Hello everyone! The idea for this fic came from an interview quote from the lovely Benedict Cumberbatch, talking about Sherlock's sexuality :

"Well, I see no reason at all why he shouldn't be sexual. Everyone recruited him to their perspective, their interpretation. I've had asexuals come up to me and thank me for representing asexuals. I don't know how that came about. I mean, the man's too busy to have sex. That's really what it is."

So...my mind twisted the quote and came up with this fic. I think there may be something wrong with me...

Enjoy :)


The woman looked up at the tall, dark haired man standing beside her. He was grinning at her, his face open and inviting, eyes twinkling, and she found herself smiling back. There were usually all sorts of creeps in a pub like this but this man seemed…friendly, so open and warm that she instantly felt herself relax.


"I'm Michael. I come here all the time but I don't remember seeing you before?"

The man had a posh accent, his voice pitched low and every word felt as if it were intimate, and made her stomach jerk pleasantly. She glanced at him up and down- designer suit, slender body but a bit broad shouldered, pale skin, mop of unruly brown curls, those cheekbones!, cupid's bow lip- definitely sexy. She bit her lip and the man's smile widened.

"I'm Amelia." She took the hand he offered her and widened her smile, allowing her eyes to smolder, letting him know that she was definitely, definitely interested. His eyes returned the heat and he smiled back at her, looking so utterly appealing.

"Well, I usually don't come here but I'm meeting a…a friend." Amelia quickly changed it from her husband, glad she had removed her wedding ring earlier that day. There was no reason to discourage the tall, gorgeous man in front of her.

"Would this friend be arriving shortly?" the man leaned closer to her, his lips close to her ear, allowing his breath to ghost along her neck, raising goose bumps. "Or would I have time to buy you a drink?"

It had been easy to deduce what she wanted. She had a husband, older than her, rich, and their relationship had been in decline for some time. He had gained 30 pounds since the beginning of their marriage and their sex life had declined subsequently. It was nothing exciting and she was not receiving the attention she craved. She was young and liked having casual sex, the thrill of potentially being caught, the excitement of the chase, feeling powerful and wanted and lusted after by young men. She also loved the vindictive feeling it gave her to cheat on her husband, the knowledge that she was fucking other people while he was denied. The depravities of humanity knew no bounds.

It was the work of less than an hour before Sherlock had the woman- he had forgotten her name- pressed against the wall of a darkened hallway, her dress pushed up around her waist, her legs wrapped around his hips, and was pushing his latex covered erection into her. He blocked out the obscene sounds she was making- knowing if he were forced to listen it would only put him off- and began to thrust. He didn't imagine her to be someone else, didn't fantasize, and even blocked out what she looked like. Instead, Sherlock closed his eyes and focused on the pleasure, the sensation of gliding in and out of her body, losing himself in thrusting forward, feeling himself growing harder, relishing the tingling sensation in his testicles as he neared his release.

When he came, his mind blanked deliciously for long seconds. Sherlock rode out the waves of his orgasm, wringing every last pleasurable sensation from his body that it had to give.

Slowly, he came back into his own mind, his sometimes chaotic, frenzied mind, which was relatively quiet at the moment. He opened his eyes and looked at the woman. Eyes closed, mouth open, red lips parted provocatively- she had orgasmed then. Sherlock really did not care one way or the other as that had not been his goal. He pulled out quickly and dropped her legs to the floor, pulling off the condom and disposing of it. He was straightening his clothes as the woman slumped against the wall, smiling lazily.

"We should do this again sometime." She said throatily, grabbing Sherlock's arm in what was supposed to be an affectionate and playful way. Sherlock shook her off, frowning.

Amelia watched as the man's entire demeanor changed. Gone was the easy smile and warm eyes, friendly and relaxed stance. It was replaced with cold, cruel eyes and a mouth that was pressed into a forbidding line. His body screamed "don't touch me, slut" with emphasis on the word "slut." She felt as if she had been nothing more than…than a piece of trash. The ultimate lowest of the low.

"I don't think so." He said coldly and walked away without a backward glance, straightening his suit as he went.

John flicked the telly off and stared around the semi-darkened flat. He had no clue where Sherlock was, though no doubt wherever he was he would be getting himself into trouble and requiring John to patch him up later tonight. Mrs. Hudson had gone out earlier. She and Mr. Kedgeree were back on, despite Sherlock's muttered warnings of his mistress over on 4th Street. John sighed and felt a bit depressed sitting at home by himself on a Friday night when everyone else he knew was out.

Sometimes it was ok, not having a girlfriend. It made for easier escapes when he and Sherlock would have a case. They would dash about London, the blood pumping in their veins, adrenaline making the night seem sharper and more alive- or maybe that was just Sherlock and the effect he always seemed to have on John. Those were the nights- and days- John did not mind that his dating life had gone all to hell and that the man beside him was at least 80% responsible for that decline. He could understand-almost- how Sherlock could declare he was married to his Work- once you experienced such a high everything else paled in comparison.

John briefly toyed with the idea of calling Sarah and seeing if she were free- but dismissed the thought, knowing it would not end well. She had told him, in no uncertain terms, that she would not compete with Sherlock Holmes…and if Sherlock did come back hurt tonight, John would need to be by his side. He sighed and pursed his lips. He had been dateless for the past few months and it was starting to really irritate him.

John glanced once more around the semi-darkened flat, mentally running through his list of mates, debating which ones would be available to go down to the pub with him. Most of them were in a relationship, some were too idiotic to even contemplate spending time with in the absence of a larger group, and then others were moved too far away. John shook his head and wondered- since when had Sherlock become the only friend he ever wanted to see? It had happened by degrees. From the moment the two had met at St. Bart's, Sherlock had slowly insinuated himself into almost every aspect of John's life…and John was finding that he was fine with that.

Growling, John propelled himself from the sofa and began cleaning the sitting room. It was an act of desperation to keep himself from boredom and feeling sorry for himself. He gathered up all the dirty cups- really, how much tea did he and Sherlock drink? - and took them to the kitchen. He paused in disbelief when he saw the mess Sherlock had left all over the table and countertops.

Broken petri dishes with a black ooze dripping onto the table, a large dismembered rat, various pieces of lettuce pinned to a white board that progressed from fresh and green to black and starting to smell, various pipettes and jumbled glass containers, unidentified bloody parts that John felt slightly sick looking at and realizing only yesterday he had eaten in that exact spot- and Sherlock's microscope stood like a beacon of cleanliness amidst the mess. John cautiously stepped forward and peered into the nearest plastic container, wincing when he identified three ring fingers of varying colors with their nails removed. He looked disgustedly around the rest of the kitchen and mentally shrugged. Well, at least he would not be bored.

It took the better part of an hour to clean the kitchen but John kept himself entertained and sane by inventing creative curses to level at Sherlock later. When the last experiment had been disposed of, and John had taken a cleansing shower (some of the black ooze had gotten on his arm and John had been properly alarmed), he debated what to do with himself. John did not really expect Sherlock back until much later.

His eyes fell to his laptop, innocently lying near his armchair where he had placed it earlier. It was a brief debate before John grabbed the laptop and climbed the stairs to his bedroom.

"Don't be alarmed…it's to do with sex."

"The Virgin…"

Sherlock allowed himself a small, smug smirk as he darted down a darkened alleyway, taking the quickest way back to 221B across rooftops and down side streets. He had thought of hailing a cab but remembered John yelling something about the rent and why had Sherlock refused to take the missing diamond case. He toyed with the idea of faking an injury when he got back to the flat to make John feel badly for making him walk home…but decided to wait until later for his revenge. He knew tonight it would be easy to coerce John into making him a cup of tea or fixing one of his favorite meals. John had been dateless for the last few months and Sherlock liked having him at the flat at all times to cater to him. He did not know how John managed to date women such as the one tonight for extended periods of time and actually like it. For once, Sherlock's great mind was baffled.

The physical release from tonight was tainted by a twinge of annoyance at the insipidness of the woman and the time wasted. It had taken far too long to compel her to join him in the darkened hallway of the pub. It had been tedious, dull, and entirely mind-numbing. As Sherlock clattered down a fire escape, he caught whiffs of the woman's perfume and shuddered. He could not wait to be back at the flat so he could shower and slough the woman's scent from his body.

Sherlock knew it would surprise everyone to find out he was not a virgin and actually participated in sex on a semi-regular basis. The Work kept his mind preoccupied and during the high of a case, he never longed for or desired sexual release. It was a distraction he had trained himself not to feel and over the years had perfected. When Sherlock did want sex, he never had trouble finding men or women willing to sleep with him. He liked sex with men preferably, but tonight had been more about the ease of getting off with a willing body. His own body was transport and as long as he concentrated on the sensations of pleasure being evoked in his body, it all worked out the same.

It was a game he had started while he was at uni- meeting people, deducing them, molding himself into the character they wanted in order to get them to sleep with him- and it had not taken long for Sherlock to realize how valuable it was. It helped him master his skills of acting, persuasion, and deduction and had also helped him get off with whoever he wanted, whenever he wanted, and to a lonely, young uni student, that had been decidedly agreeable. Sherlock was already attractive and once he was able to accurately deduce everything he needed to know about his target, he could then shape his personality into anything the other person wanted. He could play a brooding bad boy, a genial uni student, a shy geek, or an outgoing and playful young man as he had tonight. He could read potential in their smallest tics and know the exact words to speak in order to achieve his ends. It was child's play.

When he returned to the flat, John was nowhere to be seen but a quick sweep of the sitting room- remarkably clean- and the absence of John's laptop told him John was in his room. He deduced in a second what John was doing and, by examining the sofa, Sherlock decided he had another 15 minutes before John would be down again and could fix him tea. Perfect opportunity to shower.

Sherlock, a towel wrapped around his waist, was vigorously drying his hair when there was a brief knock at the door.

"Sherlock- you ok?" John's voice sounded worried.

"Yes, fine, John." He carelessly tossed the towel to the side and opened the door. John was standing in the hall and his eyes took in Sherlock's partially nude body in seconds. It was the barest of eye flicks- up and down, over before it began, but still there nonetheless- and Sherlock watched with a hint of amusement as John's eyes bore steadily into his own after that brief slip-up. John was usually more careful than that.

"Why wouldn't I be?" Sherlock strode past him down the hall, feeling John's eyes on his body, and into his bedroom.

"You don't have the best track record for going out on your own and coming back unscathed," John grumbled as he entered the kitchen. "Tea?"

"Oh, please, John, I can take care of myself." Sherlock yelled from his bedroom irritably. He heard John snort as he banged the kettle around, making their tea, and was glad he had not faked an injury in retaliation for the lack of cab fare.

Sherlock, fully dressed, froze when he entered the kitchen. John's cleaning had obviously been concentrated here and he had never seen the kitchen so clean since before he had moved in, and certainly not after. None of the experiments on the table had been important but Sherlock's stomach sank as he lunged for the fridge.

"Don't worry. I didn't touch the bird's head in the crisper drawer. It seemed the most important. I did put all your petri dishes on the middle shelf and moved the jar of eyes to the bottom."

Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief and glanced at John to find him smiling at him. He smiled back. It was so easy living with John. The man really understood him.

"What inspired this cleaning spree?"

"I've been bored." John replied. "'Course, nowhere near your level of boredom and I didn't feel the need to shoot holes in any of the walls. That's what normal people do when they're bored, Sherlock. Clean. Find something to occupy themselves."

"Dull." Sherlock grinned, accepting his tea and striding into the sitting room. He reclined on the sofa and propped his feet up.

"So, where have you been then?"

Sherlock briefly thought of telling John he had been out shagging, but dismissed it as coarse and beneath him. Besides, John would not believe him- and then if he did the questions would never end. Since when? Who was the first? How many times? There was a reason Sherlock kept the knowledge he was not a virgin to himself. Everyone was so interested in his sex life- much too interested. It was annoying.

Sherlock shrugged and it was a testament to their friendship that John did not press him but simply accepted that as an answer.

John sat in his armchair, Sherlock closed his eyes, and the pair fell into a comfortable silence. It was nice, being able to sit with John and not have to entertain him, not have to impress him with anything other than being himself. The thought, after tonight, was oddly soothing to Sherlock's mind.

His eyes flew open at his next thought.

He instantly dismissed it…then re-examined it.

Well, why not?

John already catered to his every need- why not this need as well? It was not as if they would not both benefit.

His eyes flicked over to John who was now absorbed with a paperback. Sherlock knew what John had been doing in his bedroom that night- it did not take a genius to figure that out. John was between girlfriends, he was a man in his prime, and undoubtedly the sexual frustration was taking its toll. One only had to look at the spotless kitchen and deduce that.

John was already fascinated with him, and quite a bit attracted to him. All the signs were there: elevated pulse, dilated pupils, and Sherlock would have to be a moron not to notice the way John looked at him. Tonight had been a perfect example. The man may profess to be heterosexual but there was a heat to his gaze that Sherlock knew was anything but straight. John's blog was an ode to him, he consistently chose Sherlock over his girlfriends, and he told Sherlock he was brilliant on an almost daily basis.

It would be beneficial for Sherlock because he would not have to waste time and energy and go out in search of a willing sexual partner- one would be living with him. John would not even have to remain with him all the time or stop dating those creatures, just be available when Sherlock needed him- after cases, when he was extremely bored, etc. He wouldn't have to deduce and pretend and act. He could just be himself with John and John would still want him.

It was the perfect solution and he was sure John would see it as thus. No doubt John would put up token resistance- "I'm not gay, Sherlock!"- but in the end he would succumb. Sherlock knew he had a pleasing body, knew he was considered very attractive and John already thought him thus. It would not be hard to convince him, especially when Sherlock allowed him to see how very mutually beneficial the arrangement could be. When he deigned to do so, Sherlock could be a very generous sexual partner and there was no reason he wouldn't be with John. He liked John.

"What?" John asked, disconcerted that Sherlock had been staring at him for the past five minutes.

"Nothing." Sherlock said, dragging his eyes away from John and closing them. This needed further analysis.