Chapter Text
Sherlock isn’t completely oblivious to sex, despite what John likes to believe. Okay, yes, perhaps he was, but that was before John Watson came into his life.
When they first met, John would often confront Sherlock about sex. Not being confrontational, not being pushy, per se, more trying to understand. Sherlock has become adept at slipping away during these times, or when he can't do that, and when rolling his eyes doesn't turn John away, he falls back to his defense mechanism, turning it back on John and making fun of how ridiculously vocal his last partner was. He's become so good at this that John not only has stopped even bringing sex up, except in a random moment, but John's almost entirely stopped bringing his partners over to the apartment.
But Sherlock knows he shouldn't be so mean, John isn't intending to be rude with his gentle questioning. Sherlock can see the curiosity and the questions etched deeply in the lines on John’s face. How can Sherlock possibly not want to have sex.
For John, Sherlock imagines this borders on madness. John Watson, a man who's satisfied his personal hot-blooded male urges on no less than three continents, must believe Sherlock is faking his asexuality.
Which...the thing is…maybe he is.
Stupid nightmare voice-Moriarty is right about one thing, Sherlock does feel too much. He always has, ever since he was a small child. It’s what made childhood so incomprehensibly miserable for him, at the whims of a sadistic sister, retreating to his mind to get away from feeling. But it was always impossible. He always felt it.
“You’re just Too sensitive.” His parents would state, not cruelty,but often enough and in so many ways Sherlock stopped coming to them when he was crying. They couldn’t imagine their daughter being mean, but in doing so they ignored his pains and Sherlock in turn had to deal with them by himself. He grew to hate the idea of pain… and isn’t that an integral part of all sex? How can he not fear it?
But he has tried it on, so to speak, despite what his brother or John thinks.
He's thirteen when he goes into his room after school, closes the door, his brain filled with thoughts of all the boys who play rugby in his class, larger than him, some of them are bullies. Sherlock hates bullies, but some of them aren't. It's them he thinks about. Clothes off, naked, reaching down, he uses a single, slender digit. He circles his anus for some time, shivering all the while, until he finally pushes inside. He keens, and on instinct, pulls out. He isn't sure if he likes it or not, so he tries again, this time he presses in far enough he touches something, just a light touch but it's enough. He screams. Loudly.
He must have passed out for a minute, the next thing he knows he has a thin clear fluid on his belly, he's soft, but his finger is still part inside himself, and his father is above him, growling at him. Accusing him of being all sorts of filthy things Holmes should not be. Naughty. That's what he says. Naughty. Not good.
When he's a little older, he sneaks into his mother's things. He's fishing for one of her pretty scarves, wanting to use it for dance class. He gasps when, upon reaching for and pulling on the end of a sparkly pink silk scarf he realizes it was wrapped around something. He discovers that thing to be a very large, very pink dildo. He just holds it, his breath going erratic, until he hears footsteps down the hall and quickly wraps it back up and puts it back where he found it.
He never again goes to look at it. But it stays with him, the feel of it, the heavy hugeness in his slender hands. He knows what it's for but the thought of having sex with it or anything like it is mind-boggling.
As he grows older the fear of sex gets worse, he loves being in control of his mind and body so much, the thought that having sex will him to lose that increases to a near psychosis, until eventually Sherlock writes sex off entirely. It isn’t needed. He’s better off without it, which is about as true for him as chemistry. After this he goes about life as a self-proclaimed asexual.
Which works amazingly well. It isn’t until his early thirties when he meets John Watson, he knows he needs to change his thinking.
John is the most handsome man he’s ever seen. Everything about him is gorgeous: broad of features and frame, strong yet comforting and protective when he needs to be. And Sherlock knows, has always known, in that to the marrow sort of way, if he were ever to have sex, he would be, is, very, very gay. John is everything he could ever have dreamed of in a man. The Ideal Man. Sherlock finds himself not just wanting to keep John interested in him, but is genuinely becoming interested in sex himself, like never before. He wants to do everything with John. He wants to have John. He wants to let John have him... except for that, that last part part… That’s the part that makes him shiver. Sherlock deduces, well a single look to John’s crotch is all it takes, he's going to need a lot of learning in that area.
One evening, when John is attending a medical conference, Sherlock goes to bed early. He gets naked and just sits on his bed. His ribs hurt his heart's pounding against them so badly. H takes a deep breath. God, he's not even sure what he's really supposed to do. What he wants to do. He doesn't intend to do anything, not really; he just wants to relax. Then he thinks about it: John will be hooking up with probably no less than 3 other women over the weekend. Fucking them.
Sherlock doesn't want to think about that, not in detail. It's a hard fact about John Watson's life that the man has a huge libido.
He looks down at his chest, notes his nipples are swollen from the exposure. On instinct he touches one. Immediately a jolt of sensation shivers down his spine. With a whimper he does he skims across the the other, this time it's a near powerful shock of pleasure racing through him. Already breathy, he realizes those pink little nubs are overly sensitive, best not to touch them too much right now.
Instead he finds himself closing his eyes and tipping over onto his side, his fingers wandering down his sides, slipping behind, skimming, just skimming, across the smooth soft flesh of his ass. A small little moan falls from his lips.
Outside his volition, his fingertips draw nearer and nearer to the seam of his cheeks. In languorous, almost timid flirting, they push and slide, push and slide, until they manage to pry their way inside the tight snug channel between the mounds. Slipping deeper, they make an exploratory caress of his tiny hole.
A cried-out gasp escapes his lungs at the feeling, the touch so light, so delicate, yet this is the most intimate, most vulnerable place of his body. His body immediately begins tingling, nerves singing for more. It’s already nearly too much. Breathing gone erratic his finger continues the light touch, rubbing, circling around the too-tight ring of muscle that makes up his anus. He uses another finger to stroke at his perineum, zipping another response through his nerve endings, but this immediate pleasure eases himself into the act to come -- and he slowly finds himself relaxing.
It feels good. It feels better than good. It feels incredible, stimulating himself, this is decadent and hedonistic, exploring himself like this, stimulating the prostate through the thickness of fat and perineal muscle, which even with so much between the organ and his finger, he's still so sensitive. His rim now loosened, the tip of his finger now slips inside. He ever so slowly works it in deeper.
His breathing has turned raspy, raising in pitch. He tries closing his parted mouth to keep from hearing those sounds. It's distressing, that: how distressed he sounds. Sherlock's always worked to maintain his deeper voice, smoking as much as he can, doing vocal exercises to lower it. Right now all those years of hard work are getting razed in a few minutes, more when he begins working that timid little finger deeper, in and out, in and out, ever so slowly, fucking himself with increasing desire and fearlessness. To say he feels wanton would be an understatement. He feels... slutty...naughty. Everything a Holmes boy is not supposed to be according to his family.
He pulls the finger out, wets it and another in his mouth, and returns them back between his asscheeks to the outer rectal muscle, this time attempting to press both inside. It's exponentially more difficult though. The tiny tight muscle resists and resists, and Sherlock is panting with desperation and persistence, fingers going forward and back, rubbing the rim in circular motions to relax it, until finally after a few minutes it's enough and both slip inside. He bites his lip to keep from crying out but it doesn't quite manage the job. It burns. The greater stretch definitely hurts. But Sherlock doesn't shy away from it anymore. He's more confident now, he wants to, no he needs to experience this.
Along with being fuller, he goes deeper, luxuriates in touching himself here. It's strange, the sensation of his soft, smooth inner walls rippling ruthlessly around him. But it feels good. Amazing. Beyond forbidden and beyond naughty - if his father could see his boy now - he just keeps fucking and stroking the inner rectum, back out, deeper inside, rhythmically fucking himself, until...
A wall of blinding pleasure slams though his body and whiting out his vision. Sherlock lets out an inarticulate wail, his face falling to his pillow to muffle most of the sound he hopes. He penis bounces, it had only been slightly fuller than flaccid before this very second but, after touching his prostate it suddenly hardens and shots out thin spray of white come. His insides vice around his fingers and he can't retract them. Nor can he stop from screaming, lightening tearing through every nerve ending in his body.
For the first time in his adult life, Sherlock comes.
He promptly passes out. When he wakes to what turns out to be, to his horror, nearly twelve hours later, he immediately grabs his phone on the side table and orders an slew of toys.
He later goes to the kitchen to make tea and he finds Mrs. Hudson there.
She smiles and pats his shoulder. "I'm so proud of you, young man. But I must ask for you to wait a few days before you do anymore personal experimenting. There just aren't enough herbal soothers in the world to keep from hearing you, my dear, and the industrial headphones I bought will take a few days to arrive."
Sherlock's eyes go wide but he nods dumbly and agrees.