckled aloud.

"What?" Sherlock demanded.

"Nothing, nothing." The reply was negated by the laughter that bubbled out of him until he had to turn his head into the pillow to muffle it. John could feel Sherlock's body stiffen as if expecting a blow. "Nothing's wrong, it's just - well, I made Sherlock Holmes come."

To his surprise, Sherlock actually laughed. "Yes, you did. Rather spectacularly."

"And loudly," John added, feeling quite smug.

"Really? I don't remember. That's why I hadn't pursued orgasm more regularly - it dulls one's perceptions."

John rolled his eyes. "You're welcome." Finally, he had to deal with the reality that his left hand was sticking to Sherlock's skin. He peeled himself away with a grimace. "Need to clean up, be right back."

Walking wasn't as easy as he had hoped, not with the erection he'd gotten while pleasuring Sherlock. Nonetheless, John washed up, then returned to the bedroom with a warm, wet flannel in one hand and a glass of water in the other. "Your doctor says to drink this, you're dehydrated." Their fingers touched and John had to look away, unable to bear the gleam in Sherlock's eyes that was unmistakeable even in the muted light. They touched again when Sherlock handed back the glass, and John nearly jumped at the contact.

Sherlock wiped himself clean, then pulled his pyjama pants up. In doing so he flexed his burned hand and hissed in pain. "I hadn't noticed how much this hurt."

"You can only register pain in so many places at once," John said, taking the wet cloth from Sherlock and tossing it in the direction of the hamper. So much for military neatness. "Do you want ice for your hand?"

"John, would you take a look at it?"

Not in a million years, John thought. "I can't see it very well."

"Then turn on the lights," Sherlock said softly.

John froze, his shoulders slumped. "I can't."

"Can't, or won't?"

"Take your pick."

Sherlock shifted his body, long legs stretching so far they undid the covers at the foot of the bed. "John, you just gave me a tutorial in my personal hydraulics whilst supplying the most astonishing orgasm I've ever known, but you won't look at me?"

When he put it that way...wait.

"You don't have orgasms. Saying that I gave you your most astonishing orgasm is the same as saying I'm your favourite flatmate."

"I DO have orgasms, I just can't produce one on demand." Only Sherlock could mumble and sound exasperated at the same time. "Since I sleep through most of them, obviously they're not very interesting. And occasionally when I've dabbled in things 'outside my area,' as I once described it to you, there's been some degree of success."

"Not exactly a ringing endorsement of sexuality," John commented wryly as he perched on the edge of the bed opposite Sherlock. "No wonder you've been wanting to give it a miss."

"I have new data," Sherlock said, drawing out each word as if testing its weight. "My hypothesis might be faulty."

"You don't mind having your senses dulled?"

There was a pause while Sherlock considered the question. "Not all my senses were dulled, John. Some of them were...particularly gratified."

John's breath came out in a mirthless laugh. "Feeling better, then?"

"Much. Although oddly I'm wide awake and half asleep at the same time."

"That's the combination of the Sudafed and the sex. I'd go with the sleep if I were you. God knows that's my plan." He expected Sherlock to get up at that point, but there was no movement. John looked over his shoulder and saw Sherlock lying on his side, his piercing gaze focused on John. "Oi. Planning to go to your own bedroom any time soon?"

"Why? Do I take up too much room?"

Right. That was too much. John gritted his teeth and stood up, grunting at the effort. "Fine. Then I'll just go lie on your bed, assuming there isn't some sort of experiment going on involving a straw hat, some nail varnish, and a kangaroo foetus."

"You're rather tense, Doctor Watson," Sherlock said around a yawn. "Perhaps you should have a good wank."

"You...you know what? I should throw myself down right here beside you and do just that." John sat down again, hoping that the collision of his ass and the mattress jolted Sherlock in an unpleasant way. "Except you'd probably enjoy it."

Sherlock's voice was deep, dangerous. Tempting. "Probably. I would probably learn a great deal from observing you."

"Yeah, followed by immediate deletion from your hard drive? Flattering, but I'll pass."

"Oh, no. I'd keep this information." There was a pause that somehow reminded John of a smirk. "And I'd almost certainly want to help."

Exasperated and more than a little aroused, John scrubbed his hands over his face as he turned toward Sherlock. "If you're just winding me up, Sherlock, then I swear to you-"

Whatever he was about to swear never found words, because Sherlock pulled John down to the bed and began softly stroking along his jawline.

"Come on, John," Sherlock wheedled. "Show me something shocking."