"Why don't we just have sex."

John nearly drops his mug full of steaming-hot tea, but he's so well-versed in being shocked by Sherlock while in the process of tea-making and tea-drinking that he averts the possible disaster of steaming-hot liquid searing through his thin pyjama cloth.

John snorts. "Good one, Sherlock. You almost got me there."

"This is not an attempt at humour, John."

John shakes his head, smiling disbelievingly into his tea as he takes a sip. It burns on the way down, but it feels absolutely heavenly.

"I'm being pragmatic," Sherlock's voice tells him matter-of-factly.

John exits the kitchen and shuffles into the sitting room where Sherlock stares at him, expression as stoic as ever. He can't be serious. "You're not serious," John articulates with a crooked smile.

Sherlock huffs and grips the arms of his leather chair, shooting himself to a stand. He moves so quickly that John recoils a bit when Sherlock's in front of him, looming, six feet of inescapable brooding and arrogance. John simply raises a brow as Sherlock narrows his eyes. "You just broke up with…Mallory. Karina. Emily—"

"Mary," John supplies.

Sherlock dismisses the name with a flutter of his hand. "Whatever. You were just telling me you're completely done with relationships."

"How about that! You were listening to my ranting. I should give you more credit."

Sherlock ignores him. "And all you want to do is get a leg over without the messy emotional attachment. I saw you browsing through your mobile contacts earlier trying to decide which ex-girlfriend you could booty call."

John guffaws. Because, really. "You did not just say booty call." The amusement lasts only until the point where John realises Sherlock knew precisely what he was thinking. John frowns.

"But you decided it would be fruitless," Sherlock trudges on, disregarding anything John says at this point, apparently. "All of them were far too emotionally invested in you to be able to have sex again without petty feelings getting in the way."

Wrong. John's smug because Sherlock's wrong. There were two women who broke it off with him.

John's about to hand Sherlock a nice, hot serving of ego-blast when Sherlock interrupts. "Ah, yes. At least two of them broke up with you."

"God damnit."

"So?" Sherlock says, impatient and still completely serious. John blinks and shakes his head.

"So, what!" John says in a fit of passion. He huffs out a laugh and looks at Sherlock with wild eyes. The proposition is ludicrous really, because—"Sherlock, are you even attracted to me?"

Sherlock doesn't respond right away, he lets the silence stretch. He scans John's person with a bored gaze then mumbles something that sounds like, "You have well-trimmed cuticles."

John gives him a look. "…really."

"Eyes." Sherlock looks away with a flutter of his eyelashes. Is he playing coy? Fucking hell.

"Pardon?" John leans in, not quite sure he heard correctly.

"Eyes! You have blue eyes."

"Well, I never. Thank god you're a detective."

"They're, um," he clears his throat, "Nice." Sherlock looks at him earnestly.

That merits two eyebrow-raises from John. Sherlock's completely serious. He's not taking the piss. Does he really think John has nice eyes, or is it a ploy? Not that it'd be a very effective ploy. Saying one has nice eyes doesn't exactly get one's bones jumped.

Sherlock's too unreadable and John hates it. He can read almost everyone else in this cesspool of a town, but Sherlock Holmes is the one man who hides behind twenty brick walls and obscures his feelings. Damn him and his flawless acting. Damn him and his perfected art of stoicism. John shakes his head vehemently. "It's a really bad idea." It could ruin everything between them as friends, this. John's not sure he'd want to risk that.

Sherlock gives him that look that screams how fucking daft are you? "No, it's really not. It's perfectly practical. I'm emotionally barren and you're emotionally bored. We'll both benefit physically and we don't have to worry about it mucking up our…the relationship we have now because, well, there won't be any extraneous feelings," Sherlock says the word feelings like it's stuck to the bottom of his (expensive) shoe, "involved and we shall remain…the same as we are."

"I don't want what we have to be completely ruined."

"This is strictly business, John. A business proposition. It has nothing to do with our, um, current relationship. If anything, it will enhance it." Sherlock says softly, sincerely.

John considers. Sherlock does have a point. Points. Though, when does he not? That man could convince a criminal he was on his side (he has). John clears his throat and looks Sherlock up and down and comes to a conclusion. He's not exactly getting a bad deal here.1

John scrubs a hand down his face. "Christ, Sherlock. Last time I had sex with a bloke was, oh, two whole decades ago."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "It's just like—"

"—riding a bike. Yeah, yeah." John tea's cold so he places the mug down onto the side table. He straightens himself and gives Sherlock another once-over. It could take his mind off Mary, that's for sure. It could do a lot of things to his mind, actually.

Fine. To hell with everything—to sanity, to dignity, to relationships—John's going to fuck his best friend tonight. John spreads out his palms and holds up his arms in (not a considerably painful) defeat. "Why the hell not? You better not get mushy on me."

Sherlock scoffs and looks truly offended. "John, please. Have you met me?"

John shrugs. "Yeah, okay. Fine. Let's do this."

Sherlock brightens, looks at John like he's suddenly become brilliant. "My bedroom."

They start disrobing and John realises he should probably warn Sherlock about a few things. "Oh, um, just so you know. I'm, ah, I like dirty talk. Sometimes, not always, it just slips out. It's a compulsion or something."

"Yes, I figured," Sherlock says while undoing the last button of his shirt and removing it to reveal an expanse of lithe paleness, which John takes a moment of his precious time to admire. Sherlock drapes the shirt over his chair and starts on his trousers.

Oh, wait. "How—"

"Army. Obvious. Something you've just never grown out of. I pull things."

"I beg pardon?" John says, distracted, neatly folding his jeans onto Sherlock's desktop. He pulls his t-shirt over his head as Sherlock speaks.

"I. pull. things," Sherlock says, sounding annoyed at repeating himself no doubt. "Hair. Skin. Whenever I get fucked, I need to hold onto a bit of the person."

John clears his throat and cracks his neck, pre-gaming. "Right-o." He pulls down his pants. When he looks up, Sherlock's completely nude, arms crossed over his chest.

Sherlock glares at John's cock for what feels like a long, judgmental time then shrugs bony shoulders, resigned. "Acceptable."

John purses his lips. He's not going to get offended by the person he's about to have sex with. The person who is Sherlock, his best friend. Sherlock. He drops his gaze from Sherlock's face and nods with approval, evening the score. "Yeah, I can work with that."

Sherlock collides into him and pushes him onto the bed so that he's supine. John's hands immediately gravitate to Sherlock's arse as Sherlock's soft, hungry lips engulf his own. John pulls him close, so close and their cocks rub together in sweet friction and a fun little switch turns on in John. "Nice, plump arse. Can't wait to fuck it 'til it's raw." John digs into Sherlock's bum with fervour to be true to his word.

As John moves his hands up to Sherlock's back, he realises how smooth Sherlock is. John bets that's why he always needs so much bloody milk, because he bathes in the stuff.

Sherlock slithers down John's body, licks his lips, and eases his mouths onto John's acceptable length. "Oh, yeah," John grits out.

Sherlock's slick lips slide gracefully back and forth around John's now-hard cock. Sherlock's face has disappeared in a mess of dark curls. John looks up to the ceiling with laboured breath.

Sherlock does something magnificent with his tongue, then drags his teeth down John's length, leaving John to cry—more, more. Let me fuck your dirty, gorgeous mouth until you gag—but unfortunately stops and removes himself with a pop.

John pulls Sherlock up, flips their positions and leans in to bite at Sherlock's cheekbones, because he's always had a desire to touch them, so why not with his teeth? the left one, then the right, then nip at his top lip, on the centre of the Cupid's Bow. John travels down Sherlock's arm, chest and protruding hip bone with his mouth and, damn, this man is a bean-pole until he reaches Sherlock's cock. He grabs it and strokes indulgently, slowly, then tugs at his balls. He looks up to watch variants of enjoyment pass through Sherlock's face. It's so—

"Fucking beautiful, god. I want you to do more than look like that. I want you to scream like you're. Like you're. Um." John's hand stills in place as he blanks.

"Oh for god's sake. Just get the lube."

"Right." John reaches for the lube and, feeling a bit dejected, slicks himself quietly.

Sherlock tuts. "Come off it."


"You couldn't think of anything to say so now you're embarrassed."

John doesn't look up. "I'm fucking my best friend, who I have to see every bloody day and am not in a relationship with. I'm past being embarrassed."

"Don't lie to me. I don't care. You could be singing God Save the Queen and I wouldn't be bothered. I just want you to fuck me."

"That's the plan, thanks. I'm getting there." John plunges a lubed finger inside Sherlock, and he arches up into it.

"Another," Sherlock pleads. John plunges another finger, then another, tickling Sherlock's prostate with lively fingers. Sherlock's moaning and fucking himself on John's fingers, grabbing onto the duvet with clawed-hands, knuckles going white, eyes shut tight. He's in bliss.

"Fucking hell." John watches wide-eyed as Sherlock descends on his fingers like they're the last morsels in a post-apocalyptic universe. "No, thank you for asking, I'm certain I wouldn't mind watching this longer but you're going to spoil the fun."

Sherlock flings open his eyes when John removes his fingers, and scowls. "I didn't ask you to stop."

"No, but by the look of you it wasn't going to last very long and I wouldn't be getting much out of it. This is a mutually beneficial fling, remember?"

Sherlock grunts and pushes John away, actually shoves his chest, so he can turn to get on his hands and knees. He presents his arse, and John takes hold of it carefully and positions the head of his cock in between Sherlock's cheeks. For some reason, John tenses and is hit with some strange feeling that tells him what he's doing is a bad idea despite the fact that he really, really wants to drive himself into Sherlock until he screams so loud it wakes up Arthur and Harry next door, who are notoriously deep-sleepers.

"You're extremely slow," Sherlock whinges.

"And you're a big baby. Just. Wait."

Sherlock makes an irritated noise. "Come on!" He tries to push back but John doesn't let him.

"Shut up for just one bloody second. I need a moment."

Sherlock drops his heads between his arms and sighs dramatically. "You know, I think I miss the dreadful dirty talk."

"I thought you didn't care!"

"Perhaps it's lower on my priorities than the act of you sticking your cock inside me. Now is most certainly not the time to contemplate your life choices and I know you haven't done this in awhile but—"John pushes into the tightness and Sherlock shuts up instantly. John smirks. He could get used to this method of shutting Sherlock Holmes' (unbelievably talented) arrogant mouth. Sherlock reaches back to grab a hold of the flab on John's thigh and pulls, yes, very hard indeed.

"Ow!" John cries.

"I told you," Sherlock says, breathless. The grip doesn't loosen. John's sure it's going to bruise.

"Fuck," John says, moving back and forth slowly and trying to ignore the pain.

"Actually, I don't want this angle," Sherlock manages to sound haughty through staggered breaths and dislodges from John's cock. He points at the pillows. "Sit. Now."

John huffs out an annoyed breath and sits with his feet flat on the duvet, legs spread slightly. Sherlock straddles his thighs and eases down, taking John to the root.

"Fuck. Yes. God, yes. That's fucking fantastic. Ride me." John groans as Sherlock wiggles his hips a bit. Sherlock reaches out and grabs John's jaw, scratching against stubble, and begins to fuck himself heartily on John. Sherlock's hands move to John's cheek, where he pulls at the skin.


Sherlock's not listening, his eyes are closed and he's having the time of his life on John's cock and John wishes he could be having the time of his life too, but his cheek is being pulled off his face and it hurts like hell.

"Fherlock! Jesus fuckin fhrist."

"Jooohn," Sherlock moans as he strokes himself with his free hand. "Yessss," he says and comes all over his hand with a shudder. He removes himself from John, and John tries to remain calm.

"You know what I learned today? I don't have a cheek-pulling fetish," John says, his cock still straining and leaking.

"Oops." Sherlock says, but it doesn't sound very apologetic. Sherlock crawls atop him like a cat and takes John in his hand, stroking, staring John directly in the eye. That just about does it. John's brain turns off and he forgets about everything and soon he's coming over Sherlock's glorious, wonderful, beautiful hand.

Sherlock's put on his robe by the time John comes gathers his senses and he's sitting in a chair across the room, watching John, knees up to his chest.

"Uh. What are you doing?" John asks.

"What do you think I'm doing? Thinking."

"'Bout how good a shag I am?" John says, grinning, getting off the bed to gather his clothes.

"About how many days a week we should do this and in what manner since I was satisfied by the results. What do you say I make a chart?"

"Sure. Hang it up next to the drawing one of my patient's five year old daughter gave me."

"I don't appreciate your sarcasm."

"Sherlock, sex isn't supposed to be so calculated."

"I'd prefer if we knew what we were going to do before we did it, to make things more enjoyable. Though, now that you're over your self-doubt, things with undoubtedly proceed more efficiently."

Damn him. He has a point. Points, again.

Of course Sherlock wouldn't understand the implications of having sex with his best friend. It's not something people usually do. It's not something John ever thought he would feel comfortable with. Despite himself, he really did enjoy it, and he doesn't have to worry about lavishing Sherlock with affections afterwords, beforehand, ever. They could go to crime scenes and come home, have a relieving shag then carry on. Everything will be fine and and easy and fun between them. John's almost certain.

"I'd rather like to use the riding crop next time," Sherlock says, thoughtful. John looks at the maddening, actually quite attractive, bossy man and smiles manically. He's in too deep at this point, might as well go along with it.

"Only if I get to use it on you."

Yes, okay, I'll admit I was inspired to write this because of that damned movie Friends With Benefits which was actually not all that bad, surprisingly (Justin Timberlake can't act very well, but I do like Mila Kunis). I think this just set me up to write some more "bro-ish" kind of sex scenarios, I don't know.