A/N: Yeah. I went there.

Just to be clear: This Sherlock is an asexual celibate virgin with a libido.

No slash.

This mostly Sherlock's fic, with John appearing at the end.

In the Body

When Sherlock comes home from fencing practice, his hair damp with sweat and his cheeks pink from the chilly air and the exercise, John isn't home. He finds a Post-It on the refrigerator:

Date Night. Be Back Late. Pasta Sauce in the Fridge. John.

Sherlock gets that mischievous look on his face, mouth barely curving into a smile. He tosses the note into the bin and starts taking off his clothes on his way to his bedroom. Scarf, coat, shirt, trousers, belt, socks drop to the carpet. He turns on the shower head in his bathroom to full-blast, lets it run until steam begins to collect on the mirror. He sighs in relief when the water hits his back and shoulders, those muscles hard worked after two hours of fencing against partners. Sherlock rotates his body in the water stream for a few minutes, his dark curls lengthening. He shampoos, conditions, and takes his time washing his body with the loofah and soap. By the time he steps out dripping onto the rug and bathroom tiles, half an hour's passed. He towel-dries his hair and his whole body thoroughly and dumps the towels, along with his clothes, in the hamper hiding inside his closet.

Naked, he stands in front of his full-length mirror. This is a necessary part of the ritual. He looks at himself and suspends analysis and criticism. First, the front of his body: the musculature of his arms, his shoulders, his chest, his abs, his hips, his thighs, the long and elegant curve of his neck. He doesn't spend any time admiring his penis; he always found genitalia the least aesthetically pleasing features of human anatomy. He is far more pleased with the rest of his body. His skin is pale but still appears healthy, with a bit of a glow after the workout and hot shower. He looks at his face: the high cheekbones, lips dry, his pale blue eyes, curls gradually shrinking and tightening as they dry. He turns and looks at his profile, at the shadow of muscle down his outer thigh and the curve of his buttocks. He turns again, his back to the mirror, and he looks over his shoulder at himself. His shoulders are moderately broad, his back long. He can see more muscle definition in his shoulders and triceps, in his lower back and hamstrings. He looks at his shoulder blades as they move beneath the skin and at the indentation of his spine. He catches his own eye again.

Sherlock retrieves the bottle of massage oil in the top drawer of his night table and lies down on his made bed. He pours a quarter-sized amount of oil into his palm, sets the bottle (still open) on the table, and begin to cover his torso with it. The oil doesn't have a scent—it was ridiculously difficult to find for that reason, none of the sex shops had it—and this allows him to focus on breathing. He starts with one deep breath, taken from the belly, as both hands coat his chest in the oil. Head on the pillow, face to the ceiling, Sherlock begins to relax as he breathes. He inhales until his lungs are at full capacity, hands moving slowly from his breastbones to his lower abdomen, and exhales. His hands glide smoothly back and forth. His legs remain straight up. He runs his thumbs over the curve of his hip bones, down and up. He lays both hands on his belly and breathes deep, three times, feeling the breath move there. He slides his right hand up to his chest, over his heart. His left hand remains on his stomach. His skin is shiny with oil. He breathes in this position, feeling his own heartbeat. He's already looser, more open. He listens to himself breathe. He feels the warmth of his own skin.

He moves his right hand over to his pectoral muscle and starts to rub small circles. He touches his nipple with his thumb, feels the sensitivity there. His other hand strokes slow circles on his belly. He moves to his left pectoral and rubs sensually, pressing the pads of his fingers into the muscle. He takes the left nipple in between his thumb and forefinger and rubs just a little. He closes eyes and continues breathing deep. He spreads his legs, his penis still flaccid. He runs his right hand down the length of his torso and starts touching his right inner thigh, left hand still on his belly. He touches his thigh gently, his fingers curved. He feels the breath move in and out of his stomach. His thumb starts to rub into the thickest part of his inner thigh muscle, close to his penis but he doesn't touch that yet. Slowly, his left hand descends to his left inner thigh.

He starts to massage both inner thighs in earnest and bends his knees up, feet flat on the bed. He works his palms hard and deep into the thigh muscles, slowly moving to the tops of his thighs, then swooping back down until he has his hands wrapped around the backs. His penis begins to harden but he doesn't touch it. He breathes—in, out, in, out, slow and full—and he keeps his eyes closed. In through his nose, out through his mouth, lungs expanding when he inhales and belly rising up when he exhales. His thighs are slick with oil now, shiny in the dim light of his lamp on the dresser. He feels his thighs, their hardness and bulk, built from years of fencing and boxing and running and judo. Their strength is great. The strength of his whole body is great. He's tall but his size has never been overwhelming. He has the body of an athlete, the lean and chiseled body of a fencer and lightweight boxer. He's beautiful. He knows he is. He can feel every muscle now, the hardness of his body but the softness in certain places that cannot be toughened. He breathes and he touches himself and he is completely, fully present in his body. He takes his time. He wants to enjoy this. He moves both hands all the way up to his neck, caresses it, then runs his hands slowly down his chest, over the ridges of his abs, the arches of his hips, and the flesh of his thighs.

He breathes in, breathes out, and lays his left hand over his heart again. He finally takes his penis in his right and touches it softly at first, just feeling it in his hand. He feels its weight, its size, the loose skin growing taut as his hard-on progresses. He cups it in his hand and moves from the base to the head, then runs his thumb over the tip. It feels pleasant but he's in no rush. His whole body feels good right now, relaxed and warm. His heart rate is increasing. He massages his penis in his cupped hand, thumb moving up and down its length slowly. He breathes, centered in his chest. He feels the pleasure sensations and warmth spreading through his groin, his testicles swelling beneath the back of his right hand.

He reaches for the bottle on the night table and pour more oil into his hands, coats his thighs and his belly and his groin, then take his penis in his right hand again. His left hand rests on his left inner thigh, his knees pointing out. He's fully erect now but he keeps a slow pace as he rubs himself, breathing fully. He looks down at himself and watches his hand move. He spends a few minutes rubbing his penis with his hand closed around it, not down the length but around the width. The sensations increase as he does this. He pauses and breathes three times in stillness. He goes a little soft. He starts rubbing the head, sometimes pressing the heel of his palm into his penis as he does, and soon he's fully hard again. He begins to caress his left inner thigh with his other hand as he changes his motions to a standard up-and-down stroke from the base of his penis to the head. He must force himself to continue breathing deep and long, but he does it, drawing the air into his belly and exhaling.

He's about to cum, so he stops, letting go of his penis entirely. He closes his eyes and breathes, hand over his heart. There is nothing in his head. There never is, when he self-pleasures. It's one of the best parts of the experience for him. His brain shuts down and he feels his body acutely. He doesn't need to think of another person, he doesn't need porn, he doesn't need any kind of sexual fantasy. His pleasure is self-given, self-evoked, self-contained. The peace of his mind shutting down allows him this pleasure. He always experiences strange feelings at this stage—emotional, not physical. He can never put it into words. He feels an opening in his heart area, an overwhelming relief. He feels as if he's becoming one with himself. He usually has no patience for that kind of ridiculous, spiritual nonsense but in the privacy of these moments, it's the only way he can think of describing it.

His hand returns to his already softening penis and begins to stroke it again, slowly. His left hand rests on his knee and he closes his eyes again. Once totally hard, he begins to stroke around all sides of his left thigh. He touches himself with tenderness and love. He sinks into his own skin, his own depths. His hand stops moving on his penis and he holds himself snugly for a moment, breathing, other hand still caressing thigh from knee to hip.

He guides his penis toward his belly and reaches his other hand down between his legs as he begins to stroke himself again. His left hand cups his testicles, gently. He handles each of them separately first, feeling their tenderness, stroking with his thumb lightly. The rhythm of his other hand is steady, not too slow but not fast. He keeps his eyes closed so he can feel instead of see. The pleasure is becoming stronger.

He allows his testicles to fall out of his hand and probes at the sensitive skin between the sack and his anus. He finds the small indentation there, the size of a pea, and presses it with his forefinger. His breath hitches. He can feel the pressure deep inside of himself. It's uncomfortable for a few seconds, but he continues to stroke his penis until the discomfort subsides. He begins to massage that place, the Sacred Spot, with his left forefinger. New, tingling pleasure rises into his body from that spot. When he feels himself about to come, he stops touching his penis and clenches his PC muscle, the muscle of his pelvic floor. He's learned to control his body this way, learned how to stop himself from ejaculating, learned how to orgasm without ejaculating. His breathing is faster now, a little more shallow, and his heart rate is quick. He massages the Sacred Spot between anus and testicles, while giving his penis a rest. Sweat has broken out across his forehead.

He opens his eyes at the ceiling, closes them, and rubs his finger into that spot. His penis waits, hard, hanging over his belly. He places his right hand over his heart again and feels it beat, as he massages his Sacred Spot. He breathes. When he's ready, he takes his penis back in hand. He restrains himself from going too fast. Drawing this out is part of the point.

He begins to moan a little, low in his throat, mouth closed. The muscles in his arms tremble. His abs tighten. He spreads his legs a bit wider. He strokes his penis up and down, up and down, switches from forefinger to thumb on in his Sacred Spot. His breathing shortens as his lips part. "Oh..." he says quietly, breathily. "Oh. Oh." He runs his thumb over the head of his penis again. He almost whimpers.

When he feels himself on the brink of orgasm, he clenches his PC muscle again to stop the ejaculation, presses his thumb harder into the Sacred Spot, and cums. He arches his back off the bed, his head into the pillow and his face toward the headboard. He continues to stroke himself as the orgasm unfolds, keeps his thumb pressed to the spot. Strangled sounds escape his throat first. He feels the contractions in his penis as he touches it. Sweat and oil cover his thighs and his chest. His body slowly relaxes as the orgasm weakens. He eases the pressure on his Sacred Spot. He's still hard and he continues to stroke. He breathes again, deep into his lungs, his eyes closed and his face damp. Up and down, up and down on his penis. He fondles his testicles with his other hand and after a few seconds, his thumb returns to that spot below them.

He feels another orgasm breaking, clenches against the semen, and cums a second time. His hand is slower through this orgasm, so it lasts longer. His thumb massages the Sacred Spot. His whole body quivers a little more than it did the first time around. "Oh, God," he whispers. "Oh, yes. Yes. Ohhh."

As the second orgasm tapers off, he moves his hand off his penis and begins stroking his belly again, the oil drying and sticky. He pours more oil on his torso and into both hands and rubs himself all over until he's slippery: chest and abs and his thighs and hips, oil slipping down into his buttocks. He massages his thighs again, inner and outer. He spreads his knees wide and pulls at one ass cheek, so he can reach down between his legs and touch his anus. He hums low in his throat when he does that. His finger circles the ring. He won't go inside, but he likes the sensation of touching himself there.

He takes his penis in his hand one last time and begins to fondle it, other hand on his heart. He feels his heartbeat, he feels the pulsing in his penis, and he breathes. His hands are slick, his whole body is slick, and he's just as hard as if he hadn't already come twice. He touches himself slowly and lovingly, getting lost in the sensations. He doesn't know how long he's been lying here already, doesn't know how long he strokes himself until he feels a new orgasm cresting. As he gets close, he takes his hand away from his heart and touches the skin between his testicles and his anus again. He's beginning to shake. He breathes through it as much as he can, but the pleasure's building and building. His hand moves on his penis steadily, alternating pressure from fingers to palm. His thumb swipes at the base, and he pulls a bit. His other hand massages his perineum. His breathing's ragged now. It's too much effort to control it.

He starts to cum and this time, he doesn't clench. He presses his forefinger deep into his Sacred Spot, and the height of his orgasm storms through him. He arches his back again and ejaculates, his thighs trembling and his arm trembling and his knees waving. He groans low and long, focusing the sound in his belly instead of his throat. "Unnnnhhhhhhh. Unnnhhhhh. Ohhhhhhhh. Oh, guuunnhhhhhh." He takes a gasping breath, body sinking back down to the bed and semen stopped, but he's still orgasming. He keeps his finger in the perineum spot but lets go of his penis, fisting that hand into the bed covers as he lies there and keeps cumming dry. He hears his own shaky breaths and wants to whimper but can't find the sound. He stares at the ceiling and tells himself to stay calm and ride the wave. His oiled thighs continue to tremble and he squeezes his eyes shut as the hot pleasure in his groin threatens to overwhelm him. It's not just his body, it's these emotions. He doesn't know what they are, but they're too much. He doesn't even know what he is: afraid or stressed or sad or happy. There isn't a word. He wants to cry but doesn't.

Finally, the feeling begins to subside and he has an easier time breathing. He breathes until the orgasm is completely finished, and once it is, he feels like he's lost all his strength. He's still wet with oil and there's semen drying on his belly and chest. After a few minutes, he rolls onto his side and curls into himself, closing his eyes and being quiet.

He forces himself off the bed, and he feels weak just crossing the room into his bathroom. He gets back into the shower and rinses himself off with warm water. Much to his own alarm, he begins to cry. He has no idea why. It doesn't happen every time he masturbates, but when he does it like that—when he self-pleasures using the tantric technique—this sometimes happens. The expert who introduced the concept of tantra to Sherlock warned him that practitioners can become highly emotional, whether during sex with a partner or by themselves, but Sherlock hadn't believed he would be one of them until his first successful session.

He dries his eyes on the hand towel and gets dressed but still feels weepy and exhausted. He doesn't use tantra often. The last time was four months ago. It takes a lot out of him, no matter how good it feels. He just can't afford to be wiped out like this on a regular basis. He can't imagine how people deal with partnered sex.

Sherlock naps for an hour and a half. That's how spent he is. When he wakes up, it's only half past nine. He hasn't eaten dinner. John's still gone.

He wraps himself up in his dressing gown and goes out into the sitting room. He doesn't have the energy or capacity to focus on reading or experiments right now. He plops onto the sofa and turns on the telly.

John waltzes in around eleven, much to Sherlock's surprise. The shorter man stops in their doorway and looks at Sherlock on the sofa. "Hey, you. What are you doing there, looking so forlorn?"

"Everything on is crap," says Sherlock. "You're back earlier than expected."

John shuts the door to the flat and goes into the kitchen. "Did you read my note?"

"It said back late. I assumed that meant well into the middle of the night, if not the morning."

John smiles indulgently. "Eleven o'clock is fairly late, last time I checked. Then again, with your sleeping habits, maybe not. Did you—eat?"


"Sherlock, come on, all you had to do was make yourself some pasta and heat up the sauce. What have you been doing all evening? Do I want to know?"

"Not particularly."

"Well, if I make this for you now, will you eat it?"

Sherlock nods, staring blankly at the telly. He listens to John bang around in the kitchen for the following fifteen minutes, ignoring the noise of whatever imbecilic program is on. When he hears their kettle begin to hiss, he feels relieved. He needs tea. He could've really used it right after his session, though the nap helped too. He didn't feel up to making it himself. John makes it better anyway.

John brings him a plate of pasta with the only meat sauce Sherlock will eat, and Sherlock's appetite kicks in after his first bite. He forgot: a series of intense orgasms does make him especially hungry. John returns from the kitchen with two mugs in his hand and settles down next to Sherlock, eying him incredulously as the taller man eats. Sherlock trades his empty plate for his mug and holds it in both hands, staring balefully ahead.

"Sherlock, are you okay?" John says, watching him.

Sherlock nods. "Fine. Thank you."

"You sure? Is there anything I can... do? Did something happen?"

Sherlock sips on his tea, staring at the telly. John waits. After a few minutes, Sherlock looks at him and says, "Would you let me lean on you?"

John blinks at him, then nods. Sherlock drains his tea, sets the mug on the table, and folds his legs to his chest. He lays his head on John's shoulder. After a moment, John moves his arm from underneath Sherlock and circles it around his best friend. He tugs the knit blanket around Sherlock to make sure the other man is covered, and Sherlock shuts his eyes. John rests his head against the top of Sherlock's and doesn't try to make anymore conversation.