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Title: The Seven-Day Virgin: Day Four
Author: Keelywolfe
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Wordcount:4500, this chapter.
Rating: NC-17
Pairing(s): John/Sherlock
Genre: First-times, Humor
Warning(s): None
Summary:In thirty-odd years, Sherlock hasn't felt the urge to lose his virginity. Until John Watson. God help him. Set after 'A Scandal in Belgravia'.

Continued from:
Day One
Day Two
Day Three
Day Three: Reprise

Day Four

It was the doorbell that pulled John from sleep, on that point he's quite sure. Later than he's used to waking, the normal pour of sunlight through his window was oddly muted and John was trying to drag his eyes open, the loud buzz from the door as eye-wateringly irritating as the hum of a mosquito. To his bleary eyes the room around him was simply wrong, none of his things where he'd left them and there was a line of warmth against his back, breath tousling his hair and—

Oh, right. Sherlock.

John dropped his head back on the pillow with a groan. Christ. He was in Sherlock's room, where the two of them had stumbled last night after—his brain stalled a bit on the word, his not-a-homosexual–crisis a bit closer to the surface when he wasn't quite awake but John forced it past. After last night's blowjob and consequent snuggling on their sofa. Afterward they'd barely parted long enough for a scrub up before falling into bed together and it woke John up a little more to realize Sherlock was still in the bed with him. Still in bed and still asleep and one of his hands seemed to be intent on an adventure of its own because sometime in the night it had crept into John's pyjama bottoms and wrapped itself round his cock in a lazily possessive hold.

Well, he didn't have to be a detective to deduce just what part of his body Sherlock liked best.

The bell buzzed again, a long, droning hum and John groaned. Mrs Hudson must have popped out and whoever it was, be they client or deliveryman, seemed relentlessly determined. Nothing for it then and John made to get out of bed and either sign for a package or give someone a heave out to the street.

That was what he intended to do. Sherlock, asleep or otherwise, disagreed vehemently by tightening every part of himself that he'd draped over John in the night to a painful degree, his arm around John's chest digging into his bruised ribs and, more importantly to John's panicked mind, the hand on his prick turned into a grip like a woodsman might take on an axe handle. Like a mountain climber might take on a rope. Really, like any grip a man might take on something that wasn't his lover's cock and John went still with a kind of muted terror, frozen until Sherlock's grip eased.

Again, the bleat of the doorbell and John blew out an irritated breath as whoever it was leaned on it for a good ten seconds.

"Christ, give me a minute," John muttered as he contemplated escape without imminent castration. "Sherlock?" he tried, and when that resulted in nothing but a sleepy snore, he jostled his bed mate with an irritated elbow. "Sherlock, wake up!"

A grumpy, snorty little breath against his ear and despite everything, John couldn't help smiling as Sherlock snarled out a rusty, "What could possibly require me to get up at this god-awful hour? Go back to sleep!"

John trailed his fingers lightly over Sherlock's hand and ignored the bright throb of heat that came from it moving, shifting instinctively in a much more familiar way. "Sherlock, I realize you're attached to it, but so am I and in a much more visceral fashion, so if you'd let go long enough for me to piss and answer the door, I'd say thank you very much."

Breath turned into a damp kiss at the nape of his neck and John shivered, struggling to keep his eyes from drifting closed. Irritation had shifted and Sherlock said, sleepily, "You have to bring it right back."

"Cross my heart. Now bloody well let go."

He only felt a twinge of regret as Sherlock did, scrambling out of the bed and he snagged a dressing gown from the hook on the door, shrugging into it despite the fact it was too long and the sleeves hung past his fingertips. John rather preferred rolling them up then answering the door with his cock at the fore, waving cheerily at whoever was leaning on the bell.


The uniformed officer at their door looked young enough that John thought it possible he'd joined Scotland Yard as recently as that morning. That fact wasn't quite as important to him as what his presence on the front step of 221B meant.

Namely, that Lestrade was in more than a bit of a strop with them.

"Good morning," John said politely. The lad was hardly taller than he was, gangly and sweating in his heavy uniform as he squirmed, cheeks flushed ruddy.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade sent me down," he blurted, "Asked me to issue a…a…search warrant."

"Did he?" John asked, surprised. Lord, he really was chuffed off, wasn't he? He couldn't help but wonder just what this fresh blood had done to get stuck bringing it down.

"Yeah," The lad stood up straight. "I volunteered to bring it," he said proudly, wilting slightly as he added, "Lots of blokes did but Lestrade said just one would do, no need to waste the petrol."

"Right," John nodded, understandingly, "Mind if I see it then?"

"Oh, right, right," the lad stuttered, fumbling through his pockets before thrusting a somewhat rumpled and official looking letter at him. John opened it and skimmed down to see…illegal possession of human remains, really? Oh, he was bloody furious then, picking the one thing most likely to be true.

John sighed, "Shall I phone him and let him know Sherlock and I will be around before lunch?"

The lad nodded eagerly, his too-large hat shifting over his brow. Christ, John thought he might own socks that were older than this boy.

"Like some tea before you head back to the Yard?" John offered, politely. Might as well let him see the flat if he was going to have a decent story for the blokes back at the Yard.

The young man's eyes rounded like chicken eggs. "No, sir!" He blushed miserably as John raised his eyebrows, peering past John at the staircase as though he expected a trail of body parts to be leading a bloody path to the door of their flat. "No, I read it on my way here."

Oh, honestly. It was a bit ghoulish to keep body parts in the fridge, true enough, but it wasn't as though they were grating ears over their pasta.


By the time John shooed the Boy Detective away and gone back upstairs, Sherlock was already up and rustling about in his room. Probably already deduced what was going on and John was frankly relieved that it didn't seem like he was going to have to physically drag Sherlock down to the yard. Sulking and insults, he could handle. Hauling Sherlock out by the ear was more humiliation than he wanted in the morning before tea.

Speaking of, he put the kettle on before going up to his own room in search of clothing. Best they go down early and get this over with before they had a fleet of officers tromping around the flat. Lestrade's annoyance was bad enough; they didn't need Mrs Hudson in a strop over all the dirt tracked in on her rugs.

His laundry from the day before was still folded in the basket, though John winced at the wrinkles in the shirts he'd meant to hang. They'd need ironed first and he opened his closet hopefully, not particularly wanting to add ironing to his schedule before seeing Lestrade. Come to think of it, he hoped Sherlock had something clean to wear that wasn't blood-stained or explosion/experiment tainted. Sherlock's clothes were mostly dry clean only and anything he had that wasn't had never ended up in John's hamper. For all he knew, Sherlock bought a thirty day supply of socks and pants the first day of every month.

His closet was more empty than not, as John had expected but he'd had all the hope of a bloke who'd gotten peckish in late-night opening a fridge they knew to be empty when he'd looked, already resigned to ironing. To his surprise, a jumper that was not his hanging neatly in his closet, very similar to the one recently destroyed by their mad bomber. Similar, yes, but closer inspection proved it to be not the same; for starters it was obvious this one was much nicer and by nicer, John meant expensive.

Scowling, John snatched it up and stormed down the stairs. "What's this then?" he demanded at Sherlock, who was pouring hot water from the kettle. He was already dressed and John's concerns over his wardrobe were unfounded. Trousers and his dark purple shirt were neatly pressed, his jacket open over it, and was good Sherlock preferred dark clothes. He was already pale enough to practically be translucent. When he wore a white shirt, John felt like he was living with half of the invisible man.

Distractions. John shook it away and held up the jumper. "I don't need you to buy clothes for me."

"Mmm," Sherlock replied absently, spooning sugar into his tea and John gritted his teeth. Bastard.

"We share expenses the same way we share our checks from clients and if that wasn't enough for me I have something called a medical degree, I could get another job." He watched Sherlock rummage through the cupboard, pulling out a tin of the robust tea blend that John preferred in the morning.

"Are you even listening to me?" John snapped as Sherlock measured out the tea, pausing to sip his own before pouring the hot water over the leaves.

Sherlock finally stopped and looked at him, lips pressed thin with impatience, "John?"


"Wear the damned jumper."

He wore the jumper. If pressed, he might, grudgingly, admit it was very warm.


Later, at the Yard, John would have confessed reluctantly that he was glad he'd worn his new jumper because he swore the temperature dropped several degrees when they stepped into Lestrade's office, escorted by a pair of junior officers who might be, if it were possible, even younger than the boy who'd graced their stoop that morning.

"Sit," Lestrade said curtly, his eyes frosty and John winced. Lacking the rush of adrenaline at the hospital, his visible disappointment was much keener and John sat down quietly, hands folded in his lap and feeling like nothing less than a naughty schoolboy.

Sherlock flopped into the chair next to him, heedless of both disappointment and wrinkling his clothes.

Lestrade stared at them a moment longer, John squirming and Sherlock disinterested, until he finally said, his voice sharp, "Now that we're done with the round and round, mind telling me why we had to play ring round the rosies to get you two down here?"

"I'm sorry," John began, quietly, "It's my fault, I—"

"You," Lestrade pointed at him, "Shut it. Happy as I am to have you around to keep this one in line, he's a grown man and it's past time he started acting it." Lestrade levelled that arctic gaze on Sherlock, whose expression had shifted from disinterest to indignation, "Had enough of this, Sherlock, I really have."

"I don't owe you—"

"You like the cases but you aren't the one who has to explain to the Chief Inspector why the paperwork isn't done," Lestrade interrupted loudly, "This might be some kind of lark to you all but for some of us it is a job! We have responsibilities and we have to get them done, and if you can't understand that, then I might just have to stop ringing you up when something interesting comes through."

"You need me," Sherlock snapped out, nearly vibrating with his indignation. John did as he was told and kept his bloody mouth shut, took his medicine. They'd earned a lecture, he knew it, and their reasons for putting off their trip down here probably weren't going to help anyway.

"Muddled along well enough without you before," Lestrade said easily, "Supposed I can do it again." He drummed his fingers on his desk, taking in his recalcitrant consulting detective. "Or I can keep calling you on the interesting ones and YOU come down the station to do the paperwork the next day. Because if I have to play this game again, if I have to get one more warrant because of you, we're quits and you can go back to whatever cases John's blog drags in for you. Agreed?"

"Agreed," Sherlock gritted out, his pale eyes sullen. Honestly, John was biting the inside of his lip to hold back giggles that no one but him would appreciate because Sherlock had all the sulking capacity of a toddler sent to bed without dessert.

Lestrade wasn't as clever as Sherlock, but he wasn't the idiot Sherlock accused him of so frequently either, and if he was feeling smug about his success he was at least bright enough to hide it. "What were you doing, anyway, that was so bloody important you couldn't come down and don't even try to tell me you were tucked into bed for your battle wounds. Some kind of experiment?"

John was surprised when Sherlock hesitated, eyes flicked to John's before they skittered away. Pink was high on his cheeks, his fingers twisting together and if it were anyone, anyone but Sherlock, John would have said he was nervous.

"Not an experiment," Sherlock said, faintly choked.

Lestrade raised an eyebrow, looked at John who promptly blushed to his eyebrows as though Sherlock's embarrassment were contagious. His mental agreement that he didn't mind if people knew what he and Sherlock were up to had lasted precisely as long as it took for someone to find out.

The other eyebrow rose and John knew, he just knew, Lestrade was going to say something and if his conversation with Mrs Hudson was awkward, this was going to be unbearable.

A blessed knock on the door was all it took to restore John's faith in a higher deity. Lestrade blinked, the moment broken, and called for whoever it was to come in with tones of great impatience. To have Mycroft of all people stride in made John gape and he very nearly gave into the urge to pinch himself, make sure this wasn't some sort of strange dream from the beginning and he wouldn't have been at all surprised to wake up again in his own bed. Possible even Sherlock's.

"John, always so good to see you and my baby brother," Mycroft said smoothly as he nodded at them, the slightest emphasis on baby.

Sherlock stiffened instantly and John understood right then that Mycroft knew. Mycroft knew he'd been doing filthy, filthy things to Sherlock at all hours of the day and night and whether it's because of a wrinkle in collar of his shirt or the faint scrape of beard burn visible just under Sherlock's chin, John isn't sure and is not about to ask.

John's been on the receiving end of the 'hurt my baby sibling and I will break your legs' look enough times to recognize it, even when it's as subtle as this one, but it's the first time it has ever been from someone who probably has a team on standby for just such an occasion.

"What do you want, Mycroft?" Sherlock bit out and John sighed inwardly. First Lestrade and now Mycroft. Fucking hell, Sherlock was going to be in a strop for days after this and John would be the one heaving the burden on that, wasn't he. And it wasn't even lunch yet.

Mycroft only smiled that oily little grin of his at them, umbrella in hand as he stood over them. "Charming as it is to see you, I am here to speak with the Inspector." He gave Lestrade a nod.

"Why would you need to see Lestrade?" Sherlock demanded.

"Was wondering that meself," Lestrade blurted, "Not that you aren't welcome for a visit, Mr Holmes, sir, but—"

Mycroft waved that aside, "Honorifics are quite unnecessary from you, Inspector. After all, I'm only a minor public official, and you're a Detective Inspector with Scotland Yard."

It was said with such deep, abiding sincerity that it was horrifically rude the way the three other occupants in the room each snorted laughter in their own way, Sherlock's coated with derision. Mycroft's expression never changed from the serene calmness of one used to being surrounded by fools.

"Right, pull the other one," Lestrade snorted, "What can I do for you then?"

"I have a matter that needs discussing. Privately."

Suddenly, John saw it. Being around Sherlock had done wonders for his observation skills and it was in the way Mycroft's eyes rested on Lestrade, the way the inspector, so fresh from his divorce that the wound was still bleeding, was shifting his paperwork on his desk uselessly. Hints of interest that were so minor and yet so obvious, and John wondered that he could see them…until had another realization. He could see it because it was like looking in a bloody mirror.

Surely Mycroft had something to discuss with Lestrade, no question. And surely it was important, perhaps, perhaps even important enough to warrant a trip down to Scotland Yard. Only it wasn't, was it, it was an excuse, a lark, and now he was here and oozing patient charm when his hooded eyes only wanted Sherlock and John gone, out of the only chairs in the office so that Mycroft could sit and-and-and-

John was alarmed to hear Sherlock laugh next to him, derision replaced with venomous scorn because if John could see it, to Sherlock it must be glaring like a reflection of the sun, "Really, Mycroft? I wouldn't have thought he was to your t—"

"Sherlock, can I speak with you?" John broke in, cutting off the word he knew was coming. Lestrade might be interested but to John's eye he was nowhere near ready to hear it just yet. Sherlock's scowl promised terrible things for John later but that was nothing new, he'd already been bracing himself for the coming storm after he'd seen Mycroft.

Dragged him out of the office and the Major Crimes unit completely, down a hallway lined with drinking fountains and closed doors and only then did he let Sherlock go, turned to face the simmering anger he knew would be there. "All right, then," John took a deep breath and chose to dive right in, "I saw it too and you're not to say anything to Lestrade about it."

"John—" Sherlock nearly sputtered in indignation that anyone would scold him about the proper way to play with his toys.

"I mean it," John said, low, "You let them be."

"I hardly think that—"

"If someone had told me before I was ready to hear it, I would have run, Sherlock," Not quite true, but it might have the effect he wanted, "I would have run, we wouldn't be here right now, none of this would be happening, and I am not about to let you do that to Lestrade." There was no point in begging for mercy for Mycroft.

"Here right now?" Sherlock parroted and he blinked slowly, lashes dipping over the paleness of his eyes and John had to swallow, hard.

"Yeah, here right now, where we are that lets me wake up in your room," John whispered, low, and he saw the flash in Sherlock's eyes, the warmth, the memory, whatever it was.

"And what will you give me then?"

John blinked. "What now?"

"What will you give me?" Sherlock repeated patiently, crossing his arms over his chest as he waited for John to catch up. "You're asking for favours or perhaps bribery and I'd like to see what you're offering in exchange."

"Er," John hadn't really considered it that far. Not that he'd honestly expected Sherlock to do as he asked out of the goodness of his heart, but then, hadn't he? For John, if not for Lestrade, at least, he'd thought…and as though he had anything to offer? Sherlock was the one with…with all the skills and brilliance, and, to be honest, even money as opposed to John who could at best offer stitches when Sherlock manage to get himself injured. "What do you want?"

The hand on his wrist was not wholly unfamiliar. Neither was being tugged along a corridor, stumbling after Sherlock's too-long strides and being yanked into a room and pushed up against the closed door, John was not quite ashamed to admit that was getting bloody familiar. A flash of a single light bulb illuminated the darkness and John only caught a glimpse of mops and buckets, cleaning supplies, before Sherlock's mouth was on his in a harsh, slick press of lips and teeth.

"You said tomorrow," Sherlock reminded him, roughly tugging open John's trousers, baring him to hands that were going more familiar by the day and his cock perked up happily against fingers that had held it only just that morning. "It's tomorrow, John."

"Ah, fuck," John bit off as Sherlock dropped to his knees and he was engulfed in the perfect, wet heat of Sherlock's mouth.

How unfair was the universe that Sherlock would prove to excel in this area? Not that John's cock was complaining in the least and somewhere in the back of his mind he resigned himself to hours of gloating.

As it was, at this moment, all John could do is struggle to breath, dragging in gulps of cleanser-scented air because Sherlock had a wicked mouth. Well, he would, wouldn't he, all slick, perfect heat, the press of his tongue against the underside of John's cock as he slid down and oh, Christ, if John came right now, he'd never hear the end of it.
Every third comment would be some ponce about stamina, Sherlock's little error yesterday before notwithstanding, and that was not on. So John kept breathing, biting his lower lip, inhaling through his nose as Sherlock made a soft, contented sound against his cock, humming vibration that nearly jolted John out of his skin. Sweet Christ, he needed Sherlock to do that again.

He was terrified Sherlock would do that again.

Sherlock pulled off with a wet, indecent little sound, looked up at John with damn lips and uncertain eyes, "Is this…is this all right?"

Of all times for that unending confidence to fail him, "Yeah," John rasped out, let his head fall back against the door with a dull thunk. "Yeah, it's good, Sherlock, please—"

John broke off on a gasp as Sherlock took him at his word, lashes dipping lower as he leaned in, swept his tongue against the head of John's prick, his tongue wriggling against the foreskin in a way that was utterly obscene and absurdly hot. It made John bite his lip harder, tasting hot iron.

The sound Sherlock made was almost worse, a shaky, eager little groan as he took John in deep, sucking with exquisite precision, of course, of course Sherlock would be good at this, would know the right pressure, would weave his internet knowledge with his shreds of experience until he could have John gasping and swearing against a wall in a fucking broom closet at Scotland yard, his hands in tight fists as he struggled to keep from grabbing Sherlock's head and just fucking into that sweet, perfect mouth.

"Sherlock," John moaned and his own voice sounded foreign, deep and pleading and he felt as much as heard Sherlock's breath catch, felt him draw off to whisper.

"Say that again," Sherlock breathed, licking at hot, stretched skin, quick, desperate touches before he abruptly sucked John in again, nearly to the base, burying his nose in the curly patch of hair. John hissed out a cry, knees locking up as he tried not to push in, tried to hold still, his fingers making horrible scrabbling sounds against the wall as he tried to cling to something.

"Sh-Sherlock," John stuttered and Sherlock rewarded him with a slippery flick of his tongue that nearly buckled John's knees. "I'm close, I'm so close, you—" Dimly, he heard the rasping desperation in those words, didn't care, Sherlock could tease him until the end of time so long as he didn't stop, perfect suction around him, a hand between his legs cupping his balls, clever fingers moving over him and John could only concentrate on not biting his lip, jerking hard and Sherlock's hair was crisp beneath his hands, curls twining around his fingers, something to focus on while the light behind his eyes went dim and red.

He couldn't shout out his pleasure, not in this little room that was only barely closing out the rest of the sane world of Scotland Yard. The rest of his mind was split between Sherlock's soft, wet, fuck, perfect mouth and covering his own mouth with his hand to keep the noises he couldn't seem to stop making from traveling all over the building.
Little muffled whimpers as John tried to push his hips up against Sherlock's iron grip, groaning aloud at the feel of Sherlock swallowing around him, Oh, god, he'd actually swallowed, and just the thought made him pulse again, one last slick rush of pleasure and Sherlock pulled off, kissing his softening prick gently.

John sagged down, couldn't have kept standing if another bomber had dumped one more wall in their direction, and Sherlock caught him, guided him down until he was in Sherlock's lap.

"You—" John tried, failed, and kept breathing. Hesitant lips brushed his own and that woke him up enough to tip his head up, offering, and the taste of his own come on Sherlock's mouth was enough to make him shiver, bitter salt and God, Sherlock had—

"Think you can cross that off your little virginity list," John rasped out and he felt Sherlock chuckle.

"I'll make a notation," he murmured into John's mouth. "First incident of oral sex, giving, cleaning supplies closet, Scotland Yard."

"Should make another column for public sex," John bit Sherlock's lower lip, sucked on it gently.

"What makes you think I haven't?"

He didn't have time to reply to that as Sherlock gave him a little shove, pushing him up to his feet. "Wait," John protested, "You didn’t—"

"I'm fine," Sherlock said with suspicious serenity and John wondered with some dismay what he'd missed. No time to ask now, he had to scramble with his trousers as Sherlock was already opening the door, ignoring John's hissed swearing as he stumbled after him.

For all that there was the faintest hint of pink to Sherlock's mouth, he looked as well put together as ever and John didn't, quite, resent that as they made their way back to Lestrade's office and John tried to discretely get himself into order before they started on the endless paperwork that he was surely about to get stuck with.

From the looks he received later from Lestrade, the single raised eyebrow from Mycroft as the man nodded his goodbyes, John decided he must have been less successful in his endeavours than Sherlock had.

He worked his way through the stacks of paperwork as Sherlock prowled the office, sullenly obeying Lestrade's stern admonishment to not leave, not touch anything, and definitely not talk to any of the other officers.

It was going to be a long day.


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