A/N: The third chapter in this series, in which Sherlock challenges John to a daunting task. I only meant for this to be a three-shot, but I'd be open to writing more if people were interested.

*The song I imagine John playing for Sherlock is "Whispers" by Dave Baxter, but you can imagine any song you want.

Seduce Me

Sherlock knew well the feel of pleasure; adrenaline coursing through his veins, dopamine moving likes electricity across his nerves. Throughout his life he had sought out the things that would release those chemicals, and he had found many things; making deductions, solving a case, the thrill of the chase, nicotine, cocaine—they were all his drugs. But then there was John. The doctor's effect on Sherlock was startling and intriguing. Kissing John, holding him, touching him—that gave him a high unlike anything Sherlock had experienced.

Affection wasn't something Sherlock understood, but it was definitely something he felt for John Watson. He had been trying to pinpoint exactly when his feelings of attraction had emerged, and finally deduced that it was when John shot the cabbie. Yes. The two men had met barely two days before, and already John Watson cared enough about Sherlock to find him and try to save his life. Admittedly he hadn't known that what he felt was affection and even love, but the feeling had only grown with time. And the two years in which he'd been away, they had deepened, until they burned into the heart he didn't know he had.

And now here he was lying on the sofa, fingers beneath his chin, and his feet resting in John's lap. They had been sitting there in silence for the past hour. The day had been long and tedious, full of press and trying to focus on new cases with the distraction of Lestrade being awkward just because he'd seen him kiss John earlier that week and John himself being endearingly impressed by Sherlock's deductions. None of the cases hadn't been the least bit interesting and the only reason Lestrade had consulted Sherlock was because the press needed their photographs and stories. How dreadfully dull.

"Bored," Sherlock said in his most dry voice.

"Hmm?" John said, not looking up from his book.

"Bored," Sherlock said, a little louder, "I said I was bored."

"I'm sure a good case will turn up soon," John said off-handedly.

Sherlock was annoyed by the lack of attention. "I hate being patient," he muttered. "Everything's so boring…bored, bored, bored, bored, bored, bored, bored bored bored—"

"Unless there's something you want me to do about it, please shut up!" John shouted, annoyed at last.

That was the invitation Sherlock had been looking for.

"Seduce me," he said softly.

He watched as John's head jerked up, a blush creeping up his cheeks. He stared at Sherlock blankly.

"What?" he said.

"I said. Seduce me," Sherlock purred. "That's what you can do."

"I…y-you want me…me to…"

"Oh come on John, you can do it," Sherlock said.

"You're the one who's bored, why don't you try and seduce me?"

A smile curled Sherlock's lips, and he said, "I'm sure I'll be bored again."

John's mouth twitched as he thought. Finally he said, "Can't we just kiss?"

"Nope. Seduce me," Sherlock said.

"Well you're going to be disappointed then, because I don't know what to do!"

"You could tell me one of your fantasies," Sherlock suggested.

"Fantasies?" John repeated, clearly confused.

"You know, secret desires, erotic daydreams…fantasies."

"You have fantasies about me? You?"

"Of course, loads of them," Sherlock said, gazing up at the ceiling. "I have ten different ones just involving the riding crop."

To Sherlock's extreme satisfaction, John blushed bright crimson. He cleared his throat awkwardly and put down his book. Sherlock studied John's face as he thought; the wrinkle of his brow, the firmness of his jaw, the distant quality of his eyes. Suddenly an idea lit up his eyes, and he turned to grin at Sherlock. He laughed.

"Wait here, I'll be back," John said, springing up from the sofa and hurrying up the stairs to his bedroom.

Sherlock sat up and watched him go, his stomach tightening in anticipation. He walked over to the window, peering out between the blinds at the dark street below. It was late, and few people were about. Angelo was closing his restaurant down the street. He wondered what John was planning. He didn't see John as the seductive type, which was part of the reason he had made the request; he wanted to see what John would do. How much did he know—deduce—about Sherlock? Sherlock already knew John could play him like a violin…he was incredibly good at it, in fact. But could he tune that same instrument?

So wrapped up in his thoughts was Sherlock that he didn't notice John had reentered the room until the music started playing. Soft piano, slow and mournful, he thought. He turned around to see John had placed his laptop on the desk. That's where the music came from. John looked up, sensing Sherlock's eyes on him, and smiled, holding out his hand. Sherlock was confused. His gaze flickered from John's hand to his face, frowning.

"Dance with me," John said, knowing the question though no word was spoken. Of course he knew.

Curious (and a bit nervous), Sherlock stepped forward and took John's hand. John pulled him close, guiding his other hand to rest on his shoulder, placing his own hand on Sherlock's. Then they began to move with the music.

Sherlock was not unfamiliar with ballroom dancing, but a traditional waltz didn't seem to be what John had in mind. Their dance was informal, a simple swaying in time with the music. As he listened to the lyrics, Sherlock realized it was not mournful, but instead…he wasn't sure what word to use.

As they swayed, John leaned up gave Sherlock the most gentle kiss. Sherlock felt an odd fluttering sensation in his chest, and suddenly a word came to him; loving. He felt a burning in his eyes, and he closed them as he kissed back. John's lips drifted away to explore his jaw, the hollow of his neck, his ear. Sherlock sighed. If he had a hundred years, even then, he never could have constructed this scenario as a possibility…not even a fantasy. He gripped the soft wool of John's jumper, no longer hearing the words of the song; the music was simply a part of the surroundings. Their hands moved simultaneously; John's to Sherlock's neck, Sherlock's up John's back. Their lips met again, and this time Sherlock deepened it, pressing in, allowing his mouth to open against John.

At this sign of eagerness John gripped Sherlock harder, then pushed him back until he was pressed up against the wall. Excitement erupted through Sherlock's veins, and he moaned under John's caresses. Yes.

"Sherlock," John whispered, "do you know what you do to me?"

"Show me," Sherlock said, his desire blotting out the intended demand, making it more like a plea.

"Not bored now, are you?" John whispered in triumph.

The only response he got was another moan. But this seemed to be an acceptable response. John kissed him again, nibbling on his lower lip in a way that was really quite maddening. Sherlock grabbed John's sandy hair and started pulling on it, now desperate for his touch, his kiss, his embrace.

"Got you," John laughed into his neck.

Excellent deduction, John, Sherlock thought.