It had taken months of preparing to reach this state.

Conditioning could sometimes be a very tricky thing, and Sherlock had begun to lose his patience. Under other circumstances, this task may not have been quite so difficult. Were John a small child, and were Sherlock conditioning him to fear chinchillas, it would hardly have been a problem. Fear is one of the easiest things to wire into someone's brain against their will or without their knowledge, after all. But his boyfriend was a grown man, and Sherlock had the much more trying task of training him to orgasm on command. The preparation had been rather simple, but rather tedious seeing as it required repeating the same action at least three times a week for months on end. Had there not been so much sex involved for him, he probably would have given up ages ago.

But now John was ready. He didn't know it, of course, he'd probably hardly noticed the way Sherlock tended to squeeze his arse right before he came. Months of arse-squeezing, and now he was sure his lover was ready.

But, he would, of course, need to test this. That meant in a completely controlled environment with almost no sexual stimuli that could possibly interfere with his test.

So, naturally, a crime scene.

All was going perfectly well thus far. Lestrade had summoned the detective around mid-afternoon to investigate the most recent body in a series of similar killings. Sherlock had informed his blogger, and they had dutifully made their way to the crime scene, set in a small house that may have once been quaint and homely but now gave off the impression that it hadn't been resided in for the upper-half of ten years. Within twenty minutes, they all stood around the lifeless body of a severely overweight and balding man.

Lestrade was reciting the story he'd been given by the group of unfortunate teenaged troublemakers that had stumbled onto the body.

Sherlock wasn't listening.

Instead, the detective was standing next to John with one hand placed on the small of his back in what looked like an innocent stance – their relationship had lost it's secrecy long ago – and was focusing on casually inching his hand lower without drawing any unwanted attention to the movement. John certainly didn't seem to notice the way the hand on his back was gradually shifting lower – he was too busy trying catch all the important details of Lestrade's story, because even if he didn't know what his lover was up to, he knew Sherlock would be too busy thinking of other things to pay attention.

Sherlock was getting closer and closer to his destination, and he was having difficulty keeping a straight face when he finally felt the wonderful curve of John's arse underneath the flat of his palm. He squeezed.

Normally, the action should have caused little more than a jump and a scolding. But what with his last few months of hard effort, the results were pleasantly far more dramatic.

John let out a loud, obscene cry in the vague shape of Sherlock's name as his knees suddenly buckled. To avoid eating the floor, he directed his weight in Sherlock's direction. The detective, not expecting to have John's entire body weight thrown at him so suddenly, collapsed as well. The two of them hit the ground together, Sherlock managing to remain in some form of sitting position with the other on top of him, and John still writhing from the surprisingly but pleasantly intense orgasm. Sherlock smirked triumphantly, helping a quivering John back to his feet.

"What the 'ell's gotten into 'im?!" Lestrade demanded, looking with wide eyes at the both of them, the rest of the Yard workers matching his expression.

"Oh, didn't you notice?" Sherlock replied calmly. "I just made John here come in his pants."