Chapter Text
“So, have you ever been able to?” John asks quietly, fidgeting uncomfortably on the bed. Sherlock doesn’t blame him for being uncomfortable—they are both naked after all, and mid-coitus. He assumes this would be a very embarrassing position for anyone to be in.
“Only a few times, and never with anyone else,” Sherlock answers him, not looking him in the eye. It’s not that he is ashamed, it’s just that he doesn’t want to chance seeing disappointment on John’s face, the way so many other sexual partners have looked when they have wanted to return the favor to Sherlock and bring him to completion.
It’s one of the reasons that he hasn’t had sex in so long, or even attempted a relationship. But then John had come along and John was just so…John.
Perfect. Bloody perfect in every way.
And when John wanted to take their relationship to the next, inevitable level, Sherlock found that he hadn’t wanted to say no, even though he knew this was going to happen.
So he tried to put it off for a while. The two had been having sexual relations of some sort or the other for a few weeks now, but Sherlock had tried hard to make it all about John, brushing off John’s attempts to return the favor with excuses like ‘I have an experiment that needs finishing’ or ‘It’s okay, John, I know you’re tired. Just sleep and you can make it up to me later’.
But he knew that it would come to this eventually. John Watson is by no means a selfish lover, and Sherlock knows that each time they are intimate (and Sherlock doesn’t orgasm at the end of it) John only feels guiltier and guiltier.
“Is it because you…can’t?” John stumbles over his words. He may be a doctor, and Sherlock knows that a clinical setting has a lot to do with being able to ask such personal questions, but this most certainly is not that. “Physically, I mean? I know you get hard, that happens every time, so I just don’t understand….” He trails off, and Sherlock can already hear the disappointment in his voice, that edge of sadness that will soon grow into confusion and blame.
“It’s difficult to describe,” Sherlock tells him honestly, because he really does want John to know, he doesn’t want to keep this from the man the way he had tried to keep it from other partners. “It’s like a sensory overload. I can become aroused because my body enjoys the feeling of everything that we do together, but my mind refuses to tip me over the edge.” He frowns, trying to think of how to describe it, and still does not look at John. “Sometimes I tend to over-think what I’m feeling, or my brain just goes off on a completely separate tangent. It’s annoying, but it’s something that I’ve learned to live with. That’s why I had decided to stay abstinent for so long. Sexual stimulation offered me no release, so I didn’t even bother trying.”
Next to him, he feels John shift on the bed. “But…you can do it?” John asks him, and his voice sounds eager. “You’re able to?”
Sherlock winces at the enthusiasm in John’s voice, because he knows it will only lead to a bigger disappointment, but he doesn’t lie to him. He can’t. “I can achieve orgasm every so often by myself,” he confesses, “so I know that my body is capable of doing it, but it requires a tremendous amount of time and effort.” He hopes that his words are enough to break John’s delusions.
There is a slight pause and the silence seems thick between them. Sherlock figures that this is the part where John gives up, the way many of his past partners have, not even bothering to try because they don’t want to feel the disappointment of the inevitable failure, but John surprises him.
“I want to do it for you,” he hears John say into the stillness, and John’s tone is steady, sure, capable, and Sherlock desperately wants to give in to it, but knows better than to believe it.
“Why?” he asks instead, at a loss. He doesn’t understand why anyone would want to put in so much effort for something that their own body won’t even be the one to enjoy.
“Because I want to bring you to orgasm,” John answers simply, as if it should be obvious.
“John, it’s really not necessary, I promise,” Sherlock presses, somewhat panicked. “I enjoy what we do—I like becoming aroused because of you, and that can be enough for me.” He doesn’t want John to become just another ex, just another try, just another attempt. And he knows how this will go if John cannot succeed; he’s been in this position too many times before.
But John just frowns at him, giving him a confused, slightly hurt look that Sherlock watches out of the corner of his eye. “Why don’t you want me to do it?”
“I just don’t want you to be disappointed when it doesn’t happen.”
“Don’t you have any faith in me?” John asks, and there is a bit of incredulity behind his tone, and more than a hint of humor. “They didn’t call me ‘Three Continents Watson’ because I left partners unfulfilled across the globe, you know.”
“It’s just—” Sherlock begins, but John cuts him off quickly.
“Hey, shhh,” John says, and he leans into Sherlock’s body, wrapping a warm, comforting arm over the thin man’s pale shoulders and bringing him close. “It’s okay. I want to do this for you. And if it doesn’t work this time, that’s fine, it’ll be all right. We’ll just try again later. We can try as many times as you like, as many times as it takes to make you feel good.”
Sherlock doesn’t want to say yes. He knows that he shouldn’t. He knows what will end up happening, what always ends up happening, but he can’t help it. He wants this with John in a way that he has never wanted it with his other partners. Before, he had wanted it for himself, for his own pleasure. But this…there is a sense of need running through him now, the sense that he wants to be able to give John this part of himself, this part that he has never given anybody else.
The thought sends a shiver of arousal through him.
“Yes, all right,” he hears himself whispering.
“Perfect,” John says, turning his head slightly to kiss the brunet’s forehead and Sherlock can feel him smiling happily against his skin.
John starts slow, lying Sherlock gently back against the sheets, settling softly down on top of him. He lies mostly to Sherlock’s side to keep the weight off of him and resumes kissing the man; indulgent, tender kisses that leave sparks behind on Sherlock’s tongue and a warm glowing feeling deep in his belly. He doesn’t touch Sherlock’s cock for a long time, instead using his hand to caress every other part of the consulting detective’s body, teasing him, letting him enjoy the slow burn of it.
And Sherlock does enjoy it. Very much so.
He writhes beneath John’s body and arches up into his hand as John slowly—finally—trails it towards his straining cock. Sherlock enjoys this; he wasn’t lying to John about that. He can feel arousal and stimulation normally, and he basks in the feelings running through his body, letting them flow over him, letting John take care of him.
Just when he thinks John will finally take him in hand, the doctor trails his fingers away teasingly. Sherlock groans into John’s mouth, frustrated, but John only pulls away slightly and chuckles.
“We’re not done yet, love. I know that’s not all that you need.” He shifts against Sherlock, changing positions. He moves to hover completely on top of Sherlock, using one arm—the good one—to rest all of his weight on as his other continues to explore Sherlock’s body. John keeps kissing him but abandons Sherlock’s mouth for the rest of his body, licking and nibbling and biting every piece of flesh that he can reach. Sherlock is soon shaking underneath him, caught in between John’s mouth and John’s hand and all of John’s attention and it’s almost too much, but not nearly enough.
They spend what feels to Sherlock like hours this way, John continuing to lavish love onto Sherlock’s body, touching everything, tasting everything, except for that one area where Sherlock wants John’s attentions the most.
But John denies him that. Sherlock tries to direct him there, over and over again, but every time Sherlock’s hips rise towards John’s hand—so close, he’s so close—John only moves to grip his hips softly, pushing his body back down onto the mattress. And when Sherlock opens his mouth to speak—not to beg, not to plead, certainly not—John instantly shushes him with a deep kiss.
It is driving Sherlock crazy and he wants. Oh, how he wants. He can feel a pressure in his body tightening, coiling slowly, a warmth in his belly that he hardly ever feels. He is sweating against the sheets, his hair sticking to his forehead and rubbing across the pillows and he can’t ever remember feeling this needy, this urgent. It’s wonderful.
Against him, Sherlock knows that John can feel the change in his body, the desperation. At last he gives Sherlock the reprieve his body wants, trailing deft, agile fingers along Sherlock’s thighs and higher, higher, until…
When John finally takes hold of Sherlock’s aching cock, the brunet man gasps, surprised at the intensity of the sensation there. John has teased him so mercilessly that his body is as taut as the strings on his violin, ready to snap if pushed any farther. But John doesn’t relent. He smears his palm over the head of Sherlock’s cock and through the copious amounts of precome that Sherlock has leaked over the time John has spent worshipping him. There is more than enough lubrication for what John intends to do.
He starts slowly, teasingly, the way that he has played with the rest of Sherlock’s body. Soft touches that aren’t enough, aren’t nearly enough, hardly any pressure at all and Sherlock whines loudly, writhing underneath the blond man.
“John, please,” he says, because he needs. He doesn’t know exactly what it is that he needs, but he knows that John can give it to him, whatever it is.
“Yes, all right,” John concedes, and his grip tightens around Sherlock’s prick, squeezing just right and pumping firmly, twisting at the head and tightening even more on the way back down, over and over and over again, and the slick slide of it and the heat and the constriction are all so good. So very, very good.
He pants against John’s neck, burying himself in the smell of flesh and sweat and he surprises himself when he gets so close to the edge that he thinks he just might…
“John, I…” he begins, but doesn’t know how to continue, because while he certainly is on the edge, he is also most certainly staying right there, teetering, but not falling over. He whines in frustration.
“Shhh, it’s all right, love,” John soothes, his voice soft. “You’re almost there, aren’t you? I can feel it. You’re doing so well.”
“Yes,” Sherlock tells him, gritting his teeth and pressing his face harder against John’s skin, trying to push himself over but it just isn’t working.
“It’s okay for you to want this, Sherlock; it’s okay for your body to need it. Come on, you can do it. I know you can.”
And John’s tone is so soft, so gentle, so loving that Sherlock sobs. He wants to do this for John, to be able to give John this, because he knows that the other man wants it so desperately—not for himself, but for Sherlock. John wants Sherlock to have this, to experience it, and that’s all John needs for himself, Sherlock can hear it all in his the soft cadence of John’s voice.
Sherlock feels himself straining uselessly against John’s hand, still unable to go any farther. The stimulations are overwhelming his body—too good, too much, too fast—and he lets out a pained whimper. He can still feel his body right there on the sharp edge, wavering between absolute pleasure and overwhelming pain from over-stimulation and John can feel it, too. He backs off just a tad, just enough for Sherlock to be able to breathe again.
With the softer, lighter touch, John brings his mouth down to kiss Sherlock softly, his lips moving against Sherlock’s mouth in the same manner as his hand working over Sherlock’s cock, the pull, the push, the slickness. And when he speaks he doesn’t even pull away from Sherlock’s plush cupid’s bow, whispering against Sherlock’s open mouth as he continues to kiss him between words.
“It’s okay, darling, don’t be worried. It’s all perfectly natural; just let your body do the work. Let your body take over, that’s it, it’s okay. I’ve got you—”
Sherlock moans as he feels an uncomfortable, growing tightness coiling in his belly. His legs go rigid and his hands twist in the sheets and his breaths come out in short puffs of air as the feeling in his groin builds and builds and builds until—
He orgasms with a scream.
“That’s it, lovely,” he can hear John soothing softly through the haze of his climax, the sound dampened and slightly fuzzy to Sherlock’s ears as the rush of blood and the heavy beat of his heart drown out all other noise. “That’s perfect. That’s beautiful.”
When Sherlock can think again, he notices that John’s hand hasn’t left his cock, which is still rock hard even after achieving orgasm, but he doesn’t move it, doesn’t want to over-stimulate and ruin the first true orgasm Sherlock has ever had in his life. He simply holds on to it, letting the warmth of his hand and the pressure rock Sherlock’s body into small aftershocks, pleasurable and perfect.
“That…that was…” Sherlock tries, but he discovers that he can’t really find adequate words.
“Hot as hell,” John finishes for him with a grin.
“Amazing,” Sherlock adds, and he smiles up at John, too. John leans down to kiss him firmly on the mouth and Sherlock can’t help it—he is asleep before John pulls away.