A/N: My first Sherlock fic. Please be gentle. New to the fandom, but it has swallowed me whole and I have no regrets. I'm ever fascinated by virginal!Sherlock, who has managed to separate himself from matters of the flesh for most of his life. Until John comes along and throws everything into chaos.


Intolerable. Sherlock lay back on the sofa, fingers steepled under his chin. Thinking about the situation. It had gone through many stages and Sherlock had catalogued them all: intriguing, perplexing, vexing, troubling, profoundly troubling, and now had firmly settled into the category of intolerable. Absolutely intolerable. Something had to be done. And quickly.

The cause of the problem and, thus, situation, was simple to determine: Dr. John H. Watson. The root had been easy to identify. The solution was a more evasive quarry, however. Well, that wasn't exactly true: there was one very obvious solution, but Sherlock had rejected it outright as being even more intolerable than the problem itself. Sending John away was not even remotely an option.

Simply put: John was driving Sherlock to distraction in a most upsetting way. Even the time spent analyzing the problem was a distraction in itself. He tried his best to put it aside for those insufferable times between cases when he got so very bored.

He hadn't been bored lately, even though it had been a whole week since their last case. He suspected John had noticed this change in behaviour, but was probably relieved that Sherlock wasn't shooting more holes in the walls, tearing the flat apart in search of cigarettes, and generally throwing a strop every ten minutes. No, this problem required very careful contemplation, starting with determining how and when it had presented itself. The situation, so to speak.

He had figured that out. The women. Those damnable nice, boring women that John had been dating. The idea that John would prefer their company over his was incomprehensible at first. In the beginning, Sherlock had simply invented ways to insert himself into the situation so John could see sense. And then John had blurted out how Sherlock's presence was preventing him from getting off, and then, well.

He should have realized that sooner. Contrary to somewhat popular belief, he wasn't a robot or an alien. He was a human man and sexual urges were written into his biological makeup just like everyone else. However, the difference between him and everyone else was that he had deemed those urges irrelevant a long time ago. Sexual desire and the pursuit of sexual conquest struck Sherlock as a way for boring people to pass the time. The incredible, mind-boggling amounts of idle time they seemed to have because their puny brains couldn't keep them adequately occupied. So they resorted to rubbing body parts against other body parts for fun. He didn't understand it at all.

He'd never understood it. Even in the hormonal throes of adolescence it had been a puzzle to him. He'd experienced the irritatingly distracting stirrings and desires shared by his peers, but his lack of social prowess made the pursuing of those urges basically impossible. He had no acceptable way of communicating his desires to the very, very few people who piqued his interest in that way. And the very few, tentative attempts he had made had been soundly rebuffed. Humiliatingly so. And the few who had managed to break past a few layers of his intellectual oblivion to make their interest known to him (the Molly Hoopers of the world) were people who did not interest him in the slightest. He'd calculated the odds of finding a person who equally reciprocated his desires and the results were definitely not in his favour. He'd decided then and there to put it all aside. He was able to take care of his own needs in times where even the most absorbing of school assignments and outside projects refused to absorb his fevered thoughts. And as he navigated his way through the rest of those abhorrent teenage years, he found those moments decreasing in frequency until he was able to master them altogether. And so it had been for many years. Sex was boring and people who desired it were boring, too.

But it appeared that John desired sex and John was certainly not boring. That's the last thing he was. It also perturbed Sherlock that someone else might be able to provide something for John that he could not. Because that wasn't true. He could. He'd just never wanted to. With anyone.

Until now. Because he'd begun entertaining unpleasant thoughts of John touching those women. Sarah, Jeannette, Spotty, and Nose. Their hands and mouths touching John. His John. Revolting. And then thoughts of John touching them. No. That wouldn't do. He thought of the times John had touched him, whether it was their shoulders touching in the darkened back seat of a cab, fingers brushing when John passed him a cup of tea, or the time he had taken John's face between his hands and implored him to remember the order and nature of the ciphers he'd seen spray-painted on the wall. Each contact had provided a flush of warmth he wasn't used to. One that was unique to John. Of course, there were virtually no other people who voluntarily touched Sherlock. He received more physical contact from corpses and handshakes with strangers than he did with the people in his everyday life, Mycroft included. Especially Mycroft.

Except for John. John didn't mind touching Sherlock. In fact he seemed to do it more than was necessary, but Sherlock assumed perhaps that was what friends and flatmates were supposed to do. He found himself wanting more of it, the same way he secretly desired John's praise and approval.

It was all incredibly distracting. And now it was starting to impact the Work and that was unacceptable. The Work was everything and everything served the Work. And while he'd made the decision to stop considering sexual matters, he certainly was no naïf. He'd researched extensively to obtain knowledge to aid in his deductions. Sex was a driving force of human behaviour, so it was key that he attempt to understand it. He knew what was supposed to go where and he could reel off a near endless list of fetishes and kinks and subcultures. He knew the difference between courting and stalking, a bear and a cougar, top and power bottom, the apparent necessity of sending flowers, cards, and candy, waiting three days to call, and the peak times of day to find recreational fucking in Hampstead Heath.

But where he himself was concerned, Sherlock regarded his body as a mobile device to house his brain. And his brain was the computer that did the Work. Maintaining the house kept his computer at optimal function, so he fed it (not as often as John would like), rested it (ditto), exercised it, cleaned it, and kept it properly kitted out (perhaps one of his few vain indulgences, but in his experience, people were more likely to defer to a confident-sounding man in well-tailored clothing). But nothing more than that. Yes, the brain controlled the sexual pleasure responses, but they were not key to existence. They were expendable. Deletable. Or so he'd thought. Prior to this moment, he'd been fairly grateful to have spared himself from the circus of the human sex drive. Watching people making idiots of themselves in hopes of getting off or falling in love or both. It was everywhere: written into every movie plot, television show, advert, and pop song. Everything was sex. Sherlock prided himself on being above it all.

But now that was all going to hell and it had become intolerable. His thoughts had begun to drift during moments when they should be maintaining their laser-like intensity. He caught himself staring at John, watching his mouth, wondering what it tasted like. What he looked like under those ridiculous jumpers. Which muscles in his kind, compassionate face would be triggered when he achieved climax? What combination of stimuli would be required to bring him to such a state? Data … there was so much data to be collected. Data that was non-essential to the Work, but sod the Work … he wanted … oh bloody hell.

Sherlock gritted his teeth and covered his eyes, fingers twisting into his hair. He shifted his weight and blinked a little, lowering his hands and looking down. For fuck's sake … he was almost fully erect. Again. His traitorous body failing him again. How dreadfully inconvenient and embarrassing. He was better than this.

"Intolerable," he muttered, shifting again to try to ease some pressure off his member. "Simply intolerable." He tried to focus his thoughts and think about something else … anything else except John Watson.


Moaning Sherlock's name.

Working his roughened hands over Sherlock's body with surgical precision.

This wasn't working. At all.

He raised his head and listened. The flat was empty. John was at work — probably — Sherlock wasn't entirely sure how much time had elapsed and he didn't remember John's departure at all. Mrs. Hudson must be at the shops. He was alone. He could retire to his bedroom for additional privacy, but the thought of the journey there wearied him. He brushed light fingertips over the bulge in his trousers and shivered. He could … it had been years, but he was becoming increasingly desperate.

Ashamed that it had come to this, he popped the button on his trousers and slowly lowered the zip. He had his hand half into his pants when he heard front door open, causing him to jump.

Feet pounding up the stairs. John. With approximately 3.4 kilograms of groceries.

"Sherlock! Sorry I'm late. Tesco was a bloody nightmare. But it only took me five tries with the chip and PIN machine this time. Small victories, right? Sherlock?"

By the time John entered the sitting room, Sherlock was zipped up and curled up on the sofa, with his back to John, feigning sleep, which was difficult because his breathing was hardly at the right rate to really pull it off properly.

But John, silly sod, was as oblivious as usual. "Ah. Rest'll do you good," he whispered. "I'll start tea, then."

John moved quietly out of the room and Sherlock's eyes flew open. Of course!

John was a caretaker. It was his nature. It was not only his profession, but it showed in his personal life as well. He was happiest when he was taking care of Sherlock. He had some ridiculous notion that this was the only area in which he was truly useful, which couldn't be farther from the truth. Sherlock didn't need a nanny or a housekeeper. He needed John. However, this misconception might be useful in resolving his situation. He smirked in self satisfaction.

Sherlock might be lacking in area of recognizing social cues, but it was different with John and he knew he'd received enough signs and cues to know that John would not be entirely opposed to the idea of expanding their relationship into the sexual arena. He just needed some convincing. The experience with Irene Adler had been telling enough. While Sherlock had found her deeply interesting, the fact remained that she was no longer immediately available to collect further data on the subject. And John had been jealous. Sherlock had tested him on that point. He could have changed the text ringtone away from her breathy moan to the standard alert (could he make John emit a sound similar to that? No … focus!), but he didn't. He wanted to know how many times it would have to go off before John had a visible reaction. Fifty-seven times, apparently. He applauded the doctor's restraint, but the overall conclusion was the one he'd hoped for: Irene's suggestive attentions had bothered John.

And if Sherlock couched the situation in terms of his distress over his distraction from the Work — which was essentially the truth — John would want to help him. He had to. Otherwise Sherlock had to make the disturbing realization that he did not know what he was going to do. And also there was the issue of John and his needs and Spotty and Nose. If Sherlock could meet those needs then John would be happy (oh, how he liked it when John was happy and he smiled and his eyes crinkled and … focus!) and would likely stop making dinner reservations he couldn't really afford and bringing boring people to Baker Street to inflict their tedium on Sherlock, all in the hopes of a roll in the hay and unrealistic expectations of some kind of storybook romance resulting in a wedding and a litter of sprogs who would suck the life out of his vibrant, sweet John and render him brittle and gray and boring, and, worst of all, take him away from the Work and thus, Sherlock. No, it had to stop. Something had to be done.

He resolved that he would broach the subject tonight. After tea. Almost getting caught masturbating on the sofa was the final straw.