The First Ten Times.

by Daisy Gamgee.

EXPLICIT Sherlock/John SEX. Because there's SEX in this thing. SEX. Don't say I didn't warn you.

ONE.

The first time John Watson kissed a man, he’d just had a run through Whitechapel on the heels of yet another Jack the Ripper wannabe who’d left spray-painted messages addressed to Sherlock on walls and pavement. They’d cornered the bastard in a dead end after a frantic chase down very dark narrow alleys—just the kind of chase Sherlock really loved. After the police showed up and hauled the guy away, Sherlock grabbed John’s coat, pushed him against a brick wall, and kissed him, hard. John, stunned, could only grab Sherlock’s labels and hang on. Sherlock stepped back with a wicked grin, declaimed “Brilliant!,” and hailed a cab.

All of John’s questions, consisting entirely of variations on “What the hell was that about?,” were ignored or answered with distracted non-sequiturs. John chalked it up to a post-hunt high and put the kettle on as usual when they got back to the flat. He went to bed feeling a bit unsettled, but a good night’s sleep returned him to normal by morning. They didn’t speak of it at all.

TWO.

The first time John Watson had a serious snog with a man, they’d ordered takeaway, and John was pleased when the food was delivered by a twenty-something girl with a blonde ponytail and an infectious giggle.  He stood on the doorstep chatting with her for several minutes, during which he found out that she was in university, had been accepted to a law program (John immediately forgot which) and wasn’t currently dating anyone. He gallantly walked her across the street to her car, and when she drove away, mentally noted her car plate number.

He looked up to see Sherlock watching him, frowning, from the front window.  John suddenly felt as though he’d done something very deeply wrong. He looked at his feet, then back at the window. No Sherlock.

When John made it upstairs with the food, Sherlock was back at his microscope as though he hadn’t moved. Neither of them spoke.

John, piqued, filled his own plate and took it on a tray to the sitting room to stare blankly at the telly while he ate. He was annoyed with himself for allowing it to matter that Sherlock had so obviously disapproved of his chatting up the delivery girl. What was worse, he felt chastised by that disapproval. He decided to shake the feeling off, reasoning that Sherlock had just been unhappy that the food might be getting cold.

Except, of course, that Sherlock hadn’t actually touched any of the food.

After a long episode of something instantly forgettable, John switched the telly off and took his tray back to the kitchen. “You really should eat,” he said toward Sherlock.

“You’re always so quick to deny it when other people assume we’re a couple.”

John turned toward his friend, who hadn’t lifted his eyes from the microscope. “Does that upset you in some way?”

Sherlock looked at him for a fraction of a second. “You seem to be offended when it happens.”

“Offended? Oh. Well. No, I don’t think I’m offended, really.” John considered for a moment. “It makes it difficult to chat up a girl if everyone thinks I’m gay.”

“You didn’t have any trouble with the delivery girl just now.”

“She didn’t seem to know who I was.”

“Didn’t she? I believe I heard her say ‘Having a night in, then, you two?’”

“What? No, she didn’t, she was…” His expression changed as realization dawned. “Oh, bloody hell.” John rubbed his forehead. “She knew who we were and thought she’d safely flirt with the nice couple ‘round the corner. Great. Fantastic. You’re killing my love life, you know.”

Sherlock raised his head to look at John, then changed the slide under the microscope and returned his attention to the eyepieces. “Would it be so bad?”

“To have no love life?”

“No, John. If we were a couple.”

John wasn’t at all sure he’d head that right. Then he was quite, quite sure he had, and his brain went utterly blank for a long, extremely awkward moment. “Sherlock. What. Uhm, I don’t. “Hmm.” He took a deep breath. “I’m not gay.”

“So you continue to remind yourself. Repeatedly.”

“Remind myself? What’s that supposed to mean?”

Sherlock huffed. “Really, you haven’t realized? You constantly and consistently react to others’ assumption that we are a couple by either swiftly denying it, or declaring that You. Are. Not.  Gay. This has convinced precisely no one, except, perhaps, for you.”

“No one? Not even you?”

Sherlock pushed away from the microscope and crossed his arms. “Please tell me in what way, besides that we aren’t having sex, that you and I differ from any other relationship model that is generally used to define ‘couple.’”

“Relationship model? What the ff…” John slapped his forehead. “Oh, yeah. Great. More research. I get it. I do. Very funny.”

“I’m not joking.” Sherlock assumed the expression that John had come to think of as The Look. “You’ve never wondered why I never correct anyone? I do, you tell me, have an appalling habit of correcting everyone about everything. Yet on this one point, I have remained mute. “ He stared at the table top with more intensity than it deserved.  “Friend. Colleague. Couple. All of it, whatever you want to call it, or anyone else calls it, I’m fine with it, as long as you.” Sherlock was clearly dismayed by the way his voice suddenly wouldn’t work properly. He cleared his throat. “As long as you’re with me.” He closed his eyes and his brow furrowed deeply.

“How would our being a couple change anything?” John said. “We’re together all the time. We work together, we live together, we go out…ohhhh. Like a couple. Hmm. I may need to rethink this argument.”

Sherlock smiled crookedly and shook his head. “You will leave, you know, eventually. You’ll meet some lovely woman, and she’ll see you for who you are, and you’ll get married. I can’t imagine any married woman wanting to live with her husband with me, of all people, in this flat.” His smile took on a sad cast. “And you’ll go with her.”

“We’d still work together, yeah?”

“Won’t be the same. You know that.”

John did know that, and the knowledge made his chest hurt. “Yeah,” he said softly. “I think I’d hate that.”

“Yes. Me, too.” Sherlock looked up at John, and his eyes, John thought, were supernaturally deep and blue, matching the shimmer of his silk shirt.

John’s heart skipped a beat, perhaps two. “You told me, that first night, that you’re married to your work, that all that matters is the work.”

“You said you weren’t my date. Twice.”

“Was I your date, then?”

Sherlock dismissed that with a wave. “You’re part of my work, John. Of course I couldn’t know that, that night, but you are. I can’t separate you out from it, and I don’t think I ever could. I don’t want to. I can’t.” He laughed sardonically and shook his head. “I swore I’d never let myself get distracted by sentiment, and attachments, and sexual feelings, and I’d only focus on the work. But I couldn’t anticipate you. You’re the work, you’re the emotions, you’re the sexual feelings, John. You.”

John stood, dumbstruck.

“I’ve said too much.”

“You usually do, yeah.”

“You’re still standing here.”

“You expect me to run screaming?”

“I have no idea what to expect. I didn’t expect to have this conversation tonight, then you flirted with the takeaway girl, and I was puzzled by my reaction. It seemed imperative to talk about it.”

John’s eyebrows raised. “Were you jealous?”

Sherlock frowned, started to shake his head, then shrugged. “Perhaps. I don’t know. I just know I’d suddenly imagined a future without you, and I didn’t care for it at all.”

“I see.”

“Do you?”

“Yeah, yeah, I really think I do.”

“You’re still not running.”

John laughed softly. “I genuinely have no idea what to do, Sherlock.”

“Well. You could tell me again that you’re not gay, for whatever that’s worth. You could leave the room, or the flat, hire a bedsit, and move out. You could call an old girlfriend and have sex with her to reassure yourself about your sexuality. You could hit me. You could no doubt kill me, if you decided to.” He trailed off into uncertainty. “Or you could kiss me.”

John realized his expression must have been alarming, because Sherlock added quickly, “As an experiment, of course.”

“Oh, no. No, Sherlock, I don’t think you’d have scientific motives for kissing me, not at all.”

“Ah, well. Yes, you would be right.” Sherlock sighed, biting his lip. “I ‘ve clearly said too much of the wrong sorts of things.”

If he hadn’t caught that glimmer of moisture in Sherlock’s eye, if he hadn’t seen the shadow of unbearable sadness cross his friend’s face, if he hadn’t recognized that miserable tight protective knot that Sherlock had twisted his upper body into, John might have said something else. Perhaps he would have said “All right, good night,” like he usually did. Maybe he would have said “Please, Sherlock, don’t be daft.” He might even have said “I should move out.”

Instead, John walked over to Sherlock, took his face between his hands, said “You’re a total bloody idiot,” and kissed him.

He’d taken himself by surprise in the act, not at all sure he’d actually done it until Sherlock’s hand was on the nape of his neck, fingers flexing, and their teeth bumped in an eagerness to go deeper. John hadn’t ever snogged anyone with scratchy beard stubble, or a mouth bigger than his own, or so much taller that the seat his partner perched on equalized their height. The arms across his back were sinewy and strong, as were the thighs squeezing his legs, and he couldn’t have imagined how close he could get to someone, chest to chest, without breasts getting between them. He realized he couldn’t breathe, broke the kiss, and stepped back. “Shit,” he managed to gasp out.

“Was that all right for you? I apologize, I’m out of practice.” Sherlock’s lips were reddened, his eyes hopeful. “I enjoyed it.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I mean, yeah, that was brilliant.” John stepped back, a bit dazed. “Jesus.” He rubbed his forehead, and realized he heard a roaring sound just behind his ears. Just his heart, he knew, accelerated, and his blood rapidly draining from his brain to other parts of his body.

“John?” Sherlock’s hand settled on his shoulder. “Are you all right?”

“I. I just don’t know.” John took a deep breath. “Sherlock, I need to think about this.”

The hand withdrew, and Sherlock folded in on himself once more. “Of course. Good night.” He stood off and went to his bedroom so quickly that John didn’t have time to react. The door slammed.

“What the fuck just happened?” John said to an empty room.

THREE.

The first time John Watson made love to a man was on a miserably cold, rainy, dreary, moonless night later that week. Sherlock had been slamming around the flat after three days of barely leaving his room when he’d suddenly stood stock still for several minutes. John was about to ask him what was going on when Sherlock grabbed his coat and stomped out of the flat. John considered chasing after him. He didn’t like the sudden departure, but it wasn’t the first time Sherlock has gone out on his own without a word. He usually returned in a few hours none the worse for wear. John glanced at the clock: half-nine.

Sherlock returned around 3:00 am, soaked to the bone from the relentless driving rain. John startled awake when the door opened, his book falling to the floor.

“Hey. You all right?”

Sherlock looked at John, but seemed to be looking through him, and went wordlessly to his bedroom.

“Glad to see you, too.” John stood, stretched, shut off the lamp, and took his cup to the kitchen.

He hadn’t been in his bed more than a minute or two when he realized there was a very cold damp draft sweeping up from below. John knew he’d locked the doors and windows. He got his gun from the nightstand and pattered quietly downstairs.

Sherlock’s bedroom door was ajar, and the draft was coming from that room, slicingly cold and wet. John pushed the door open.

The windows were wide open, wind and rain spitting inside, and Sherlock was curled into a ball on the bed, nude, wrapped in only one thin sheet.

“Shit.” John quickly shut the windows, put his gun aside, and looked down at his friend. Sherlock’s eyes were open and he was shivering, but he said nothing. John touched his forehead, nape of neck, and wrist: no fever, no sweat, normal pulse, despite that he was quite chilled and very pale. “You’re a bloody idiot,” he said softly, and went upstairs to get blankets and a thick down duvet from his own bed.

John hated these self-destructive fits of Sherlock’s, absolutely loathed them. This time, at least, he was reasonably sure Sherlock was clean, but had probably been sorely tempted. John would most likely never be told what he’d done that evening, and to work it out would take days. All he really needed to know was that Sherlock had tried to give himself exposure shock, knowing full well what he was doing, and that his failure to actually latch his door was the only thing that had saved him from much worse. John was damned if he was going to let his friend get away with it.

He tugged the sheet free and shook it out to cover the bed, laid down two wool blankets, and then the duvet to cover it all. That ought to trap the body heat Sherlock had left. “Feeling better?”

“I’m very, very cold, John,” Sherlock said through chattering teeth.

Well, that was something, John decided. At least Sherlock as aware of himself, where he was, and that John was there. “What do you need, then?”

“Body heat. Please.”

John hesitated, feeling oddly uneasy, but realized he was being stupid and a bit irresponsible—he knew damned well what he needed to do. “Shove toward the middle, then, don’t hang off the edge.”

Sherlock moved as ordered, burrowing further into the blankets.

John slipped in next to him, shivering himself from the coldness of the sheets. “You really should be wearing something.” John pushed up close to Sherlock’s back and wound his arms and legs around Sherlock’s frame. “Give me your hand. Tuck the other under your side.” He took the offered hand and chafed it briskly. “What the hell were you trying to do? All right, never mind. None of the answers I can think of are any good. Christ, you really should have at least put socks on.” He released the hand and took the other.

“That would have disturbed my sock index.”

John laughed gently from a weary relief. “Of course it would. What was I thinking.” John tucked the sheet and one of the blankets firmly around them both. “All right. Sleep now.”

The shivering slowed, then finally stopped, and John could feel Sherlock warm and relax in his arms. He yawned and thought about going up to his own bed, until he remembered that all his bedclothes were here. Getting up just to go back to a blanketless bed on a cold night seemed absurd. He closed his eyes.

Sherlock sighed, and shifted, and took one of John’s hands in his own, weaving their fingers together. A long, quiet moment later, he brought John’s hand to his lips and kissed it.

“You’re welcome,” John mumbled, and felt Sherlock’s silent laugh through his own body.

“John.”

“Hmm?”

“Ahhh, John.” Sherlock turned in John’s arms, his warm breath across John’s cheeks, and kissed him softly. “Dear John. Lovely warm John.”

John kissed him back, teasing open lips and teeth with his tongue, then grabbed Sherlock and pulled him closer.

He was amazed at how natural this seemed, the two of them in Sherlock’s bed, one nude and the other in nightclothes, kissing and pressing together like this. Of course, John thought, of course this was just what they should be doing, should have been doing all along. He waited for his brain to kick in—“What are you doing, Watson? You’re not gay, remember?”—but much to his relief, it did not.

Soon John had been divested of pyjamas and pants, and then realized with a mild panic that he had no idea what he was supposed to do.

“Here,” Sherlock whispered, and “Ah, yes, there,” and a little while later, “Oh, please, please, just push.”

A condom came from somewhere, lube from somewhere close to that, and John did push, and push again, and they looked at each other and laughed with the sheer joy of it. Just before he fell asleep, John thought again of Sherlock’s expression as he came, and how beautiful and vulnerable and joyous and alive he had looked at that moment.

He slept past noon and woke up to the sound of Sherlock’s violin playing an entirely new tune.

FOUR.

The first time John Watson received fellatio from a man was several hours after he’d awakened in the afternoon to the sounds of Sherlock composing on his violin. The day had been sunny, if still chilly and soggy, and after a very late breakfast and time on his laptop—during which John had deliberately not thought about the night before, not least because he and Sherlock hadn’t since acknowledged to each other that it had actually happened—John gathered up the newspapers and a cup of coffee and settled on the sofa.

Sherlock, fresh from a shower, joined him a little while later, picking up the newspaper sections to read after John finished them. They discussed dinner, had a nice visit from Mrs. Hudson (who had, John was sure of it, winked at each of them when she thought the other wasn’t looking), and decided to watch a movie. They disagreed volubly on which one until they compromised on a scifi title that John had seen but Sherlock hadn’t. John was amenable to seeing it again, Sherlock was amenable to trying not to shout abuse at the screen, and so the movie started.

An hour in, Sherlock unfolded himself and stretched out. Usually he stuck his miserable cold feet under John’s rump, but this time he instead laid his head on John’s lap. John, pleased, took the rare opportunity to run his hand through Sherlock’s still-damp hair, watching the curls twist up around his fingers. Sherlock hugged John’s knees with one long arm.

Then Sherlock rolled onto his back and looked up at John with a scrutiny that John found excruciating.

“Stop that.”

“All right,” Sherlock replied, and set to work undoing the zip of John’s jeans.

Neither of them paid any attention to the rest of the movie.

FIVE.

The first time John Watson spent all day in bed with a man was a Sunday on which Sherlock had declared himself to be bored before he had even opened his eyes.

“Waking is boring,” he’d declared with a heavy voice.

“That’s why I’m trying not to. Shut up and go back to sleep.” John tugged the covers up to his chin.

“If I go back to sleep I’ll just have to wake up again.”

John opened his eyes and looked at Sherlock’s outrageous bed hair and petulant expression, and thought for the millionth time, “Amazing. Fantastic. Extraordinary.” He knew that that long lithe body was twitching from the very effort of Not Being Bored.

“Come here, then. I’ll keep you occupied,” he said, and Sherlock, smiling crookedly, did just that.

SIX.

The first time John Watson gave oral sex to a man was a Tuesday night after an especially frustrating day that had involved a lot of chasing about after what turned out to be a red herring. They came home wired, angry, and hyper-alert, a condition John knew well from combat—the “fight or fuck” response, they’d called it.

They did both.

John took great offense at a cutting remark thoughtlessly spoken. Sherlock took greater offense at John’s response. The disagreement devolved rapidly into a wrestling match that started in the kitchen and ended in an armchair. John pinned Sherlock to the chair, then realized that the struggle had given Sherlock a magnificent cockstand.

“Gotcha,” John said, and roughly pulled his friend’s fly open.

He hadn’t ever done this, but had had it done to him often enough that he basically knew what to do. John expected Sherlock to enjoy it, of course—even an inexpert blow job was better than none. What he really hadn’t expected was how much pleasure he got from the act itself: the scent of musk, the taste of sweat, the texture of soft on hard, and the noises he elicited from Sherlock.

“Stop, stop, I’m going to come. John, stop. You’ve never…oh, Jesus, yes.”

Afterward, John rested his forehead on Sherlock’s heaving belly, licking his lips and catching his breath. That was definitely all right, he decided, and grinned.

SEVEN.

The first time John Watson bottomed for a man was the evening of a very successful case resolution. They’d come home to the flat with wine and bags of fresh food, and John cooked while Sherlock hovered about him in the kitchen with a glass of chardonnay, talking it all out. The case had been tricky and Sherlock had loved it because it had tested him and found him brilliant. He rewarded John for his part in it with kisses to his neck and embraces from behind, and once John had to tell him to let go and sit down so he could move.

Sherlock ate a full meal, which surprised and gratified John, who thought his cooking skills were base camp level at best. They sat drinking the wine for a little while, coming down from the post-case high, then retired to the sofa for some crap telly and a leisurely snuggle. The snuggle turned into a snog, the snog turned to enthusiastic groping, and soon they shut off the telly and went to bed.

Because he was brilliant and amazing and on fire, Sherlock knocked John over onto the bed and straddled him, pinning John’s arms above his head. John hadn’t experienced this particular erotic mood; he resisted almost by instinct, struggling, until he was reassured with soft kisses and whispers of “Nothing you don’t want, John,” and “God, you’re beautiful,” and “You, John, only you” until John was intoxicated by this gorgeous ridiculous fantastic creature who had chosen him as a partner, a colleague, a lover.

Then they were nude and a bit sweaty, tangled in the sheets and each other. Sherlock pushed John’s thighs apart and lifted his hips, sliding into the cleft, rubbing. “Give me this, John, please, please.”

Before he could think, John sighed “Yes.”

“Yes,” Sherlock echoed in John’s mouth. “Yes.”

It was strange, a little painful, uncomfortable and full, and John closed his eyes and grit his teeth.

“No, no, look at me, open your eyes, John, look at me, there you are. There you are.”

Sherlock’s eyes glowed and he was smiling, and John hadn’t been looked at with that much heat and need and raw emotion, never, and he whispered “Oh, dear God,” and opened.

The pain dissolved into sharp pleasure, the fullness became exquisite, the discomfort became a harsh rocking need to push back. He settled his feet on Sherlock’s hips and stopped thinking. When he came, it was raw and new and shook him head to toe.

Sherlock came with a near-growl, and his arms gave out. John caught him and held him through shivers. They both had a few tears, just a few, then they laughed like naughty schoolboys.

“Do you feel different?”

“Yes,” John admitted, and was relieved to see a sly smile.

“That’s because you’re mine. Only mine.” Sherlock nipped at John’s throat. “My John. My own.”

“Yes.” John sank into the comfort of the soft bed. “Of course.

EIGHT.

The first time John Watson had a man tell him he loved him was later that night, when he was drifting off to sleep against Sherlock’s shoulder. He heard a whisper, just the faintest sound in his left ear, and realized Sherlock thought him to be asleep.

“I love you, John. I love you.”

John opened his eyes.

NINE.

The first time John Watson told a man he loved him, he’d opened his eyes to a face furrowed with concern. Sherlock hadn’t really intended John to hear that, and John wondered how many times Sherlock had told him when he was safely asleep. Too many, even if this was the first.

“I love you, too, you stupid git.”

TEN.

The first time John Watson lay in bed after great sex with a man he loved, who loved him in return, they had laughed until they cried, and fallen asleep with smiles on their faces.

ONE.

The first time Sherlock Holmes could remember ever going to sleep smiling was in the arms of John Watson, the most extraordinary man he’d ever known.

***end***