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John didn't know, until one morning when he was stumbling blindly down the stairs and into the bathroom.
Sherlock rarely slept, but when he did it was usually only as the gangly detective collapsed into his rarely-used bed after two or three days without rest, and even then it was only if John physically hefted him into the room, dropped him to the bed and tucked him in with the bed-making skills he had learned in the Army.
the harsh fluorescent lights of the room reflected briefly on the blade, like lightning in a bottle, bouncing off the porcelain tiles
John lifted his bleary eyes at the flash of reflected light and his stomach lurched in panic for a moment as all he saw was Sherlock with something sharp in his hands, standing shirtless in front of the bathroom mirror, considering his reflection.
"Morning, John." he mumbled, his voice lower than its' usual baritone, tempered by recent rest. His hair was in complete disarray - curls gone wild from a restless night, and as John watched, his mouth slightly open, Sherlock lifted his chin and smoothed his free hand from collarbone to jawline, leaving a slick line of shaving oil that glistened against Sherlock's pale skin. He tiled his head further and followed the motion with the razor, the move so calm and easy that John immediately recognised the hands of a well-practiced master at work.
It wasn't until Sherlock had wiped the blade clean on the face-cloth draped over one shoulder that John even realised that he was staring.
"Wh- why do you use one of those?" he asked, stepping into the bathroom proper to watch as Sherlock applied more oil to his cheek and jaw with careful, measured movements then followed the path of his fingertips with the razor.
"It's how I was taught. Why do you use that thing?" Sherlock's nose wrinkled in disgust as he used his elbow to indicate John's electric razor, in its' charging cradle on the side of the sink.
"Because it's quick, and easy, and I won't cut myself."
"Hm."
"What do you mean by that?"
"Only that I haven't cut myself shaving since I was nineteen. Surely, John, you know that the only way to gain proficiency at any skill is to repeat it?"
"I do."
"Then why don't you simply keep practicing? It's not like your beard will stop growing just because you use a real razor."
"I used to use disposables-"
Sherlock cut him off with a haughty huffing sort of noise, as if a disposable razor was barely a step above the electric grooming tool that John favoured.
"But I'd always go through three a day, because my beard's pretty coarse."
"Why not use one of these?" Sherlock flicked the gleaming silver blade over the sink, turning the hot tap on and allowing the steaming water to sluice over the instrument before wiping it clean once more and returning his attention to the mirror, carefully measuring his sideburns while John gaped.
"Because it's not the nineteenth century? Because I'd likely slit my own throat?"
"I could do it for you - I promise not to slit your throat." Sherlock offered, and John almost swallowed his tongue.
"You'd- sorry. What?"
"I could give you a proper shave, you'd look a lot more respectable for a few days."
"Respectable?" John spluttered. He'd been using an electric razor for the better part of his adult life and never felt anything less than well-groomed.
"That thing-" Sherlock almost shuddered as he again indicated the accessory sitting innocently on the sink "leaves you looking as if you'd taken to your face with a blunt pair of scissors."
"It does not."
"In fact, it does. I can tell a man who uses a real razor from one who is too lazy to bother from fifty paces."
"Lazy?!" John was getting mad, now. Lazy! Who was the one who spent days at a time wrapped in his bathrobe, lounging about the flat complaining about being bored?
"Yes, John. Lazy. You prefer the safety and simplicity of a device that does a passable job at best, when you could take the time and care to make yourself look much better if you were so inclined."
"Like I said, Sherlock, if I tried to use one of those things I'd probably cut myself badly enough to make this room look like an abattoir."
"And again, I could simply do it for you. In fact, I'm offering. Go and get a chair from the kitchen."
"What?"
"Go and get a chair, I'm going to give you a proper shave and show you what you could look like if you'd simply take the time."
John stared at Sherlock for a few more seconds, before he realised that arguing would be futile. That, and the blade still held in Sherlock's steady hand was glinting wickedly, the light reflecting into Sherlock's eyes and giving him a wild look that John was unaccustomed to seeing at quite such close quarters.
He sighed.
"Fine. But if you cut me-"
"I won't."
John sighed again and left the bathroom, returning moments later with one of the kitchen chairs, to find that Sherlock had finished his own shave and was now holding a strop, and as John came back into the bathroom, Sherlock closed the door behind him and hooked the strop to the door handle, running the blade up and down the accessory with a practiced ease, before he flipped the strop to reveal its' leather side and with a few more quick strokes he was done.
"Sit down, and take off your shirt."
"What?"
"Just do as you're asked, will you? The oil will stain your shirt."
"Fine." John shrugged out of his sleeping t-shirt and tossed it in the general direction of the laundry hamper next to the bath, before settling back in the chair and trying to relax.
Sherlock, apparently, took his role as barber very seriously. He was still shirtless, dressed in a pair of jeans that John had only seen him wear once before, the face-cloth still on his shoulder as he rummaged in the cupboard below the sink and emerged with two more.
He ran the taps until the water was hot and soaked one of the cloths, wrung it out and then turned to John, applying the hot cloth to his face with firm but gentle hands, tilting John's head back so that he could leave it in place for a few moments. The cloth covered John's entire face, leaving him blind and breathing in steam through the hot, wet terry-cloth.
It was really quite relaxing, and there was a hint of something sweet-smelling in the air - John thought it might be apricot - that he was inhaling through the hot cloth.
After about a minute, Sherlock's hand returned to John's jaw and removed the cloth, wiping down John's face to remove the perspiration and condensation that had settled on his skin, using his thumb to brush the moisture off John's still-closed eyes.
A few seconds later the smell of apricot became more pronounced, and John jumped slightly at the cool touch of Sherlock's fingers on his throat, tipping his face further back to expose his throat, and swiping, slick, up over his Adams' apple and towards John's jawbone.
Shaving oil.
"It's a combination of olive and apricot oils that my father perfected sometime back in the sixties, Mycroft has his own combination but I find that this one is adequate." Sherlock, as usual, knew what John was thinking and had given voice to the unasked question.
"Now, you need to take a deep breath, swallow and relax. If you swallow while I've got this thing-" John felt the blunt side of the blade pressed to his jaw, the round end touching the edge of his lips "-against your throat then I will cut you, because the skin will move. You've seen my scar, no doubt?"
John moved his head very slightly in assent, acutely aware of the lethal weapon being pressed against his skin, and he then felt Sherlock move, coming around to stand behind John, and then something pressed against the crown of John's head, something warm.
Sherlock's chest.
John swallowed involuntarily as the intimacy of the moment hit him like a freight train.
"Okay, and again. On purpose this time, then take a deep breath with me. I'll shave on the exhale. Concentrate, John."
John did as instructed, swallowing again and then taking a deep breath in tandem with the man behind him.
As they exhaled, slowly, John felt Sherlock's breath ghosting across his face and in the same moment there was a smooth movement up his neck, the blade moved with purpose across his day-and-a-half of stubble, and was then flicked away at his jaw.
He swallowed again, and Sherlock's chest rumbled as he spoke again.
"Breathe with me, it'll make life easier." John concentrated on the feeling of Sherlock's inhale, exhale, and matched his pace with the man behind him, trying to relax again as the blade touched his skin once more, moving along the same line as before but this time traveling down, against the grain.
Sherlock paused after his second pass and John realised that, again, as the razor had been on him his breathing had sped up.
"John. Relax. You trust me. You know I'd never hurt you."
It wasn't a question of trust, it was a question of intimacy and over-stimulation first thing in the morning. Hell, John hadn't even had a cup of tea, yet.
"Take another deep breath and think of something else." Sherlock instructed him, and John tried to do just that, even as Sherlock's sure hands smoothed across the other side of his neck, slippery-sliding with more of the shaving oil being spread across his skin.
Why was his skin suddenly so sensitive? Surely he'd never felt touches on his throat with this intensity, before?
Something else, that's right. He's supposed to be thinking of something other than his tall, dark, handsome roommate, a man who readily identified as a sociopath, wielding what was essentially a weapon rather close to John's own throat.
handsome?
John dismissed the niggling thought and concentrated on matching his breath to Sherlock's as the blade touched his neck again, sweeping up, then back down in two deft strokes on matched exhales, and tried not to swallow unexpectedly as strong fingers applied oil to the strip at the centre of his throat that was yet to be groomed.
"Alright, swallow again, deep breath, John, concentrate."
John swallowed deliberately and then felt Sherlock press his fingers to the hollow of his throat, holding the skin taut as he slid the blade up to John's chin, then down again from the bottom of John's chin and he was done with the hardest part.
"You know, you'd look very good with longer sideburns, John. You always cut them too short."
"Well, you're in charge. Leave them as long as you like." John told him, and then made the mistake of opening his eyes.
He'd known Sherlock was close to him, but had not been expecting to find blown pupils staring back at him from a distance of barely six inches when he dared glimpse at the man with the straight razor - it took almost two full seconds for John's eyes to focus, and he felt his breathing speed up seeing Sherlock so close.
"I am, aren't I?" Sherlock asked, and John decided that he wasn't entirely certain that the smirk on Sherlock's lips, even from upside-down and so close that he couldn't actually focus on the pink mouth, was to be trusted.
"Just... my neck's starting to hurt." John finished lamely, and closed his eyes again, a little disconcerted to have been subjected to such scrutiny, and even though he'd been shirtless for a good five minutes, John was acutely aware that he was half-naked all of a sudden.
"Three more minutes, no permanent damage, I promise." Sherlock practically purred, and John felt something low in his stomach shift, lurch and become completely displaced.
what?
Sherlock's hand pressed against John's skin once more, warm and supple as he applied the shaving oil to John's cheek, followed swiftly by the blade travelling first up, then down his cheek, then the other cheek was given the same attention, left smooth in the wake of the silver weapon.
"Bite your lip." Sherlock muttered, and John acquiesced without conscious thought, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth, leaving the skin beneath his mouth taut, and Sherlock's fingers, followed by the blade, rid that spot of its' stubble, his thumb pulling the skin taut at John's chin.
"I should leave you with moustache." Sherlock growled, and John rolled his eyes below his lids, a movement that wasn't missed by the detective.
"But I won't because that would look even worse than your efforts with the electric razor do. You can let your lip go, now."
John followed his instructions and resumed biting the inside of it, trying not to worry at the tiny piece of flesh that was now loosened from being pressed to the sharp edges of his somewhat-worn lower front teeth - nightmares of the war had made him a grinder.
"Stop moving your mouth or I will leave a moustache." Sherlock admonished him, and John swallowed, stopped moving his teeth and tried, again, to match his breathing pattern to the man standing behind him.
John stopped, showing great restraint, and simply pressed his teeth together as Sherlock's hand passed over his mouth, leaving a trail of shaving oil in its's wake.
A few moments later he was done, of John thought he was done, but Sherlock didn't move from his position behind John, just leaned over slightly and John heard a soft 'clink' as the ivory-handled razor was placed on the edge of the porcelain sink.
He jumped slightly as he felt fingertips, smooth and clean, trace slowly from the hollow of his throat, over his madly bobbing Adams' apple and along his jaw, up his cheek and then across his face, tracing the same lines that the razor had just cleaned.
"Relax, I'm just going to do one more pass and then you're finished. Breathe." John allowed the deep baritone of Sherlock's voice to lull him towards serenity, and tried not to lean into the touch as Sherlock's palm pressed against his jaw, where a few stray hairs had been missed by the first pass of the blade, applying more of the shaving oil. Sherlock leaned forward again, retrieving the razor, and tipped John's head to allow him easier access, swiping the stubble away with a few quick flicks, then twisted John's face so that he could inspect the rest of his face, fingertips and blade clearing the last of John's beard from his skin.
"All done. Stay there." John sighed as Sherlock stepped back, extending his neck to prolong the contact and trying not to think too hard about just how keenly he missed the warmth of Sherlock's stomach against his shoulders.
He only had about thirty seconds to miss it, because then Sherlock was back, hands on John's shoulders, pushing him so that he was more upright and then tugging him back again so that John's bare shoulders were pressed against Sherlock's lowest ribs, his head on Sherlock's sternum and his breathing suddenly ragged as the places that they were skin to skin caught fire.
Sherlock either didn't notice or pretended not to, instead he pressed a clean, damp face-cloth to John's skin, wiping down from forehead to chin in long strokes, then turning his attention to John's throat, removing all the traces of the shaving oil and then the cloth was thrown into the hamper.
"Not done yet." Sherlock murmured as John went move, shifting his weight to his feet in anticipation of standing.
"What?"
"Balm."
"What?"
"Just, stay there. I haven't done my own, either." Sherlock didn't step away, this time, just reached over John, pressing forward and almost embracing the smaller man as he plucked a black tube from the collection behind the taps, popped the cap and squeezed a blob onto his fingertips, dropped the tube and then leaned back, not looking down at John this time, but his attention on their reflection, using that as a guide while he swept the balm across John's face, the light minty scent was almost intoxicating as John recognised it - he'd always wondered why Sherlock smelled so fresh all the time, and this was his answer.
"Peppermint oil in the balm, good for the skin." Sherlock explained as he gently massaged the balm into John's skin, his movements sure but somehow tender.
"Mmmm." John rumbled in agreement - the balm was cool and soothing, even if he did go back to an electric razor, Sherlock was going to find that this particular product vanished rather more quickly now - the balm was like silk on his skin.
Sherlock took his time, smoothing John's skin slowly and making sure that all traces of the balm were gone before he moved to the right and took a seat on the edge of the bath, looking at John expectantly.
"What?"
"Don't be thick, John, you're too clever to make it believable." Sherlock told him, one eyebrow raised.
John considered his next move carefully, his eyes flickering between the two of them, Sherlock in low-slung jeans and bare feet, his toes curling into the bathroom rug, John in black cotton sleep pants that were getting thin at the knees, his own ankles crossed beneath the kitchen chair he was sitting in.
He reached out and picked up the shaving balm, dropping a dollop about the same size as the one Sherlock had used onto the tips of his own fingers.
Slowly, carefully, as if he was scared that Sherlock was going to realise what he was doing and shy away like a frightened colt, John reached out and slid the balm along Sherlock's jawline, his mouth going dry as the detective tilted his head and closed his eyes, allowing John free reign to stare at the graceful neck extended below him while he applied the balm to the smooth skin of Sherlock's face.
He was just swiping his fingers across Sherlock's cheek when his thumb came into contact with those plump, pink, lips and as it rested there for just the briefest moment, Sherlock opened his mouth and his tongue ran across the pad of the digit.
John froze, and Sherlock didn't move either for a moment, eyes still closed, then his lips moved once more, distinctly pursing and pressing together in what was unmistakably a kiss.
to hell with this
John moved his thumb again and Sherlock's mouth opened, before John's brain actually got into gear Sherlock had moved, leaned forward slightly and pulled the thumb between his teeth, sucking gently and... good god.
Sherlock was moaning
His lips were wrapped around the end of John's thumb and he was sucking on it, his tongue circling the tip in a way that sent a jolt straight to John's groin.
John groaned, and Sherlock's eyes flew open, pupils blown so wide that there was barely a trace of the iridescent blue-green irises visible.
The next few seconds were a flurry of movement, John's other hand came up and caught Sherlock by the jaw, Sherlock grabbed John with vice-like fingers digging into his waist hard enough to bruise and tugged him forward.
Their mouths crashed together while John's thumb was still between Sherlock's lips, but was quickly removed and slid down Sherlock's neck so that John could grip him by the shoulder, hanging on as the detective practically assaulted his mouth, pushing forward and then standing, pulling John with him but using his superior height to his own advantage, leaning down into John and bending his knees slightly before sliding one leg between John's, lifting it and pressing forward, even though the tight jeans John could feel Sherlock's erection pressing into his hip, and was painfully aware of his own digging into Sherlock's thigh.
"Bastard." John muttered, turning his face as Sherlock moved his mouth towards his jaw, nipping and sucking along the line he had traced with the razor just minutes ago. "Not your area-"
Sherlock cut him off with another bruising kiss and John found one of his hands tangled in Sherlock's curls, the other still gripping his bare shoulder, holding on for dear life as Sherlock demonstrated exactly how talented his long fingers were, one hand splayed on John's back and holding him upright while the other was unceremoniously shoved down the front of John's loose sleep-pants.
Sherlock grinned against John's mouth as the smaller man groaned and his hips bucked forward, almost sending them tumbling into the bath, but Sherlock braced his knees on the edge and concentrated, shifting their weight and wrapping his hand around John's length, aware that he still had traces of the peppermint shaving balm on that hand and that the cooling effect was rather more potent on the more sensitive skin of one's cock.
Sherlock is a scientist, but he can also be absent-minded when it comes to everyday things. More than one time he'd forgotten to wash his hands after applying the balm and then gone to the toilet... then there had been the series of experiments to see just how much balm was needed before the sensation became uncomfortable.
From the noises John was making, the traces on Sherlock's fingers and palm were just enough to heighten sensations without being painful, and it only took three or four quick movements and he was groaning, clawing at Sherlock's shoulder and scalp as if he wanted to climb the detective like a tree while Sherlock jerked him off.
"I said I was married to my work." Sherlock muttered as John buried his face in Sherlock's other shoulder, then hissed in a deep breath when he felt John's sleep-grinding-sharpened teeth digging into the skin along his collarbone.
"So you're cheating on your work?" John ground out, panting as he rutted against the detective, trying to restrain himself but feeling the familiar tightening in the pit of his stomach beginning to build.
"You've become my work, John."
"Since when?"
"Since you shot that cabbie."
"Two years?" John was a little overwhelmed at that and his grip on Sherlock lessened for a moment, which was not missed by the taller man, who used the distraction to his advantage, doing something with his fingers that John would definitely need him to repeat, many, many times, and then John was tipped over the edge, gasping and trying not to cry out as he came, hot and wet on Sherlock's wrist and hand, hips stuttering and fists clenching in Sherlock's hair and on his shoulder.
"Two years, four months, two weeks, three days and eleven hours." Sherlock told him, withdrawing his hand and wiping the mess off on the towel hanging over the shower curtain next to him.
"Oh, god, Sherlock-"
"I didn't think you were interested."
"What changed?"
"You let me shave you."
John drew back a little, still breathless and feeling a little weak-kneed, to look Sherlock in the eye.
"What?"
"Never mind... I'll explain later."
"Oh, alright."
They looked at each other for a few moments, before Sherlock leaned down, slow and tentative this time, eyes never leaving John's as he moved, his expression soft and almost tender.
John closed the gap, answering the unasked question and pressing his lips to Sherlock's, a sweet, almost chaste movement that somehow communicated a depth of feeling that neither man had wanted to admit was there.
"You really do look rather dashing with a proper shave, John." Sherlock informed him, nuzzling against John's smooth cheek.
"I'll have to let you shave me more often, if this is what follows."
"Indeed. Maybe I can teach you how to handle the razor, one day."