Rule #1: Not Gay.

Rule #2: Still Not Gay.

Rule #3: Ok, so I can acknowledge that he's handsome. Doesn't make me gay.

Rule #4: Gods he has style. Makes me feel like such a little hausfrau. Still. Not gay to acknowledge what's so bloody obvious. Just realistic.

Rule #5: Not Gay, dammit! Not!

Rule #6: Could listen to him play violin all week. And watch him, he's so graceful, physically. It's beautiful. Art. Aesthetics. Nothing wrong with that. Like going to see an opera or something.

Rule #7: Flushed from running. Nothing else.

Rule #8: He's not entirely safe, either to himself or others. That's why I look at him all the time. It's just self-preservation.

Rule #9: Won't say it again.

Rule #10: Ok, so it's more than self preservation. He's a fascinating person. If you knew you were in the presence of a great man, a truly great human being, you'd watch them too, as much as you could.

Rule #11: There isn't a single human being alive who can look sexy whist covered head to to in pig slop when they're standing in your living room. Where the hell did he find pig slop in the middle of London? Never ever ask.

Rule #12: Post-shower, clothes in the trash, much better.

Rule #12 addendum: Oh, bloody - I don't mean that the way it sounds, dammit. Get a grip.

Rule #13: Going on a short holiday. Alone. Need some space.


Rule #14: Right. Head back on straight. Not gay, like women perfectly well, everything's fine again.

Rule #15: Not Jealous.

Rule #16: Annoyed because she's evil, not because she's - well. Got him fascinated the way I've never ever seen before.

Rule #16 addendum: We've known each other a year. Never ever seen before? There's decades of his life I've no concept of and decades of mine he - probably has a very good idea about, actually. Am I going mad?

Rule #17: She's a fucking witch. A mind-reading witch. I'd set her on fire except I think he. Um. Cares about her.

Rule #18: What if he? If he loves… it will never work - she'll hurt him and then - but what if she loves, too? Where am I then, visiting them? What sort of life could they lead? Could she be his partner in crime-solving in ways I never can? Do I move out?

Rule #19: Witness Protection. Gods. I can lie. I really can. Even to him.

Rule #20: He is beautiful.

Rule #21: When he's driving he hasn't got time to be more than ordinarily snarky.

Rule #22: Jumpers are both nice and warm (especially after living so long in the desert, the British Isles are bloody freeing) and an excellent way of disguising unwanted lap-based complications. Which do not make you gay at all.

Rule #23: Oh fuck me. One bed.

Rule #24: He is an utter bastard.

Rule #25: I'm going to pretend that I woke up and everything was normal and we were not all tangled up together because it's only because he has such long legs and there was no room and there was also no make-up kissing at all, his lips were not in my hair and he did not smell me at least not while he was awake and you can forgive anyone anything they do while they're asleep. And I'm certain he doesn't remember because he only really woke up when I was in the shower. In the shower Not Wanking.

Rule #26: Last night in the country.

Rule #27: His fingers are like icicles. Stress response. He's not certain. Afraid. I take his hands, try and warm them up. Breathe on them. He slides them up my face, over my stubble, and his eyes are glittering and pale and very close and I do not close my eyes as he leans over and his lips are cool, so cool, and there's a little flicker of his tongue over my lips and I'm opening my mouth. Kissing. He crowds me, presses into my space slowly like he's trying to sneak, somehow. Or steal. His hands are down at my waist, getting under my jumper, tugging my shirt out of my jeans. His long cold fingers are on my sides, trying out the feel of skin and muscle.

I can feel his legs, the heat of him, his bony knees on the outsides of my thighs and he's pressing me back so that my calves hit the bed. He's so awkward and I'm. I'm going to do this. We're going to do this.

It's not like with a woman. It's more competitive. Everything is harder, more familiar and more unfamiliar. I'm so erect I grind against him and his breath catches and his eyes are huge, shocked, he's never done any of this. I need to go slowly.

I turn and push him gently onto the bed. Him on the bottom. Lying on his back. We take off his shirt, his jeans, his pants are tented with his erection and he's rather…. proportional. A tall man. It doesn't look like it'll, um. I mean, I've never. I think we're sticking with hands and mouths. Until I can do some research. But I'm thinking of researching gay sex while I'm reaching out and my hands and mouth are closing on him and his head is back, he's not looking, his neck is arched and I'm sucking him down and all I can see is his adam's apple swallowing and his pale, smooth pectoral muscles flexing as his long lean arms tense on the bed, as his hips buck up and his cock shoves at the back of my throat despite the hand I have on him, slicking my saliva over his shaft, mouth and tongue all over his glans. He's leaking pre-come, slick.

He's fast. He flips me over and is kissing me hard, tongue thrusting, hips pressing against me. His hands are busy on my jeans and when his cool fingers wrap around my cock I make a sound, something angry and unplanned, and he's fiercely satisfied. We forgot to take off my shoes and my pants won't come off but he's down anyways, all folded-up limbs as he kneels on the floor by the bed and his eyes are narrow as he studies my cock. I'm thicker than he is but not as long. He licks his lips and my cock jumps in his grip, and he shoots me a taunting look before he leans over and mimics what I was doing to him and oh gods. Oh fuck bloody hell my ass clenches, I lift up and the noise I make is completely unconscious.

I'm so close. So damn close and he's still kneeling there, hands on my hip-bones, kneading and smoothing as he sucks. One of my hands is on the covers and one hand is oh so lightly in his hair because if I press harder I'll just grab that hair and shove myself down into his throat and he's not ready for that by a long shot, trust, I have to be trustworthy while his tongue is slicking me and his mouth is sucking.

Then his fingers are sliding, touching my clenched ass and pressing inside and Sherlock that's not terribly hygienic I don't know if but his fingers are strong and hard and long and cool and they're pressing, pressing against, and one finger is inside me it feels so strange and kind of wrong and then he touches something that lights of sparklers behind my eyelids Sherlock. Oh gods and I come, hard, my hand in his hair gripping and yanking and shoving while my hips wrench up, and he's still sucking I can feel him gag while I come down his throat.

I take a second to re-learn how to breathe and blink and my whole body shakes. His fingers slide out and despite how strange it felt, now there's an absence where there used to be a presence. He stands up, so tall and pale in the darkness and swipes the back of one wrist against his lips. His eyes are glittering and his cock is standing out proud and hot, a gleaming drop of pre-come on the tip, and I know what to do.

I reach over and grab his hip and tug. He comes warily. I pull him to sit down on the bed beside me while I sit up. I kiss his lips, his lips taste like me, like my come, and I slide my tongue in and over and around, tasting every corner, thanking him. Then I slide down and lie on the bed with my head in his lap and start to suck.

My hands are not his hands. My hands are square and strong, and I knead into the muscles of his calf while I suck on just the head of him, send my fingers digging gently into his glutes. The relaxation and the tension at the same time make him shake, make him inhale. I let my fingers wander up his thighs, up the sides of his legs, and go down hard. I take him as deep as I can. His buttocks clench and his erection strains and his hands drift to my head, to brush through my hair as lightly as feathers. He can't really grip my hair the way I can his; it's too short. I let the one hand squeeze his buttock hard, and his hands clench on the back of my skull in unconscious response, and I bring my other hand up and stroke his balls while I set up a kneading rhythm on his ass. He hitches and twitches and shakes under me, and I pick up the pace.

It's like rubbing your tummy and patting your head at the same time: complicated, and if I weren't already sated I'd never manage. My jaw is aching and my lips are going numb and there's a bit of his pubic hair that keeps tickling my nose and he's so hot, so hard and long and I can feel every inch of him in my mouth and I think, I could do it. I could take him in, let him do me from behind, it could work. It seems more plausible right now than it did earlier, although the physics of it haven't changed at all.

He goes over backwards and his cock juts up more and my hand is trapped under him. I wriggle it forward, further, and let my fingers do what his did: my blunt stubby fingers press against his anus, press and ease and press and ease back and hie eyes are open, I can see the whites as he stares at me sideways on the bed as though his head has become to heavy to lift and his hips are rising and falling with every touch of my fingers to his little pucker, every suck in and slurp, every tickle on his balls.

And then my finger presses and presses and his hips come up as though he's trying to escape, but he makes a little mewling sound and my mouth is there to suck him in and my finger slips inside and his eyes scrunch shut and I can feel that ring of muscle clamping down on me hard, hard, and I know my anatomy. I crook my finger and slide it further and circle, there, and he comes. Just like that, hips thrusting, a keening noise out of his throat, hands clamped down on my head shoving me down on his cock. I'm not as tidy swallowing as he is. His come gets everywhere - lips, cheek, chin, his abdomen. Everywhere. I use it to slide my lips against him, sending him writhing in aftershocks. I ease up and just hold his softening cock in my mouth, lay my ear against his abdomen and close my eyes.

He pets my hair, fingers shaking.

Rule #28: Sherlock gets hungry after sex and his stomach will rumble loud enough to wake a soundly sleeping combat medic.

Rule #29: The drive home is much shorter than the drive out.

Rule #30: Well. That's interesting. Apparently I'm still, somehow, not gay. I contemplated a large sample selection of men's erotic photos and none of them turned me on in the slightest. One look at Sherlock fresh out of the shower and I'm tenting my robe and shifting around in my seat. What's that, then? Sherlock-sexual? What *am* I now? Do I even still like women?

Rule #31: No viewing gay porn near Sherlock. He gets stunningly jealous and throw a hissy fit of epic proportions and does not say why for ages.

Rule #32: No discussing my childhood traumas with Sherlock. He doesn't understand. And he tends to want to do inventive things to the bullies who thought it would be fun to mock me with Harry's sexuality. Or. Well. Do other things. Those boys are all grown up now and have lives. No matter what they did to me as children, it's not fair to inflict Sherlock on them this late in the game. (But it is sweet, his desire to - avenge me? Protect me? Completely unnecessary, but sweet.)

Rule #33: Sherlock is never ever sweet, end of story. Pity the fool who thinks he'll take it as a compliment. Bloody hell.

Rule #34: Make-up sex is glorious. Lube is glorious. He cock is even more fucking massive when we try and fit it where nothing has ever fit before. My cock fits quite nicely though thanks, at least depth-wise, although this morning he did wince a bit at the kitchen chairs and mutter something about a seat cushion never having been a necessity before. Perhaps this just takes practice.