It took the army doctor a long, long time and lots of reading to get past the shock. He wondered what his flatmate would say. Would he laugh? Would he… support it..?
After days of deliberation (and seeing something that made him have to excuse himself for a few minutes) he finally decided to just talk about it. Maybe it would lead to- no, no. John didn't even consider it.
"Sherlock? Have you seen this?" he asked quietly, clearing his throat and indicating the laptop warming his lap like a sleeping puppy.
"What, your laptop? Of course. I use it frequently. Your password is 'Afghanistan' and you have a… questionable taste in music. Your most frequently visited sites include mine, your blog, YouTube and one called Red-"
"Yes, thank you, uh, for that…" John grunted, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly, licking his lip as he always did when Sherlock spoke with a little too much detail and husk to his voice. "I mean… this 'fandom'."
Sherlock narrowed his eyes and strode in to place his hands on John's shoulders as he leaned over the screen. "Define 'fandom'." His eyes scanned the images and literature quickly, and again, and again, and he blinked, and read it all again.
"It's like a, uh, group of people, who support… uh…"
"Us being in a relationship," Sherlock filled in bluntly. "And by the looks of this stuff it's more than just 'support', my dear Watson…" As his gaze swept across the line "my dear Watson" in a fanfiction, he read ahead, and blushed slightly. "This is… fascinating."
"Fascinating? Sherlock, there are hundreds- thousands- millions of 'fangirls' out there who want us to… to…"
John looked round, raised his eyebrows and corrected, "Kiss."
Sherlock smiled a little, leaned closer until his lips almost grazed John's, and whispered, "Have sex."
John drew a sharp breath and turned back to the laptop, scrolling down frantically to amuse his desperate mind. Then he gasped slightly, frowned and added, "And get married, apparently… HEY, WHY AM I THE BRIDE?"
"Of the two of us you are more feminine, considering the heightened emotions, the jumpers – not that they're feminine but they definitely are not masculine – and the fact I'm taller and you always deny being gay while I just… well, don't deny it."
"How does that- You don't deny- NOT MASCULINE? I was a soldier! Goddammit, Sherlock, you're an asexual sociopath!"
Sherlock raised his eyebrows, sweeping one hand off John's shoulder to stroke the soft delicacy of his neck. "Am I?"
John gulped. Sherlock felt it.
"Why were you looking this up, anyway?"
John began to tremble a little, and shut his eyes. Sherlock cupped his chin, one finger gently touching the soldier's lower lip. Instinctively John allowed his tongue to feel the tip of it as he relaxed all too much.
Suddenly he realized the warmth around his lap was no longer from the laptop. His head was spinning; he knew he had to concentrate. This wasn't real. It couldn't be. He had to be dreaming or- or high or something, anything; this couldn't be real.
But it was.
John opened his eyes only to close them again as Sherlock pressed into him, sitting on his lap, eyes wild with something like passion. "Oh, God," John murmured. "What… what's going on? Is this… is this like acting out a- a fanfiction or something?"
"Your deducing skills are getting better," Sherlock replied, nipping at John's collarbone. "But this isn't a fanfiction."
"I figured…" John gulped, biting his lip with every touch, every bite as his neck making him groan softly.
"Jumper," Sherlock grumbled, tugging at it pathetically. "Off. Fangirls love them, apart from… getting them off…"
John fumbled and pulled it over his head, as if he had no choice, and let himself melt back into the armchair, his hands reaching out and grasping Sherlock's waist as his buttons opened, one by one… Sherlock's hands stung at his skin and he took a deep breath.
"Wait…" he interrupted, pushing Sherlock away to look into his ravenous eyes. "H-how did you know about the fandom?"
Sherlock smirked. "Because I wrote the first Johnlock."
Before John could question anymore he found the words stolen from his lips by Sherlock's, fingertips playing at his hips, and the world outside becoming completely and utterly irrelevant.
Sherlock pushed him deeper into the chair, studying his eyes, his twitches, his pulse. Everything was quickening, heightened – just as intended. He clutched his own buttons, freezing for a second before finding John's hands grasping his and helping him rid of his shirt.
The doctor smiled softly, seeing Sherlock's uncharacteristic fear and understanding everything in an instant. "The Virgin," he whispered, more to himself but Sherlock's gulp was more than satisfactory as John thrust his hips up against Sherlock's, entwining his fingertips in his raven curls, pulling him close, gazing into the heart Sherlock claimed not to have.
John knew it was a disguise. Love is a dangerous disadvantage. Caring won't save lives. Bullshit. Sherlock loved and cared more than any man John had ever met. And John found himself feeling the same way…
"Damn those stories…" John hissed, trying to wrap his head around the reality of what was happening, trying to understand how he had come so close to Sherlock, and how he wasn't already ravaging him. "They're all true…"
"Of course they are," Sherlock mumbled, briefly touching his lips to John's, drawing back all too quickly, "I wrote most of them… Well, the good ones."
John gasped a little, nipping into another frantic kiss. "The graphic ones?" he breathed, although now he wasn't looking, wasn't focusing on anything but Sherlock's touch.
Sherlock's cheeks flushed hot. He didn't answer, just plucked at John's trousers, staring into his eyes with fierce lust and telling him, "Care to help me write?"
"Oh, God, yes," John answered, jerking Sherlock closer, slipping his tongue into his mouth smoothly, moaning at the touch as Sherlock gasped and panicked. John pushed him back, stumbling up only to collapse again into Sherlock's chair, hands fumbling and ripping Sherlock's belt off of him as it whipped round to hit Sherlock's groin.
He gasped and clenched his jaw, cursing under his breath.
"Shut up," the soldier ordered, yanking down his trousers urgently and massaging his thighs until he relaxed. He struck the belt through the air again, the leather slapping back on itself making Sherlock's mind flash back and forth as John stared deep into his eyes. Almost the sound was enough to penetrate Sherlock's intelligence, to make him fall apart, to beg, to let it go.
The shot of surprise and shock and the sting of the hit jolted him into panic, but John had him pinned, whispering for him to relax as the belt fell to the ground, hard, and Sherlock was shocked to find himself suddenly exposed. John made a noise of appreciation, a hum of pleasure that made Sherlock tremble.
"John, don't," he gasped at last, trying desperately not to look down at his straining member, trying to ignore John's caress, trying to ignore the urges. It was his first time. It was one thing to write, to read, but to witness? To actually do it?
He wondered if he could handle it.
John certainly could, gripping tighter, refusing to let go of the moment.
"Trust me," he murmured in his partner's ear, leaning on him as he tenderly felt every detail of him with aimless but amicable fingertips straying.
Sherlock almost cried out when John's hand worked back, and up, and back, and he found himself leaning back against John, unable to fight it, unable to understand it, and almost not caring to. The mystery, the suspense, the… the… pleasure was something he had craved from John since the day they'd met. And John didn't disappoint.
"I know… You…"
"I know… Are you..?"
Sherlock gasped suddenly, and John wasn't sure whether his reply was intended or just happened in the moment.
Sherlock, trembling, grabbed onto John's shoulders and pulled him close, his nails digging into John's skin until he hissed out in pain, but he knew Sherlock couldn't think, couldn't possibly concentrate, so he leaned into him, whispering his name over and over, kissing his neck, waiting for-
Sherlock yelped and rocked forward into John's hand, panting and clutching at John's hot body, his chest heaving with exertion until he collapsed into John's arms, trying to catch his breath, and failing to hold back the giggles.
Finally, his story had become reality. And it was better than anything that could ever be written, ever be imagined, than anything either of them had experienced ever.
And the words unspoken would never be forgotten.
John stumbled back, falling into his chair, wide grin across his face as he stared at his hand, before standing up and heading to wash it. Sherlock didn't apologise, just called out, "Mind if I use that for an experiment?"
John turned back from the sink, raised his eyebrows, smirked. "Oh, there'll be more."
When his hands were dry he dropped his trousers. Sherlock gulped, eyes fixed to the bulge of his boxers, and quickly paced over, forced John back onto the kitchen table and took his breath away.