John's phone chimed, indicating the arrival of a text. He was in between patients, so had a moment to read it.

"Baker Street. Come at once if convenient. S"

"It's not bloody convenient, I'm at work. J"

"If inconvenient, come anyway. S"

"Bugger off, recycling old lines doesn't work. J"

"Could be dangerous? S"

John rolled his eyes, and didn't deign to reply.

Half an hour later, his phone chimed again.

"You should have been home 3 minutes ago. Where are you? S"

"I'm not at your beck-and-call, you know. I'm coming home in an hour, at 5pm, WHEN MY SHIFT ENDS. J"

"Please, John. S"

John was suspicious now. Sherlock only ever said 'please' to manipulate, or when John was between his legs and doing a particularly fine job of taking him apart. Sometimes, he could get him to say it in three different languages. No - John pushed that image from his mind. While John was rarely able to refuse Sherlock, leaving work early on a whim was not an option.

"I'll see you in an hour. J"

John wasn't entirely sure what to expect when he got back to 221b. He thought it was most likely that Sherlock's laptop had simply run out of battery and he wanted John to fetch his own for him to use. Some things never changed. Then again, Sherlock had been without a case for 36 hours now - but when John had left for work this morning, Sherlock had still only been in Stage 3 of post-case-withdrawal, bent over his microscope and analysing different species of common roaches. Surely he hadn't burned out already?

His question was answered when he opened the door to the living room, and nearly jumped out of his skin. Sherlock was waiting, exactly one inch away from where the door swung open. Dressed in a black shirt, trousers and coat, nothing looked out of the ordinary except for his expression. His eyes were always sharp, but now the intensity of his stare burned John's skin, and the hunger in his face sent a chill down John's spine. John froze in the doorway like a rabbit in headlights.

"Jesus, Sherlock, what's going on?"

"I'm bored, John. I need you." His voice was a low growl. Sherlock moved closer, their bodies not touching but for Sherlock's hand holding the right side of John's face as his tongue traced John's left ear. "If you have the submission kink I've long suspected, now would be an excellent time to admit it." He punctuated the word 'excellent' by curling his fingers, pulling at John's cheek and digging his fingernails into the flesh. It was possessive and powerful and sexy as hell, and John fairly melted under the touch. Who wouldn't want to be touched like this by Sherlock Holmes? He moaned his assent.

"Fantastic." Sherlock pulled John forward by his shirt, moving him just clear of the path of the door so that he could slam it shut, before crowding John against it. He was at John's ear again, no part of their bodies touching, but his height and his posture made it impossible for John to move. "John, if at any point you want me to stop, you know what to say. Say it now."

John couldn't help the shiver that rolled down his spine at the command. "Vatican Cameos."

And Sherlock pulled away, leaving a good two feet of space between them. John was at first confused and upset by the loss of proximity, but he realised that Sherlock was showing John that he could be trusted. He even managed to return partly to his usual pompous tone, as though negotiating a place to meet for morning tea.

"I will not do anything that you don't want me to, and I will ensure that you are not in harm's way. If you feel unsure or unsettled about anything I'm doing, I expect you to tell me immediately. Within those guidelines, I will take you in any way that I fancy." His stare slipped back to predatory, but he remained still, waiting upon John's answer.

Initially, John had not understood Sherlock's desperation when confronted with boredom, and had dismissed it as his usual over-dramatics. They had now been living together for almost three years, though (and arguably definable as 'romantic partners' for three months of that), and John had come to understand some of what went on in Sherlock's head. Without a case or research or experimentation to keep his intellect occupied, Sherlock began to descend into madness. He tried the Sudokube for a while, but that was little challenge. He read old literature, but he knew all the classics already. He would switch on crap telly, but that would just throw him into deeper discontent. His mind jumped from one pointless, everyday, minuscule matter to another, trying to find something, anything to think about, but unable to find any purchase. His mind became so loud and unfocused that he could no longer function. Luckily, this was where John could help. Sherlock being Sherlock, he wanted to explore and learn and master everything (well - everything he deemed to be interesting). Sex was an experience that he was continually fascinated by, as it changed every time - and, conveniently for situations of ennui, produced a physiological reaction that was able to override his mental anguish, shake up his gears and reset him. Sherlock didn't need drugs to quieten his mind anymore; he had John. When he began to get desperate again after he'd gone through a few packets of cigarettes, his new technique was to turn his brilliant mind to sex (Or, John was able to catch him before he even got to the cigarettes; always a positive). If John was home, he would fairly leap upon him, and they rarely made it to the bedroom. If John was out, however, Sherlock would begin researching various techniques, positions and fetishes to experiment with when John got home. And today, it seemed, he had decided to experiment with domination and submission. Maybe their recent conversation about Irene Adler had led Sherlock down that train of thought; if it had, John reminded himself to thank her for it if he ever saw her again. John had been waiting for this day for months (since they got together, really) - he loved Sherlock when he was looking dangerous, in control, when he was the only person in the room who really had a handle on what was going on (which was most of the time, in truth). And to have that spill into their sex life, well - John had always had a lust for danger. Sherlock knew his answer, of course, but he needed to hear John say it out loud.

"Oh, God, yes."

Sherlock's mouth descended upon John's with bruising force, his tongue pushing John's lips open without waiting for invitation. John was securely trapped by Sherlock's hulking frame, unable to resist the strong hands pinning his upper arms to the door. He could pick out Sherlock's descent into desperation from the taste of his mouth. First he had tried to settle his mind with copious amounts of very strong Yorkshire Gold, then he had moved on to that hideously expensive 90% dark chocolate (Sherlock usually had a sweet tooth, but when he got desperate his need for highly concentrated theobromine, tryptophan and phenethylamine trumped his love of sugar). Then, finally, he had cracked and given in to the deep, bitter taste of tobacco smoke. And while John didn't approve of the habit (and Sherlock had been doing so well of late), God, that taste was sexy. He moaned softly up into Sherlock's mouth, and let him invade further in, desperate for Sherlock to take whatever he needed from him.

Sherlock groaned, deep and filthy, and he knew the guttural sound went straight to John's cock. He brought his hand up to hold John's face - not gently, as he usually did, but a rough grasp that held John's jaw open exactly how he wanted it - allowing his tongue to roam freely. He started by licking across John's front teeth, before slipping his tongue behind, to tickle the roof of John's mouth. John reacted reflexively to the sensation, gasping, his own tongue colliding with Sherlock's as it tried to relieve the itch. Sherlock caught it in his teeth, his eyes snapping open and boring into John's. He jerked his eyebrow, silently reminding John that he was not the one in control here. John closed his eyes with a moan, relenting, and Sherlock released his tongue. He resumed his exploration of John's mouth, and now John fought his compulsion to relieve the maddening tickle that was being left behind Sherlock's tongue. He let the sensation build, and in turn it built his arousal, he was desperate, desperate for Sherlock to let him scratch the itch, his eyes were nearly watering with the effort and he couldn't help as the involuntarily shivers rolled through his body and God, it was hot. Sherlock really bloody knew what he was doing.

Finally, Sherlock withdrew his own mouth with a smirk, but slipped his fingers between John's lips, his index finger softly stroking John's soft palate, back and forth with feather-light pressure. John was visibly twitching now, his eyes closed tight, soft little moans escaping his lips and his breathing shallow; the unrelenting teasing must be driving him mad. He returned his lips to John's ear. "Very good, John, I'm impressed," his voice was as close to a purr as he'd ever let it be. "You've earnt a reprieve. You can scratch now, but one condition: you have to use my fingers."

John obliged, and quickly realised what Sherlock had been setting up: the easiest way for John to relieve the itch that was driving him mad was to suck hard on Sherlock's fingers as though giving a blow job - something Sherlock had always found incredibly erotic. Sure enough, as soon as John began sucking, Sherlock let out a noise halfway between a desperate sigh and a dirty moan, and he felt Sherlock's hips collide with his, the detective having closed the final distance between their bodies with a good deal of force. As the infuriating itch in his mouth was finally leached away, the throbbing heat in his cock didn't fade, a fact not helped by the sensation of Sherlock's teeth on his neck.

Sherlock withdrew his fingers, but didn't relent his hold on John's neck, sucking and scraping with a force that nearly broke the skin. John gasped and shuddered, the action pulling his skin underneath Sherlock's teeth. As the detective pulled away, a dark bruise was already beginning to purple. Perfect.

"John, do you know what I just wrote into your flesh with my teeth?" His voice was a lust-filled growl now, any pretence of restraint abandoned. He rolled his hips against John's, causing them both to groan with pleasure. John was unable to form words, and all he could do was whimper and hope it was enough of a reply for Sherlock. It wasn't. He felt a long-fingered hand encircle the base of his throat, just tight enough to send a shiver down his spine and make his already erratic breathing hitch.

"Answer me."

John had never heard him snarl like that. It wasn't loud, but animalistic and filthy and savage nonetheless. In any other circumstances, he would be frightened by this tone of voice. Now, however, when Sherlock's breath was hot in his ear, his hand around his throat, his cock pressing against his own through their trousers, the fear just made him crave more.

"I'm yours, Sherlock, you - you left a sign for everyone to see and they'll know I'm yours."

"Precisely." Sherlock rewarded him with another luscious roll of the hips, enough to feel good but not nearly enough friction. John couldn't stop the moan that slipped out of him. God, they were both still fully clothed, how had Sherlock reduced him to this hopeless mess of need already? In one movement, Sherlock had John's trousers and pants round his feet. John's cock bobbed between them, red and throbbing and naked. Barely five seconds passed before Sherlock's joined it, so close but not yet touching. Sherlock's hand was on John's shoulder, pushing downwards.

"Kneel." John dropped to his knees before he even thought about it. His hands came up to hold Sherlock's hips (God, those hips, all sharp angles and ridges), ready to take him in his mouth, but Sherlock grabbed his hair. "Did I say you could use your hands?" A shiver ran down John's neck. "Hands behind your back, Doctor Watson. You're going to take me with only your mouth. I want you to gag on me." Sherlock once again trapped him, the detective's forearms bracing himself against the door. His coat swung down, surrounding John, blocking out the rest of the flat from his view, and all there was in the world was Sherlock's cock, red against all that pale skin and straining and begging to be taken, he needed to give Sherlock everything, he needed to feel him shudder and moan with that luscious mouth and lose control -

Sherlock's eyes rolled back in his head as John accepted his length without hesitation. He groaned, a long, broken sound, and didn't resist the urge to push further into John's throat. He felt John moan around him, and thrust forward again, resting his own forehead against the door. He picked up a rhythm, fucking John's mouth just fast enough to make his legs shake but not enough to lose control just yet - but then John started doing that thing with his tongue, swishing it back and forth against the head every time Sherlock withdrew, and God, he was gone, restraint be damned -

"Oh, mein Geliebter, du kennst mich zu gut, mmpfh - qij, unë nuk mund të, unë duhet - argh! - John, per favore, per favore, smettere, ho bisogno di -"

And he placed a hand on John's head, keeping him in place as he pulled out. He couldn't finish yet, not yet, he still had work to do. He pulled John up to standing and kissed him again, dirty and desperate, tasting himself in John's mouth, and let their erections meet, Sherlock's slick with John's saliva and John gasped, reaching to hold them together and thrust against Sherlock, but Sherlock beat him to it - before John could touch either of their lengths, Sherlock had swept John's legs from beneath him and was pinning him to the door. Instinctively, John wrapped his legs around Sherlock's hips, leaving him open and exposed. Sherlock paused for a moment, rummaging in the pocket of his coat before pulling out a small bottle of lube. A moment of confusion flickered across John's mind - did he keep that with him all the time? - but the thought was effectively silenced when he felt Sherlock's fingertip running up between his arse cheeks, slick and delicious. He whimpered, wordlessly begging for more, but Sherlock just gently pressed his finger to John's entrance, and his mouth found the other side of John's jawline, sucking and pulling the flesh with his teeth, marking him as his own again. He rarely found himself so possessive, but knowing that John would wear these marks for days, maybe more, and all the ordinary people that saw him, all the patients that flirted with him, all the goldfish that didn't matter, would know that he was Sherlock's. That he was off the market. That he had begged Sherlock to take him until he had fucked him silly right here, right against this door. John was trying to press himself into his finger, but he wanted to hear John beg more - nothing went to his cock more than John's desperate pleas.

"What do you want, John? Do you want my fingers? Do you want me to open you up and take you?"

"Sherlock, please - please, please take me - ohh!"

Sherlock slid a finger into John, and then a second, widening him as gently as he could. John's face was tense, his jaw straining and his eyes squeezed shut, but his head was thrown back in relief.

"Do you want more?"

"Everything, Sherlock, please -"

"Mmm, not yet. Talk to me, John. Tell me what you want. Use those big boy words." He punctuated the last sentence by slipping in a third finger and twisting just so to hit John's prostate. John's convulsion rattled the door, his head slamming back against it. "Oh, fuck!" John took a second to pant through, trying to clear his mind enough to tell Sherlock what he needed, but the sensation of Sherlock slowly fucking him with his fingers, burning and stretching and slick, was all he could think about. "I need - Jesus - I need you to take me here, take all of me, Sherlock - ungff - and push me up against the door and make me take all of you - argh! - and fuck me until I scream - Ohh, Jesus, just like that - and Mrs Hudson won't even be able to pretend she didn't hear, and if I go out onto the street or shopping or to work or we go out on a case everyone will know you've been fucking me senseless, Oh God, Sherlock, please, I need you, please just take what you need!"

Sherlock could no longer hold back. He withdrew his fingers entirely, coated himself with lube as quickly as possible, an slid steadily home. Both he and John groaned at the feeling of John's muscles giving way for Sherlock, until Sherlock was buried to the hilt in John and that tight, hot, sweet, wetness around him concentrated to a single point and everything else faded away. His knees nearly buckled. His face met John's neck again, not to cause damage, but just to nestle against him, his own hot breath kissing the angry red marks he had left before. John's arms had wrapped around his shoulders, holding him in a tight embrace. Sherlock withdrew, levering John by his hips, and let him fall back again, his eyes rolling back and his head thrown back in ecstasy. He picked up his pace, each thrust rattling the door and rattling John's bones, John's hands in his hair pulling tighter and tighter, John's curses and begging intermingled with his own primal grunts and fuck. He felt himself getting close, his desperation coiling deep and low and ready to burst, and his hand found John's cock and squeezed and began roughly palming him, and John was shuddering and sobbing and begging, pleading and he fucked John with his hand in time to his own thrusts, faster and harder and he'd never had John like this before and his own grunts were becoming snarls of lust, and suddenly John was shaking and shuddering and squeezing his arsehole around Sherlock's cock and the feeling of hot, slick ejaculate coating his hand turned his world white. He thrust even deeper than before as he came, riding his release in waves as long, wordless moans pushed their way out of him in time with his come. John was still pulsing around him, and the sensation dragged his orgasm out even further than usual, until his face was buried in John's chest and he was gasping for breath and trying desperately to stay standing. He found balance and withdrew from John slowly, eliciting one final oversensitive gasp from each of them. Placing John's feet back on the floor, he fought the need to let his legs crumple, and shed his coat and shirt before stripping off John's own shirt. This is what he needed now. To embrace John, to feel his chest and shoulders and back bare against his own body, to feel their hearts slow again together.

"Sherlock," John's voice was shaky and he was still panting. "I think - I need to lie down. Standing is a bit not good right now."

Sherlock chuckled. "Mm. Know what you mean. Can you walk?"

Together, they hobbled (there was no elegant way to describe it) their way to Sherlock's bedroom and collapsed on the bed.

Sherlock reached over to his nightstand and plucked a cigarette from the open packet. The lighter flared and he took a long, lazy draw, his face the very picture of bliss. He exhaled, blowing the smoke up in a pillar, and John chuckled. Sherlock's eyes flicked up to John's. "Oh - do you mind?" He indicated the cigarette perched slackly between his fingers. John's hand groped for the nearest part of Sherlock, and landed on his shoulder. "No, no - you just look so perfectly debauched," he smiled in his post-orgasm haze. "It suits you."

Sherlock chuckled. "Suits you, too. Your neck looks nothing short of glorious."

"Although, you know, you're actually meant to ask before you start blowing smoke all over the room. But I'm too thoroughly fucked, so I'll have to reprimand you later."

Sherlock smirked as he rolled towards John and planted a kiss on his forehead. "Oh, my dear doctor, I do look forward to it."