Author's Notes: I want to apologize in advance to any trans*people who may be inadvertently offended, either by John's talk or by the medical language about Sherlock's sexual organs. I was trying to characterize John as being a little inexperienced in dealing with trans*people (because I'm assuming he doesn't have much experience, being as he was an army doctor and not an OBGYN or general practitioner) and trying hard to be loving and supportive but maybe not doing the best at it.
Also, I don't think Sherlock would have gone through with bottom surgery because of the relatively long healing process: thus, I wanted to be descriptive in what John was doing without being offensive. I don't know if I pulled that off, but please remember that 1) I'm a transguy myself, so I tried to write it in a way that wouldn't upset me personally if I were the subject of it and 2) I have little to no experience with going down on a trans*man since I tend to either masturbate or have sex with cisgendered men.
Oh, and one more apology: Sorry there's kind of a long wind-up to the actual sex act, but remember that this is their first time even talking about Sherlock's transgenderism, so of course it's going to need a little bit of discussion. And I think that since this is also Sherlock's first actual sex act (because everyone else pushed him away or refused to), he would come pretty quickly, hence the act would be rather brief. I remember I came rather fast at my first time too, so I think it would be a little odd if John had to keep going at it.
So again, I apologize if this was in any way offensive and please let me know so that in the future, if I write more ftm!Sherlock, I won't accidentally trigger anyone.
Sherlock Holmes was avoiding something: this much he was sure. The great detective was holding back, maintaining some façade. And it was really, really pissing one Dr. John Watson off.
This was the fifth time in a row that Sherlock had stayed his hand from the button of his trousers with a quiet, "no, not yet," only to viciously pull down John's jeans and mouth his member so vigorously he screamed. Their sex was brutal – all teeth, no tongue – but John was quite sure that even if the consulting detective punctured him during the best blowjob of his life, he wouldn't mind. Which was why he was exceptionally confused as to why Sherlock wouldn't let him return the favor. Surely he wasn't that bad at this kind of thing?
Before any performance anxiety could creep into his sex-addled mind (or before Sherlock tore his sex organ right off), John pulled on his lover's labyrinth of curls, effectively restraining him from any further fellatio. "Sherlock, what the hell?"
The man before him shrugged, looking deeply concerned. "I thought you liked it rough? You said once before that it reminded you of your sex partner in the Royal Army who left teeth marks in your penis."
John winced, remembering the many occasions that Sherlock had pumped him for information on his sex life. "Well . . . "
"And your girlfriend in university who regularly gave you hickies that would remain for several weeks instead of days."
"This isn't about that, Sherlock," Watson cut him off before he could spout off any further encyclopedic knowledge of John's track record regarding masochism. "It's about why you won't let me do anything to you."
"I would prefer this remain a one-way conduit of sexual stimulation," Sherlock replied stiffly, moving away from John and covering his bare chest with a blanket, as if suddenly self-conscious about his pectorals.
John, recognizing his flatmate's abrupt onslaught of vulnerability, tried to move closer, but Sherlock only pushed him away. "If you would prefer to manage your erection with self-stimulation instead of my mouth, I will leave."
"I don't care about that right now, Sherlock. I care about why you're shying away from letting me give you anything. Why you're pushing me away like this, why you don't want to be intimate with me," the doctor said softly, reaching for his hand. Sherlock didn't move away, only remained in his position at the edge of the bed, looking out the sheer windows at the ruddy half-light of nighttime London.
"Have I done something to upset you?" John probed further, stroking soft circles on the taunt skin of Sherlock's delicate fingers.
"No. In fact the five months and ten days that we have been together has been the most pleasant and satisfying period of my life thus far," he replied, still turned away. He thanked his many years of practice at denying his feelings for lending him the ability to mask the fact that he was perilously close to crying.
"Well, that's good to hear. Are you worried that I'll laugh at your size?" John asked, his hand sliding up Sherlock's arm. The detective shuddered at the sensation of the rough calluses ghosting across his soft skin, feeling each ridge as it came in contact to his flesh.
"Of course not," Sherlock countered, but he couldn't control the slight tremble of his voice, however hard he tried. Cursing himself, he tried to move further away, but John had sidled right behind him, his legs draped across the edge of the bed and his chest pressed against Sherlock's back. The hitch of his chest as he tried, again, not to cry, was palpable, and it vibrated through both of their bodies.
John made a soft noise of sympathy that Sherlock could feel in his lover's throat, and his hand came ever closer to Sherlock's chest, dancing across his collarbones.
"You can tell me what's wrong. I won't be angry and I won't judge you. I promise." John's fingers crept across Sherlock's chest, moving ever further.
Sherlock, with a sigh of defeat, didn't struggle. His shoulders dropped sharply, and he took in a deep breath, as if steeling himself for a tragedy about to take place.
John, noting his physical reactions and the sharp rise in blood pressure, stopped. "Am I hurting you?"
"You're about to," he said quietly, grabbing John's hand and leading it to his left nipple with a sense of painful inevitability.
John, confused, felt carefully around the areola, and froze. A thin, barely tangible line of raised scar tissue ringed Sherlock's nipple. Moving over, he felt the same scar on his right, as well.
The doctor gave out a deep breath, deflating as he wrapped his arms tightly around Sherlock, rocking him gently. "Periareolar mastectomy. Judging from how well the scar has healed, at least ten years?"
With his close proximity, John felt rather than saw his lover nod. "I'm surprised it took you this long to realize, being as you are a doctor," Sherlock commented bitterly.
"I just. . . I wasn't really looking. For that." John felt Sherlock tense, and he hastened to add, "I don't mean that: I mean that I wasn't really playing the 'who's transgender' game. That doesn't matter to me." The stiff shoulders relaxed, and John smiled in relief. "Besides, I would think that's a compliment. It's completely invisible to anyone – if that's how you want it to be, I mean. I think that's homage to how 'passable' you are."
"Or how unobservant you are," the consulting detective said with a chuckle. "But I do appreciate that no one knows. I have spent a great deal of time learning male body language and modulating my voice to fit within the hertz of the male vocal range. I'm glad that my practice has apparently made perfect."
John nodded against Sherlock's back, wrapping his arms tighter around the other man's abdomen. "Honestly, Sherlock. Knowing doesn't change my opinion of you in the least – in fact, it might make me love you more, to have been made aware of it. That you trust me to know. But the fact that you were assigned female at birth, to put it like that. . . it doesn't bother me, if you were worried. I still love just as you are. This doesn't change anything I've said or anything I feel about you, okay? So don't worry." He knew that Sherlock still shied away from using the term 'love' himself, but he couldn't help it; this man in front of him, who had now completely bared his soul, sharing the most painful part of himself – how could he not brim over with love anew?
"Well, I do have reason to worry. Others have scorned me in the past for it."
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Sometimes I think I shouldn't have taught you to deduce. But yes, he among many, before I gave up on sexual interpersonal relations and married myself to my work, as I told you when we met. Transphobia is exceptionally common in the gay community, despite what outer appearances would have you to believe."
The thought of Sherlock being insulted or abused for his gender birthed a hot ball of anger in John's chest that he tried valiantly to ignore. "Well, they're not going to get to you anymore. And Sherlock?" He waited for an affirmative rumble of the other man's chest before continuing. "I will always be here for you if . . . if that happens should we not be together anymore."
"I don't intend for us to not be together anymore if I am able to prevent that."
"And me neither, I swear, but. . . I'm just saying. And about your – what would you like me to call it?"
"I prefer the term penis, despite the fact that said term is anatomically and linguistically incorrect," Sherlock replied quietly.
"That's fine. About your penis – it's fine. I promise. Like I've said before, it's all fine. You are perfect just the way you are. And I find you just as sexually attractive as I did before I knew," John murmured reassuringly.
"You're saying this in order to cajole me into further sexual activity," the detective asserted.
"Wrong. I'm saying this so that you understand that I don't think any differently of you, and I still want you just as much as I always have. Okay? So we're clear?"
"We're clear," Sherlock responded, bringing a hand up to rest on John's knee.
"Good. That's good," John replied with relief, giving the detective one more squeeze before moving away, respecting his personal space.
". . . John?"
"I didn't say no to any further sexual activity tonight," Sherlock said. "In fact, the emotional relief of revealing my genital status has reinvigorated my libido."
"Well, in that case . . . can I finally return the favor?" John asked eagerly, his hand inching toward the button of Sherlock's trousers.
"Fuck yes," the doctor said, enthusiastically ripping Sherlock's trousers from his narrow frame and pushing him down onto the bed, attacking him with love bites. Sherlock moaned, smoothly grabbing a pillow and settling it beneath his hips as John bit a trail down to his tangle of pubic hair.
Coming to Sherlock's pelvis, John nibbled and licked at his thighs worshipfully as the detective gasped and bucked above him, moving ever-closer to his genitals with each click of his teeth.
He felt slim, delicate fingers grasp his hair as he began to carefully knead Sherlock's labia majora with his tongue, rolling the lips about in a rhythmic gesture; first one lip, then drawing a slick line to the other across the tip of Sherlock's glans, which left the taller man breathless and panting. Feeling the lips fill with blood beneath his mouth, he moved his attention to the thinner, more delicate minora, palpating them with his mouth before sliding a delicate arch up to Sherlock's prepuce, to the whimper of the man beneath him as he drew his tongue across the sensitive skin.
Looking up to see the deep flush spreading across the detective's high cheekbones, John turned his attention to Sherlock's penis (John's medical mind quickly suggested 'clitoris' and 'micropenis', but he willfully ignored it), which, now fully engorged with blood, quivered with arousal. Taking it gently between his lips, he moved his mouth up and down the small shaft, feeling Sherlock shudder. Encouraged, his pressed his tongue to the tip of the man's glans, licking and suckling as his mouth moved in a slow circuit up and down the full length of his lover's organ. With each motion, Sherlock's body responded enthusiastically, his hips jerking up and down to connect him further with John's talented mouth. John engulfed him greedily now, his tongue swirling teasingly against Sherlock's flesh until, quite suddenly, Sherlock shuddered violently and screamed, his fingers clutching at John's hair with a vice-like grip.
John, despite plenty of experience, had never seen such a swift or forceful orgasm, and he continued to massage the organ with his tongue until the detective collapsed, spent, back upon the bed.
"John," Sherlock whispered gently, his hands petting at the doctor's hair. John flushed at the affectionate tone he could hear in the arousal-slurred voice, a deep and primal warmth filling him to the brim with love for the man lying prone beneath him.
"I take it that was good?" He asked tenderly, moving up to lie beside his flatmate and running his hand through the mess of damp curls that he loved.
"I would even go so far as to say that it was the best blowjob I've ever been given," Sherlock replied, his voice husky with afterglow. He rolled over wrap his arms around John, nuzzling him affectionately.
John continued to threat his fingers through Sherlock's hair as he murmured, "That good, was it?"
". . . It was my first," the dark-haired man whispered. "No one else has ever wanted to."
John winced, feeling Sherlock's admission of loneliness and isolation as a stab to the gut. He paused for a moment, then held the man he loved closer, kissing him on the temple.
"Consider it the first of many, and I'll try to make all of them the best."
"I invite you to try, John," he replied, "and. . . thank you."