Sounds beautiful - you just inspired me to check this one out. 

Oh, I have an idea. 

The Progress of Sherlock Holmes - ivyblossom Attempts and Confessions

John is trying to figure out ...

“Did you play like that for your...your ex-...” a pause. “Your....” he reaches for a word and fails to find one. I know what he’s cycling through: girlfriends, boyfriends, not sure which to use. Surely he must know by now that I have a preference. Can’t imagine me with either men or women, struggling to pronounce the words at all? Or he can, he can imagine me with both and cannot choose between them? Not wanting to be offensive, to make assumptions. (Making erroneous assumptions: it’s what we do best.) Finally he settles on: “Did you play for your...former lovers?” Gender neutral. A strike for political correctness. Bravo, John.

“Don’t have any.”
Tchaikovsky again? Or something else? Tchaikovsky will always please him, will always be seductive.
“No former ones?” A short laugh. “Are you still sleeping with them, then?”
What an odd presumption. John really observes nothing about me at all if he imagines that’s true. Perhaps that is the sub-conversation here: is John feeling jealous of people who do not exist? “No. I haven’t had any lovers.” Concerto in D? Is one Tchaikovsky piece as good as the next for John? Place fingers; prepared.
“What?” Genuine surprise. “None at...” Another sentence he won’t finish. None at all. That’s right John. I suppose that’s odd. Unexpected. I don’t really care. “Oh.” He exhales. “I.” Possibly the shortest sentence ever uttered. A lengthy pause. I stroke my violin strings, wait for him to make sense of it.

He rubs his index finger against his lip. “Well, at first, you know, I did sort of wonder about that. You did say it wasn’t your area. I remember that. I mean, I figured...maybe you weren’t currently interested in...well, a relationship. A difficult break up, or something. Later I wondered if maybe you, uh...you didn’t have...”
Didn’t have what? If I had a useless therapist like John’s I’m sure I would have had this conversation multiple times already, but largely people don’t share their opinions of my sexual history (or lack thereof) with me. I have noted that many people presume I have no drives whatsoever in that area, making them oddly relaxed and pliant in my presence. The asexual male: not entirely a man, most definitely not a woman. The issues of neither. Absurd set of ideas. But a useful fiction. Didn’t realize John subscribed to it, in whole or in part. Is this why he was (has been) hesitant with me?

John licks his lips. Nervousness. Oddly appealing. John’s tongue. Flash of sense memory: John’s tongue on my lips, in my mouth, and (briefly) against my (right) earlobe. The evidence of physical desire (his against my hip, mine on his thigh) plain. Obvious. Surely he noted that. Had he imagined until then that I didn’t have any need for sex? (Needs can exist without being fulfilled.) Or did he think I had no desire (for anyone, result of a difficult break up, damaged, emotionally scarred, or for him in particular)? Kisses and stroking and touches that were endless but never resulting in sex: a year-long experiment in my sexuality? (Well played, John!) Or did he wonder if I lacked the ability to become physically aroused, perhaps? (Did he wonder that? Picture him imagining it, in the dark, alone with his erection in his fist, being my miracle cure, his hands, his mouth. Intoxicating thought.)
John has not yet finished that sentence, and I have already deduced at least two of his masturbatory fantasies involving me and solved at least one riddle of my own.

The Progress of Sherlock Holmes - ivyblossom

Sherlock makes an important deduction

Sudden realisation: the reason why he (left-handed) sleeps on the left side of his bed, leaving the right side for me. The habits of the sexually active. The hopeful. If he sleeps on the left side, and turns toward his bed partner on the right (me, this time, now, in reality and in his imagination), his dominant hand is free. Leaving my dominant hand free as well. To touch him. To stroke him. Always the left side of the bed, leaving the right side empty. An invitation. A request. Hungry imagination. John.

The Progress of Sherlock Holmes - ivyblossom

Now, this here should not be read by the squeamish nor those with a weak stomach - extremely hilarious, though and post-explicit. In other words: Strictly for science... 

He lays an arm across my shoulders. Weak, loose. Exhales. “Jesus.” Invoked many times tonight. “That was...” Struggles to find words. “Where the hell did you learn...?" Pause. “Oh. God.”
What now?
“Tell me you didn’t stick your fingers into dead men’s rectums to learn how to do that.”

Of course I did. How else could I find a small gland, without any experience, in a place where I cannot see it? How else could I efficiently and effectively locate the proper spot inside the human male body in such a high-pressure situation? There’s simply no substitute for first hand experience. (I can’t make bricks without clay.)

He laughs. He laughs so hard he jolts me off his chest. He is laughing hysterically (it is hard to avoid joining in). Roll to one side, prop up chin on my hand. Watch him. Giggle. (Suppose it is a bit funny. To people who don’t have regular access to cadavers and a constant, gnawing curiosity.)

He laughs and laughs, his hand stroking my shoulder. “God, you’re mad.” Tries to kiss me but he can’t stop laughing, rapid breath on my face so much like his panic attack. (The varied emotions of human beings: so much more complicated than their physical states. Agony to ecstasy, despair to delight: look and feel so similar.)

“You’re absolutely stark raving mad, and I love you.” He laughs until tears stream down his face (twice in one night: tears). Wipes his face with his hand. “Oh my god.” The laughter slows down a little and then starts back up again. “I presume you washed your hands afterward.”

“Of course! But it was days ago!” Pause. “I wore gloves.” Obviously. (Does that even need to be said?)

Just makes him laugh harder. He holds his stomach like it’s hurting him. (Must be waking Mrs Hudson by now, who would surely not be as amused as he is.) 3 a.m. fits of laughter; added to the list of inappropriate activities that go on in 221b. At length his laughter subsides enough that he can kiss me (lightly), Presses his tear-wet face against my neck, but he’s still grinning.

Last edited by Harriet (October 6, 2014 2:11 pm)

Why wouldn't he experiment on himself?  He has long fingers.  Much more educational than a dead body that can't show response

I like this one from "The Moonlight and the Frost" as Sherlock "discovers" the wonder of John.

http://archiveofourown.org/works/1998777/chapters/4623723?view_adult=true

John Watson,” Sherlock murmurs.

“Hmm.”

“How are you the way you are?”

“Hmm?”

“You’re so ordinary on the outside,” Sherlock says quietly, his fond tone a counterpoint to his not-exactly-complimentary words.

“I hope there’s a ‘but’ coming,” John replies, amused.

“But,” Sherlock says. “On the inside of you, there’s a whole universe. Solar systems and galaxies and supernovas and nebulae and quasars. Is quasar a real word? It feels funny on my tongue.”

“Yes,” John affirms. “It’s a real word.”

“Anyway.” Sherlock snuggles closer and sighs. “Inside of you… you’re a miracle. You’re amazing. You’re the whole of creation inside one ordinary human being. John Watson, how are you possible?”

*swoon*

Wonderful quote, KP.

Mrs. Hudson shipped it first.