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Title: Empirical Evidence
Rating: R
Summary: Perhaps it’s post-coital confusion, perhaps it’s just Sherlock.
Warnings: sex and its aftermath
Author's Notes: written when I should have been sleeping

Just for that moment it’s all too much. Too intense.

John screws his eyes shut and throws his head back against the pillows, crying out inarticulately, as his climax over takes him. Before he’s even fully recovered he feels Sherlock’s release: feels Sherlock convulse in his hands, feels his thighs tighten against John’s own legs, feels the other man’s come added to his own.

John rubs lazy circles across the sweat covered skin of Sherlock’s inner thigh with his thumb and smiles up at him as he opens his eyes.

Sherlock is staring, one hand still wrapped around John’s rapidly softening cock, the other at his neck, apparently checking his own pulse.

“My eyes,” Sherlock says, crashing through what’s left of John’s post-coital haze.


“What do my eyes look like?

John hesitates, thrown by the question. “Nice?” he ventures.

Sherlock scowls at him, it’s obviously the wrong answer. “You’re useless.” He climbs across John, snatching a hand mirror from the cluttered bedside table and sending several books and a hopefully empty tea cup tumbling to the floor. “Mmmh, dilated.”

“Am I missing something?” John asks at last, wiping their rapidly cooling come from his stomach with the corner of Sherlock’s sheets.

“Should I write this down? I should write this down.”


“Empirical research, John!” he replies, fingers back on his pulse point, as he leans over the side of the bed and searches for something to write with. “Do you have a pen? Of course you don’t, you’re naked; why didn’t I think of that? Is it always like this?”

“Right.” John pauses. “No, sorry. What?”

“I’m trying to assess my reaction to new stimuli,” is Sherlock’s muffled response, as if it’s the most normal thing in the world.

John sighs and sits himself up. He reaches for Sherlock, who’s all elbows and distracted observations, and pulls him back onto the bed before he falls out completely. “Did you enjoy it?”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Well,” John starts, “it would seem like an important point to me.”

Sherlock stares at him for a moment as if he can’t decide whether John is being spectacularly stupid or brilliant. “It was,” he begins, turning to look at the wall behind John’s head as if the hideous wallpaper could provide the answer. “It was nice.”


“Yes, nice,” Sherlock insists, managing to sound affronted. “Is there something wrong with nice?”

“No, no, nice is good,” John replies. “Nice is nice.”



“So what do people generally do now?”

“When? After sex? Um. Smoke? Clean up? Sleep? Make awkward conversation?” John grins at Sherlock, who is at least looking him in the eye now. “I think we’ve covered that one, though.”

“So, making a note of physiological changes? Not normal, then?”

“Generally? Not so much.”


John watches Sherlock fidget, plucking at the threads of his now slightly stained sheets. “What?”

“I need the facts!”

“You can be incredibly annoying at times.”

“You really should have thought about that before you started this.”

“So this is my fault?”


“You’re impossible,” John sighs and pushes himself up off the mattress. He steps over the pile of clothes in the middle of the room and is out of door before Sherlock can reply.

It’s less than a minute, probably no more than thirty seconds, before he’s back.


“Here,” John interrupts, tossing a notebook at Sherlock. It bounces off his chest and lands in his lap.

“A dream diary?”

John raises an eyebrow. “Go on then, impress me.”

“I’ve not seen it before so you must keep it in your bedroom,” Sherlock explains. “Probably in the bedside table. It hardly took any time to fetch it, so you can’t have spent time looking for the pen, meaning you keep them together. It’s fairly new and it’s cheap so it’s not a keepsake or a gift. Plus you’ve never used it. Why keep a notebook on hand but never use it? I’m guessing it was your therapist’s idea.”

John ducks his head and laughs lightly at the smug smile that flits across Sherlock’s face. “Consider me impressed. Anyway, you can write about your physiological changes in it.”

Sherlock tilts his head.

“Fine,” John continues as he settles down on the bed. “You can dictate and I’ll write.”

“What are you doing?”

“I’m going to sleep. It’s one of the things people do after sex, remember?”

“You can’t, we need to record this while it’s still fresh in my memory.”

“In the morning.”

“Now. I’m having trouble keeping it all in my mind as it is. I should make a note of that, too.”

“In the morning,” John repeats significantly.

“Oh. Oh! You mean-”



“Shut up.”

The End

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