*****
"God, that's revolting. It can't be real, can it?" John glanced at Sherlock, who was far more interested in scanning the crowd gathered around the street performer than in the performance itself.
Sherlock hummed in reply and tucked his phone back into a pocket of his coat.
"You'd cut your throat to shreds, for one thing. And there's a sphincter that contracts involuntarily, right at the top of the esophageal tract."
"It's quite real, actually," Sherlock said. His eyes narrowed, apparently having caught sight of the man he was looking for.
John grimaced. "Oh, God, that makes it so much worse." The performer released the hilt of the half-swallowed sword and it dropped down into his body with astonishing speed, earning a gasp from the gathered crowd and a wince from John. "Oh, for… Are you sure?"
"Absolutely." Sherlock started across the square, following a man in a dark blue coat who was now looking over his shoulder warily.
"How do you-- Oi, wait!" John had to jog to catch up.
Five hours later the culprit had been apprehended (it was the brother-in-law, just as Sherlock had suspected, though he'd got the time of the break-in wrong, which gave John and Greg a bit of a laugh) and they were seated across from each other in a cozy table at the back of their favorite Chinese restaurant.
"I would've been right if he hadn't stopped at a second pub," Sherlock said though a mouthful of noodles. He swallowed and gestured with his chopsticks. "I had the number of pints correct, but I missed that he'd gone to a second pub, which accounts for the--"
"For fuck's sake, leave it." John shook his head, half-annoyed and half-amused. "It wasn't that important in the end, was it?"
"That's not the point." Sherlock frowned and poked at a bit of vegetable with his chopsticks. John could see the cogs turning, amping up, ready to derail him. He hadn't eaten in three days as it was, and John would be damned if he'd let a fairly insignificant detail of a solved case interfere. Time to change the subject.
"Speaking of points, I've got a question for you." John paused to take a swig of beer and waited until Sherlock looked back up at him. "How do you know sword swallowing is real and not an illusion of some sort?"
Sherlock picked up another bite of noodles, to John's relief. "Personal experience."
"Personal -- what?"
"Experience. I tried to learn how to do it once."
That certainly hadn't been the response he'd expected. "What, are you insane?" Sherlock gave him an odd look and John snorted. "Figure of speech. What I meant to ask is why?"
Sherlock shrugged. "Case."
John blinked at him. "You learned to swallow swords for a case? What, was there a murder in the circus or something?"
"Well, I didn't really learn. I presented myself as an apprentice to an expert, a man I suspected of being a key player in a smuggling operation -- which I was right about, by the way: he's still in prison. Anyway, it's actually quite a difficult thing to do, takes years to learn. I never got past the first week of lessons. Never got anywhere near an actual sword."
"Oh my God." John had forced tubes down people's throats before -- in his pre-army days he'd had to pump a few stomachs -- and he still remembered the retching. "So what did that involve, exactly?"
"Sticking things down my throat. I mostly worked on suppressing the gag reflex. That's not the hard part, really." He paused and the corners of his lips turned up slightly. "And besides, it's a rather useful skill, isn't it?"
"When on earth would the ability to resist gagging be a useful skill?" John scooped up a mouthful of fried rice and looked up at Sherlock, whose expression was one of incredulity. "What?"
Sherlock's smile was smug, but he said nothing. He shrugged and plucked a piece of chicken from John's plate with his chopsticks.
John paused mid-chew -- oh God -- and felt his face heat. He couldn't mean… but then, what else could he mean? John was usually the one who played that card, who parsed out innuendo and watched Sherlock struggle to work out the joke. He forced himself to swallow and reached for his beer, then shook his head and pointed a finger at Sherlock.
"You're taking the piss."
"I'm not." He smirked and John's fingers tightened around the neck of the bottle.
"You're serious?"
"Of course I'm serious."
"You can actually… I mean, you've done that?" He was sure his cheeks were bright red now. He hadn't ever really thought of Sherlock as a sexual being. Not even after the incident with Irene Adler, though honestly, this went a fair way in explaining that.
"I've shocked you." It was an observation, nothing more.
"Well, no. I'm not shocked that you're… I mean, I suppose I always thought you were gay, or at least not completely straight."
Actually, it was more that Sherlock had never expressed any interest at all in sex of any stripe. But he was 35 years old, and so John had always thought the odds were low that Sherlock was actually a virgin -- honestly, no one that good looking could possibly have escaped university without being propositioned on a weekly basis, no matter how much of an annoying berk he was.
Sherlock's eyes narrowed slightly. "Then why is it shocking?"
John exhaled and forced a neutral expression. Sherlock would see right through it, but it was the best he could do at the moment. "It's something I've only seen done in porn. I suppose I wouldn't have expected that you… well."
He really should shut up before this got any worse.
"Why not?"
Where should he begin? Jesus, that was a loaded question.
"Look, can we change the subject? It's none of my concern anyway."
Sherlock shrugged and returned to eating, apparently unaffected. John pushed his food aside and exhaled. He fervently wished he could delete certain bits of information from his brain the way Sherlock could.
*****
He made it four days before his curiosity got the better of him; he then spent the next two days engaged in research online, interspersed with rather longer-than-usual showers. Happily Sherlock had been busy of late and had spent quite a lot of time out of the flat. If he'd noticed -- and John had long since learned not to assume Sherlock didn't notice something -- he'd said nothing.
And so John was cozily ensconced in the sofa on Thursday afternoon, legs crossed under him and his laptop balanced on one knee, fingers of one hand lazily stroking his prick through his trousers, when it all went to hell. Even though Sherlock had gone out for the day, John probably ought to have gone upstairs to his room and locked the door, or used earbuds, or something. In retrospect, sitting there on the sofa was practically asking for trouble.
He managed to mute the volume fairly quickly when Sherlock walked into the room -- the fact that he hadn't even heard him coming up the stairs was a bit worrying -- but not quickly enough. Sherlock's eyes narrowed at him as he unwound his scarf from his neck and stripped off his coat.
"What did Mycroft want?" John asked, as conversationally as he could manage with a computer hiding his erection.
"Nothing of importance." Sherlock crossed the room toward him and John minimized the window on the screen in a way he hoped was subtle. Sherlock gave him an odd look. "I'm aware that you were looking at pornography, as you've been doing for the last two days. It's pointless to pretend otherwise."
John cringed. "You know, the general etiquette is to pretend you don't notice. Just like you pretend not to hear me when I toss off in the shower."
Sherlock frowned. "I haven't said anything about that in months."
"Yes, well. I still can't mention showering within earshot of Greg without getting shit for it."
"He hardly has room to speak. His sex life is even more dismal than yours."
John scowled at him. "It isn't dismal. And your bed isn't exactly being kept warm, is it?"
"If that was what I wanted, it wouldn't be difficult." Sherlock's expression was honest, not smug in the slightest.
Well, that was true, wasn't it? John sighed and looked back at the screen of his laptop. "Why isn't it, then? What you want?"
"It's quite a lot of bother for a few minutes of physical pleasure. And people are annoying." John's eyebrows rose and Sherlock shrugged. "Present company excluded, I suppose. But you don't count."
"I don't?"
"I'm not sleeping with you, am I?" He smirked.
To his horror, John felt himself blush. "I suppose if you were I'd have caught on by now, especially considering the whole--" He waved his hand vaguely in Sherlock's direction and sighed, unable to complete the sentence.
"You're still shocked." Again, it was an observation.
"About… no, of course not." John couldn't even make eye contact. He'd watched some three dozen videos of deep-throating in the last two days, most of them clearly aimed at men with domination and gagging kinks, and the idea of Sherlock letting anyone do that to him was just… difficult to process. "I just… it's a bit… well."
"It's not like it is in porn, you know." John looked up, startled; Sherlock's eyes were clear and focused.
"You can't actually read minds, can you?" He tried to smile, but this entire thing was fucking awkward.
"Sometimes, though not in the way you think." Sherlock slid closer and peered at the screen of his laptop. "What were you looking at?"
"Oh hell, have at it." John handed the machine to him, already resigned to his mortifying fate. At least his erection had abated somewhat.
Sherlock tapped at the keyboard, frowning. "This one's better. Much more realistic." He angled the screen so that they could both see it and unmuted. The video was amateurish -- which meant no cheesy music, happily -- but the quality was fair enough. A young woman leaned over a man lying prostrate on a bed and mouthed his enormous erection, taking it easily down to the base before sliding off and grinning at the camera. She did it again, and John could actually see the change in the shape of her throat as she swallowed the man's cock.
"Oh my God. Doesn't that hurt?"
"No. Well, that one's exceptional in size, obviously. Her throat may have been irritated the next day but in my experience, it doesn't hurt."
They watched in silence for a full minute before it struck John that they were watching porn. Together. And John's erection hadn't flagged completely, which Sherlock couldn't have missed. There were so many levels of wrong here it was difficult to keep track. He pressed his lips together for a moment.
"Erm… Sherlock--"
"Want to see another?" Sherlock asked in the exact same tone people typically used when discussing their holiday photos. He turned the computer toward him long enough to type something into Google and parsed the list of links quickly before choosing one.
John's forehead furrowed. "You have these particular porn videos committed to memory?"
"When I realized what you were looking at yesterday I did some searching on your behalf. I assumed you would find the worst sort of videos on your own. Aha, here." He turned the screen toward John again.
"How considerate of you," John mumbled.
The video started and John struggled not to react: this video featured two men, though otherwise it proceeded very much as before. The two were in a slightly different position, facing opposite directions so that they could suck each other at the same time, but the camera was focused on the man on top, who was taking his partner's (again, distractingly large) prick in to the base. His chin was tilted rather far back, creating a long line of throat, and he moved back and forth for several seconds before coming off to breathe.
It was indeed a very different sort of video: no gagging, no one being forced, no abusive language -- just two people in bed, making each other feel good. It was refreshing, considering what he'd been looking at during the last couple of days.
Oh hell, he was watching gay porn with Sherlock. What was his life?
"So how does it feel?" he asked after another long pause.
"Which part?"
He started to say either part, but Sherlock wouldn't miss the implications of that statement. "Er, receiving? When someone's doing it to you."
"I don't know, to be honest. No one's ever done it for me."
John swallowed, his gaze riveted on the screen before him. "But you've…"
"Yes. With no complaints, I assure you." He paused. "I always enjoyed giving head, to be honest. It was… efficient, and not as messy as many of the alternatives."
Arousal flooded John's belly and he bit his lip against it. Sherlock couldn't possibly know that John enjoyed a good blow job more than basically anything else in the entire realm of sexual acts. Jesus.
"I suppose so." His voice broke rather embarrassingly on the last word and he cleared his throat.
One of the men onscreen began moaning and the camera zoomed in for a close-up of the money shot. The man on top pulled off and worked his partner's prick with one hand until he came all over his face.
"A bit artificial, that." Sherlock clicked back to the amateur video and started the playback again; this time the man clearly came while buried deep in the woman's throat.
"Oh God. That can't have been comfortable."
"It's not bad. I've never minded the taste of semen, but if one does it's an easy way around that particular issue."
John laughed before he could stop himself and clamped a hand over his mouth.
"What?"
"Nothing, I just-- I can't believe we're having this conversation right now." John shook his head and forced himself to look at Sherlock again. "Until a week ago I honestly wasn't sure you'd ever had sex at all and now we're talking about oral sex as if it's no big deal."
Sherlock frowned. "It isn't a big deal. Is it?"
John gestured wildly. "When I think about you doing it, then yes, it kind of is. Not that I think about you having sex a lot. Or at all. I just..." He closed his eyes. Why was this so fucking awkward?
Sherlock seemed to consider that for a moment. "The fact that I haven't had sex with anyone in the time you've known me was sufficient evidence for you to assume I hadn't had sex in the decade and a half prior?"
John shrugged, his composure long gone. "Well, when you put it that way. I'm going to shut up now."
Sherlock smiled tightly and stood. "I'll leave you to it, then."
"Right. Thanks." John watched him walk into his bedroom and close the door. What the hell had just happened?
*****
Over the course of the next week, John watched far too much porn and wanked at least twice a day. But most disturbingly, his fantasies had begun to incorporate Sherlock. One fucking comment about enjoying giving head and John was helpless to stop it, unable to prevent his mind from spinning images of Sherlock on his knees, taking John's prick into his mouth and swallowing around the head, and oh God, he had to get a hold of himself. One innocent question about sword swallowing and he'd opened an entire Pandora's box of sexual issues.
Fortunately Sherlock seemed too distracted to notice, or at least to comment. Over the weekend they'd solved a simple but lucrative case in which an 80-year-old woman's jewelry had gone missing (it turned out to have been "borrowed" by one of her grandchildren, as Sherlock had suspected from the start) and then early in the following week had managed to return a spoilt and drug-addicted 15-year-old to his very wealthy family (he'd been rude enough to Sherlock that he'd nearly got a fist to the jaw from John, though in the end he was returned unharmed). Neither case was particularly intellectually challenging, which meant John was little more than a sidekick, his mind therefore free to roam.
Unfortunately, it generally stayed rooted on one particular subject.
*****
On Wednesday morning he was chopping vegetables in the kitchen when Sherlock woke up, having apparently decided to go on a rare 14-hour sleeping binge.
"Coffee's still warm." John indicated the pot with the point of his knife before turning back to the cutting board.
"What's this?" Sherlock peeked over his shoulder and yawned.
"I'm making a roast. It'll smell heavenly in here a few hours from now." Not that he counted on Sherlock eating any of it, but one never knew.
Sherlock hummed in response and plucked a whole carrot from the cutting board.
"Hey, no, I need that." John turned to see him biting off the tip of the carrot and his annoyance morphed abruptly into another feeling altogether. It was a largish carrot, thick and long, and when Sherlock pressed it between his lips, John's brain swan-dived into the gutter.
"What?" Sherlock asked after a moment, and John realized he was staring.
"Nothing, just… eat it over there, where I can't see you." He forced himself to look down at the cutting board again. He was sure he'd gone all pink, but there was nothing for it.
"Why are you--" Sherlock began and paused for a moment before snickering. Ah yes, he'd worked it out. Bugger. "Are you still obsessing over the deep throating thing?"
"I'm not obsessing, and that's rich coming from you." He looked up to see Sherlock's sardonic expression and sighed. "Maybe a bit of obsessing. It's been a while since I've had sex with anyone other than myself. It can't be helped."
Sherlock leaned against the counter and studied the carrot. "Would it help if I provided a small demonstration?"
"Yes. I mean no! God, no." If he would just leave the kitchen and never return, that would be about right. Maybe.
Sherlock's lips curled up at the corners for a second before he tilted his jaw up and pressed the carrot into his mouth, far further in than John would have thought possible. He couldn't help comparing the length and girth of the carrot to an average erect penis -- his own, for example, and oh God, he was in for it, wasn't he? After a moment Sherlock pulled it out again and shrugged.
John felt himself flush. "All right, thanks then. That was… Oh God, no, don't do it again!" Sherlock grinned and repeated the movement, this time leaving the carrot in his throat long enough that John actually held his breath in sympathy.
After a full minute of watching Sherlock deep-throat a fucking carrot, John had had enough. He'd get an erection at this rate. "Right, out with you. You're banished from the kitchen. Go eat your fucking carrot and stop tormenting me, will you?"
Sherlock laughed and took another bite of the carrot before disappearing from view. In retrospect, John ought to have wiped the smug smile off of his face then and there.
*****
John was settled on the sofa with his laptop (not looking at porn; he'd forbidden himself) when Sherlock came out of the bathroom, freshly showered with a dressing gown wrapped loosely around him. He rummaged noisily in the kitchen for a moment before plopping onto the other side of the sofa.
"You're not watching this, are you?" He gestured at the television.
"No, I just put it on for--" John stared at him, his eyes narrowed. Sherlock was sitting cross-legged on the sofa, carefully peeling a banana. "Oh, for God's sake!"
"What?" Sherlock looked up at him, genuinely perplexed.
John scrubbed a hand over his face. "Nothing, I just… I don't know, could you perhaps lay off the phallic foods for a week or so?"
Sherlock glanced at the banana and back at John. "Why should it bother you that I'm--" He paused and his eyes widened. "Oh."
John winced. "Ah, shit. Never mind, okay? It's clearly my problem, and you're not--"
"You want me to give you a blow job, don't you?"
John gaped at him. "No! No, of course not. I wouldn't ask that of you, God." His face flushed and it was all he could do not to cover it with his hands. He closed his laptop and set it on the sofa table. He was never going to look at porn again, ever.
Sherlock set the banana aside and slid to the floor; a moment later he was kneeling in front of John, whose knees had fallen open involuntarily at the sight. "You do, though. You've wanted it for a week now, ever since you learned I've done it. That I like to do it."
"Sherlock, I…" Sherlock's hands were on John's knees now, sliding up his thighs, his touch hot through the thin fabric of John's pyjama bottoms. John stared down at them, afraid to look anywhere else. "Please…"
"Was that a please do or a please don't?" Sherlock's voice was soft. John forced himself to look at him and was surprised to see that his expression was completely earnest.
"I don't know." He shrugged helplessly even as his thighs fell further apart. His cock was hard now, straining up against the thin fabric, but he couldn't be arsed to be embarrassed by it at this point. Sherlock's fingertips made small circles on his thighs, a holding pattern of sorts. "Yes, I want this, but that's my prick talking, isn't it? It's not a good idea."
"Why not?" God, his eyes. John could get lost in them.
"Because we're flatmates, for one thing, and we're friends and this is sex and we can't take it back once we've done it and it will change everything and make it weird and--"
"It's a blow job, John, not a marriage proposal."
John tried to laugh, but it came out as more of a snort. "Well, you are on your knees."
"It's something you clearly want and I'm offering it to you, with no strings attached."
"There are always strings."
Sherlock shrugged. "If you prefer, that's also fine."
John sighed. "Do you want this, really?"
"Have you ever known me to volunteer to do something I didn't want?"
John shook his head. "Just because we both want it doesn't mean we should do it."
"On the contrary; I find it a very strong argument that we should."
John groaned. "Sherlock, I'm serious."
"So am I. You're going to obsess over this until you become too sexually frustrated to function."
"It's already happening. You're starting to make sense."
"This way is easier. Consider it a favor between friends, if you like." Sherlock's hands inched their way up John's thighs and John caught his breath. Those fingers tucked into the waistband of John's pyjamas, just a small brush of skin against skin, and John shivered.
"In my experience, this is not the sort of favor friends do for each other." And that was the problem, really. John valued Sherlock's friendship above almost anything else, and the idea of risking that for something as fleeting as physical pleasure was just--
"Stop," Sherlock said, and John looked up at him. "I may never say these words to you again, so I suggest you listen very carefully: Stop thinking, right now. It will be fine, I promise." He raised his eyebrows.
John couldn't help smiling at that. "You're probably right."
"I'm always right. Lift." Sherlock tugged John's pyjamas down over his hips and pulled them off. He tossed them over his shoulder with an odd little flourish, and tucked his hands behind John's knees to pull him forward on the sofa a bit. Without breaking eye contact, he wrapped one hand around John's cock and stroked upward lightly.
"Oh God," John said as his head fell back against the cushions. "I apologize in advance, in case this doesn't take very long."
Sherlock leaned forward to lick a bead of fluid away from the slit and John had to clench the sofa cushions. Sherlock stared up at him, an expression of intense curiosity on his face.
"You find this extremely erotic."
"That's a fucking understatement. I'm ridiculously close, so you might want to get on with it. We can analyze the whole thing la-- ah!"
Sherlock's mouth descended on him, hot and wet and then he didn't stop, he kept going until John felt his cock curving down into the tight channel of Sherlock's throat. He pulled back again, apparently far enough to inhale and exhale again, then took the shaft all the way in once more. He bobbed his head slightly, just enough for John to feel friction, for the foreskin to slide against the head of his cock, and it was fucking glorious. Blow jobs were usually all about tongue, but this was completely different. It was more like intercourse, really, like the way his cock felt inside another body, only tighter and hotter, and it actually reminded him more of feeling of anal sex than anything else. There was a tightening then and he gasped -- Sherlock had swallowed, apparently, and now he was coming up again, just enough to breathe.
"Oh my God," John managed, unable to resist tangling his fingers in Sherlock's damp hair. "That's fucking amazing, I can't even… "
His cock was drawn into that tightness again and his mouth fell open. There was movement once more and he was literally fucking Sherlock's throat, trying hard not to push in harder, rougher, faster. Sherlock came up for breath once more and then John groaned at the feeling of being swallowed, at Sherlock's throat tightening around his dick, at the heat and the incredible fucking intimacy of it, and oh God he wasn't going to last much longer like this.
"Sherlock I…"
Sherlock pulled up and pushed down again, taking John's cock all the way in over and over. His breath came in measured huffs now, inhale in the way up, exhale on the way down, and then nothing while John's cock blocked his airway and he swallowed, once, twice, bobbing his head enough to make John go fuzzy at the edges.
John's fingers scrabbled in Sherlock's hair, the only thing he could do to provide a warning. Sherlock pushed forward and buried his nose in the dark hair at John's groin and he tugged at John's balls and John felt heat spiral through him. He closed his eyes and was dimly aware that he was groaning Sherlock's name over and over, and then Sherlock sat back, panting and flushed, and the edges of John's vision were all a bit sparkly.
John sat up enough to grab hold of the dressing gown and tugged Sherlock towards him, up on his knees. He crushed his mouth against Sherlock's without really thinking about it, one hand clasped at the base of his skull, and was astonished that he couldn't even taste himself in Sherlock's mouth. He'd literally come down Sherlock's throat.
He tore at the ties of the dressing gown as he kissed Sherlock, needing to do something to reciprocate, anything. He'd never had sex with a man before, had never done anything like this.
"Please let me," he said against Sherlock's lips. "Anything, anything you want."
Sherlock's eyes were closed and he gasped, and the idea that he might be even half as turned on as John was incredible. Sherlock's fingers closed around John's wrist and tugged John's hand downwards, and John plunged his hand under the waistband of Sherlock's pyjamas and gave his cock three strokes before Sherlock was spilling into his hand, his open mouth pressed into John's shoulder as he groaned.
John wiped his sticky hand on Sherlock's dressing gown and wrapped his arms around him, pulling him in tight. Sherlock's forehead pressed against John's neck and they both panted.
"Well," John said at last. Sherlock made no move to pull away and John was reluctant to let him go.
"Right," Sherlock replied, still boneless against John.
"That was amazing, you know. Of course you know."
"Yes."
Sherlock leaned back enough to look up at him. John wasn't used to having the height advantage, but it was nice. He leaned in to kiss Sherlock again, slow and languid. One of Sherlock's hands slid up to John's shoulder and then to his face. It was astonishingly not-awkward, considering.
John sat back and caught Sherlock's hand with his own. "I think you're going to have to teach me how to do that."
"Teach you?" Sherlock's voice was rough. It was dead sexy.
"Sword swallowing." John raised an eyebrow. "You did say no one's ever done it for you, didn't you?"
Sherlock's cheeks turned pink. "I did."
"And you're crazy if you think anyone else is going to get the chance anytime soon." He bit his lip, a wave of anxiety washing over him.
"I said I didn't mind strings, you know. It doesn't have to change anything." He paused and cleared his throat, and John felt simultaneously turned-on and guilty. "We can have sex and still do everything else we do. It's mutually beneficial, I think."
"Considering my recent track record with women, it may be for the best." John paused, rolled his eyes. "Everyone thinks we're shagging anyway."
Sherlock sat back on his heels. "Now they'll be right."
John laughed. "I suppose so. Do you mind if I ask how long it's been since you've done that?"
Sherlock looked thoughtful for a moment. "Twelve years, three months, and fourteen days." He pulled his dressing gown around himself again.
"Like riding a bicycle, is it?"
Sherlock opened his mouth and closed it again. "Well, actually… I confess I practiced a bit."
John gaped at him. "Practiced?"
"I have something… to practice with. I suspected we might be heading this direction." His smile was bordering on smug.
"Any other things you might have practiced that I ought to know about?" John didn't even try to keep the heat from his tone.
"All in good time. Tea?"
"Definitely."
John watched him retreat into the kitchen before standing and pulling his pyjama bottoms on again. He had no idea where this was going, or if they'd ultimately regret it, but at least for now, it was fine. It was all fine.
~ fin ~
Story Notes:
This began with a fairly innocuous naughty tweet about sword swallowing. I should blame thank 
ivyblossom, 
pinkfinity, and sfiddy for daring encouraging me to write this. Ladies, I apologize. ;-)
Alternate Links: On AO3 | On LJ | On Skyehawke
ivyblossom, sfiddy for daring encouraging me to write this. Ladies, I apologize. ;-)Alternate Links: On AO3 | On LJ | On Skyehawke