"Define sex."

Sherlock frowned. "What do you mean?"

"If you mean the first time I had sexual intercourse, that's a different story from the first time I had an orgasm with someone else. Or the first time I gave someone else an orgasm. Or--"

"The first one. Intercourse."

"All right, but it's the least interesting of the lot." John paused to sip his coffee. "I was seventeen and it was with the girl I was seeing at the time. It was her first time as well, so it was fantastically awkward and neither of us enjoyed it very much."

"You were spectacularly boring as a teenager, weren't you?"

"Completely. You'd have hated me."

He wasn't going to leave it there. He couldn't possibly resist. John took another sip of coffee and waited. Three… two…one…

"The first time you had an orgasm with another person: was it before or after that?"

John smiled and balanced the mug on his knee. "Before. I was still in school, actually. I went to a party and there were some girls there from another school. We all paired off and found dark corners to get off in, and the girl I was with -- God, I can still see her face but I've no idea what her name was. I think I had a hand up her shirt, so I thought I was doing all right, but then she unbuttoned my jeans and stuck her hand down my pants and started wanking me. I think I lasted all of a minute."

"What happened after that?"

"We carried on snogging. I had a hand in her knickers, but I didn't know what I was doing, so eventually she put a stop to it."

"Did you think of that as sex at the time?"

John pressed his lips together and considered. "I don't know. It was a long time ago and everything about sex was confusing and weird. It was more like checking sex acts off a list: Squeezed tits, check. Fingered a girl, check. Got hand job, check. Got blow job, check. But I suppose it's true that intercourse was the big one on the list."

He glanced over to see Sherlock staring up at the ceiling, his fingertips pressed together in what John called his "thinking pose." The wheels were definitely turning. He waited.

"First time you gave someone else an orgasm."

"Sadly, it was much later. My third girlfriend took pity on me and taught me how to perform oral sex properly on a woman. Apparently my failures up to that point had been due to--" He made air-quotes with his fingers. "--treating a cunt like a cock."

Even from this distance he could see Sherlock's consternation. "So up until then you hadn't been able to satisfy a partner?"

"Well… I was never quite sure before that, but after, it was painfully clear I'd been shit in bed." Talking about his teenaged sexual ineptness was really quite depressing. "Sorry to have disappointed you."

"Oh no, it's quite all right. My expectations weren't terribly high."

John sighed. "Yes, after the last few days I suppose they weren't." He stood and took the empty mug to the kitchen.

"What have the last few days got to do with it?"

"Nothing. I'm going out for the afternoon. When should I be back?"

"Whenever you like."

John pulled on his jacket. "I meant, what time are we leaving?"

"For what?"

Jesus. "The club."

"We aren't going tonight."

John froze halfway through pulling his arm through a sleeve, his stomach twisting unpleasantly. Had what happened last night been too much for Sherlock? Had John somehow crossed a line and Sherlock wasn't interested anymore? Or had this obsession run its course and just like that, just as John was really starting to enjoy it, they were done? "But… why not?"

"It's Monday." The tone implied that should answer John's question completely.

John blinked. "And… there's no sex on Mondays?"

"The club is only open Thursday through Sunday."

"Ah. All right then." That sudden rise of anxiety quelled, but it was now replaced by a realization of how disappointed he would have been if this were actually over. There was something to mull over on his walk.

A few nights off might be a good thing, though. He'd be well rested for Thursday, at any rate.

*****

"John, is that you, dear? Are you all right?"

John winced and pushed himself to standing. "Yes, I'm fine, Mrs. Hudson, thanks. It's just a bit dark and I tripped over this -- who the hell moved this table?"

"Sherlock was doing something down here earlier, I think. He seems to have perked up a bit. Is there a case?"

John smiled weakly. "Of sorts. Some experiments, anyway."

She made a face. "Oh, he hasn't got anything too beastly up there, I hope. I don't know how you live with him sometimes."

"I wonder myself."

"But we love him anyway." She gave him a knowing look and shook her head. "Oh, there's my kettle. I do love chamomile before bed. Put some ice on that leg now, and get some sleep."

"Yes, of course. Thank you. Good night." As soon as she disappeared around the corner, his face contorted in pain. Fuck, but that had hurt. He was going to have a nasty bruise on his shin in the morning.

He limped up the stairs and opened the door to the flat. To his utter non-surprise, Sherlock was embedded in the sofa, his face eerily lit by the glow of his laptop. As usual, Sherlock didn't acknowledge his entrance. John shed his coat, hung it by the door, and crossed to sit on the opposite end of the sofa. He rubbed at his bruised shin, which made it feel slightly better. Sherlock still didn't look up.

John waited three full minutes before giving in and speaking first. "How's the data analysis going?"

"Did you bring it?"

"Bring what?"

"I asked you to look for a copy of QX while you were out."

"You do realize that when I'm not here, I can't actually hear you?"

Sherlock's gaze remained fixed on the laptop screen, though there was now a bit of tension in his voice. "I texted you."

John fumbled for the phone in his pocket; sure enough, there were three texts from Sherlock. "Sorry, I never heard it ding. What's QX, anyway?"

"Just something for research. It can wait until morning." His fingers flew over the keys for a solid minute.

John sighed and leaned back into the cushions. No response. He sighed again, more dramatically this time. "I had a fairly miserable night out, in case you were wondering."

"I wasn't." Sherlock turned his head and gave him an odd look. "Oh, is this where I'm supposed to ask you to tell me about it?"

"Yes, that's the expected response to a friend saying they've had a miserable evening."

Sherlock turned back to the laptop. "Fine. What happened?" There was nothing remotely approaching interest in his tone.

"Well, if you must know, I spent the better part of three hours in two different pubs chatting up half a dozen women, and every single one of them rejected me."

Sherlock frowned and paused his typing, turning to look at John again. "You went out with the intention of meeting someone?"

"Yes, and I failed spectacularly."

"Why?"

"That's exactly the question, yes. I had four straight nights of spectacular sex arranged by you, but on my own I can't get a woman to let me buy her a drink." He shook his head.

"Three nights, not four. And I meant, why did you want to meet someone?"

"Because I'm horny, Sherlock. I got off four nights in a row and now I've apparently been conditioned to need it on a daily basis."

"We only went to the club three nights." Sherlock's eyes widened fractionally. "Are you counting the night we…" He waved a hand between them.

John felt his face flush; thank God it was dark. He had indeed been counting that night. "Three nights, of course. Last night seemed like two nights, I suppose. My point is, none of it has helped me a bit. I'm still just as hopeless with women as before, only now I know exactly what I'm missing."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and turned back to the spreadsheet. "It's only three more days until the club is open again. You couldn't wait that long?"

John groaned and closed his eyes. "I only wanted to find someone who'd suck my dick. After the sex club, I didn't think it'd be that difficult."

"Want me to do it for you?"

John froze; a sliver of something like electricity shot down his spine. "What?"

"If you're that desperate, I will. Three more days of you moping around the flat will completely destroy my concentration."

Breathe. John inhaled, exhaled again, and forced himself to turn his head and look at Sherlock. He was scrolling quickly through a discussion board now, so fast John doubted he could actually be reading. "I don't… I… Are you sure?"

"It's not as if it would be a hardship. I'm at an impasse with my analysis anyway and could use a bit more data." He turned to look at John then, his face completely blank.

John could only stare at him. His mind helpfully supplied an image of Sherlock shifting onto his knees on the floor, pressing John's thighs apart, reaching to unfasten his trousers. Oh God. He was already hard. "This is insane, Sherlock."

"It's no different than what we’ve done the last few nights. Certainly the women in a bar are less of a sure thing, but the gay boyfriend routine seems to work well enough. I'm sure I can talk someone into giving you a blow job. Give me two minutes to finish this up and I'll change clothes." He stopped and narrowed his eyes at John. "What?"

John blinked, finally realizing they were having two completely different conversations. He was filled with a sudden urge to laugh, and he wasn't sure whether it was from relief or something else altogether. He looked up at the ceiling. Fucking hell. He drew a shaky breath.

"You know, I'm knackered. I think I'll take a shower and go to bed. Thanks, though."

Sherlock shrugged. "I'll be up for a while if you change your mind."

John stood and walked to the bathroom as casually as he could manage with an erection. He closed the door and turned around to press his forehead against the cool wood. This was not good. On so many fucking levels.

He started the water and stripped off his clothes, trying to think of anything except what his alcohol-fueled libido was encouraging. When it grew hot enough he stepped under the spray and stood still, letting the water sluice over his skin. The sensation was glorious and did nothing to abate his arousal. He sighed and let one hand slide across his chest, down his belly, down the where his cock stood straight out, and he gave it a slow stroke.

He tried to think about Abby and Clara, who'd sucked him together that first night, and then the Britney Spears lookalike who'd fucked his mouth with her tongue and ground against him until they both came. He thought about the woman in red who'd nearly talked him into coming -- oh, no, bad idea, no no no.

Annie, then. Annie's sweet face, the way she kissed him, the way it felt to be inside her. Ryan's hand moving on him, Ryan's cock pressed against his in Annie's hand.

He stroked faster, searching for something that would light that fire in his balls, that would be the spark he needed to get this done. He just needed this release and then his mind would be clear and he could go to bed and not think any more. He thought about Ryan's fingers, imagined the hand on him wasn't his own, remembered sitting on that sofa being kissed and brought to orgasm while two other people were watching. He'd never thought he'd be one for exhibitionism, but--

Sherlock's face flooded his mind now, the look on his face after John had come that last time. He'd never been affected by any of it, not until that moment.

Want me to do it for you?

For just a minute John had thought Sherlock actually wanted him, and he was unbearably turned on by the idea. God, just the idea of Sherlock on his knees, of John's cock in that mouth that could be so hard and so clever, of John's hands tangled in that insane hair of his, fucking his mouth, rough, hard, shit.

He caught his breath. Well, there was the spark.

It was just a fantasy. No need to feel guilty about it. Sherlock would never know. John let the fantasy spin, let it go where it wanted. His hand flew in short jerks at the head of his cock, the taut foreskin moving with his fingers, his mouth open, his forehead nestled in the crook of his elbow now, arm pressed against the cool tile, warm water sheeting down his back, and it was Sherlock's mouth around his cock, his tongue pressing there right there oh god.

He groaned into his arm, louder than he'd intended. It was intense, but it was over far too quickly. He closed his eyes. There had been almost no satisfaction in that orgasm: he felt completely empty and unbearably alone. His breathing eased after a few more seconds and he pushed off the wall. He lifted his face to the spray. The water pounded down and he held his breath as long as he could.

He was so, so fucked.

*****

By Thursday morning, John was crawling out of his skin. He hadn't let himself wank since the night in the shower for fear that he'd end up fantasizing about Sherlock again. He'd awakened with sticky sheets that morning anyway, with a vague memory of a dream involving sex with a stunning variety of people, with Sherlock in the middle of it all, dispassionately observing.

God, that particular facial expression was going to induce erections in him for years to come. Crime scenes were going to be horrifically awkward.

Sherlock was, predictably, on the sofa when John came down to make coffee. "Sleep well?"

John was probably imagining the innuendo is his tone, but he shot Sherlock a dirty look to be on the safe side. Several minutes later he sat in a chair opposite the sofa, mug in hand. "Please tell me you slept last night."

"Of course not. I--"

"Just a vessel, I know."

"True, but not the point. I decided to reanalyze the data from a different perspective."

"What perspective?"

"Was Sunday night your first sexual experience with a man?"

John blinked at him. "Was there supposed to be a segue there?"

Sherlock's expression was one of mild annoyance. "There was. Do keep up, John."

John sighed and took a sip of coffee. "No."

Sherlock looked directly at him for the first time all morning, undisguised shock on his face. "No?"

John smirked. "Didn't see that one coming, did you?"

Sherlock's expression became one of raw interest. "I must admit I didn't."

John grinned and drank more coffee. Drawing this out was going to be a pleasure.

"Well?" Sherlock said at last.

"Oh, right. You'll want details." It was more than a bit frightening that John felt completely at ease now about providing them. He crossed one leg over the other and settled more comfortably into the chair. "It was in the army. I was stationed for several months in a fairly remote location, a medic with the infantry. I went out with them on patrols quite a bit, mostly because that's where I'd be needed if something went wrong."

"Did things go wrong?"

"More often than I care to remember." John smiled tightly. "But to the point, there was another medic stationed there and we spent a lot of time together. One night we were drinking, just blowing off steam, and he told me he was gay. I told him about my sister, you know, trying to make it clear I wasn't prejudiced. But after that he flirted with me when no one else was looking. For some reason people often make that assumption about me." He raised an eyebrow at Sherlock, who responded with a noncommittal shrug.

John took a deep breath. "Anyway, there was a day that was bloody horrible. A platoon was ambushed and three men were killed. Matt -- that was his name -- was with them, and they commed me to let me know what to expect when they brought the injured back. Matt climbed off that chopper covered in blood, and for a minute I thought the worst, but it wasn't his own. It hit me then how close of friends we'd become, though, and that was something I had learned not to let happen because… Well, because." He looked up to make certain Sherlock was still with him. This amount of silence generally meant Sherlock had long since tuned him out, but he was staring at John with a look of fascination, and it encouraged John to continue.

"We were up half the night patching guys up and making arrangements for the dead, and the whole thing was completely horrible. It was one of the worst days I'd had at that point. We had a tiny office off the clinic, and by oh-two-hundred we were sitting on the floor -- nowhere else to sit -- and sharing a bottle of horrid whiskey we kept stashed in there for shit days. We didn't talk; we just sat there. I'd had far too much to drink, and I looked at him and he looked at me… and then he kissed me. I was so wrecked I kissed him back." He paused and stared into the depths of the coffee mug. "There's something about being that close to death that makes you want to feel alive, any way you can. So we sat there on the floor of the office and snogged like teenagers. I was filthy and covered in blood so was he, and neither of us cared."

"Did anything else happen?"

"We ended up wanking each other. And it was completely bloody awkward after. Neither of us knew what to say. He was on duty so he stayed and I went back to my bunk, and that was it. The next day two of the injured guys were evac'd out to a proper hospital and I went with them. It was a few weeks before I made it back and by then Matt had been rotated out. I never saw him again. I never even emailed him or anything after that night, and… I still regret it."

Sherlock's expression was incredibly endearing -- it was as if he were trying very hard to look sympathetic and wasn't sure quite how to do it. "Did you ever try to find him later, after you got home?"

"Hell, no."

"Why not?"

John pressed his lips together and inhaled. "He could be dead. If he is, I don't want to know. No reason to add to an already long list of regrets." Sherlock's brows knitted together at that, whether from surprise or confusion was unclear. Time to change the subject. "Hungry? Thought I might make a scramble, assuming we've got eggs." He stood up and crossed to the kitchen, not waiting for an answer.

*****

The moment the cab stopped, John practically leapt out. He was ready, so fucking ready to get in there and get started and get his mind off of the insane things that had been running through it for the last few days. He envied Sherlock's ability to be so dispassionate, to completely separate himself from the physicality of his body and its needs. John was seriously considering taking up meditation or yoga or something to help him channel it all. Another several days like the last few and he'd be a basket case.

Sherlock was three paces behind him the entire walk to the club. John stopped at the door and bobbed on the balls of his feet impatiently; he could swear Sherlock was walking slowly on purpose. It made John want to punch him.

Once inside, John was practically giddy. He didn't even bother heading towards the bar, walking instead in the direction of the door down to the private rooms. He'd almost reached it when he felt Sherlock's hand on his arm, clenching the bicep. He turned to grin at him and was met with a stony expression. He swallowed.

"What?"

Sherlock pulled him close and spoke into his ear. "Calm down. I'll get you a drink."

"I don't need a drink," John replied, twisting his head to look up at him. "I'm ready to go."

The grip on his arm tightened to the point of pain. "I'll be the judge of when you're ready."

"But--"

"No more talking." There was something in his tone that made John's entire body go still. "I need you relaxed and open to the experience, not wound up like a spring. I go to great lengths to arrange these encounters and I won't have you fucking it all up."

Sherlock rarely swore, and only when he was dead serious. John fixed his gaze at a spot on the floor, uncertain how to respond. The grip on his arm eased and Sherlock pulled him closer; it would have looked like an embrace to anyone watching them.

"Do as you're told and I'll make certain you enjoy it. Step out of line and we're done here." Lips brushed against John's ear and he shivered. "Do you understand?"

John nodded, still unable to make eye contact. He felt a bit like a child who'd been scolded for laughing in church, and it ought to have made him angry. After all, this was Sherlock; even people who liked him wanted to punch him on a regular basis. But somehow he didn't feel angry at all. He felt an odd sort of relief to let it all go, to know that Sherlock was going to take care of it. Was going to take care of him.

God, this was even more fucked up than he'd realized.

"Good. Now, a drink." Sherlock steered him toward the bar and ordered a pint of beer for him, along with a glass of what looked like brandy for himself. John wanted to ask him why he'd decided to drink tonight, but he didn't.

The moment John finished his beer, Sherlock downed the rest of his brandy and nodded his head toward the door at the back. John followed him through and down the long stairway. He let his mind wander as he walked, something he hadn't been able to do for days; he arrived at the door marked "2" without quite remembering walking there. He stared blankly at the door until Sherlock opened it and led him through with a hand on his arm. It was a room they hadn't been in before, smaller than the others with a small sofa. The décor was a variation on the club's theme of red and black, colors he was likely going to associate with sex for the rest of his life. He stood in the middle of the room and watched as Sherlock stripped off his coat and scarf and hung them on a hook by the door.

Sherlock held out a hand and John pulled his own coat off and handed it to him. They stood there in silence for what seemed like several minutes, and John marveled at how pleasant it was. He hadn't felt this calm in days. Was this what yoga did? He wasn't sure how to replicate the feeling without the place and the circumstances, but he was willing to try.

"Are you all right?" Sherlock asked at last. He put his hands on John's shoulders and stared at his face. "Your eyes are dilated."

John managed a smile.

"You can answer me."

"I'm fine, fantastic. Don't worry."

"Safeword?"

"Cinnamon. I remember."

Sherlock stared at him with narrowed eyes, then cupped John's cheek in his hand. John stared back at him, marveling at how green his eyes were. Sherlock had the most amazing eyes. One day John ought to tell him that.

There was a knock at the door. Sherlock turned away to answer it and John felt a pleasant flutter in his belly. He was ready for this, so very ready.

Their guest was a woman with long dark hair and soulful eyes framed by angular glasses. She was petite and dressed casually compared to their previous guests. John wondered if Thursdays were just like that here.

"I'm Becca," she said, not taking her eyes off John.

"I'm Sherlock and this is John. Thanks for meeting us." He turned to look at John as well. "What do you think?"

She tilted her head and gave John an appraising look. "I like him. What did you have in mind?"

Sherlock smiled. "Blow job. I'll help."

John's eyes flicked away from Becca's face to Sherlock's at that. Part of the act or something else altogether? Fucking with John's mind, perhaps. Ah, whatever. At the moment, he didn't actually mind.

She gave him an odd look. "I'm quite good at it, you know."

Sherlock's gaze turned to John now. "I'm sure you are, but he'll like it better this way." John flushed. He had no idea what Sherlock was thinking. And of course, his own thoughts may as well have been inked on his forehead.

"I see. That could be hot." Becca walked toward John and ran a hand over his chest. "I think you should sit, darling."

"Trousers off first," Sherlock said.

"Mmm, quite right. Shall I help with that?" She unfastened his trousers while Sherlock rummaged in the supply drawer. A minute later John was naked from the waist down and sitting on the sofa with Becca kneeling on the floor between his thighs.

His cock had been hard for what seemed like an hour now. She gave it a few strokes with one hand and John hissed. Oh, this was going to be bloody amazing.

Sherlock handed her a condom packet and she sighed. "It's never as much fun this way."

"Perhaps, but I'm the only one who gets to have him without one."

Those words would have driven John round the bend an hour ago, but now they just floated through his mind, oddly disconnected.

"He's not allowed to touch, by the way."

She gave John a sardonic look. "Yes, your email made that quite clear."

John smiled and clasped his arms behind his head. He loved it when they pushed back. If John wasn't allowed to do it, he could at least enjoy watching others make Sherlock squirm.

"Go ahead," Sherlock said. "Start slow." He was standing closer than usual, John realized.

Becca rolled the condom on and then licked up the underside of his cock, pausing to linger at the head. She swirled her tongue around the tip, teasing him with flicks that weren't quite enough. He watched, biting down on his lower lip. It went on and on, sheer torture. He clenched his hands in his own hair.

"Now take it in your mouth."

No longer content to merely observe, then? This was going to be interesting.

He exhaled at the sensation of her mouth around the head of his cock and groaned when she kept going, taking the entire shaft in to the base. He knew he didn't have a huge penis -- he was average at best -- but that was still something rare in a blow job. He closed his eyes and sank into the feeling, his world rapidly narrowing to her mouth and his cock.

"Oh, you are talented," he heard Sherlock say. "Do that again."

Yes, please.

She pulled up, working her tongue as she moved, almost coming off the head at the top, and then worked her way back down again. Her tongue was amazing; even through a thin layer of latex he could feel every movement. This wasn't going to take long.

"Back off, he's too close," Sherlock said, and John made a noise of frustration. He was impressed that Sherlock could read him so easily -- but of course, that was what Sherlock did, wasn't it?

Becca's hand wrapped around the base of the shaft and squeezed gently as she resumed her torturous licking.

"Good, a bit more."

She pressed the flat of her tongue against the underside of the glans and massaged. John exhaled shakily. He wanted to open his eyes, but he was frankly terrified to see the look on Sherlock's face.

"Suck him again, just the head." The clinical tone was creeping back in, as if Sherlock just couldn't help himself. He was testing ideas, John knew, trying to refine his understanding of what John liked. Of course Sherlock wouldn't do something as mundane as to simply ask John.

Warm lips closed around the head of his cock again and, combined with that tongue still working small circles in just the right spot, severely limited his ability to think. His hands fell to the sofa; he caught himself from tangling them in her hair just in time.

"He's going to come. Let him."

It was as if his body was obeying a command: he felt the stirrings of his orgasm, the building of pressure and the tightening of his balls, and then she took him in so deeply that he was practically coming down her throat. His hips arched off the sofa as it rolled over him and she pushed him back down again, digging her fingernails into his hips to the point of pain.

Oh, but it was a good pain.

She pulled off when he stopped pulsing, and sat back on her heels. He squinted at her and scrubbed a hand over his face.

"That was perfect," Sherlock told her. John risked a glance at him, but it was pointless. He was completely in character.

"That was more fun than I expected," she replied with a grin. "God, he's so responsive. I hate it when they just sit there and stare at me, but when they're like this I want to suck them all day long."

John whimpered. That could be arranged, he wanted to tell her. He tuned out of the discussion after that, and started when he heard the door close. He opened his eyes.

"You have thirty-five minutes until the next one," Sherlock said. "Will that be enough?"

John pushed himself upright and pulled the condom off. He nodded.

"Good. I'm going upstairs for a few minutes." He was completely clinical, utterly unaffected. He'd just talked a woman through giving John an amazing blow job, and he wasn't even flushed.

Once the door closed behind him, John fumbled for his pants and pulled them back on, then his trousers. He curled up on the sofa, tucking his bare feet beneath him. Yes, it was definitely fucked up, but there was something comforting about knowing exactly where he stood with Sherlock. It made him feel secure.

He closed his eyes.

*****

 He wasn't sure how much time had passed when the door opened again; he'd apparently dozed off in his post-orgasmic daze. He opened his eyes to see Sherlock standing beside the sofa. He held out a bottle of water.

"Thanks." John slid up to a sitting position and uncapped the bottle; Sherlock sat on the sofa next to him, still watching him. John drank a third of the water, surprised at how thirsty he was. He hadn't even noticed until now.

"Are you all right?" Concern was an unusual enough expression on Sherlock's face that it gave John pause.

"I'm fine. Better than fine." He drank again. "Are you all right?"

"Yes." Sherlock's eyes narrowed a bit, as if he saw something on John's face that indicated he didn't quite believe him. "We have ten minutes until our next guest arrives."

John nodded and settled back against the sofa, oddly content. That alone ought to worry him. But he could worry later. Tomorrow. Tonight he was going to enjoy it.

"Well?" Sherlock asked after nearly a minute of silence.

"Well what?"

"Did I get it right?"

John burst out laughing and turned to face him. "I should have known that was what was bothering you."

"It isn't only that. I actually am genuinely interested in whether you're enjoying this."

"Only to the extent that it affects your data," John retorted with a grin. Sherlock seemed prepared to protest and John patted him on the thigh. "Yes, it was good. You did very well. I'm surprised that wasn't obvious."

"It was obvious, but… could it have been better?"

A pleasant tingle worked its way down John's spine. "Oh, I see. Let me think about that." He tried to imagine things she could have done differently, less pressure here, more tongue there. Sherlock caught his hand after a moment and moved it off his thigh where John had been absent-mindedly stroking with his fingers. "Oh, sorry. I can't think of anything specific to make it better. But--" He raised his eyebrows suggestively. "--I'm open to new ideas."

Sherlock nodded, his expression switching immediately into search mode. That would have worried John a week ago, but at the moment it just turned him on. Sherlock was proving to be unusually creative in this particular area.

There was a knock at the door and they both started.

"Five minutes early," Sherlock said with a glance at his phone.

"Not a problem," John said. God, it really wasn't. He was like one of Pavlov's bloody dogs at this point. He finished the water and tossed the empty bottle into the bin across the room. Perfect shot.

He turned back to the open door and froze. Standing there next to Sherlock was a young man. He was young, maybe twenty, and was dressed not unlike John's mental image of a 70s glam rock star. He seemed almost to be posing in the doorway. "Hi."

John forced himself to relax. After their conversation that afternoon he'd been expecting this; honestly he was surprised it hadn't happened before now. But it didn't change the fact that John's stomach twisted into a knot at the idea. With Ryan, there had been a woman in the room, so he hadn't had to think about it very much. His fantasies about Sherlock were just that, fantasies. He had no expectation they would ever be anything more.

But this was different. There was no denying that he was about to have sex with a man -- hell, a boy, really. God, he was probably old enough to be this kid's father, which was not a thought to dwell on right now, Jesus. But there was also no denying that he'd thought about what it would be like to have sex with a man, sex that went beyond that one frantic fumble in the army. There had always been a spark of something there, something he'd always known went beyond mere curiosity. He'd never pursued it; he liked women without a doubt, so why go looking for trouble?

Sherlock closed the door, pulling John from his thoughts.

"I'm Cam," the boy said, smiling slyly at John now.

Hello, Trouble. How the hell had Sherlock figured this out? Or was this about John at all?

"I'm Sherlock and this is John."

"Does he talk?"

"Not tonight."

Frankly, John was grateful for that rule. It made things so much easier.

"He's cute," Cam said. He settled on the sofa next to John and leered at him. "What did you have in mind?"

"Blow job. I'll help."

Aha. A direct comparison. Now quite a few things were becoming clear.

"Can I kiss him first?"

Sherlock hesitated for a moment. "Yes."

Cam leaned in and pressed his open mouth against John's. It was all tongue and John couldn't help but smile. He mentally adjusted Cam's age down a couple of years. Fortunately, controlling a kiss without looking like you were taking control was something he'd learned how to do quite well by now.

After a few minutes Cam sat back with a dazed expression. "Fuck, you're a good kisser. I'm hard already." He took John's hand and pressed it against his groin. John smiled and stroked his erection through his trousers as subtly as he could.

"Moving right along," Sherlock said, suddenly hovering over them.

"Oh, right. He's not allowed to touch. Pity. I'm going to have dreams about that tongue." Cam slid to the floor and unfastened John's trousers. John lifted his hips to let him pull them off. Cam tossed them aside and regarded John's half-erect penis with an expression John could only describe as hunger. He leaned forward and nuzzled the foreskin with the tip of his nose, inhaling.

"Condom." Sherlock dropped the packet onto John's belly.

Cam groaned. "Ugh, do we have to? I hate giving head through latex."

"Non-negotiable," Sherlock replied, his tone almost possessive. John bit his lip in an effort not to grin.

"Fine." Cam stroked John's dick to hardness with one hand and then ripped the package open. He rolled the condom on and leaned forward, swallowing John's cock in one quick movement. He sucked hard and moved fast, his hand steadying the base.

John's eyes flew open in surprise. Shit.

"Oh, for fuck's sake." Sherlock grabbed a handful of Cam's hair and yanked; Cam howled and sat back, rubbing at his scalp. "How old are you, really?"

Cam glared up at him. "That's what guys usually like."

"In the back alley, just after they give you a fiver?"

"Oh, fuck you. I didn't come here to be abused."

"Sherlock." Cam and Sherlock turned to look at John, both equally surprised. "Not. Helping."

Sherlock looked like he was at war with himself for a moment. His face smoothed out and he forced a smile. "Apologies." John knew he didn't mean it, but hopefully Cam would buy it.

"Accepted," Cam said, still looking miffed. He glanced up and John smiled reassuringly. "What would you like me to do, then?"

"Start slow," Sherlock said. "Use your tongue and take your time. His Mum's not going to barge in on you, so there's no rush."

Cam rolled his eyes, but he seemed to have made up his mind to stay. He flicked his tongue against the head of John's cock experimentally and John rewarded him with a moan.

"Good," Sherlock said, stroking his fingers in Cam's hair. "Do you see how he's relaxed? He likes that."

Cam swirled his tongue around the head and kissed the tip, lightly sucking. The difference in sensation was amazing. He licked his way down the shaft and back up again, and John squirmed when his lips grazed the head.

"There, he wants your mouth now," Sherlock said softly.

"Can I suck him then?"

"Not yet. Draw it out a bit longer."

John groaned and pressed his hands against his face. Fucking torture, it was. Oh, the irony of Sherlock teaching someone how to give head.

Cam went back to work, using his tongue to great effect. It was delicious and not nearly enough, and John finally thrust his hips up slightly, trying to send Cam a subtle message.

"Impatient, John," Sherlock said. "Go on then, but slowly."

Cam sucked the head in and kept working his tongue, and John moaned. One hand flew to Cam's head without thinking about it.

"John." He sounded annoyed. John let his hand fall to his side.

Cam popped off long enough to say, "I don't mind."

"But I do. Move down to his balls now."

Cam pressed John's thighs further apart and wriggled his tongue against John's scrotum, and oh fuck that particular part of him had been ignored quite a bit lately. Cam drew one ball into his mouth and sucked gently. John closed his eyes.

"Use your tongue as well."

Cam did and John whimpered. God, that was amazing. He sank into the sofa even more and Cam shifted so that his shoulders were supporting John's thighs. It was a position John loved having a woman in, and he'd frankly never expected to be there himself.

"And the other." Sherlock's voice was soft and John couldn't quite tell where he was, how closely he was watching. Cam released one ball and moved to the other, swirling his tongue around the sensitive skin before working it into his mouth. His nose was pressed against the base of John's cock, breathing heavily. He pulled off and flicked his tongue against the skin just behind John's balls.

"Oh, fuck," John said, unable to stop himself. That was just -- God, close enough to being completely filthy that it melted his mind.

"Up again," Sherlock said, and John wasn't sure whether to be disappointed or relieved.

Cam kissed and licked his way up John's cock again, and then sucked the underside of the head. He was a quick study.

"I want you to finger him now," Sherlock said. John's eyes flew open.

"Oh hell, yes," Cam replied, sounding a bit breathless now.

Oh God. This was new territory, completely new. Hell, he'd only fingered himself once out of curiosity, and it hadn't really done anything but weird him out. Open mind, open mind. He closed his eyes again.

There was another ripping sound -- lube packet, he assumed -- and then Cam's mouth was around his cock again, sucking the head lightly and working it with his tongue. He tried not to tense when he felt a slick finger probing at his arsehole. It pressed into him surprisingly easily.

Sherlock whispered something John couldn't make out. Cam hummed as if in acknowledgment, and oh God, twisted his finger and pulled it out again, timing it with a long slow movement up his cock and Jesus fuck but that was intense.

Okay then. That explained a lot. John was definitely onboard with things-in-his-arse now, because damn.

"That's perfect," Sherlock said. "Keep doing that."

Oh, yes please.

It was stunning how much that one finger changed the intensity of everything, and John found himself moaning incoherently in short order. The pace was slow enough to hold off his orgasm and he felt like he could keep this up for hours. It was incredible.

Cam's finger twisted and brushed up, and there -- John's hands flew to Cam's head again, clenching tightly in his hair.

"Hands off," Sherlock said, his tone one of warning, and John dropped them to his sides. "You found his prostate. Do that again."

Cam pressed up and John winced.

"Too much," Sherlock said. "Just stroke, very lightly."

And oh yes, that was definitely what John needed. Fuck fuck fuck. Cam's tongue flicked the sensitive spot at the base of his glans with the same motion and John cried out. God, he wasn't even coming yet. What was that going to be like?

"John!" he heard and realized his hands were in Cam's hair again. He couldn't move, though. He wanted to obey, but he couldn't do it. He stared up at Sherlock helplessly.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed, but he didn't say anything else. He circled behind the sofa, reached over John to pull his arms up roughly, and then pinned his hands against the sofa just above his head.

God, this was just... God. John twisted his wrists so that he could clasp Sherlock's hands and squeezed.

He was hanging by a thread now, stretched and suspended between Cam's mouth on his dick and his fingers -- there were two now -- in his arse and Sherlock's hands clenching his own tightly over his head, his breath hot in John's ear. Everything else disappeared around him, nothing but pure sensation was left. His head was light and his arms felt numb, and the universe contracted down to his cock and his balls for a long moment. And then it all expanded again with shocking intensity.

He was fairly certain he made an embarrassing amount of noise, but it was hard to tell. There were things happening around him that he wouldn't be able to process for a while yet: Cam moaning around his cock, Sherlock's rhythmic breathing in his ear, sharp fingernails digging into his wrists. He was left shaking when it was over, struggling to catch his breath.

Sherlock released his hands, but didn't move from the spot. He petted John's head like he was a cat. John would have purred if he could.

Cam released John's dick and pulled his fingers out a bit too quickly; John winced at a scrape of fingernail on sensitive tissue. Cam's forehead pressed against John's thigh and he panted, and John realized he was wanking. He should probably offer to help. It would be the polite thing to do. As soon as he could speak again. A moment later Cam groaned and stilled, his face still pressed into John's bare skin.

Sherlock's lips brushed John's temple as he stood and backed away. John tried to open his eyes, but they still weren't cooperating. Actually, he couldn't really move at all. Not that it mattered at the moment.

"That was insanely hot," Cam said, pushing back on his heels and fastening his trousers. "Every guy I fuck, ever, is going to implicitly thank you two."

John managed a laugh at that.

"If you're going to fuck him now, can I watch?" Cam asked.

"No," Sherlock replied.

"If you're not going to fuck him, can I help you with that?"

John opened his eyes just in time to see Cam's hand cup Sherlock's groin. Sherlock pushed his hand away immediately, and there was no doubt he was completely hard. "I can assure you that is in good hands. Thank you."

"Suit yourself." Cam shrugged and then turned to John. "Later, boys. It was fun."

John managed a little wave before Cam walked through the door, a definite swing in his step.

"Oh my God," John said at last, pressing his hands over his eyes. "That was un-fucking-believable. I don't want to move ever again." He dropped his hands and grinned at Sherlock.

Sherlock was leaning against the wall, staring back at John. He looked dazed. John's eyes flicked down to the obvious tent in his trousers. "Has that ever happened before?"

Sherlock frowned. "Of course it has."

"I mean, here. While you were watching… me."

Sherlock's cheeks tinted and he looked away. "Certainly not to this extent."

John stretched and then curled up on the sofa, wincing at the slight twinge in his arse. Note to self: trim nails before you ever do that to another person. He pulled the condom off and looked up to see if Sherlock had regained his composure yet. He hadn't. John patted the sofa next to him. "Sit."

"I can't."

"I won't bite."

"No, it's… a bit difficult at the moment."

John smiled. "It's nothing to be embarrassed about. If anyone should be embarrassed, it should be me, right?"

"I'm not--" Sherlock began and then stopped. He couldn't seem to meet John's eyes.

John pressed his lips together. There were a dozen questions he wanted to ask, at least twenty things he would like to say, but now was not the time. Instead he pushed himself to his feet and redressed, giving Sherlock as much privacy as he could manage. "Ready when you are," he said at last.

"Right," Sherlock said, his eyes darting around the room. "Could you just give me a minute? I'll meet you upstairs. Have a drink if you like. Charge it to Mycroft."

John frowned, but nodded. "All right. I'll be upstairs."

The bar was busy and it took him a few minutes to get the bartender's attention. He finally managed to get a beer and he stood off to the side of the main room, watching the action. As always, there was an amazing variety of people: young and old, couples and singles, people who were incredibly attractive and people who were average-looking at best. And all of them were laughing, talking, and so clearly looking. The barriers that he would normally see in a bar, the walls people put up around themselves and their small groups of friends -- none of that seemed to exist here. Over there a portly middle-aged man was flirting with a pair of girls who looked like university students; nearby a fairly geeky-looking young couple were entwined around a woman who'd be generously described as a "cougar". It was incredibly refreshing.

But then, how exactly did he fit in here? He wasn't out there, meeting people and defining his own sexual boundaries. He wasn't exploring his own desires and fantasies. Sherlock was doing all of that for him, and John just let him. And John actually enjoyed letting him do it -- that was the fucked up part. Tonight when Sherlock charged in all pissed off and domineering, John's knees had gone weak, literally. It was as if his brain had shut itself off, handed the controls of his body over to Sherlock, and smoked a joint… or something. He wasn't quite sure how to describe it.

And that didn't even begin to touch on the extremely gay sex he'd just had. It was practically a threesome, if he included Sherlock. And really, he felt like he had to. God, that was going to be an awkward conversation.

"Ready."

He turned to see Sherlock standing next to him, his eyes scanning the crowd as well. "That was fast." Sherlock's jaw clenched and John gaped at him as realization dawned. "Did you seriously just kick me out of that room so you could wank?"

"Yes."

John had to look away to keep from glaring at him. "Un-fucking-believable."

He put his half-finished beer on a nearby table and headed for the door. Sherlock was right behind him and had the good sense to say nothing as John stalked down the street and hailed a taxi. They rode back to the flat in silence. John kept his eyes firmly fixed on the passing scenery. Sherlock was squirming in the seat next to him; John could practically hear the thoughts spinning in Sherlock's head as he tried to work out what he'd done wrong.

Well, no, John doubted Sherlock thought he'd done anything wrong. More likely he was trying to work out why John was being such an unreasonable wanker.

And fuck it all, he was probably being completely unreasonable, but he didn't give a shit. He felt like he'd been turned inside-out tonight for Sherlock's viewing pleasure, and the man didn't even trust him enough to let John see how much he'd been affected. Always putting up fucking walls, Sherlock was. Never letting anyone inside that brilliant head of his. It was infuriating.

Neither of them spoke until they were standing in the parlor in the flat, in the near-darkness lit only by the streetlamps outside the window. John's eyes adjusted at last and he saw Sherlock standing by the window, facing him.

Sherlock's voice was tight. "I assume we need to talk about this."

John sighed and made his way to the sofa, intentionally sitting in Sherlock's customary spot.

"Go on then," Sherlock said.

Jesus, where should he start?

"Fine. I don't understand why, after everything that's happened, you wouldn't feel comfortable wanking in front of me."

"I have wanked in front of you."

"Yes, but--" John paused. It was hard to believe that night on the sofa was just a week ago. "What are we doing, Sherlock?"

"You know exactly what we're doing."

"I thought I did, but now I'm not so certain. I thought this was about you studying my responses to sexual stimuli."

"That's precisely what it's about." Sherlock sounded frustrated now.

"But it's also about you, isn't it? You're trying to figure out what turns you on as well."

"I'm not trying. It just happens."

There was a pause. John waited, fairly stunned by that admission. He'd only heard Sherlock admit to feeling anything a few times, ever.

"I thought I could be objective. And I was, to a point."

"I see." John felt a twinge of guilt. He'd been so confident in Sherlock's ability to remain detached. God, he hadn't even considered that it might be otherwise.

"This is all rather more complicated than I'd anticipated." Sherlock crossed to the sofa and sat on the other side, an arm's length from John. He folded his arms over his chest and planted his feet firmly on the floor.

John considered his next words carefully. He could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times Sherlock had ever even hinted that he was wrong about something. "Was that the first time you've wanked after?"

Sherlock stared resolutely ahead. "No. It happened Sunday as well."

"After you saw me with Ryan."

"I waited until we got to the flat, at least."

"I did wonder why you went straight to bed." John grinned and was pleased to see Sherlock finally crack a smile. "Tonight was different, though, wasn't it?"

"Clearly I lose all ability to be objective when I see you with another man."

John bit his lip at the choice of the word another. Best to let that one go for now. "Can I ask you a personal question?"

"You've earned the right, haven't you?" Sherlock turned and looked at him for the first time since they'd come home.

"Are you gay?"

Sherlock looked away again, pursing his lips. "It's not a question I've thought about for years, but in light of recent events, I believe the answer is yes."

John nodded. It was utterly fucked up that they were only having this conversation now, after all this time and after the last week, but at least they were having it. There was another question he'd wanted to ask Sherlock for a while now. "Have you ever been in a relationship with… anyone?"

"No."

"Have you had sex?

"Yes." There was a pause during which John picked his jaw up from the floor. "Does that surprise you?"

"Absolutely. With a man or a woman?"

"Both."

John toed off his shoes and turned his body sideways, pulling his feet up on the sofa. "Tell me."

"Why?"

John gave him a long look and Sherlock sighed. "You're going to be horribly disappointed, I assure you."

"Trust me, I won't."

Sherlock leaned back into the sofa cushions and stared up at the ceiling. "My last year at university, I worked in a lab run by a brilliant scientist. Her research was something I was mildly interested in, so we spent quite a lot of time working together. At the end of term we were in the lab late one night and she asked me if I'd like to come back to her flat for a drink. I honestly didn't know she was propositioning me until we got there."

John struggled to contain his glee at this information. "You lost your virginity to your professor? That sounds like the plot of a porno."

Sherlock shrugged. "I wasn't interested in her -- she was attractive enough, but…"

"You're gay."

"Well, there is that. But I was curious. Everyone else went on about sex constantly, and I decided that since I had the opportunity I should find out what the fuss was over."

"And what happened?"

"It was fine, nothing spectacular. She kept me up half the night, which was kind of annoying."

John smirked. "How many times did you do it?"

Sherlock thought. "If you simply count orgasms, five." At John's looks of shock he added, "I was twenty."

"What, did she have you in every position she could think of?"

"Something like that." Sherlock's lips twisted as if he were trying very hard not to smile.

John laughed -- he couldn't help it, the mental image he had of this situation was completely insane -- and after a moment Sherlock laughed as well. John stretched his legs out and pressed his socked feet against Sherlock's thigh. "What happened after that?"

"It was horribly awkward. It turned out she had a boyfriend and they'd recently had a row. I seemed to represent some sort of revenge on him. The next time I saw her she barely spoke to me."

"I'm sorry."

"Oh, no, it was a relief. I was terrified she'd think we were dating after that. I liked her, but not personally so much as professionally."

"So did that turn you off to sex completely?"

Sherlock's fingertips stroked the tops of John's feet. "For a bit. It was pleasant enough, but it was messy. It was difficult enough to interact with people on a daily basis. As hard as it may be to believe, I had even more problems with social interactions then than I do now."

John let that one go, though it took effort. "What about casual sex? Strangers in bars, that sort of thing?"

"Heroin was so much easier." A tight-lipped smile at that.

John closed his eyes. The idea of Sherlock as a young man so adrift and alone made his guts twist. "You said there was a man as well."

"His name was Carl. He was the son of a man Mycroft knew. He introduced us, at least. The timing was good; I needed a distraction."

"From what?" John asked. A single look from Sherlock answered his question. "Right. How old were you?"

"Twenty-four. He was a bit younger. I thought he was complete idiot, though that's hardly unusual for me. But there was something about him that I found fascinating, and it took me a long time to understand that it was sexual attraction."

"Was that when you first thought you might be gay?"

"Yes, but that didn't matter. I needed a distraction desperately and Carl made it clear he was interested. One night we had dinner and I invited him to my room and he proceeded to shag me most of the night."

"And then what happened?"

"He wanted to see me again and I said no."

John frowned. "Why?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I got bored, essentially. In one night we'd tried everything once. I realized it really was just about the sex, and sex alone wasn't enough to justify putting up with him outside the bedroom. He really was an idiot; you've no idea."

"So you ended it."

"I assumed I knew all there was to know about sex with a man. So I moved on."

"And you survived on occasional masturbation for the next decade." John shook his head. He understood choosing celibacy when it was otherwise inconvenient and he understood that some people simply weren't interested in sex, but this was something he couldn't really wrap his brain around at all.

Sherlock shrugged. "It seemed extremely unlikely I'd encounter anyone I'd actually enjoy being around for any length of time, whom I'd be attracted to and who would also be attracted to me. The rational thing to do was not to waste time on it, to focus myself on other things."

John bit his lip and considered that statement for a long moment. "You said the experiment had become more complicated than you expected. What did you mean?"

Sherlock opened his mouth and closed it again and shook his head.

John sighed. "We have to be honest with each other about this. Whatever this is, there's sex involved, even if it's not between us, and that's going to make things messy. If there's even a chance of losing your friendship over this, I won't go back to the club again. I'll end it right now."

Sherlock turned to look at him, but still said nothing.

"Do you need some time to do a bit of exploring yourself? We could switch for a few days. I could find partners for you."

"No." Sherlock's tone was surprisingly sharp and John drew his feet away in response, pulled his knees into his chest. Sherlock exhaled smoothly, almost as if trying to choose his next words carefully. "I'm not interested in sex with strangers. I already know that's not what I want."

"Then what do you want?"

He threaded his fingers into his hair and clenched his hands, something that always made John think he was trying to corral the thoughts spinning chaotically in his head. After a moment he pressed his palms over his face and exhaled. "I need to examine my own reactions more closely. If you're willing to continue, I would appreciate it." He looked at John then, his expression as open as John had ever seen.

John took a deep breath. "All right."

He desperately wanted to qualify his participation in this, to set limits, to tell Sherlock what had happened to him tonight and how much it had turned him upside-down. But he had a feeling it would be a bad idea, that the timing wasn't right. Sherlock was fragile now as well, maybe even more than John. Best to keep walking forward one step at a time and trust that their friendship would be strong enough to survive whatever happened.

"For what it's worth, Sherlock, I trust you."

"I know." Sherlock stood and stretched.

"Do you trust me?"

"I do." No hesitation.

"Good. I need to borrow your laptop."

Sherlock's expression changed to one of suspicion. "Why?"

"Well, mine is still at the shop, being repaired after someone spent eight solid hours viewing porn on it and contracted three separate viruses, requiring the hard drive to be wiped completely." He raised his eyebrows.

Sherlock waved a hand in the general direction of the computer. "The password is the 15th through the 22nd digits of pi with the obvious letter substitutions in the 16th, 18th, and 19th places."

"Thank you," John replied, already reaching for it. It'd take him fifteen minutes to work out the damn password, but it was doable.

Sherlock disappeared into his bedroom and John sat in the darkness for a long time without moving, clenching Sherlock's laptop to his chest. It had indeed become complicated, much more so than he'd ever expected. For all his comments about the importance of honesty, he was keeping a few things close to his chest.

All in good time. First, he needed to do a little research of his own. He opened Sherlock's laptop and took a deep breath.

*****