Disclaimer: I own no part of the BBC Sherlock universe, nor am I making any money from this.

A/N: Writer's Brain is the weirdest. I have a number of prompts I'm so excited about, but nothing wanted to flesh out until yesterday when I was reading a book that mentioned Chinese Finger Traps, and then my brain was like "Hey! Think Sherlock could figure out Chinese Finger Traps?" and I was like "Hahahaha no, he totally wouldn't be able to." And then my brain sexualized it. So...that's pretty much me in a nutshell.

It's not crack...even though it kind of sounds like it could be. It's all very normal. Honestly, I just wanted Sherlock to have a reason to whisper and beg against John's neck. I hope you can't blame me for that.

The first thing that John hears when he walks through the front door is gun shots. His natural instinct is to assume danger and rush to Sherlock's aid - as the sounds clearly came from upstairs. His secondary instinct is to sigh heavily because this is more likely a signal that Sherlock is bored. Again.

"Oh, John," Mrs. Hudson bustles out of her flat while wiping her hands dry on a dish towel, "thank goodness you're finally home."

"I was only gone 20 minutes to do the shopping," he says plaintively, holding up the Tesco bags as if in surrender.

"Well he's started shooting the wall again, and I can't keep paying the man to come fix it."

"Any chance a murderer snuck in to the flat and he's actually fighting for his life?" John asks hopefully.

"BORED!" is heard shouted down from the flat above and the two shake their heads at each other in bemusement.

"Never mind," John says before moving towards the stairs, "I'll speak with him."

When John enters the flat it's to find Sherlock in an unfortunately very familiar position: slouched down in his chair with a gun aimed towards the wall. He moves to place the grocery bags in the kitchen before turning his full attention on the younger man.

"Mrs. Hudson is going to throw you out one of these days if you're not careful," John chastises as he calmly removes the gun from Sherlock's hand, deftly removing the chamber.

"Oh please, she adores me," Sherlock drawls.

"She doesn't adore the holes you keep putting in her wall," he replies, turning from the desk where he just replaced the now bullet-less gun. He crosses his arms.

"I'm bored."

"You're a child."

Sherlock makes his open-mouthed face of shocked outrage and John moves to put the shopping away.

"I beg your pardon?" Sherlock asks indignantly after him.

"I mean it: you have to stop resolving your boredom this way. It doesn't even help."

"How else am I supposed to amuse myself when the London criminals are moderately behaving themselves?"

"I don't know, but if you can't use your hands for something useful, I'm going to start...I don't know...handcuffing them when you get like this."

Sherlock snorts, "Oh please, you know I can pick a pair of cuffs in under a minute."

John stops his movements around the kitchen to breathe calmly through his nose. The man is so infuriating, "Then I'll try Chinese finger traps instead, see how you like that."

"What are those?" Sherlock asks with genuine curiosity.

John turns and looks at him with a look that clearly asks you're joking, right? It's a look that Sherlock has seen a lot of, born from situations where he admits he has no knowledge of an apparently common thing, like children's songs or the solar system.

"Never mind," he says, turning back to the last few groceries while forming a plan in his head. Thing is, the plan won't work if he makes Sherlock curious enough to do research while he's gone, so he lets it go instead.

There's silence until all of the groceries have found their home - with no help from Sherlock - and John moves back towards the door.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock asks petulantly from his chair.

"Out," he bites in answer.

"But you were just out," Sherlock mocks his tone.

"Forgot something."

And before Sherlock can form a reply, John is out the door again.

By the time he returns, not much later, it is to find Sherlock lying on his back on the couch, eyes closed and hands in front of his mouth in his thinking pose. John smiles to himself, hoping he's able to manage this without rousing the other man from his Mind Palace.

By the time Sherlock naturally surfaces back to the here and now, it's to find both his thumbs and ring fingers connected to each other by two cylindrical bamboo tubes. His brow furrows as he pulls his hands apart only to find that the movement almost makes the entrapment worse. At a small noise, Sherlock's eyes snap over to John's chair, where the other man has been sat reading.

"Wha...?" Sherlock begins, feeling a bit off-kilter to have come out of his Mind Palace to such a limitation.

"They're Chinese finger traps," John smirks.

Sherlock's confusion melts in to tedious as he rolls his eyes, "The alternative to handcuffs you mentioned earlier."

"Yes," John nods.

"I see what they are now, will you get them off of me?" Sherlock asks with a tinge of anger. Being compared to handcuffs earlier and subtly trying to tug his fingers out himself to no result makes him believe that he will not be able to free himself. But he doesn't want to tell John that, obviously.

John shakes his head while smiling, "You're the one who's bored; figure out how to get out of them."

"Is this you helping?" Sherlock asks disdainfully, still a bit angry.

"Helping occupy that cumbersome brain of yours, yeah," he nods, then adds because he know it will get Sherlock to start figuring it out, "I'm sure your incredible mind will have it figured out in no time."

Sherlock huffs at the praise, and settles himself back in to the couch to work his fingers free.

John watches, amused, for about 15 minutes before turning back to the book in his hands instead. Truth be told, he thought Sherlock would have figured out how to get the bamboo traps off of his fingers within a few minutes. He hadn't wanted it to be too easy, that's why he had placed two, but now he considers that he may have set his friend up for failure. No matter, just longer for him to be occupied.

Something like an hour later, Sherlock still hasn't made progress in getting his fingers free. He has obviously realized that pulling his fingers apart made the trap tighter and that pushing them closer together loosened the trap. He assumes that if he only had the one he could utilize his other fingers to remove the trap while relaxed, but having to navigate two of them was proving to be quite the conundrum.

"Is it customary to have to work one's way out of two at the same time?" He huffs in aggravation, breaking the silence.

John looks up from his book again, "No, but I didn't want it to be too easy for you," he says with amusement.

Sherlock glares intensely at him before saying, "I'm just going to chew through them."

"Don't you dare," John warns as he watches Sherlock's hands begin to move towards his mouth.

"And why not?" He can't help but ask.

"Because that's cheating," he explains.

That is clearly not enough to motivate Sherlock Holmes to change his course of action, however, so John blurts out the first thing that comes to mind as the hands start moving towards his mouth again.

"I'll let you do one experiment I normally wouldn't allow in the house!"

Sherlock's hands freeze mid-trip and he calmly meets John's eyes, "What?"

"If you can get your fingers out of the traps - the proper way, without cheating - I will let you do one experiment I normally wouldn't," he explains further, holding his left first finger up to iterate just one.

Sherlock's eyes light up briefly before narrowing, "And if I cannot? What do you get?"

John thinks for a moment before a sly smirk appears on his face, "I get free reign - once - to clean the kitchen. Including the table and fridge."

If anyone had told John before he met Sherlock that, a few years down the line, he'd be assigning himself cleaning as a bet winner, he would have thought they were crazy. Oh, how things change when you live with a madman.

"No, you'll ruin my experiments!" Sherlock shouts in outrage.

John nods, "Probably," he agrees remorselessly.

Sherlock's mouth puckers in indignation before he grits out a "Fine," through his teeth and sets back to work.

They fall back in to silence for about another hour in which John eats a bit of a late supper, does some more reading, and the sun sets.

Sherlock lets out a low growl of frustration. In the past hour, all that's changed for him is that his thumbs and ring fingers have become raw and a bit swollen from the continued abuse, making the task all the more difficult. He has also, somehow, managed to get his fingers so far in to the contraptions that they are practically touching, thus not allowing for much of the movement that relaxes the trap.

There is no way he can get out of them on his own.

He swings his legs to the floor and looks at John with a vulnerable face, "John, please," he practically whispers.

John looks up in shock at the words to find the other man facing him, forearms resting on his thighs so that his joined hands fall between his knees. He searches his face and sees pain, forfeit, and a pleading for help. But he also sees that it's a mask, just an act to get him to remove the traps for him.

John shakes his head, "It's not going to work, Sherlock."

Sherlock's face immediately falls back in to pure frustration, because John knows when Sherlock is acting by now; has spent so much time watching him put masks up for cases.

"This is tedious!"

"Then cheat and lose," John tells him.

The look that crosses Sherlock's face clearly states how that will never happen.

John goes back to reading and Sherlock goes back to his Mind Palace to think of a new strategy.

Somewhere within that time John falls asleep in his chair, the book having fallen to the floor as it slipped out of his loosened grip. He's awoken by hot breath on his left ear, whispering his name, "John."

The breath moves further down towards his neck, waking him more fully with a moan that he doesn't have the capacity to control so quickly after waking.

"John," whispered at the corner of his jaw.

"John," whispered at his carotid artery. He lifts his chin to allow the mouth more room.

"John," whispered near the juncture of neck and shoulder, followed by a light kiss.

John comes to full awareness at that, his eyes flying open and his chin flying down to find Sherlock crouching at his feet and looking up at him seductively.

"Sherlock, wha...?" Is all he manages to get out before Sherlock stands gracefully and moves to straddle his thighs, lowering himself down without breaking his intense eye contact.

Sherlock's joined hands are placed above John's head on the chair, half caging him in. Sherlock lowers his lips to John's and kisses him lightly, as though uncertain that this is alright. They both moan in to the kiss and it deepens quickly, John's hands running over Sherlock's body.

Sherlock breaks the kiss with a moan, moving his entire body to be flush against John's and, God, they're both hard just from a kiss. Sherlock's mouth moves back to John's ear and neck, but on the right side this time. John's back bows outwards, craving more contact between their bodies as his hands settle on Sherlock's hips to pull him yet closer.

"John," Sherlock moans.

"Oh, Sherlock," he moans in return, undulating his entire body below the lankier man. He has wanted this for so long, for them to take this next step together, that he can hardly comprehend that the moment is finally here.

"John, please," Sherlock begs in to his ear before nipping at it.

"Yes," he pants, lost in the feel of this incredible man above him.

"Please," he moans again as he noses just under John's jaw, like a fucking cat.

"Yes. Anything," John agrees again, wanting to hear from Sherlock's own mouth what it is he needs from him.

"John, please," he begs as he lightly grazes his teeth over a particularly sensitive spot on John's neck, "Remove the finger traps so I can touch you."

John moans at the words before the implication of them fully sets in. When he finally realizes what's happening, John stiffens, "What?" he asks, fighting the anger until he knows for certain that his suspicions are correct.

Sherlock feels the change in John's body and pulls back to look him in the eye with bewilderment, "I want to touch you," he says so honestly that it hurts John, because he knows it's a lie.

John uses his hands, still on Sherlock's hips, to put more distance between their bodies. Sherlock's hands are forced from behind John's head to hang awkwardly between them, still with the two finger traps attached. John looks down at them sadly as he understands what just happened.

"All that..." he starts quietly, still looking at the other man's hands, "You did that, said those things, so you could get me to remove the traps and you'd win the bet?" His eyes raise only after all the words have been spoken.

John's hurt eyes meet Sherlock's guilty ones.

"It wasn't..." Sherlock starts, "wasn't only..."

But John has heard enough. He guides the two of them to standing as his heart thumps wildly in his chest at the pain. He can't believe he allowed himself to think that Sherlock would want him the way he's always wanted the other man. He calmly, gently, wordlessly, removes the traps and feels a pang of guilt at how red and irritated they are. He can't help but lightly run his fingers over the abused digits in regret.

John finally raises his eyes, still portraying his aching sadness and hurt, and whispers brokenly, "There. You win," before turning and walking towards the door.

He's almost at the stairs leading to his room when he hears Sherlock call out, "John wait!" but he merely shakes his head and keeps moving forward.

Once the door is closed, John mechanically goes through the motions of changing in to his pajamas. He briefly debates a final bathroom visit and teeth-brushing before he realizes that that would put him back in to the vicinity of Sherlock, and he really wants nothing to do with him at the moment. So he climbs straight in to bed instead, feeling empty yet aching at the same time.

His heart hurts in a way it hasn't since the fiasco with Mary and the baby, and he just keeps thinking 'I am too old for this shit'. Truth is, he's been in love with Sherlock since practically the beginning - so incredibly long ago now. He had resigned himself quickly to the fact that Sherlock doesn't do relationships or feelings, so convinced himself (or at least tried to) that friendship was enough. It was better than not having him in his life at all, he knew that for certain since the time that Sherlock faked his death.

He tried to keep his feelings hidden, and it seemed to be working; Sherlock either saw and didn't care, or he didn't care enough to look close enough. Either way, John was content with that. He was fine.

The thing that hurt the most - maybe the only thing that did hurt - was that apparently Sherlock had known of his feelings and was simply waiting for the right time to exploit them for his own gain. Just like he did with Molly and Janine and countless other nameless, faceless men and women.

In the end, it hurt that John apparently didn't mean any more to Sherlock than all those others.

John curls tighter in to himself, lying on his right side, and attempts to think of anything else besides the pain, because he knows sleep is out of the question.

He doesn't know how much time has passed when he hears the squeak of one of the steps, but the moon is still high in the sky. He sighs heavily, bracing himself for Sherlock's entrance. His eyes hurt even though he hasn't been crying, he has a headache from over-emotions, and he's just so tired.

The door opens and then closes quietly, but Sherlock doesn't move any further in to the room.

"John?" He asks quietly, tentatively.

John is under no illusion that Sherlock doesn't know he's awake - the man probably has each stage of his sleep breathing catalogued somewhere in that overly involved brain of his - but he remains quiet all the same, hoping that somehow he's humanized the man enough to realize that his presence is unwanted.

"I know you're not asleep, your breathing pattern is incorrect," Sherlock states, still quiet but less timid.

John sighs heavily but doesn't move, "Just leave it, Sherlock."

"No," he says forcefully, finally moving to the other side of the bed so he can look at John. He looks determined, and John fears what that means.

"Look, I'm sorry I let you struggle with those finger traps long enough to cause you pain. That wasn't my intention, but I really thought you'd figure out the trick to them quickly."

"I'm not upset about the finger traps," he admits, then begrudgingly adds, "They were actually quite an interesting, welcome distraction."

John gets angry then, because that only leaves the kissing incident for him to be upset about, and John will be damned if he allows Sherlock to be haughty about it because he's the one who bloody well started it!

John sits up angrily, "So what? You're upset about the kissing? Because you're the one who started it, so you don't get to be upset that it happened."

Sherlock sits down, not touching John at all, but mere inches away. John struggles not to place more distance between them.

"I'm upset that you walked away," Sherlock answers intently, locking eyes with him in the moonlight.

John laughs humorlessly, "Oh, that's rich. You play me for a fool, just like anyone else who has shown the least bit of romantic interest in you, to get what you want and now you're upset with me for walking away?"

Sherlock's mouth purses slightly as he considers what to say next. He doesn't want to scare John, and while he's fairly certain his deductions of John's feelings for him are correct, he also doesn't want to lose him.

It's a calculated risk when he admits: "At first, yes, the plan was to seduce you in to freeing my fingers," John opens his mouth to inform him how utterly wrong that is to do to someone, but Sherlock continues before he can, "but then your scent was there, and your hands were on me, and you were kissing me back, and I lost myself in it; in this thing that I had wanted for years," he swallows before adding, a bit uncertain, "that I think we both have wanted for years but have been too terrified to try for."

John's anger melts away as he thinks he understands what Sherlock is trying to say, but he couldn't possibly be implying...

"Are you saying you'd still like to touch me?" John asks skeptically, a test, even though it sounds ridiculously juvenile.

"John," he says in that way he has that means so many things at once before moving his right hand slowly towards John's right leg and placing it down lightly, "I'm saying I've wanted to touch you for a very long time."

For countless moments they simply stare at each other, reading the years of history of want and desire in each other's eyes - what little they can see by the moonlight streaming in through the window - before they're suddenly kissing again.

With a deep moan, Sherlock leans forward, forcing John to his back. He begins to lick and kiss his way down John's neck, as he had done before, but growls in frustration when he comes to the shirt impeding his downward progression. He quickly lowers his hands to the hem and lifts it up as far as he can, not bothering to get it all the way off before kissing the chest and running his hands reverently over the flesh.

John is arching in to the other man's touch wantonly as he works his shirt up over his head himself, hating the limitation it caused.

Sherlock wastes no time getting John's pajamas and pants off. When he's sitting up again, he pushes his own dressing gown and shirt off of himself, leaving him only in his pajama bottoms.

"Christ, come here," John breathes reverently before reaching his hands out to him in wanting, caressing his torso as it meets his hands. Sherlock is above him, kissing him again, until John pulls him close and flips their positions. Sherlock looks up at him in confused arousal, as if he's not certain how he came to be on his back, but he doesn't actually care because to see John poised above him is quite possibly the most riveting sight he's ever seen.

John moves to finally kiss Sherlock's tantalizing neck which has enthralled him for years, smiling at the noises it draws from the younger man. He moves his left hand slowly down Sherlock's torso until he reaches his cock, still behind his pajamas. He teases Sherlock through the cloth for a few minutes, again taking immense pride in the noises he's able to draw from this man who is usually so in control of every aspect of his being.

John slides down Sherlock's body slowly, taking the bottoms with him, then begins to place worshipping kisses to his body as he slowly works his way back up. He kisses Sherlock's feet, ankles, calves, towards the underside of his knees, his inner thighs, the creases where legs meet groin...but only admires the view of Sherlock's cock as he skips the rest of his body to kiss his mouth again.

Sherlock naturally wraps his legs around John's waist, bringing their cocks closer, but it's not until a shimmy from John's hips that they're properly aligned. They moan in unison at the feel, John nearly collapsing from the pleasure.

"John please," Sherlock begs, rolling his hips up while tilting his head back.

John kisses his neck while his right hand reaches blindly for the lube in the drawer next to the bed. Sherlock barely registers the sound of the bottle cap, but he certainly realizes when John's now-slick hand engulfs his cock in a strong grip.

"Oh, God!" He moans loudly, back arching off the bed involuntarily. John merely chuckles and kisses him roughly. After teasing Sherlock, he quickly slicks his own cock before removing his hand and wiping it on the sheets as much as he can.

John then positions himself over Sherlock, bodies connected chest to groin, his right hand gripping Sherlock's shoulder from underneath while his left tangles in his hair. Sherlock's hands, in contrast, can't seem to stop moving, touching everywhere they possibly can.

When John undulates his hips, slowly rubbing their cocks against each other and their stomachs, they both moan again and John seeks his lips for a kiss as his hips keep moving in small circles.

As the pleasure builds and the thrusts become more erratic, they part for air and John lifts himself up on to his hands, the better to see Sherlock coming undone. Sherlock looks utterly wrecked: hair disheveled, eyes screwed shut, head tossing from side to side.

"Sherlock," John calls to him, turns it in to a bit of a moan. He's so close, but he wants to see those brilliant eyes when he comes.

Sherlock's eyes open immediately and fixate on John's. Whatever he sees in his eyes seems to be too much for the younger man and he comes quickly, not looking away as he repeats "Oh" over and over again.

Seeing Sherlock climax, feeling his cock twitching next to his and spurting hot come on to their stomaches brings John over the edge with a quiet, "Oh, fuck."

When they finally regain their breathing and use one of their discarded shirts to clean up a bit, they lay there a bit awkwardly.

"Well...I should probably go back to my own room," Sherlock sort of stutters out, making slow movements towards the edge of the bed.

John merely grunts in disagreement before turning on to his left side and pulling Sherlock's back to his chest in answer.

"Are you certain?" Sherlock asks quietly, nervous once more.

John reaches to pull the covers over their naked bodies before sliding his right hand over Sherlock's side to rest on his belly, "Absolutely," he mumbles in to the back of Sherlock's neck before placing a kiss there.

Sherlock's right hand moves down to grab John's from his stomach, raising it up to his chest as he settles further back in to John's warmth. He interlaces their fingers over his heart and falls asleep with a smile.

A/N: Thank you so much for taking the time to read this.

As always, I would love to hear your thoughts via comment or constructive criticism!

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