I was taking a shower this morning, and I don't remember what, but something sparked this idea, and I ended up spending most of my day on my phone writing this up. lol On the plus side, sweet I wrote a fic in under 12 hours.

Originally posted to AO3 2014 October 10 and d I forgot to cross-post. orz

It was a normal, between-cases morning when John walked into the kitchen to make tea, freshly rumpled from sleep when he yawned a "Good morning," to his flatmate currently bent over his microscope.

"Mmm," Sherlock hummed back. "Love you."

"Love you, too," John murmured back. It wasn't until he sat down with his cuppa and taken his first sip of tea that he realised what was just said and he promptly choked on his drink. There was an unsurprised "Hm," from the kitchen.

"I'm not gay!" the ex-soldier exclaimed, face flushing as he stood abruptly. Sherlock didn't even look up.

"Neither am I." That stopped John dead.

"What?"

"I am asexual, John. I have never given indication otherwise."

"But- But you just-" The normally-eloquent doctor attempted to speak, but it his words could only come out in a stutter. The look the genius slid his way out if the corner of his eyes was positively condescending.

"The sentiment I hold for you has no relation to my biology. I hope the same holds true for you." John had no idea what to say to that, and Sherlock apparently didn't expect an answer as he returned to whatever he was doing with his microscope. A bit dazed, John sat back back down and picked up his tea with a slightly trembling hand, and tried to actually think about his flatmate's words.

Everyone assumed they were a couple. Had done so since day one. For the longest time, John's own fear of appearing homosexual, built by his father's abuse towards Harry and his time in the military, had made him offended by this assumption. But when he sat back and looked at their partnership through the eyes of a stranger, he couldn't find a part of it that didn't scream 'married'. When he looked at it from his own eyes, he couldn't find a part of it that didn't tell him Sherlock was more important to him than anyone else in his life had been. Ever.

"Do you want- erm... Did you want me to stop having one-night stands?" He cringed at the phrase, but it had been all he could have for some time. He stopped trying to have a relationship with a woman when he stopped fighting the acceptance of how much of his time Sherlock really did take up. Jeanette really had been right.

"I do not expect you to cease your... activities. All I ask is that you use protection." John was about to agree, enthusiastically, he was a doctor after all, and he knew the risks better than most, but the hesitant expression on Sherlock's face made him close his mouth and wait. "And... that you always come home." The man's shoulders rose, as if in subconscious defense, and the ex-soldier frowned. "To me." Oh. "I would ask that you always come home to me."

"All right," he said slowly, mind processing the logistics. So, Sherlock didn't care who he fucked, as long as he made sure he stayed clean and always returned to Baker Street. To him. "What about kissing?" he asked, face heating. "Or sleeping together?" His face felt on fire, and it felt like he was handling this with all the emotional maturity of a primary schooler, but everything about what he was doing was new and unexpected. Sherlock frowned and his mouth opened, and John immediately interrupted to correct himself. "Just sleeping," he clarified.

"Kissing I have not experimented with, but I would be amenable to trying with you. The same applies to sleeping," the genius said, eyes turning back to his experiment.

"Okay," was all John could think to say, fidgeting in place. "Well, I have a shift at the surgery. And I have... a date after?" It came out as more of a question than he intended, but his flatmate? boyfriend? just nodded absently.

When John emerged, still a bit damp, but dressed and ready for the day ahead, from the shower twenty minutes later, Sherlock was still bent over his microscope. For a minute, he wondered if his flatmate's confession, and his own unexpected one, had been just a dream. But then the genius stood upright and met his eyes, and he knew it had really happened.

"I'll see you tonight," John said clearly, a goodbye and a promise in one. Sherlock's eyes were heavy on his, and then his... partner nodded and returned to what he'd been doing.

.oOo.

Over the next month, John had three and a half dates with four different women. The first three were normal meals followed by drinks and 'dessert' at her place. The fourth was cut short and, in a break from tradition, it wasn't Sherlock who broke off the date, but John himself.

Even though his partner had given him a pass on pursuing physical partners, each time the doctor was with one, he couldn't stop thinking about how being with Sherlock made him feel. How long-term girlfriends had sprung the 'dreaded' four-letter word on him in the past the same way his flatmate had, and he'd only reacted with annoyance; how easy it had been to simply say the sentiment in return, and mean it. How useful the man made him feel; how wanted he'd made the invalidated soldier feel, both during cases and between them. How none of his girlfriends had ever made him feel anything like how Sherlock made him feel. So halfway through date four, John declines returning to her place for 'coffee' and goes home.

Sherlock is supine on the sofa in his lounge clothes, eyes closed and hands steepled, when his flatmate returns, and the man doesn't even bother looking at him. The ex-soldier, for his part, ignores him, going to the toilet to shower. All he did with the woman (he'd already forgotten her name) was hug her and kiss her cheek when they'd met, and her in return, but he still felt it was more respectful if he showered first. When he finished, he donned only his pants after a hesitant second, and then walked right into Sherlock's room.

The surprisingly white, folded sheets were cool against his skin as he laid down, but he simply pulled the duvet up to his chin and closed his eyes, body tense. A few minutes later, he heard Sherlock stand from the couch and walk to his doorway, where he stopped and moved no further. John's body only got tenser, waiting for rejection. After all, they hadn't done anything in the last four weeks. No hugs, no kissing, no more sentiment expressed aloud. They'd just acted as they'd been acting.

But after a minute, the footsteps continued to the bed, the duvet lifted, and the bed dipped as a body slid in next to him. For long minutes, he held his breath, almost afraid to breathe, waiting for Sherlock to speak, or even move. His partner did neither, and when John finally relaxed, he slipped quickly into sleep.

When he woke the next morning, he tried not to panic at the sensation of a very male form wrapped around him. A voice mumbled "Biology. Ignore it. Stop squirming," against his bare shoulder, arms and legs tightening around him, pressing a hot erection against his thigh. His own erection did not fade, and after a moment, he set about to ignoring both. If Sherlock didn't care, then he would try to be an adult about this as well. It wasn't like he hadn't been around more exposed cocks in his life than most people, being a doctor and having been in the military.

They never spoke of it, but every night, John would get ready for bed, and slip away into Sherlock's bed, already tucked in when (or if) the genius came in at all. But it seemed his sleep-opposed partner came to bed a great deal more often now that he had someone waiting for him in it. And every morning, they would wake up curled around each other, most of the time Sherlock around John, but sometimes John around Sherlock. It was never mentioned, never addressed, and eventually the ex-soldier fell into the rhythm and even grew to welcome the sensation of his not-quite-lover clinging to him in the early morning hours.

As time passed, John slowly grew more comfortable with his proximity to his partner, adjusting slowly to the fact that Sherlock didn't expect anything sexual of him. It made it easier, it seemed, and he appreciated that so strongly he was almost ashamed. But then those grey eyes would look at him a certain way, a thumb would caress his hand in one smooth sweep, and he would smile, assured of his acceptance.

It wasn't until their seventh month together that they kissed. Much like that very first morning, John had emerged from their bedroom, yawning, and had pressed a kiss to Sherlock's cheekbone on his way to the kettle. He had frozen and then blushed, refusing to turn around. After he'd fixed their tea and slid his partner his mug, he realised a dark flush was still present high on the other man's cheeks. He'd smiled and continued about his morning, and from then on, though it took some getting used to, a kiss to a cheek, or even lips, was not unwelcome or entirely unexpected.

John didn't hit a difficult bit until a year and a half in, when he'd assured himself that Sherlock was well-occupied in the sitting room, unlikely to come to bed, and he'd decided to attempt masturbation in their bed for the first time. He'd been going up to his old room with his laptop, oddly unbothered by having to make-do with only his hand, but enough time had passed that he might finally be comfortable not relocating to get relief.

He had decided to go slow, laying on his side with his back to the door, enjoying this time to himself, and he'd only just begun to reach that point where he could feel the low buzz of pleasure of a building orgasm when the bed dipped behind him and his hand froze, his entire body going tense. A warm body pressed against his back and hips against his bum, his partner's typical morning erection thankfully absent. He'd been able to get used to those, in a way, but he wasn't sure if he could deal with helping his partner reach orgasm. An arm wrapped around his waist, simply holding, not asking to touch, and a chin propped itself on his bicep.

"What are you doing?" he finally managed to choke out, completely unprepared for this level of intimacy. Somehow, it seemed more private, more intense, than seeking respite in each other's arms at the end of every night.

"I wanted to watch."

"I um... I thought you..."

Sherlock gave an annoyed huff and unexpectedly rocked his hips forward, emphasising the lack of hardness at his pelvis. "As you can feel, I remain unaroused. I neither want to penetrate you, nor you me. I simply want you to be happy and I want to watch how you achieve that."

John's hand was still frozen around his cock which had softened minutely, but was pulsing, as if confused about whether or not it wanted to remain hard or go completely soft. He cleared his throat and licked his lips, giving himself a single, tentative stroke. "You know," he said, pausing again, "that you make me happy, right?" It wasn't quite the same as saying 'I love you', which neither of them had repeated since that first time, but it had it's own weighty importance, and he could feel his cheeks heating at the admittance.

Sherlock was still for a long time, not in a way that meant he was frozen, only thinking. Finally, he shifted, shuffling closer and pressing a kiss to John's cheek. "I know," he murmured, breath whispering across the doctor's ear in a way that sent a confused, but pleasurable, shiver down his spine. "Sometimes, I wonder if I would be able to live without the Work if only you were to remain at my side."

The ex-soldier's breath left him suddenly, and tears stung his eyes. From his genius with a tortured mind, he could think of no higher compliment. The arm around him tightened and the body behind him pressed as closely to his back as it could.

"Please, continue?" He couldn't trust himself to speak, so he simply nodded and renewed the slow strokes along his still-hard cock.

For the rest of the time, Sherlock didn't move or speak, and John simply closed his eyes, refusing to think about either the man against his back or the fact that he wasn't thinking about any woman in particular while he was touching himself. He was only concentrating on the sensations, the pleasure, and when he came, he nearly bit through his lip trying to prevent sound from escaping. As the last pulses faded, and he reached over to collect tissues from his bedside table, his partner continued his statue-like impression, never once making a move to help, for which John could only be thankful. Afterwards, though he hadn't planning on sleeping, he finally allowed himself to relax into the welcoming embrace and pass out.

He became used to Sherlock appearing when he decided to masturbate, either in their bed or in the shower, and for a long time, weeks, the man did nothing but watch him. The first time he reached out to touch, his expression was curious, but his eyes didn't leave John's until the ex-soldier nodded his assent. He had to look away for the first few times, the sight of those unmistakably-male fingers anywhere near his cock off-putting, but just like the rest of the steps they'd made together, he adjusted.

It always helped to remember that Sherlock wasn't interested in any of this, and that it was just as new for his detective as it was for the doctor. It always helped when Sherlock thanked him for his trust (his love) each time John allowed his partner to sate his curiosity with the doctor's body. It never failed to flatter. It never failed to humble. It never failed to make John fall further in love.

.oOo.

Time passed. Sherlock took cases and John made tea. John masturbated and Sherlock watched. They slept curled around one another and their kisses never upgraded from 'chaste'. They got married and hyphenated their last names with one another's, and their honeymoon was a locked-room murder. They would never have proper sex, or a normal relationship, but their love ran deeper than the conventional relationships they investigated by way of affairs and missing spouses and murders. Most important of all, they still managed to make each other happier than anyone else had ever made them, and for two men who had lived a harder-than-average lives, that counted for everything.

FIN

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