This is in response to a request that I flesh out (ahem, so to speak) my silly 5 +1 "The Scientific Method." Sorry it's taken so long. The last leaves some to the imagination, because I'd used up mine in 1 and 2, and because in the original +1 was unresolved. Also, there is a meta reference to one of the actors in it, so bonus points to anyone who knows what it is.


"The parameters are these…" said Sherlock as John slipped into his comfy chair for what he had thought was going to be a quiet evening.

"Yer, what now?"

"The parameters are that you mustn't move or touch me until I say you can."

"Is this one of your experiments, because you know, I'm not really a head in a breadbox."

"It was fingers in the breadbox, and yes it is an experiment, but you'll like it, I promise. Just trust me."

"In the time we have known one another, I have trusted you into shooting someone, being shot at, getting a criminal record, running for my life, beating up a complete stranger, being tied up—and not in a fun way-"

"John, we'll be in our own apartment. What could happen here?"

John continued as if he hadn't been interrupted, "-being scorched, burned, poisoned, gagged, AND shot at in my own apartment!"

"Please, John?" Said Sherlock in that soft, rich voice that twisted John's insides and lower down as well. "If you don't like it, just say stop and I will stop. Deal?"

"Al right, but no reneging!"

John gripped the sides of his chair. He felt braced for anything that Sherlock could throw at him, literally or figuratively. What he did not expect was for Sherlock to kneel in front of him, lean in and start to nibble on his shirt. The soft, sweet smell of Sherlock's exhalations on his neck made him grip the chair tighter. Why hadn't Sherlock said it was one of THOSE experiments?

"Sherlock, I…"

"Shhh, John, it will be easier if you don't speak." Again he felt Sherlock's teeth on his shirt.

"It's not edible, if that's what you're testing."

"Shhhhnnn," and with a little gasp he realized that Sherlock had undone the top button using only his teeth. Bit by bit Sherlock worked down the front of John's shirt, pulling the button hole half off of the button with his teeth and then pushing the button through with his tongue. By the time he was far enough down for John to see what he was doing, John was already panting. At John's waistband, Sherlock pulled out the shirt tails, still using his teeth and worked through the last two buttons. He leisurely leaned over and did the cuff buttons as well, but now the great detective seemed slightly stumped. John lifted a hand, but Sherlock shot him a warning glance.

Decided, Sherlock bent over John's jeans and worked his mouth over the brass button that was strained against the button hole now with the tightness of John's pants. He concentrated for a minute. John could only see Sherlock's dark hair bobbing over his crotch. He heard himself moan. Well, moaning hadn't been forbidden. But then Sherlock thrashed his head from side to side, and John's hips involuntarily moved, writhing beneath the warm onslaught on his pants and the images in his head.

And then Sherlock sat up in triumph, the button held between his grinning teeth. He spit it out and went back down to John's lap to work down the zipper pull. Tut-tutting and gripping John's hips with his hands to keep him from moving.

"Well, I think I've proven that that can be done, although you did make it more difficult. Next time I shall have to restrain you" he said, sitting up, "unfortunately I don't think I can actually get you out of your clothes without your help. I will have to think about that problem.

"Oh, and you can move now."

"You lunatic," growled John and tackled him to the floor.


John came back from the shower dressed only in his pajama bottoms and Sherlock's robe, which practically dragged on the floor. He was drying his blonde hair with a towel, and so at first didn't see the Sherlock sprawled across his bed. It startled him, but by now it wasn't an unfamiliar sight. Sherlock was dressed in his pajama bottoms and a grey t-shirt. He reached out to John with his feet.

"Stand right there," he said, tapping John in the tummy with his toe.

"Sherlock, this isn't one of your silly games, is it? Because I'm really tired and I have to get up early, so just stop whatever you're playing at and scoot over."

"Just hold still!" Sherlock's prehensile toes started working on the knot of the dressing gown, tugging at one loop and then the other trying to get it loose enough to slip apart. John watched fascinated, wishing alternately that he'd tied a more complicated knot or an easier one. Good, God, the man had erotic feet. Was that even possible? Just watching them move over the belt, occasionally brushing his stomach was getting him hard. Very hard.

Sherlock was concentrating determinedly, his tongue sticking out of the side of his mouth as if he were five, bracing himself on the bed with his hands to get the most range and leverage out of his long legs and feet. At last, with a childish cry of triumph, he gave a last pull and the belt fell away. Sherlock shimmied down the bed a little more-now, practically on his back-and pushed the robe off of John's shoulders. John had to wiggle his arms free but Sherlock's lovely toes certainly helped.

John was now dressed in only his pj bottoms, and he suspected he wasn't going to get away that easily.

Sure enough, Sherlock's toes reached out and made easy work of the simple drawstring knot. But the pants didn't fall away fluidly as Sherlock had clearly expected. Instead, they stayed pinned up by John's erection, causing Sherlock to have to tug on both sides of the pajamas to get them down. Which was rather uncomfortable.

So John pushed the feet away and worked on getting Sherlock's pajamas off instead, but he didn't use his toes.


Sherlock moved into the room as quietly as a cat with the same stealth he used to creep up on London criminals. In his hands he carried a breakfast tray which he placed on the ground next to the bed and removed the cloth.

John slept on, face down on the bed. His pale yummy, er, muscled back was golden in the light from the reading lamp. He was snoring slightly, deep in REM sleep, perfect.

Sherlock applied the Fluff first to John's upper left back on the theory that it was room temperature and had a flesh like texture. When that seemed to do nothing to disturb John, he moved through the other items on the tray. A little Reddi Whip that he put in his own hand first to avoid shooting nitrous-oxide directly onto John's back. A bit of marmalade, and to be balanced a bit of strawberry jam. John seemed to stir a bit from the cold of that, and Sherlock was afraid he would shift around so much that the food would slide off, but he settled back when Sherlock stroked his hair. Finally the chocolate syrup which pooled into the hollow at the base of John's spine. That seemed as good a place to start as any.

Sherlock ran his tongue through the warm chocolate. The light salt on John's back made it taste like a candy bar with Sea Salt which was not altogether unpleasant. He tried the marmalade next. He really liked marmalade. Though there was still the slight taste of salt, it offset the tang of the citrus quite nicely. He worked at the marmalade spot for some time—it seemed important to get all of the stickiness off. Sitting back, he realized that he'd left a fair sized bruise on John's lower right back.

He tried the Fluff next, but it was most unsatisfactory—coming up pretty much in one piece, but with some slightly resistant spots on John's back that were going to be sticky and collect lint if not washed off.

That left the strawberry jam and the whipped cream, and what was left of the chocolate syrup.

Unfortunately at that moment John shifted, trying to sit up.

"No, no, John, you'll get it on the sheets!"

"I'll get what on the sheets?" cried John with a slight panic in his voice.

"The jam!"

There was a pause.

In a quiet and controlled voice, John asked, "Sherlock, why is there jam on my back?"

"I wanted to see if foods would taste differently if eaten off your back."

"And do they?"

"Saltier than I expected. And now the jam and the whipped cream and the chocolate have all run together in the small of your back."

"That sounds like a sundae topping. Are you going to clean it up?"

John shuddered as a tongue ran down the sides of his lower back and swirled against his spine.

"Oh, yes, it really is just like eating a sundae."

"Just don't try it with ice cream, ok?"


"Sherlock, hurry up. I need to roll over, and then…and then, I think we should find out what happens if I eat off of you."



"Ok, tell me the parameters again. Just so I'm clear."

"Can I make you come without touching you AND without you touching yourself?"

"So no touching of any kind, then?"

"Well, you can remove your clothes if necessary but absolutely no touching of the genitals or sensitive spots. In fact, why don't you just take your clothes off now in order to avoid an accident ruining the results.

"But I will feel silly just sitting here naked in the drawing room. It might alter the results."

"The fire's going nicely, the door is shut and the curtains are drawn. And anyway, I expect to be naked soon as the catalyst, so you won't feel silly for long."

Assailed by the logic, John stood up, removed his jumper, t-shirt and jeans, folded them neatly and put them on the coffee table."

"Everything, John."

"You know, you sound like Mycroft when you say my name that way."


"And that."

Sherlock glared at him and then at the fire in a most pointed way.

John sighed. There really was no way out of this, was there. He removed his briefs and placed them on top of his clothes. Then he felt quite ridiculous in trainers and socks, so he took them off too and sat back down in his chair.

This was so absolutely not going to work. He was cold, more than a little embarrassed and even a bit humiliated. How Sherlock thought he was going to get worked up enough to come with no tactile stimulation was beyond him.

And then Sherlock turned from the fireplace to face him and tilted his head back in the leatherette chair that he favored. His eyes were shut and his ivory face was lit from the fireplace in little flickering jumps of color. He stretched gently so that his body was a plank from his heels resting on the floor in those lovely, expensive shoes, up the dark, slender trousers, over the form fitting white shirt with its open collar. He templed his long white fingers together under his chin as if contemplating a particularly difficult puzzle. Then he brought them up to his lips for a moment, pursing his lavender colored mouth in a slight moue that emphasized their fullness. His dark fringe of hair was spread across his forehead as if he had just run his nimble fingers through it, scattering it back in an alluring dishabille. Those perfect cheek-bones and turned up nose were lit to good effect and the silver cat eyes, which now snapped open, were full of undisguised lust, and John realized that this experiment might turn out differently than he had originally thought.

Sherlock ran his tongue around his lips briefly and then undid the top button of his shirt, paused for a moment and then undid the next. He ran his right finger along his left collar bone in what seemed like an absent gesture, but John knew it was anything but. At times Sherlock seemed utterly oblivious to his physical effect on people, but at others, he was fully capable of exploiting it. Sherlock tilted his head to the right and slowly rolled up his sleeves to his elbows. The slim arms were free of nicotine patches. Somehow the perfectly casual gesture seemed more erotic than if he'd ripped his clothes off. As if he were offering himself—his proof of his commitment—to John.

John's mouth was quite dry and he noticed with satisfaction that the silver eyes were nearly black with enlarged pupils. Of course, that only revealed Sherlock's success in the experiment.

Sherlock undid the rest of his buttons, slowly but deliberately and un-tucked his shirt. John hoped he wouldn't take it all the way off, not yet. The white on white of the shirt against his skin in the fire's glow was magical.

As if he could hear John's thoughts he left it hanging open and moved on to his shoes, kicking them off and then working his socks down with those talented toes. He undid his trousers and then lifted his hips from the chair and slipped them off, letting them drop unheeded to the floor.

Now he was naked except for his shirt which swung open to reveal the taught, flat stomach, the ribs, so revealed that John could count every one, even see the shape of the sternum beneath the flesh. The rose colored nipples were rigid and John could taste them his mouth, imagining Sherlock's groans.

Sherlock was half hard already. He sat back in the chair now and slid a hand between his legs, toying briefly in the black hairs then gripping his penis firmly to stroke gently at his erection, spreading his legs and sprawling in the chair. He reached for the lubricant that he had placed at hand.

Good God, the man was right—John thought he might just come from watching his lover masturbate. He was already so hard, had been since the shirt had been undone, that his balls ached. He so wanted to touch himself, more, he wanted to touch Sherlock. He wanted to lick Sherlock's throat, trace his tongue down the collar bone, down the chest, flick his tongue over the nipples and move further down to wrap his mouth around Sherlock's hard penis.

Meanwhile, Sherlock had himself quite worked up already—the lubricant making him even harder, imagining John's wet mouth. His cock was straining in his hand, while he ran his other hand across his flat abdomen. His hand was moving faster now, and his head was rolling back and forth in a sort of delirium. He was so close. He looked at John, his beloved, adorable John. John who was so lovely and didn't know it, with his funny turned up nose and wide, wide eyes. And that precious mouth, that precious, kissable mouth. With a desperate cry of "John," Sherlock came, feeling the hot come splatter against his belly.

He peeked at John. John's mouth hung open slightly. He was gripping his soft chair so tightly that his fingers were sunk into the stuffing. He was hunched forward, his erection straining against his belly—that really was cheating—those large eyes, staring at Sherlock slightly glazed.

Oh, God, fuck the experiment. He was out of his chair and over to John in an instant, straddling him awkwardly in the chair. John obligingly slid down so Sherlock could press his knees down on either side of his hips, locking them both in the chair. Sherlock smeared himself with lube quickly and slid down on the other man's penis making them both cry out.

It was over in moments. John too tortured to do much more than grip Sherlock's narrow hip bones and thrust upwards to meet him.

Sherlock collapsed against him, clutching the shorter man's head to his chest and whispering, "John, John, John…"

John refrained from pointing out that Sherlock had ruined the experiment.


"Ah, so this time I get to torture you."

"I really don't see why you're calling it torture. It's not like you didn't enjoy it."

"No, but the experiment was abandoned, wasn't it?"

Sherlock looked away, annoyed. He could be such a child.

"All right," said John. "Let's get this on, shall we? Same parameters, you can't touch yourself OR me and I get to do anything short of touching you to make you come. Right?"

"Yes," Sherlock replied rather sulkily.

"And it's supposed to be fun, right?"

Small nod.

"So strip and get in the chair."

Sherlock complied, quickly and carelessly. Tossing those ridiculously expensive clothes onto the none-too-clean floor and sitting down in the chair, legs slightly open, bored look on his face, as if to say, 'bring it on.'

"Sherlock, you do know that they say the brain is the most important sex organ, don't you?"

"Who's they?"


"If I shut-up then I can't answer the question."

"It was rhetorical. Look, do you want to do this or not?"

Another small nod.

John had considered the slow strip-tease, but abandoned it. It wasn't that he was ashamed of his body. It was alright, still soldier toned, but there was the scar and he sometimes felt rather dumpy next to Sherlock, although Sherlock claimed that John was terribly sexy. Besides, it would feel like copying. He was really going to put that lovely brain to use.

"Sherlock, I want you to tell me about your favorite times with me, having sex."

Sherlock smirked a little. Clearly he thought that this was going to be easy.

"Our first time."

"Yes? What about it? As I recall it was rather awkward. Two men who had never had sex with other men, trying to figure it out."

"It was awkward and I hated not knowing what I was doing, and I kept saying that I should do more research, and you said that hands on was better, and oh, hands on was so much better. Kissing you had felt so good, from the first time and I could feel all sorts of wild things in my body that I'd never felt, never thought I could feel. And we were just exploring each other, and you were so patient and so understanding, the way you always are with me. And it was slow and intense, and yet sort of desperate at the same time. And I still can't seem to find the right words for it."

Sherlock stopped sharply. He hadn't meant to babble quite like that. And thinking about it was making him harden just a little. Just in warm response to the memory of John's mouth and hands, the momentary pause when the hurdles came and then John charging in with all his bravery. And then the panting, gasping pleasure of IT. The way they seemed to have been born to fit together, as if all the loneliness and awkwardness he had ever felt was erased by this wonderful man who had entered his life.

"Do you remember the time you pulled me into that alley? After we went to that movie that I said was predictable and you said was supposed to be appreciated, not solved."

"Yes, I remember," John smiled—he could see the reactions in Sherlock's body and feel them in his. "Oh, and it was 'Citizen Kane.' It's considered one of the finest movies ever made. But, do go on—about the alley, I mean."

"You pulled me down that alley. It was so unlike you. You pulled me to you and said I was an idiot, wrapping us both in my coat. I leant in to kiss you, thinking that was all you wanted, but then I realized that you were unzipping both our trousers and stroking me hard. You stood practically on tip-toe and I had to bend my knees, but I knew what you wanted. You had that funny little bottle of lube that I'd made you go in and buy the day before—because you refused to buy it together. You pulled me into you. The position made you so tight, especially when you hooked your leg over my hip. Just thrusting into you, there, with people passing not more than 12 or 15 meters away was incredibly exciting. And you whispered, 'I love you,' as you came."


"Another time, after that case of the disappearing store front. We came in and we were laughing because Anderson and Donovan had been so dumbfounded when you had the answer instead of them. I think you were a little high on it. We just fell on each other as we came through the door. We knocked something off the wall. I just wanted to celebrate you—my clever, sarcastic, absolutely brilliant John—and I pulled you on top of me, onto the couch. We almost ruined the inside of my coat."

"Oh, and that time I was bored—it had been three weeks since a case. And I was just lying on the couch when you came in. You dropped your coat and lay down on me, nudging my legs apart. Kissing me and we just lay there, rubbing against one another. Dry humping, I think you called it. God, it was lovely."

"Sherlock," John breathed, "Sherlock, I want you to look at me."

John unfastened his jeans and pushed them down so that he could release his rigid cock and tight balls. He looked up to make sure that Sherlock was watching and looked into Sherlock's luminous eyes, unfathomably deep, now that the pupils were dilated. He flicked his thumb over the tip to smear the pre-cum and started to stroke himself, slowly at first.

"Tell me what you like. Tell me what you want me to do right now, or to do to me right now."

Sherlock leant forward a little in his chair, eyes eager. His rigid penis was really straining, now, dark with blood.

"I want you to kiss me first, to open my mouth with your tongue and then suck on mine. Then I want you to tilt my head back so you can kiss and bite my neck, my jaw bone, breathe in my ear, tongue my ear.

"I want you to grip my wrists as you kiss your way down my chest, down my belly, and, I know you. You won't take me in your mouth then, even though we both want you to. You'll kiss my thighs; tongue the backs of my knees. You may even lick my calves. I'll be shaking by now."

Sherlock shut his eyes. He was shuddering as he spoke.

"Sherlock," said John, sharply, "Sherlock, you have to watch me while you speak."

Sherlock obeyed, watching John's hands as they moved over his cock. "Then, you'll take me in your mouth. I'm so hard, please, John. You'll release my hands so I can run my fingers through my hair, claw at your back, pulling you down on me.

"I love your tongue. You use it so well. And you'll stroke my balls, the insides of my thighs as you suck on me."

Sherlock's knuckles were white, struggling not to touch himself. Then I'll push you back and fall on you on the floor."

"I want to grip your hips as I push into you. Kiss your nipples; grip your buttocks, pulling myself deeper into you. Kiss you on the mouth as I come, pushing my moans into your mouth."

John really couldn't help himself. He came, jerkily, gasping at the sight of Sherlock in front of him, so desperate to take him.

Sherlock went on, as John lay back, panting. "Then, still inside you, I'll stroke you so you come again. Crying my name, I want you to scream my name so that Mrs. Hudson, the whole street hears you. Oh, please."

When he had recovered, John moved towards Sherlock. He could see Sherlock's face, hopeful that the experiment would be abandoned again. But instead, John went around behind him, leant in to breathe on Sherlock's lovely neck staying just back just out of reach. He moved down Sherlock's arm breathing, blowing the hairs. Sherlock tried to reach up, to grab John's head, but John ducked away, tutting.

John moved so that he was sitting at Sherlock's knees.

"Oh, oh, oh, John, please, please let me come."

"That's really up to you, isn't it, Sherlock. You and your lovely mind."

John leant in and breathed, oh so gently, on Sherlock's cock and Sherlock came violently, spattering his stomach, groaning John's name.

John finally leant in then, licking the come from his lover's cock, his taught stomach. Sherlock was practically whimpering. John took pity and reached up, pulling Sherlock's head to his and kissing him so that Sherlock could taste himself on John's tongue.

"15 minutes, not bad, Sherlock. And neither of us broke this time. I think this rather proves that I am a bit stronger than you."

"Obviously both experiments will need to be repeated to chart our endurance."


Oh his hands and knees John dug in the back of Sherlock's closet. He only had two ties himself and he needed at least four and preferably six. Despite having never seen him in one, John was certain that a man as sartorially inclined as Sherlock must have some and indeed, in the back of the closet he found a bag of quite expensive ties from shops that John had never been in for fear that he would set off some sort of alarm—your sort not welcome here. Most were twisted beyond the repair of the best cleaners. There were also a couple not even removed from the box. A pretty gold box had bits of Christmas wrapping paper stuck to it. He opened it and a card fell out:

"To dearest Sherlock, do make an effort this year, for my sake, love Mummy." He gently put that one back where he had found it even though it was an exquisite shade of purple, shot through with a metallic emerald that would look lovely on Sherlock's bare skin.

He selected four of the softest, and then, on reflection, two more. Sherlock's were so much softer and nicer than his.

He had to wait weeks for his chance. Sherlock so seldom slept and he was in the middle of a particularly difficult case.

At last it was over and Sherlock was passed out after one of their epic suck and fucks that seemed to succeed cases these days. Sherlock was on his back, spread across the bed, one arm by his side. The other bent at the elbow, the hand resting by his head. With all the delicate tenderness of a surgeon, John gently took the upper arm and moved it out and tied the wrist securely to the tie he had already bound to the bed post. Sherlock mumbled a little, but didn't wake.

John had managed to secure both legs by the time Sherlock woke.

"Wha—," managed Sherlock before John had seized the remaining limb firmly and bound it as well.

John straddled Sherlock's horizontal form. "I know you are quite talented as an escape artist, Sherlock, but I have tied those in army tent knots and I hope that you will have difficulty…or enjoy yourself too much to try to get free." He smiled wickedly.

"Now, do you want me to blindfold and gag you, or do you want to see what I'm doing and make appreciative sounds?"

Sherlock's eyes widened.

"First, I'm going to make you come as fast as I can, then I'm going to make you come as slowly as I can: look I have my stopwatch! And then, if you're very good, I will take my pleasure with your lovely body. And perhaps, perhaps, I won't just leave you here tied up when I'm done."