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The Science of Seduction	By : aineko Category: S through Z > Sherlock (BBC) > Sherlock (BBC) Views: 4041 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I own no part of BBC Sherlock and make no profit from this work

Chapter List
- 7
- 8
- 9
A/N: Sorry this one took so long, it's my first serious attempt at writing smut, and I've been trying very hard to get it right. Hope it was worth the wait :-)

John handed over the fare and climbed out of the taxi, staring up at 221B Baker Street.
He'd spent an uneasy night in the hospital. They'd fed him painkillers, of course, and given him an anti-tetanus booster, physically he was fine. It was Sherlock he was worried about. He knew that the detective had got off lightly with what was basically just a few scratches, Lestrade had told him as much last night; the inspector had been allowed ten minutes to get a preliminary statement.
But he'd also told John about Sherlock's behaviour.
Which was what had John worried.
This morning hadn't made things better. He'd tried to ring Sherlock several times, getting no answer, and texting didn't help; finally he'd given up and just waited to be discharged, deciding he'd try to suss out what was up with the detective when he got home.
Well here he was, and nervous.
But John Hamish Watson hadn't survived Afghanistan by being a coward. So he took a deep breath and opened the door.

Sherlock was sitting on the sofa when he heard the door open.
He'd been sat there most of the morning. Most of the night too, come to that. He'd collapsed on his bed after getting home and to his subsequent surprise had drifted off for a few hours, but then he'd woken around three a.m. and that had been that. He knew he needed to rest, John would certainly tell him so... but John wasn't here. Which was the problem, really.
He wanted John. Needed him.
But John was in the hospital, because John was hurt, because he, Sherlock, had put him in harm's way, and what if that was the final straw? What if last night's events ended up driving John away?
He couldn't see how he could possibly move forward from that.
So he just sat here, waiting. He'd heard the phone, of course, had counted the rings each time. Hadn't been able to bring himself to answer it or read any of the texts. Had just sat here.
When he finally heard the door he didn't know if he was relieved or terrified. Irrelevant, he told himself, there was no escaping now. So he sat, hugging his knees, and listened to the footsteps climbing the stairs.

John reached the landing. "Sherlock?" he called.
No answer.
Was his flatmate still asleep? Had he gone out, perhaps?
But his coat was on the coat rack, and Sherlock was normally up by this hour, at least when John was home. Perhaps he was exhausted after last night. Perhaps last night's exertions had caused a relapse... John hoped not. He really did. An ill Sherlock was something he'd rather not have to deal with again right now.
He pushed the door to the living room open, and there was his flatmate. Sitting on the sofa, hugging his legs, wearing pajamas and dressing gown, not meeting John's eyes.
"Sherlock," he said again, taking his jacket off, easing it gingerly off his injured arm. He tossed it in the general direction of the armchair and sat down next to his flatmate. Sherlock didn't even acknowledge his presence; normally John being this close would get a reaction.
There was one thing that would for certain. It was risky; there was never any way of knowing beforehand how the detective would react to physical contact that he hadn't initiated. Not well, today, probably.
But he couldn't just let him sit and brood, so John laid a tentative hand on Sherlock's arm. He felt the man stiffen and withdrew again. "Sherlock, it's all right," he said quietly. "I'm fine."
Sherlock's jaw was trembling slightly. "You could have died," he mumbled.
"You don't think I dragged my arse back from the war in one piece - well, more or less - just to let some nutter with a stanley knife do me in, do you?" He tried to smile, but it felt like a grimace, and there was no hint of expression on his friend's face.
"It was my fault," Sherlock muttered. "I didn't listen to you. You told me to take it easy, and I didn't listen, and you could have been killed. I should have listened to you."
"Yes you should," John agreed placidly. "But then you never listen to anyone, so why should I be any different?"
"But you are!" Sherlock's head whipped around and he glared at John - and were those tears in his eyes? Sherlock, crying? John wanted, absurdly, to wipe them away, but that would definitely be too close for Sherlock's comfort (and his own, if he was completely honest). Better to pretend he hadn't noticed anything.
"You are different." Sherlock had turned away again. "You're not... you're... Why are you different, John? What is it that makes you so..." He seemed to be searching for something, his lips moving as if he was testing and discarding different words. Sherlock lost for something to say was nearly as rare as Sherlock teary-eyed. John began to wonder if he should be concerned for his friend's sanity.
"Look Sherlock, you don't have to -"
"But I'm sorry, John!" Sherlock sounded panicked, the sort of state John had rarely seen in him; his flatmate wasn't looking at him but staring straight ahead, hugging himself harder. "I'm sorry... John, I'm sorry, I don't want to lose you, I can't..." His voice had dropped to a hoarse whisper, and now John couldn't ignore his friend's tears as they trickled slowly down those pale cheeks.
He didn't think about it really, he just reached out and wiped at Sherlock's face, smearing the wetness.
Sherlock froze.
Oh bugger, John thought.

The touch had been the last thing he expected.
If he'd thought about the possibility that he might start to cry beforehand - which he hadn't, obviously, because if he had he wouldn't have lost control the way he had, he'd have been better prepared (or, better yet, avoided the entire conversation altogether) - but if he had he would have expected John to either pretend he hadn't noticed anything, or else leave the room in disgust. He wouldn't have expected this... what was it? Tenderness? Was that what it was?
It was a shock, that's what it was.
He swallowed and turned his head to look at his friend. John was staring at him, hand still half-raised, his expression one of... what? Concern? Fear? Sherlock wasn't sure, he couldn't recall John ever looking quite like this and therefore had no frame of reference.
He blinked, trying to order his thoughts, but they wouldn't fall into line but kept skidding and skating all over the place. All he could sense was John, that look on his face, the sound of him breathing (the sound of him screaming and then stopping), his own heart pounding, or was it John's? was this heart really his own, the one he'd thought he didn't have until the day he'd suddenly been faced with the prospect of losing it, of having it torn from him, burned out of him? this thing inside of him that he, despite his massive intellect, couldn't even begin to understand? He didn't know, couldn't tell, all he knew was that John was here, now, and that he wanted him to never leave, wanted to possess him forever and never let him go.
He wasn't aware of his feet sliding to the floor, of leaning sideways, as he reached for the other and pulled him close, his lips desperately seeking John's.

John was completely unprepared. One moment Sherlock was staring at him with those piercing pale eyes, the next Sherlock's lips were pressed against his. The sensation was electrifying; John couldn't think, static crackled across his conscious mind. All he could do was respond.
The kiss was clumsy, the mouth delivering it unpracticed. John felt his lips part slightly in encouragement, softening the contact, his tongue flicking unbidden against Sherlock's lips, gently teasing them apart. The detective hesitated, but quickly began responding to John's actions, moaning quietly, his hands scrabbling over John's body. One slid over his shoulder, down his arm -
- over the bandage covering the wound.
The pain made John gasp, brought him back to his senses. What was he doing? This was insane, this was...
He actually had to tear his mouth away from that kiss, from those luscious lips that sought to possess him. "Sherlock, stop it!" John pulled back and stared at his flatmate who stared back, uncomprehending. "Stop, we can't..."
Sherlock blinked. "Why?"
"Why?" John echoed incredulously. "What do you mean why?"
Sherlock shrugged, looking completely baffled. "Why," he said again. "You... appear to like it..."
"But... Look, I don't care whether someone is gay or not, I'm just... not." Even as he said it John felt like a fraud. "I mean, I'm... just not, okay?"
Sherlock looked a him. "But you liked it..." he began, clearly bewildered; then his expression went blank as the emotional shutters came down once more. Without another word he rose and stormed out; John heard his bedroom door slam behind him.
He sighed. Hesitated. Said "Damn it."
And got up to follow.

He started by knocking. When that didn't get a response he simply opened the door and entered.
Sherlock lay on the bed, curled up with his back to him, giving no sign he'd heard him at all. John couldn't decide if he was moping or genuinely upset. "Sherlock, we have to talk about this," he said.
"I agree." His flatmate turned over suddenly and got up; this time it was John whose personal space was invaded as Sherlock came to stand right before him. "You are short of breath," Sherlock observed matter-of-factly, studying John closely. "Your skin is flushed, your pupils are dilated, and if I were to take your pulse I would no doubt find it elevated. Also, you appear to have a sizeable erection." John realized the detective was right, he felt fit to burst right out of his jeans. "Your primary sexual orientation might not be towards men, but it would seem that you're not exclusively heterosexual. So why do you keep saying that you are?"
John swallowed. Those pale eyes were just so penetrating, they saw through him, through everything. He looked away, he just couldn't meet those eyes. "That's..." he tried. Oh God, he could barely think straight. "Look, I don't know what this is, but I've never been... attracted to a man in my life." Until now, he added silently.
"Neither have I."
John nearly got whiplash from jerking his head around. "You... but I thought... I mean, I thought you didn't do girlfriends..."
"I don't."
"Yeah, but then..." John blinked; he was truly surprised, in spite of the many digs and barbs he'd heard directed at Sherlock over the years. "Are you saying you've never..." How the hell did one ask something like that?
Sherlock seemed to have no compunctions, though. "Have I never had sex?" he asked point blank. John nodded silently. "No, I haven't."
"Blimey," John managed. Sherlock said nothing.
"But there must have been... I mean, even if you never actually..." God, this must be one of the most difficult conversations he'd ever had in his life. He wasn't even sure why he kept pursuing it, except there was something he so desperately wanted, needed to understand about this strange man, and perhaps about himself too. "Have you never had anyone, Sherlock?" he asked quietly. "Someone you felt... special about?"
"Why?" Sherlock looked hard at him. "Because that's what normal people have in their normal lives? I'm a sociopath, remember?"
"Have you?" John insisted.
A long silence; John wondered nervously if he'd gone too far, gotten too close to something best left alone. Sherlock turned away and stared out of the window, his long fingers clenched into fists.
Eventually the detective replied, "Not until now."
Three little words that nearly broke John's heart. He tried to ignore the sensation, but couldn't quite do it. "So," he tried, asking the first thing that popped into his head, "if you've never had anyone... does that mean that was your first kiss?"
"Hmmm."
"Blimey."
"... why?"
"Well, just..." He felt slightly awed at the thought that he was, apparently, Sherlock's first. Awed and... excited. "For a first effort that really wasn't bad," he admitted.
A pause, then: "You think so?" Sherlock's voice quiet, diffident.
"Oh yeah," John assured him. "Quite good, in fact. Really quite good. A little practice, and..." He trailed off as he realized what he was saying.
"You don't have to make fun of me." Sherlock's tone remained low, uncertain.
"I'm not, I'm just... Saying. I suppose." John realized that his flatmate was incredibly vulnerable right now, something that had been locked away and hidden deep in him was suddenly laid out raw and exposed, and he was struggling to cope with it. And John couldn't just turn away from him, things had gone far beyond the point where he could perhaps have pretended this past week's insanity hadn't happened. If he tried, something would surely give between them; he might well break Sherlock completely, break him beyond repair. He couldn't take that risk. Instead he reached out and touched him, laying one hand over Sherlock's. Again Sherlock tensed at the contact, but this time John refused to pull away, instead he gently squeezed Sherlock's hand.
"You're right," he told the detective quietly, "I did like it. A-and I am attracted to you. Very much." He caressed the long strong fingers lying under his own, felt them gradually relax. "I don't really understand it, and it frightens me a bit. But I'm not making fun of you."
Beside him Sherlock was taking deep deliberate breaths. "Okay," he mumbled eventually.
"Sherlock," John asked of him, "look at me."
A tense moment, then the detective turned to face him, and John saw it wasn't just he who was aroused, not by a long stretch, Sherlock was pitching a good-sized tent in his pajama bottoms. The sight of it, he realized, only made him harder, he had to practically tear his gaze away to focus on his flatmate's face. To an outsider Sherlock might look a little frightening with his face set into a rigid mask, but John had been around the detective long enough to recognize that tension. Sherlock was nervous, unsure of what was going on.
He reached up and gently stroked his cheek. A faint blush stole up that pale face at the touch, an eye twitched. John repeated the action, this time letting his fingertip catch the corner of Sherlock's mouth, drawing a small gasp. The detective tilted his face forward, closer to John's; the doctor hesitated for a moment, then decided to follow his first impulse and planted a gentle kiss on his friend's lips.
"John..." Sherlock moaned.
"Hush." John realized that one kiss wasn't enough so he kissed him again, lingering this time, and felt Sherlock's mouth open slightly, uncertainly. One of the detective's hands crept timidly around the doctor's waist, coming to rest lightly at the small of John' back. Encouraged as well as excited John let the kiss deepen, began nibbling at Sherlock's lower lip; the detective moaned more loudly, and his grip on John tightened as he reciprocated as best he could. His erection fell against John's abdomen, John's own pressed against Sherlock's hip. It was incredibly arousing; John couldn't help slipping his hands down over Sherlock's hips and pulling him closer, and the detective responded in kind, clinging to John as if he was the only thing keeping him from falling off the planet. That was when John knew there was really only one thing left he could do.

Sherlock felt John's grip lessen and release him, felt John step back, and felt bewildered. Was he doing something wrong, had he misread the whole situation? He never had understood emotions, after all. He sought John's face, trying to understand.
John was looking up at him with an expression Sherlock couldn't begin to interpret. "Sherlock," he asked, "do you want me?"
For a moment he didn't understand the question. "Do I... Oh." He blinked, his eyes widening as the meaning became clear. "Oh!" Was John really asking him this? The doctor looked perfectly serious. Hesitantly, Sherlock nodded.
"I want you too," John whispered. He reached up and touched Sherlock's face again, fingertips lingering on his cheek. "Listen," he went on quietly. "I don't know... I don't know how far I can go with... this. But I'll give you all I can of me. I promise. Okay?"
Sherlock nodded, speechless. John was doing this, doing it for him. What could he possibly say?
John took a deep breath, slid one hand up Sherlock's neck and buried his fingers in the detective's hair, pulling his head close. This kiss was different, Sherlock noted, rougher, more demanding. Exciting. It made him feel as if he could melt into John, merge with him, and that that would be a fine thing indeed - Then John released him, pulling back slightly to gaze steadily at him.
"That was..." Again Sherlock was struck speechless, reduced to blinking rapidly while touching his lower lip in wonderment.
"It gets better," John promised softly.

He slid the dressing gown off Sherlock's shoulders, just letting it fall to the floor, and swiftly let the thin t-shirt follow suit. Sherlock's stomach tensed as it was exposed, his face flushed with excitement.
John took a step back, drinking him in. He'd only caught a brief look the other night before he had been overcome with embarrassment; now he was able to study his flatmate's body openly. He had only ever been intimate with women before, and while he'd never had a specific type, body-wise, he still had some general expectations with regards to softness, roundness... femininity.
This was markedly different. Sherlock wasn't what you'd call aggressively masculine but he wasn't soft and rounded either, he was all planes and edges, the angular characteristics of his face echoed in the rest of his physique. Sharply defined clavicles that John found himself tracing with lips and then tongue, a flat chest with ribs not quite visible but easily felt when John placed a hand flat against them, feeling Sherlock's heart fluttering, like a trapped bird. Skin lightly dusted with hair, surprisingly soft when John ran his palm across it, nipples raised and hard. He brushed one lightly and heard Sherlock gasp, a sweet sound than he couldn't wait to hear again, so he repeated the action then raised the stakes with a gentle flick of his tongue, this time eliciting a moan.
He realized he was far more into this than he would have thought possible.
Sherlock tugged at his shirt and he stopped for a moment to remove it, enjoying his friend's hungry stare as he watched John bare himself. He saw Sherlock's gaze catch at the bandage on John's arm and swiftly reached for the detective's chin, turning his head slightly, then shook his head: Don't. It's all right. Sherlock hesitated, then gave a shaky nod and raised a hand, touching not John's arm but his shoulder, fingertips exploring the lightly puckered gunshot scar. John reciprocated by kissing Sherlock's right nipple, then his left, and was rewarded with another moan, louder than before.
His hands slid over Sherlock's chest, over the taut skin of his belly, until he reached the waistband. This was a line he was crossing, in more ways than one; he felt a moment's trepidation but his newfound eagerness won out and he carefully slid his fingers under the waistband and eased it down, gently lifting the material over Sherlock's swollen member. He guided his partner to the edge of the bed and slid the trousers down to his knees.
"Sit down," he told him. Sherlock obeyed and reached for John's jeans, fumbling with the button and zipper. John had to move those clumsy, eager hands away, or he might lose it there and then. The detective looked up at him with pleading in his eyes. John smiled back at him and carefully undid the offending trousers, sliding them down and releasing his aching cock.
"Is this what you want?" he couldn't resist asking. Sherlock swallowed, nodded. A hand reached out tentatively; John did nothing to discourage it this time, instead he relished the awkward touch, allowing his friend to explore him. Sherlock was of course as inexperienced in this as in any other aspect of sexual intimacy, but for some reason that very absence of experience was immensely arousing, and his curiosity quite made up for his lack of technique. John watched, fascinated, as Sherlock used first his hand and then his tongue to explore every inch of him. When the detective slid the head between his lips John hissed sharply at the sensation, grabbing fistfuls of dark curls and tugging hard, pulling Sherlock's head away.
"Stop," he gasped. "Too much... don't want to finish yet..." He fell to his knees, reaching for Sherlock and kissing him again. "Lie down," John went on. He removed the pajama bottoms entirely as Sherlock lay back on his elbows, then slowly spread his legs. Sherlock's groin was, in an odd way, a miniature of the man himself; a thatch of dark curls, mirroring the luxuriant growth on his head, from which rose an engorged cock that was long and slender like every other part of his body. The symmetry fascinated John as he gently stroked it. He couldn't bring himself to put it in his mouth - that would be too much - but he did lean forward to kiss the bulbous head, allowed himself to taste the precum leaking freely from the opening, before settling down to fist it slowly. Sherlock groaned, one impatient hand moving to help matters along; John batted it away. "Slow," he whispered, ignoring his partner's growl, "slow down, Sherlock. It's not a race. We'll get there, don't worry."
"Please... John..." Sherlock managed.
"Shush now." John kept up his slow caress while leaning in over Sherlock's abdomen, kissing his trembling belly, his straining chest. Climbing halfway onto the bed he managed to kiss Sherlock's lips without letting go of his cock. The detective immediately pulled him down on top of him, returning the kiss hungrily. "Careful," John managed when he finally got his breath back.
"More," his flatmate growled. "Please, John, I want more."
More? John hesitated, then regretfully let his partner's cock slip from his hand - ignoring the hiss of frustration in his ear - and let his fingers stray further, caressing Sherlock's balls, his perineum, before brushing lightly against the tightly clenched anus. Sherlock moaned, "Yes," struggling to rearrange himself for easier access.
"You want this?" John whispered.
Sherlock's eyes were wide, hazed. "Yes," he breathed. "Please, John."
He pushed experimentally against the opening. He'd need a lubricant of some sort... "Sherlock. I can't... I mean, I need... something." Sherlock didn't seem to hear at first, but his eyes slowly focused. "Oh. Bedside table, drawer."
John was already scrambling one-handed inside the drawer by the time his brain caught up and wondered what Sherlock was doing with... with a tube of lubricant gel. Boots' own brand. He stared at it for a moment, then decided it didn't matter. Sex now, questions later. Maybe.
Sherlock clearly had the same idea, he growled "Come on, John, please," tugging on his arm for emphasis. John refocused on him. "Come on, then," he murmured softly. "Lie like this..." He guided his partner further up onto the bed, legs pulled up and separated. "Lift your bum," he went on and, when Sherlock obeyed, slid a pillow under him before leaning back and admiring the view. The sight of Sherlock lying on his back, cock hard against his abdomen, his arse raised off the mattress just far enough to allow a tantalizing glimpse of that tight opening, made John breathe slightly faster; his friend looked amazingly dirty right now.
He knelt between Sherlock's feet and picked up the lube and dribbled some onto his fingers, distributing it evenly before placing a fingertip to the hole. "You need to relax," he told his partner softly. "Breathe deeply, okay? And if it gets uncomfortable, tell me to stop, yes?"
"Just... do it," Sherlock gasped, clearly not paying attention.
John hesitated for a moment, then pressed gently. Not inside, not yet, just gently massaging the muscle. Sherlock was squirming impatiently, but John refused to be hurried, it mattered to him that he did not push his partner too far too soon. He lifted a pale thigh to one side for better access, and slowly worked his finger inside that tight orifice.
Sherlock grunted but didn't appear to be in pain, rather the opposite; as John slid all the way in the detective settled down with a sigh, his anus relaxing slightly, easily accommodating the intrusion. His eyes, John saw, were half closed, and there was a blissed-out look on his face that John would normally associate with a nicotine rush. Relieved that Sherlock was obviously enjoying the attention John began carefully exploring the tight passage, searching for... Yes. Sometimes you just couldn't beat medical training, he thought as he brushed against Sherlock's prostate. The younger man mewled, helpless against the sensation. "More," he whimpered. "Please."
"Okay." John pulled his finger almost all the way out and pushed it back in along with a second digit. He was amazed at how easily his partner took him in, at the heat and tightness of his arse, at the look of sheer ecstasy on his face. And, yes, at how much he too was enjoying this. Knowing Sherlock was losing it, and that it was John who was driving him there - God. The hand not busy fucking his flatmate slipped down to his crotch, and he found himself rock hard and leaking copiously. He began to rub himself slowly, in time with his thrusting fingers.
Sherlock groaned, one hand reaching almost blindly towards John, but the fingers found only empty air. "John..." he moaned.
John stopped moving. "Sherlock? Are you okay?" He let go of himself and took his partner's hand. "Should I -"
"John... fuck me."
He blinked. "You want me to..."
"Yes. Please. I want you in me."
He couldn't pretend the thought hadn't occurred to him already, but he still felt hesitant. "Sherlock, it'll hurt. Probably. Are you sure you want to do this?"
"Yes... Yes, John. I want you." Sherlock was staring at him, wide-blown pupils making his pale eyes seem almost black. "Please, John. I know you want it too."
John swallowed. Of course Sherlock knew. "I just... don't want to hurt you, Sherlock."
"Don't care... just do it. Please."
He couldn't ignore the pleading in Sherlock's voice, or his own eagerness to comply. "I want... I want you to promise me one thing first," he managed. "If it gets too much... I want you to tell me. Will you do that? Please?"
"Yes," his friend growled. "Now shut up and do it."

He was barely thinking as he reached again for the lube, this time squeezing out a larger amount; he needed to make sure there was no unnecessary discomfort for his friend. He could feel Sherlock's gaze on him as he carefully, thoroughly slicked himself in preparation. The detective licked his lips in anticipation; the sight was almost dizzying. John found it difficult to focus, he had to take a few deep breaths to steady himself.
He carefully lowered himself between Sherlock's legs, spreading them wide, then positioned the tip of his cock against his friend's tight arse. "Are you sure?" he whispered. In response Sherlock gripped his own thighs and rolled back slightly, exposing himself and making it easier for John.
"Please... do it. Take me."
John took another deep breath, and pushed.

Sherlock gasped; surely this must hurt. John hesitated. "Do you want me to stop?" He didn't want to, he really didn't. This just felt too brilliant.
"No!" Sherlock spat through gritted teeth. "Keep -"
"Breathe, Sherlock," John whispered. "Slow deep breaths. Relax." He struggled to hold himself steady while gently stroking Sherlock's chest and stomach with one hand. Sherlock gradually relaxed under and around him, and reached up to touch John's face, fingertips dancing over his cheek and along his jaw. "John..." he whispered. "Oh John."
"You all right?" John whispered.
"Fine..." One of Sherlock's fingers slid between John's lips; he bit it lightly, sucked it, felt regret when it withdrew. Sherlock sighed, that blissed-out expression back on his face.
"More?" John asked softly.
"More."
John kissed him again and pushed himself in deeper. The sensation was unlike any he could recall; Sherlock wrapped tightly around John's cock, his legs around his hips, heels pressing against John's arse cheeks holding him fast. It was sexy, oh God was it sexy, the very fact that it was Sherlock under him, being impaled by him, moaning his name, was almost enough to finish John there and then. He certainly wouldn't last long, no matter what. He reached down between them and found Sherlock's cock, began stroking it, determined to bring his partner to climax. This was his first time ever, and John wanted it to be good for him.

Sherlock gasped as he felt John's hand begin to manipulate him; that coupled with that frankly incredible sensation of John moving inside him, John filling him in more ways than one, was taking him to a place he'd barely believed could exist and certainly never thought he'd visit; a blissful state of mindlessness where his raging thoughts finally slowed and stilled, leaving him not fearful of his mind's silence but content and secure in the knowledge that whatever happened his heart would protect him and keep him safe.
John, was his last thought before orgasm overwhelmed him.

And as he heard Sherlock's voice cry his name, felt Sherlock's arse clench around him, as he found his own climax, John finally knew for certain that whatever else this might be, it wasn't wrong.
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The Science of Seduction