AN - This was easily the most challenging thing I've ever written, it was supposed to be some little 3k fluff, and it turned into this. I chose to try and tackle the two areas I find hardest in writing - sex scenes and extended dialogue. These are both really difficult for me to write, so I would really appreciate feedback on them, to let me know how I did :) Also - LEMONS APLENTY. You have been warned.

He's MY Consulting Detective, Not YOURS

By SaintClaire

John definitely wasn't jealous. At all. Not a chance in hell.

Except for the part where he was seething so hard that his own saliva had started to foam through his teeth and he'd been forced to go wash the assorted chemistry equipment in the kitchen sink before he gave the game away.

But other than that? Everything was peachy.

The Scottish brogue was mostly indiscernible, trailing out from the living room where the bastard was sitting next to John's mad wanker, pressed entirely too close up against him as they swapped stories of the last few years.

It fucking figured, that out of all the idiots in the world, the only other male human being Sherlock was able to tolerate for more than 5 minutes at a time was somehow John's clone in Scottish form.

With a much more high-brow taste in jumpers. Also free from residual limps, gun shot scars, and jobs where you actually have to show up on time and be able to stay awake for the entire length of time rather than fall asleep with his head on the printer because a mad genius wanker had run him and some of Scotland Yard's finest through a piggery-turned-abattoir that saw every cab in London take one look and keep driving.

God, John definitely needed more sleep.

"You'd not fuckin' believe it, the lad had me flat on my back with me thighs in a fucking death grip while his mouth was going up at down like…" And godammit Sherlock laughed. There had been times since John had moved in when he honestly didn't know whether Sherlock knew what sex was beyond a common motive for standard murder cases, and now he was currently rolling his head back and laughing while the fucking bastard of the hour was describing a blow job in graphic detail.

Rosie wailed from her high chair, and John abandoned the wooden spoon to scoop her up, jiggling her against his shoulder as he walked around the kitchen, trying in vain to get her to quieten down. No use. He was trying to keep macaroni from burning with one hand, soothing the other hand down Rosie's back, walking back and forth for a total length of two feet so as not to leave the stove, while eavesdropping into the conversation still going in the living room, which had somehow gone from photography chemicals, to blow jobs given in the dark room, to Sherlock quietly reminiscing about something John just could not catch, and gave up any hope of doing so as Rosie's miserable wail turned abruptly into a high-pitched scream.

"Ah, fuck me," Iain announced, waltzing into the kitchen like he fucking owned the place. He started to reach for Rosie even as John snarled "language", trying to bounce his screaming daughter and turn the stove off at the same time. Sherlock trailed through the doorway in time to see Iain fluidly lift the howling infant off John's shoulder, even as John yelped and tried to stop him, to be foiled by forgetting about the spoon still in the macaroni pot, having to hastily turn his attention back to the stove to avoid boiling water slopping over all three of them.

And insult of insults, Rosie actually calmed down immediately, gazing up at this new stranger with remnants of tears still slipping down her outraged red cheeks, cooing up at him as he walked her around the kitchen. "Aww, poor lassie , yer all right aren't you? Need somethin' in yer tum."

He continued on in with his hateful accent, rocking JOHN'S daughter in his bloody arms as she continued making soft noises, beaming up at him with the kind of smiles which were previously only offered to John, or to Sherlock whenever he bestowed his attention to read to her.

The same Sherlock who was watching Iain stroll around their kitchen rocking John's docile child in his arms, stretching up with his impossibly long, bony body to touch the ceiling before slumping against the door frame.

Why did he have to be wearing the blue dressing gown? The one time an insanely handsome, attractive foreigner came around who obviously knew Sherlock well enough to regale him with lurid tales of his (gay) sexual exploits, who was smart enough to answer questions about bomb chemistry and wether the results could be replicated with photography chemicals, and Sherlock was wandering around the flat looking like sex on legs, with an adorably ruffled head of dark curls and the royal blue silk dressing gown that draped elegantly over every curve of his body, to make it exceedingly clear he wasn't wearing any pants.

And to top it off, this arsehole had just gotten back from Afghanistan. How the hell did Sherlock even find him?

Snatching his daughter back and thrusting the displeased, wriggling child back into her high chair, John grimly began spooning macaroni and cheese into four bowls. No matter how much he didn't want Iain MacKelpie staying for dinner, he was hardly going to stoop to Sherlock's level of rudeness and all but order then man from the flat. If only Sherlock would like to do that NOW though, with this particular visitor, John didn't think he would mind in the slightest. Might dig out the mangos he'd been hiding behind Rosie's nappies, and serve them up with custard for him as a reward.

The conversation turned more promiscuous still, and John ground his teeth, even knowing the Rosie couldn't understand what was being said, that she would be lucky to distinguish Iain's voice as speaking English.

"Thought you were gay", John all but sneered, in a particularly filthy comment from Iain on a woman's anatomy. The wanker simply laughed, batting his eyelids suggestively back at him. "Well you were fuckin' wrong there mate, nothing so fussy." He gave a lewd wink before continuing on, "I'll fucking shag anyone with two legs and the working equipment… Not fussed either way, really".

Sherlock snorted and John was almost, almost, pleased for a moment before the resident genius went on to condescendingly correct, "Oh, two legs has never been a requirement for you before, not with that corporal in the airport in Kabul, you remember him, - the one with two prosthetic legs?"

The detective's words bounced with a sharp smack through the air, as Iain tipped his head back and smiled thoughtfully. He stared at Sherlock long enough that the detective began to squirm in the doorway, wiggling his toes and attempting to hide the light red flush that was starting to stain his cheeks. John bit his lip, had to duck his head when Iain abruptly walked over to Sherlock, walking him backwards into the living room until Sherlock's knees hit the back of his chair and he collapsed into it. John had to look away entirely, angrily mashing macaroni into a pulp in Rosie's bowl as the Scottish man straddled Sherlock's lap, grinding him deep into the leather. He knew his own face wasn't it's usual faded tan as Iain's lilting brogue filtered back into the kitchen, softly, but not soft enough as Rosie smeared her cheese-sauce covered hand across her mouth.

"Jealous are you gorgeous? Mmmmm, what the fuck for I won't know, because as I recall, you were well and truly satisfied when I met you a few hours later and threw you down on the…"

Rosie let out a muffled shriek of delight, obscuring the rest of the murmured conversation as macaroni dribbled out of her mouth and plopped onto her placemat, waving her arms so wildly that her bottle went flying to the floor. He hastily cleared his throat and wiped it up, throwing the bottle into the sink with a thump, not caring if he interrupted the whispers between the tangled men in the next room. "If you two are eating tonight, this food isn't going to stay hot for long" he yelled, gently cleaning the yellow goo of Rosie's chin, silently willing his blood pressure to lower, before offering a gentle smile to his daughter at her burbling as he dabbed the last of the muck off her face.

The Scottish bastard and Sherlock wandered back into the kitchen, staring at the congealed yellow substance that John was currently trying to force into his daughter, but which was currently making it's way onto the floor and John's shirt respectively. Iain was at least polite in his declination, Sherlock picked up the spoon and looked at it as though he was evaluating the number of days it would take to become a suitable source for mould cultures before waltzing into his bedroom and slamming the door.

John could have cried when Sherlock came back out, dressed in a light blue shirt and pants that left about as much to the imagination as ballet tights. The two men gave their excuses, off for a night through London's club scene and walked out the door of the flat just as Rosie shrieked in indignation and threw her macaroni-covered spoon solidly into John's face, splattering him in fake cheese sauce.

Yeah. Fuck.

An hour and a half later, John put Rosie to bed, resting her against his shoulder as he gently waltzed around the room, singing as best as he could in a low voice, patting her back as she snuffled, making sure the nightlight was plugged in before slipping out of the bedroom to the sound of her soft, hiccuping snores.

He sat on the couch, read a bit of his novel.

Got up, made a cup of tea.

Plugged his mobile into the charger, just to make sure it didn't go flat.

Watched a bit of telly, went back to check his phone.

Made another cup of tea.

It was stupid to be fussing. Sherlock was a grown man, and he obviously knew Iain well if any part of the evenings… innuendo's had been true. Iain gave off every possible vibe of an arsehole who bed hopped like a horny dolphin, but he didn't seem dangerous. Hell, John's bloody daughter had taken a shining to him, wasn't that supposed to be the ultimate sign?

Looking over his meagre collection of DVD's, which now sported the works of complete works of Paddington Bear and Madeline, he put on some superhero movie he'd already seen before, watching all the way through to the last of the credits.

Cleaned out the fridge.

Sorted biohazard waste from normal kitchen waste from recycling waste and deposited it all in the appropriate bins.

Went upstairs to check on Rosie, who was sleeping on her stomach like a starfish with her limbs sprawled in every direction.

Made another cup of tea.

Edited a few old blog posts.

Picked a new novel to start reading, opened the cover, ad then stared out the window for the next 20 minutes, watching for taxis.

Went to bed.

Tossed around in the sheets for long enough that the rustling shook Rosie from her slumber, forcing John to play dead and not make one iota of noise until she dropped back to sleep.

Got back out of bed.

Peeked through Sherlock's bedroom door on the off chance that they'd come home and he had somehow missed it.

Had a shower.

Looked up recipes on his laptop that he thought he could probably coax both Sherlock and Rosie into eating.

Peeked back through Sherlock's bedroom door in case they'd come back while he was in the shower.

Sat slumped in his chair in exhaustion, staring at the empty fireplace.

Finally, at 4:51am, John gave up. It didn't seem like Sherlock or Iain were coming back to the flat tonight. Resolutely closing his mind as to where they would go if they weren't planning on clubbing until dawn, John miserably went back to bed, and lay staring at the ceiling until his daughter woke up a little more than an hour later, demanding her breakfast to start the day.

Groaning, John dressed her in a romper suit, something Sherlock's mother had sent when he moved back into the flat, some pretty purple thing that had flowers on it. The first time John had dressed Rosie in it, Sherlock had come out in his dressing gown and stared at her for several minutes, before abruptly turning and marching into the shower. When he finally appeared, actually deigning to wear proper clothes around the house, he was wearing a shirt that almost matched the exact shade of the little cotton one-piece, though he sniffed and pretended not to know what John was talking about when he brought it up. It had made John's entire day.

The little madam cheerfully babbled all the way down the stairs, mashing her fingers into John's teeth, her conversation not flagging in the slightest as John carefully spooned pureed apple into her mouth.

It wore on him. He was old and lame, single parent to a baby girl with a former assassin for an ex-wife, trying to make the ends meet at whatever surgery was desperate enough to hire a doctor who was unpredictable and unreliable with his hours. Iain looked to be at least 8 years younger than him, could hold an intelligent conversation with Sherlock Holmes, and hadn't spent the last how many years blatantly refusing any attraction to the man for any person who looked at them sideways.

And he could cope with that. He could. He'd married Mary, he'd fucked up worse than he ever had in life, he'd forced himself to square up and actually look at his feelings for his best friend. He started divorce proceedings, he watched his wife die, he'd punched the living daylights out of Sherlock, and then he'd decided to move in. Somewhere in there, particularly near the end, he'd also acknowledged that he was a violent coward who didn't deserve to touch a hair on Sherlock Holmes head, much less his infant daughter's, and had made several promises to himself that he intended to keep. Sherlock was married to his work, but John was his mistress. He needed John, needed John to make the world a place he could function in. And John was fine with that. After Sherlock had been peeled off the floor of the morgue in the hospital from where he'd fallen at John's fists, this was enough. If it was just this, forever, if Sherlock decided to have a polygamous relationship with Iain MacKelpie and Irene Adler and meet John once a week, he would make it be enough. He had quickly come to see, and then forgotten in the months after Sherlock returned from the dead, that he was blessed to have any little piece of his detective the man could give to him, and nothing, NOTHING, was worth seeing him flinch from John in fear again. He would put up with Sherlock shagging the whole of the Scottish Isles in the living room if he had to.

Rosie threw her spoon on the floor, loudly demanding John's attention and shaking him from his maudlin thoughts. He scolded her gently, admonishing her table manners before scooping her up and giving her a quick kiss, setting her down on her play mat under the butterfly mobile, indulgently smiling as he watched her kick her legs in glee. When he'd moved in, he had brought very little with him from the flat he and Mary had shared. The butterfly mobile had been one of the few things that made the cut, it had once been Harry's, a gift from John's grandmother. Sherlock had promised up, down and sideways that he had acquired some suitable decorations for the nursery of a baby girl, but the word 'suitable' held a very different meaning for the two of them. In John's mind, it meant age appropriate things that had no small pieces or sharp corners, that had never once been part of a human or animal. To Sherlock, the word 'suitable' in the context of an infant meant educational learning opportunities and bright colours. So he'd decided to combine the two and had gone to a specialty shop in London, where he had bought painted wooden models of almost every poisonous frog in the Amazon Rainforest, because in his mind, they contained both pretty colours and educational opportunities. So it was an interesting array of toys that Rosie had been surrounded with at 221B Baker St, but John wouldn't have had it any other way. Sherlock loved teaching her the different names and biological factors of each frog, Rosie loved the different colours, the blue frogs being her favourite, and the noise they made when she banged them against the floor. So it had all worked out pretty well really. Except for the part where Sherlock was not currently here.

Sherlock finally appeared back at 221B just as John had finished cleaning up the mess Rosie had made of lunch. The detective was draggled, dressed in the same tight clothes he'd been in the night before, although the shirt was wrinkled beyond all hope. John's heart sunk further in his chest as he watched Sherlock shrug out of his coat, noting the bruise on the back of his neck… and the odd stains on his trousers. The detective clearly hadn't slept much, if at all, and he smelt exactly like you'd expect from a man club hopping through London's finest, but he still knelt down to Rosie, who was back under her butterfly mobile, squawking in delight at the attention being paid to her, and persevering with her dental obsession by tugging at his teeth.

"Yes good afternoon Watson, no need to pull my teeth out. I have organised with Molly to get hold of a dentistry model of the human mandible, but it won't be here until next week, so you will have to restrain yourself. Now observe, here we have Papilio Ulysses, and Bindahara Phocides, and Anthene Lycaenoides, and Ornithoptera Richmondia… He went on, carefully pointing out each butterfly to Rosie as he named them, her madly waving her tiny hands and shrieking in delight at his voice. John watched out of the corner of his eye, his heart warming rapidly back up from its previous Antarctic drop at the sight of Sherlock lying on the floor next to his daughter, teaching her the scientific names of butterflies.

Their daughter.

Oh God.

"Where's Iain?"

Yeah real smooth John, watch the man patiently teach your daughter the Latin name of butterflies and then aggressively demand to know where his lover is. Good one.

Sherlock blinked back at him, looking a bit startled at John's tone, so he tried to smile, reaching for two mugs and putting the kettle on. "I was just wondering, if he's… not here". Oh God, better and better. Sherlock had relaxed though, and tugged his fingers out of Rosie's grip, much to her displeasure, standing up to stretch. There were the faint marks of bruises around his wrists, and John tried as hard as he could to keep the hot swooping in his stomach off his face.

"He's gone to go see someone today, some friend of his who came back from her position as a journalist in Afghanistan a couple of years ago. I never met her".

John resolutely picked up the jar of sugar, sniffing it carefully and tasting several grains with his tongue before spooning it into Sherlock's cup, ignoring the voice blasting through his head that told him to pick Sherlock up by his arse and drag him into the bedroom, fucking him into the mattress until every mark Iain bloody McKelpie had ever left on him was well and truly erased.

"Mmm. How long is he staying for again?"

"Not long John, only a week. I did get the impression that you didn't like him much, but you won't have to deal with him anyway, he sorted out a room last night, so I can spend time with him there." Sherlock banged the cup down, his face set in an odd expression, startling a little when the tea slopped over the edge. "I like him." His voice had taken on an tight, defensive tone, and John sensed the conversation had gone somewhere, but wasn't quite sure what to do about it as Sherlock stood up.

"He's only here for the rest of the week so I'll just go over to the hotel, and you won't have to deal with him, so it's all fine, right?" His voice was definitely beginning to edge into an angry tone, and John stood there, gaping slightly over his cup of tea as Sherlock huffed and made his way to the bathroom. "I'm going to have a shower, and then head over to Bart's. Molly called about the length of abnormal intestine I wanted." The words were practically spat over his shoulder as he walked away, the bathroom door slammed, and the pipes clunked in the ceiling as the shower started up. John looked at Rosie, as she stared sadly in the direction Sherlock had gone. He sighed, watching her try in vain to pull her legs up under her so she could crawl in the same direction, but not coordinated enough to achieve it.

"Me too, love. Me too."

It was a long week. Sherlock kept his word, Iain MacKelpie did not come back to Baker St that John knew of. Sherlock would disappear in the evenings and not come home until midmorning the next day, rumpled and tired.

He hated it. Sherlock never mentioned his name again, and no matter how hard John tried to steer the conversation around as to where he'd met the man, or what kind of relationship existed between the two of them, Sherlock either shut down entirely, retreating to his mind palace, or left the room as a physical refusal to engage in what was admittedly, neither tactful nor subtle conversation.

He poured as much of his attention as possible into Rosie, taking her to infant swimming classes, to children's petting zoos, for tea with Mrs Hudson. On one particularly memorable occasion, he put on an old pair of running shoes that hadn't seen a lot of use in the past few months and strapped Rosie into her pram for a jog through the Botanical Gardens. She only had to scream for several hundred meters before he got the message, lifting her out of the pram and cuddling her to his chest, rubbing her back to try to quiet her hiccupping gasps. More than one onlooker had come up to ask if he needed help and John had grimly refused, eventually placing his daughter back into the stroller to make their way home at as slow of a pace as he could reasonably manage, where he walked in circles around the flat until Sherlock arrived back in the early afternoon.

One week. He could do this.

It was a peaceful morning.

Mrs Hudson had bundled Rosie into her stroller and a bag of stale bread, taking the small girl and a stuffed giraffe of nearly the same size to Regent's Park, with the intent of feeding the ducks. Sherlock was off berating the competence and ability of Scotland Yard as a whole, something about toxicologists being about as likely to ingest fatal quantities of prescription medication by mistake as they were to ingest fecal matter, so he was off at the lab, while Lestrade frantically tore through paperwork at his demand. John was reading his novel, and idling wondering whether Rosie would eat carrots if he first put them through the blender and then mixed them with sweet potato.

When the knock at the door came, he got up good naturedly to answer it, expecting a client who he could perhaps have a cup of tea with, maybe a bit of chat until Sherlock came back, only to come face to face with Iain MacKelpie, his dismay immediately visible on his face for the other man to see.

The wanker laughed, eyeing John lasciviously, and it took everything John had not to shut the door in his face.

"Ah, put yer frilly socks down mate, I'm only here for a quick chat." He squeezed past John, clumping into the living room as John continued to stare out the door in dismay. He really, really didn't want to deal with this.

"Look," came the rumbling brogue of the Scottish arsehole, "I meant what I said, I'll be here for ten minutes tops. All you've got to do is hear me out, and if you can keep from taking a swing at my balls until then, I'd be fuckin' grateful."

John shut the door, stiffly turning around to face his lookalike nemesis, and arched an eyebrow.

Iain chuckled, snickering to himself as the lazy, sardonic grin worked it's way onto his face. "I wanted to tell yeh I'm leavin. Got a gig over in Europe, someone wants me in Czechia, so I said I'd go take a look".

John wasn't impressed.

"Yeah Ok, that's good and all for you, but I'm not quite sure why you had to come tell me that in person? Or at all?"

Iain's grin was getting wider still, he began to look a little like the Cheshire Cat, which was definitely unnerving. Suddenly however, it broke off, his face became sober, his voice quieter, and more respectful. "I came to tell yeh that because yer fuckin' flatmate's been demanding it for a week, Watson, and he's screaming your name into the mattress when he comes".

Iain had spent a decade in Afghanistan, honing the rough, street-fighting skills that he had been well known for, deep in the back lanes of Scotland. It still didn't prepare him for all 170cm of an enraged John Watson sinking his fist into his face.

The following scuffle was short, dirty, and to the point, eventually ending when John physically booted Iain into the couch and both men slumped on the floor, breathing heavily and rubbing various bruised body parts.

"Look," Iain sighed, "you've made it perfectly clear exactly what kind of wanker you think I am, and it's a reputation well deserved. And Sherlock's a little bastard, but I like him, alright?" He laughed a bit at John's glare, wincing a little as he gingerly touched his split lip. "I came back in town and wanted to see him, thought he'd be up for a quick go-round, like before. Well I got it, but his heart sure as hell wasn't in it, had to fuckin' sit on the bloke before he spat it out about you. And since I'm a royal wanker of the first degree and a shameless slut for posh British pieces of sex –" he threw a wink at John, massaging the rapidly blackening eye – "I told him to use me as he pleased while I was here. He's been very fuckin sure that you weren't interested in him. And while I'm paraphrasing, he said something about there being less 'no homo' attitudes in a fucking church."

The man sighed, tipping his head back to rest against the wall, fiddling with the ripped sleeve of his shirt. "I don't have a problem with being called another name in bed, I wasn't kidding the other night, no standards whatsoever, but he's been getting more miserable as the week goes on." He lifted his head a little to squint at John. "Made me worry about what he'd do when I'd fucked off and he didn't have someone to use for stress relief who doesn't give two shits about feelings and that crap. Since your head could have put the boiler industry out of business the first night I was over, thought you might like to hear something."

John stared. And kept staring.

The Scottish fucker laughed, getting to his feet. "Eh, don't blame the bastard, I don't reckon he's got off for the last few years. Made him blurt out a few things I got the impression he REALLY didn't mean to tell me."

Iain's face went softer again, stretching into a cheeky smile as he seized John's hand and gave it a firm shake, striding toward the door. "Little shit thinks you're all for girls and that still, and given what with yer daughter, said something about not rocking the boat. I'm leaving for the airport now, won't see him again. Don't think I really need to, I left him a message." He wrapped the Celtic scarf firmly round his neck, just pausing at the door for another moment. He looked directly into John's face, and spoke quietly.

"He's fucking petrified, not sure what the hell to do about it. I was more than happy to help with the sex, but it's sure as hell not me he actually wants, and I've got fuck-all in the way of advice. So help him out, yeah? He's a proper idiot when it comes to this sort of shit. And I've got a plane to catch, so cheery-bye, Dr Watson, and use lube. Ta ta!"

And left John standing in the doorway.

Jesusgoddamnbuggeringchrist.

Where the fuck was the tea?

It took him a long while, and several cups of tea before he'd managed to think through the whole situation as it deserved.

He'd come to the conclusion, several times over, that he was an idiot. An idiot on a spectacular scale, who very much wanted Sherlock there, so he could bury his face into the elegant swan neck and mumble apologies.

Christ.

In the end, he ended up ambushing the detective as he came through the door, loudly bemoaning the standards at which universities allowed forensic criminology students to graduate while simultaneously grabbing a spoon to scrape out the jam jar with glee.

John looked fondly at his consulting madman, who was still telling John the woeful tales of Anderson's unimaginable idiocy, while taking great pleasure in sucking the apricot jam off his spoon, looking not unlike Rosie on the rare occasion she was allowed to lick cake mix off their wooden spoon.

"When did you start having sex with Iain MacKelpie?"

In retrospect, John should have realised the staggering number of problems with trying to begin what was going to need to be a very serious conversation the way he did. The glass jar slipped from Sherlock's grasp as he spun, horrified, to face John, hitting the ground with a thud and shattering all over the floor.

Immediately reaching for the dustpan before the mess could spread, he left Sherlock standing there gaping, ordering him to stay still as he cleaned up the glass, double checking how far it had spread, and making sure none had entered Rosie's cordoned-off play-pen.

"Look, I'm sorry" he said, looking up at the stunned detective in apology. "That was a bad way to start, that was rude. Can we try again? Where did you meet him?"

Sherlock was standing still, only blinking, and he looked uncomfortable, starting to twist his hands.

"John he's gone now, and he left me a message saying he was doing a report on the riots going on in the Czech Republic, you won't see him again if that's-"

"No I know that, he came over here to tell me. It's not a leading question where I'm going to yell at you for the answer, I just wanted to know. How did you meet him?"

Sherlock looked down at the floor, fixing his eyes firmly on his shoelaces. "It was when I was away", he croaked. "Moriarty had a small division of his network holed up in Kabul, so I had to get to Afghanistan, at the beginning of December. I stayed in one of the houses for journalist accommodation, to help blend in, and I met him there."

John nodded, a dull ache spreading through him. He'd been a mess in December. Spent the majority of the time in his chair with a glass of whiskey on hand, staring at the empty chair across from him. The rest of the year was a bit easier to deal with, but not December. Not when one 6ft detective should have been springing around the flat with delight, crowing about the ingenuity of Christmas murders, and how the holidays meant people had a little more time to put some thought into their work. He exhaled hard, audibly forcing himself to calm down and Sherlock's eyes rose a little to meet him. "Go on."

"I thought it was you, at first, I thought I was hallucinating from whatever form of knock-off alcohol they were belting out from the bar. I wasn't". His eyes returned to rest on his shoelaces again. "He was… interesting. He never minced his words around me, never bothered pretending he wasn't interested, didn't make any effort to be subtle. He – liked me. Didn't care that I deduced him, or other people. I liked it."

The man wore a cocky grin on a familiar face, except this face was bright with beard scruff accumulated over the past 4 days.

He walked right up to Sherlock, as soon as he sighted him within the dull haze of the room, cocking one hip up to lean against the barstool.

"Look at you gorgeous", he purred. "Anything I can offer you to drink that will convince you to come back to my bed tonight?". Sherlock was a bit surprised by the directness of the stranger, he'd been getting lustful looks all night so far, with the pale skin and onyx locks that were so unfamiliar to the people here. But this Scottish version of John… He wasn't bothering to mix signals. He wanted Sherlock, wanted him on a bed, on any horizontal surface and suddenly Sherlock gave up on years of repressed tension. He was tired of pretending, because he wanted this too. He wanted this very, very, badly.

He smiled a little, swallowing the last of the cheap watered-down scotch in one go, sliding his face against the Scotsman's cheek until his lips were just touching his ear. "Not really", he hummed. He gave it a few seconds, letting his voice drop into it's usual deep baritone before starting again - "It's only going to take your name and a promise that I'll have forgotten mine by the time you're finished."

The Scotsman pulled back sharply, seizing Sherlock's hand and hauling him off the barstool. He licked his lips, gaze sharp as he crowded Sherlock against the bar, pressing his stocky girth against him, and Sherlock bit his lip to hold back a moan. The warmth and weight of the body against him was tantalizing, he swayed as the man grasped his neck and pulled him down, blatantly grinding the start of his erection into Sherlock's groin as he murmured into his ear. "Name's Iain MacKelpie laddie, and Jesus-fuck gorgeous, - if that's what you want we can keep going, until you don't remember the fucking English language as the last of your come's dripping out onto my sheets".

They had stumbled up the stairs, ripping shirts and belts off frantically. Iain shoved him up against the door and rutted against him shamelessly as Sherlock's head thumped back into the frame.

"F-fuck gorgeous, how long have you got? Not sure I can - ahhhh - work all this out in just one night-, fucking Christ, fuck, there again!"

The two men staggered back to the bed, Iain only stopping to yank the detective's arms out of his shirtsleeves before knocking him back onto the mattress, throwing himself down on top him.

Sherlock groaned as two hands seized his arse, kneading the warm flesh until he was panting, thrusting against Iain's trousers like a teenager, rubbing his pre-come into the fabric. Desperate for friction, he ground down on the hard thigh between his legs, swearing in relief at the amount of pressure, finally. He was rubbing as much as his body against Iain as possible, fingers tearing at the waistband of the other man's trousers, sharply tented by the weight of a heavy cock.

Iain was upholding a steady stream of swearing, slipping into several different tongues as he yanked his own trousers off, hurling them into a corner where they knocked over the lamp, the resulting thud enough to make the rickety bed shiver. He seized Sherlock by his hips, throwing him onto as stomach and ripping his trousers and boxers off in one go, running his hands up the insides of Sherlock's thighs as the man panted on the bed. He hooked his elbow around Sherlock's knee, pulling his legs apart as he nipped at his arse, biting and sucking small kisses into each cheek in turn holding Sherlock down by his hips as the man humped at the bed, gasping at the feeling of Iain's beard between his legs. He could feel the delicate skin reddening, feel the bruises Iain was teasing out of his skin and it was glorious, he couldn't push his arse back far enough to satisfy himself.

He screamed as Iain's mouth first touched his hole, lips brushing soft kisses around the rim. His hot tongue flicked back and forth, teasing him with unbearably light movements, before the man finally relented, licking a broad stripe down his cleft and pressed an open-mouthed, sucking kiss to his entrance that had Sherlock attempting to meet the ceiling, pressing back in a futile attempt for more before rutting forward to relieve himself against the mattress. The tip of Iain's tongue barely pierced inside of him, and Sherlock began pleading in earnest as the man's tongue stroked the side of his walls, a complex rhythm that was too much and not enough all at once. Iain's other hand slipped from Sherlock's hips, and the detective shuddered at the loss of contact before stifling another noise as the hand grasped his balls, tugging them down from where they had pulled up snug against his body, playing with them, rolling them in one hand in a glorious massage.

He was shamelessly begging now, loud enough to announce to the whole house what they were doing, and Iain chuckled low in his throat as he slid up behind Sherlock, cock nestling between the man's arse cheeks, content to rub their naked bodies together while one hand reached up to tangle in Sherlock's curls. "Got to calm down a bit for me gorgeous," he purred into Sherlock's ear. "Mmm, I know you're impatient, but I promise you'll get a lot more use out of this cock once it makes it balls deep inside your arse." The noises ripping out from Sherlock's chest didn't sound human any more, he was thrusting urgently back against the other man, desperate for Iain's cock to slip a bit lower, he just needed it to hit…

He jolted at the sharp bite to his shoulder, squirming back against Iain as he whispered filthy things into his ear. "Mmmm, no you don't laddie, going to need a wee bit more than my tongue in your arse before you can take this cock" he growled, sinking a sharp bite into Sherlock's shoulder.

The low chuckle came back, rumbling across the bed as Iain caught Sherlock's hips and moved him up, letting his penis drop to fall between Sherlock's thighs, rubbing against the warm skin of his perineum, mimicking the movement with his lips against the back of his pale shoulder.

He leapt away from Sherlock for a moment, ignoring the man's muffled whine, ripping the drawer of the bedside table open and seizing the small bottle of lube, bounding back to Sherlock to press up against him from behind, pouring the clear liquid into one hand before dropping the bottle and clasping his hips with the other.

"So gorgeous", he moaned, taking Sherlock's shaft in one hand, rubbing his thumb over the head as Sherlock bucked his hips in Iain's grasp. "Is this pretty cock all for me then sweetheart? Just for me?" He finally took pity on him, shoving Sherlock's torso down, and keeping him there with one hand braced against his back while he used the other to sink two finger his arse. Sherlock keened, and Iain chuckled again, starting to pick up the pace, thrusting his fingers to stretch him open, scissoring his fingers against the smooth walls and Sherlock writhed beneath him.

"Fuck, just look at you," he panted, spreading Sherlock's legs with knees. "There you go gorgeous, don't bite your fucking lip, I want to hear it, won't let you fucking hide it-" He crooked his fingers against Sherlock's prostate and the detective let out a harsh shriek, arching off the bed in surprise, spine bowing further as Iain's tongue slid down to join his fingers, deep in Sherlock's arse.

He spun him out until he was good and ready, gripping the base of the man's cock with his hand, using his lips to tug his balls down, mouthing at one testicle until it was glossy with spit, and then the other, slipping three fingers in and out of the man's arse, crooking his fingers against his prostate gland while he writhed on the bed, high, mindless noises pouring out of his mouth.

When Iain finally decided that he had strung the poor bastard out long enough, he quickly yanked a condom on and slicked up his cock, sinking a hand into the dark curls as he dragged Sherlock upright, back onto his heels as he thrust forward, sinking into the tight heat with a heavy groan.

Sherlock had lost all control at this point, openly sobbing his pleasure, slamming his hips backwards to meet Ian's cock as the man set a punishing rhythm, his own mind beginning to break apart as Sherlock's breathy moaning became more pronounced. He ran a hand down over Sherlock's chest, relishing in the wail that sprang from the man's lips as he took back hold of his shaft, laving it with long, deep pulls as he shifted his weight to cover Sherlock entirely, lining his mouth up at the mans ear as he pounded him into the mattress. "Fuck, my gorgeous man, that's it sweetheart, you've done so well, taken it so well, now fucking come, fucking spread your come all over the sheets, all over my hands-".

Sherlock climaxed with a final scream, arching his back several times before dropping boneless to the sheets, his own orgasm triggering Iain's, who pumped into him as he came, sinking his teeth into the other man's shoulder as he swore through his own release.

They lay in the wrecked sheets, sweaty, gasping, and covered in a fair amount of Sherlock's ejaculate. The Scotsman groaned, rolling onto Sherlock and straddling him, yanking his wrists above his head and holding them there, grinning down at Sherlock as he tried to catch his breath.

"Like to tell me your name then gorgeous?" Sherlock smiled, starting to chuckle, which grew into a deep laugh, vibrating through both their bodies as Iain grinned down at him, giving up one hand to start trawling patterns through the drying come on Sherlock's chest, eventually cutting off the laughter as the man utterly relaxed under the solid weight, letting himself sink into the mattress.

"I suppose you could call me William."

Sherlock gave what was obviously a very heavily edited, much abbreviated version of how he came to meet the Scottish war photographer, but his glib tongue, usually such an asset to bluffing his way through uncomfortable subjects he was trying to avoid blatantly lying about was failing him today.

"So you slept with a bloke who may as well be my twin with a Scottish accent and now meet up with him whenever you're in the same country for casual sex?"

Of course he did. Sherlock didn't pay for prostitutes, or try his hand at the dating scene, or take it up for clients who took one look at him and nearly collapsed on their knees on the floor, no, Sherlock had a Scottish lover who he had no romantic attachment to, who he would meet up for the odd shag when they were within the same time zone. Why not.

The detective tried to meet John's eyes but didn't quite make it, the dark blush on his face having migrated down into the open vee of his dress shirt, twisting his fingers together and splaying them out as he tried to speak. "I can leave, if you like, while you and Rosie find another place. Or you can have Baker St, and I can find-mmmpphh!"

John tackled the man, hurling him onto the couch and let all of his body weight rest along Sherlock's bony length, one hand firmly clapped over chapped lips. Not a fucking hope in hell was that sentence going to be allowed to go where John thought it was.

"You, began this telling me you were married to your work. I don't think I've ever seen you show any interest, in anyone ever, except maybe for Irene Adler". He did note Sherlock's eye roll as he mentioned her, but continued, grinding his hand more firmly into Sherlock's lips.

"Shut it. I know I have caused you… considerable pain, when I blamed you for Mary's death." Sherlock's eyes softened, and he could feel the lips under his hand trying to move, but John kept going. "I will apologise a thousand times over for that, every day for the rest my life. And I know that won't ever excuse what I did. I know it won't. I had no right to treat you like that." He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to drown out the guilt that was threatening to overwhelm him before opening them again, consciously aware of his body pressing against Sherlock's.

"Nothing you could do would make me leave. Ever. For God's sake, Sherlock, after all the women I've bought back to this damn flat – you've been… more than entitled. Ok? But we're two British men, and this shit isn't easy to talk about, so we're doing it now. And I'm going to say this now, and then it can be your turn. And then if I'm wrong, if I've gotten it backwards, you can just tell me, and then Rosie and I will go stay with Harry for bit, and I'll move out."

He sucked in another breath, shifting his weight uncomfortably against Sherlock, making sure his hand wasn't affecting the man's breathing, before giving himself a mental rap on the head and getting on with it.

"I love you. Ok? I fucked up, years ago, when I thought your 'married to my work' meant that you weren't interested in any kind of relationship at all, so I went through women like you go through nitric acid. And then, I know, it started to seem like you weren't married to your work anymore. And I panicked, because I'm a wanker, and used the phrase 'I'm not gay' as a shield. Because even in the army, shagging another man was fine, but it wasn't something you admitted to. Not ever. And then I married Mary, and I hurt you. I hurt you Sherlock, and I'm so sorry, because I loved you, but hurting you was easier. So I did that."

His chest was heaving now, and his eyes had started to sting. He had to look down now, unable to take Sherlock's gaze any longer, not for this last part. "Baker Street is your home. You belong here, with Mrs Hudson, and the skull, where Lestrade stomps up the stairs and doesn't have to knock. It's your home Sherlock, and if you want to share that with me, and Rosie then that's – more than fine. I won't ever take you away from that. But it's up to you. So please don't say you'll leave. Not ever. Not here."

He was staring at his lap now, eyes wet at the corners, not able to look at the greatest man he'd ever had the privilege to love, afraid to see what Sherlock's face would express. He just sat there, too scared to look up, wondering if he'd buggered it up royally again, and whether he should leave, give Sherlock a bit of space… But the consulting detectives finger's slipped around John's wrist where it was still clamped over Sherlock's mouth, and John shakily exhaled as the calloused fingers peeled John's palm away.

And then he looked up in shock, eyes flying open to meet Sherlock's at the chaste kiss that was being pressed into his palm.

Sherlock met his gaze calmly, not saying anything, just pressing another kiss against the base of John's thumb before he shifted his own hand to press against John's, handprint meeting handprint. He shifted his own fingers a little, allowing them to splay into the spaces between digits scarred from violin strings, and Sherlock squeezed down, locking his fingers with John, gripping tight, saying nothing.

He brought his hand up hesitantly, to cup the back of John's neck, pulling him slowly down to give him time to pull away, carefully bringing their faces together, nodding slowly. He met John's lips gently, both of them just brushing against the other, almost mimicking the actions of a kiss. Warmth was spreading through his stomach, he shifted, moving to sit up properly, tangling his limbs with Sherlock's as they huddled on the couch, hands locked together, slowly moving their lips, exploring.

Sherlock's free hand moved to cup the side of John's face, and the detective sighed as he broke back from their kiss, leaning forward to rest his forehead against John's.

"You weren't wrong."

It was barely mumbled loudly enough to be heard, an enormous admission from a tiny voice, coming from the man who was attempting to wrap himself around John as though he was a vine on a trellis. But John heard it.

He reached his hand up to gently twine his fingers into Sherlock's curls, shifting his thumb to rub soothingly across the back of his neck, to ease the man who had started to quake in his lap. Sherlock's lips were trembling, the effort to convey what he was trying to say had broken his vocabulary down into only the simplest words and phrases.

"Stay. And Rosie".

Warmth exploded out through John's chest, the sick churning that had lasted through his own confession entirely replaced by love for the shaking beanpole who was clinging to him, letting his actions show John what he didn't know how to put in words.

He stroked Sherlock's curls as he waited, turning his head a little to press his smile into Sherlock's temple, softly kissing his temple, once, twice, three times.

Sherlock was still faintly shaking underneath John, and as he pulled back to tell him that it was ok, that he didn't need to hear Sherlock say it back, he suddenly found himself flat on his back, Sherlock tugging his shirt up. Confused, he was about to laugh, try to turn this excess of emotion into something physical until he felt Sherlock trace something onto his skin. Still confused, he lay there, carefully watching the other man's face as drew with his index finger on the skin of John's chest.

Tears prickled again in the corners of his eyes as he realised what Sherlock was doing. It was a very simple phrase, being repeated over and over again, gently etched into John's skin in a way that was more permanent than ink.

First with just his forefinger, writing each word under the one before it, that he would then use his whole hand to tap out in Morse code, slight to the left of the center of John's chest. Over and over again, 3 words, and then 3 more. 3 words, and 3 more.

He seized Sherlock's hand and drew the detective down into a kiss, wrapping both arms around his shoulders and locking them together, their bodies meeting in a heady flush.

Sherlock gave a small whine, scrabbling at John's embrace until he could draw back a little, continuing to yank John's shirt up until he managed to pull it up and over his head. John, taking the hint began to work on Sherlock's dress shirt, lovingly stroking each small patch of pale chest that the straining buttons released.

They tangled together slowly, smoothly. Shoes were kicked off, belts flung over the back of the couch, Sherlock's trousers were slowly falling off his ankles, silk boxers pushed down to his knees while John's pants had been kicked off entirely, squashed in a ball under Sherlock's left calf.

It was fitting that they should come together on the couch, the center of their living room and therefore their lives, which had seen clients and cups of tea and Chinese assassins and poisonous frogs in all. The two men gasped, slowly rocking into each other in a movement that was profoundly intimate in it's familiarity, slick mouths and warms hands constantly trying to pull their partner closer.

John moved his head down a bit, wrapping his lips around Sherlock's nipple, and the noises that warbled out of Sherlock's mouth were like nothing he had heard before. He took his time, laving at the tight bud, feeling it peak against his lips, sucking it and kissing it until Sherlock was squirming mess above him. He drew back, almost able to physically feel Sherlock's mingling disappointment and relief, which evaporated with a sharp cry as John slipped his fingers down to brush over Sherlock's hole as he latched onto the neglected nipple. He repeated his attentions, slowly working a single finger into Sherlock's body, stroking along his insides as the man went to pieces. Once he decided he was stretched adequately, he gently added in a second finger and immediately crooked the both of them against Sherlock's prostate, drinking in Sherlock's cry of ecstasy, shifting his hand from Sherlock's hip to help stabilize his swaying torso, from where Sherlock was rapidly shaking apart above him.

Gently encouraging him to shift down into a better position, so most of his body was lying against John, he gave a final, regretful stroke against Sherlock's ribs before moving his hand lower. The detective threw his head back and keened when John took his hand and wrapped it around them both, his legs coming to wrap around Sherlock's waist and holding him tightly in the cradle of his hips. He stretched up to meet Sherlock's mouth in an open kiss, swallowing the nonsensical noises as he rocked them both, left hand warm where it was taking long, gorgeous pulls around their cocks.

Slipping his fingers out of Sherlock's arse for just a moment, he massaged the muscles of Sherlock's bum with his free hand, taking his lover apart piece by piece, transfixed by the sight of Sherlock on top of him, pale skin flushed all over, curls thoroughly debauched from where he lay in the bracket formed by John's body. He thrust his fingers back in, delighting in the increasingly desperate movements of his love on top of him. He's rubbing himself against John with abandon, frantically rutting against him as he rocks, pressing back against John's fingers before thrusting forward against his cock, head bounding on his neck as his hips work in a stuttering rhythm. It's easily the most gorgeous thing John Watson has ever seen in his life, almost bouncing Sherlock between his fingers and his cock as the great detective slowly loses his mind with pleasure.

Holding himself back with sheer willpower and over a decade of practice to fall back on, he smears his thumb through the pre-come on the head of Sherlock's penis, slipping his tongue into the man's mouth, tangling with Sherlock's to muffle the low shriek. He was becoming truly desperate now, high, keening noises echoing around the wall of the flat, unable to move his hands from where they were tightly clinging to John's shoulders for support.

He could have flipped them over, pinned Sherlock on his back on the other end of the couch, he could of rolled the pair of them onto the floor and taken Sherlock from behind in front of the window. Hell, he could move now, wrap Sherlock's legs around him and carry him into the bedroom, not let the man go until he came screaming, writhing on John's fingers or his cock, letting him kiss him until they both fell asleep in the tangled wreck of the sheets.

But as Sherlock moaned above him, heartbeat fluttering in the pulse shown stark against the taunt skin of his neck, John wouldn't have moved for anything. There was power here, quietly taking the love of his life apart from below while Sherlock took what he needed, what he wanted from John's body. It was glorious, it was beautiful to see him like this, pressed against John, giving himself over.

Only when Sherlock begins to pant John's name with a little cry in his mouth, does John finally decide to stop teasing him, flicking his wrist as he runs the tip of a single finger over the leaking head of Sherlock's cock. The detective's hips jerk against John as he tumbles, arse contracting around John's fingers, into his orgasm, crying out in relief even as he runs his hands back to meet behind John's neck and pulls him close as he collapses against his chest. Seconds behind, John twists his neck to meet Sherlock's lips, hungrily kissing him as he thrusts, arching up against him as his own ejaculate splatters between them onto Sherlock's torso.

Sherlock is still shuddering with aftershocks, and John gently pulls his hand free, sweeping down the length of his back as he holds him close, sweeping his hair back from his face, gently brushing his fingers through gorgeous curls as his love relaxes against him. They lie there, unspeaking, while John trails his fingertips against every smooth expanse of Sherlock's skin he can reach, rubbing his fingertips gently against his nipples, his collarbones, the high arch of his cheekbones. Sherlock lies heavy and exhausted against him, no longer clinging to his shoulders, but wrapped around him, solid and unmoving, secure in John's presence as his breathing returns to normal, happy to lie with his head against John's chest as he maps Sherlock's body with his fingers.

They stay there for almost half and hour, quietly dozing as they lie comfortably tangled, bodies cozily warm in the light from the late April sun, thoroughly stuck together but not caring in the slightest. It's only when Mrs Hudson opens the front door, and Rosie's cheerful babble echoes up the stairs do they shift, wincing. Sherlock stumbles sideways of the couches and John smirks a little, before he heaves himself of the couch, pulling the other man into the bathroom and turning on the shower, before their landlady decides to come up the stairs and catch them in what really would be a compromising position.

It was Sherlock's turn to run his hands over John, hesitating at first, but growing more confident, the water helping him glide over John's skin. He pays particular attention to John's scar, leaning to kiss at it, carefully tracing along the raised edges of it with his tongue, as though he could smooth the past hurt away. His hands have just drifted down to trace against the cleft between John's arse cheeks, close to where John's cock is beginning to take notice of proceedings, before breaking off with a sigh as Mrs Hudson's throws open the door of the flat and calls for them, Rosie giving a familiar shriek at the sight of their beloved mess of a home. John chuckles, affectionately butting against Sherlock's forehead before reaching up to kiss him, slipping out of the shower to wrap a towel around his hips just as Mrs Hudson begins to knock at the bathroom door.

"Boys! We're back and we've had a lovely time, but I gather she rather needs something to eat, and then a nap wouldn't be too far off, but I don't have any packets left of that pureed rubbish John keeps feeding her…" She looked at John as he opened the bathroom door, easing out and quickly shutting it behind him, keeping the steam inside the humid room and Sherlock's modesty intact, not that Mrs Hudson was capable of being shocked by anything much these days. And as she looked between John, whose damp body was still dripping onto the floor, and back at the door where the shower was still clearly continuing for the other occupant, she looked up and beamed at him, reaching up to pat his cheek while her other hand covered her mouth, not hiding even a bit of her smile as she made a happy, cooing noise. John laughed, and gave her quick kiss on the cheek before moving past her and hurrying up the stairs to his bedroom to pull on the first clean clothes he saw.

He practically skipped down the stairs like a bloody lamb, before sternly telling himself to pull it together and letting his attitude roll out in a grin he couldn't quite keep off his face, as he controlled his pace and strolled back out into the kitchen, where Rosie was still sitting in her pram, looking most unhappy that he had gone right past her without showing her any attention.

He smiled fondly at her disgruntled indignation, where she was banging her hands against her giraffe, thinking that it would be so much easier to resent his daughter if Rosie's whole face didn't light up when she saw him, squealing with joy as she lifted her arms in a demand to be picked up. He kissed her blonde head and settled her against his chest, swaying from side to side as she smiled toothlessly up at him, dribble trailing down her chin.

He was distantly aware of Mrs Hudson fussing with the kettle, keeping half an ear on her describing the various places they had been and people they had chatted to and things that Rosie had tried to eat, and one ear on the shower, waiting for the water to stop. Rosie was also making a valiant bid for his attention, now making a serious face to show him she meant business, carefully picking up one leaf at a time from her collection inside the pram, and shoving it into his hands.

"Yes they're beautiful darling, isn't this one a pretty colour?" he said, careful to show each leaf it's due admiration. She gurgled happily up at him, thumping him on the cheek to let him know of her approval, before he laughed, bopping her on the nose and standing up to settle her into her high chair.

Mrs Hudson was still happily talking as the shower shut off in the distance, "-and the nice police officer on duty even showed me how to work the brakes on that bloody pram of yours John Watson, and well, this was the first time it had started to roll down the hill-"

Snapping to back to the conversation, John looked up at her in horror, eyes quickly going back to where Rosie was slowly sucking on her bottle with drooping eyes, to check for any injuries before she laughed.

"Oh honestly John, she wasn't in it at the time! I'd just taken her out and we were at the pond you see, so we were ripping up pieces of bread to feed the ducks and all of a sudden there's a lovely policeman running past us, I'd completely missed the pram rolling down the hill, and it didn't even really get wet, you see? Didn't even make it to the water."

John's mouth was beginning to open before he knew what he was going to say, and it was looking like the conversation would quickly turn sour before Sherlock floated through the doorway in one of his rare displays of impeccable timing.

The detective looked as beautiful as John had ever seen him, his body floppy and relaxed, eyes hooded in the way that he meant would most likely be asleep in the next hour. His dark curls were still wet from the shower, droplets of water sliding down the twists in his hair to drip onto the floor, where it would most likely be John's job to mop it up. He had, thank god, seen fit to yank on a clean pair of pyjama pants and his favourite dressing gown, and he dropped into his chair at the table in a daze, blinking across at Rosie.

He smiled fondly, walking around the table to press a kiss into the top of his wet head, chuckling as one of Sherlock's hands wobbled up to pat John on the nearest part of his body he could reach, grabbing his hand before pressing a kiss to that too, and then releasing him so he could pour the damn tea. Mrs Hudson was beaming at the both of them, not pretending in any way to be subtle or like she hadn't been waiting for this since the day John had moved in.

Fair enough. John had been a goddamn idiot for a long time, he wasn't going to deny her the chance to gloat.

It would finally give her the chance to brag to the other women in her book club, might even trounce Mrs Turner's married ones for a while.

He got the feeling he would hear quite a lot about it over the next few weeks, but he reminded himself that Mrs Hudson had most certainly deserved the right to say whatever she pleased, given that she had worked out what they would become from the start and then promptly ignored anyone who had ever said otherwise, including John himself.

So that was further proof both of John's idiocy, and Mrs Hudson's bloody omnipotence, but the woman had treated them both as her sons, and Rosie her granddaughter. She was the reigning monarch of the house, and therefore had earned the right to brag to her book club as she pleased.

Rosie's bottle dropped to the tray of her highchair, the baby evidently deciding she was now too tired to drink from it herself, even with the promise of the food it contained. She was beginning to slump similarly to Sherlock, having run out of what John had assumed was a near-constant stream of energy and chatter. He smeared an apple scroll with jam and placed it directly in front of Sherlock's nose where he couldn't miss it, before scooping his daughter out of her chair and carrying her upstairs, changing her into a clean sleep suit before lowering her into her cot, sitting down against the bars to look at her. She was lying on her back, head turned to John, tiny and fragile and falling asleep in front of his eyes, her little breath puffing in and out as John poked his hand through the bars and began to rub her tummy.

As she drifted into whatever it was that passed for deep sleep in an infant, he continued to sit there, marveling at the little person who could feed ducks and survive faulty prams and learn the poisonous qualities of more then two dozen brightly-coloured frogs, the models of which were scattered around her room, but who still needed to be settled into her cot after lunch for a nap and rocked to sleep.

He chuckled wryly to himself, thinking of his other charge who most definitely looked like he too needed to go down for a sleep, and carefully picked himself off the floor, pressing a kiss to his daughter's forehead before grabbing the baby monitor and slipping quietly out of the room.

Mrs Hudson and Sherlock were talking in low voices in the kitchen, which stopped abruptly as John's footsteps clunked down the stairs. Sherlock was slowly eating a scone topped with what looked like cheese and jam, having either demolished the first scroll in seconds, or thrown it out the window. He was, however, blushing nearly as badly as he had been an hour ago, and Mrs Hudson could not have physically looked more pleased or more smug had she tried, superiority rolling off her in waves as she scrubbed enthusiastically at the crumby dishes in the sink.

"Ta, Mrs Hudson, but you really don't have to do that" John said, checking around her side to make sure at least that there were only food dishes in the sink, rather than any of Sherlock's chemistry glassware. He received gentle rap over the knuckles with his own spoon, Mrs Hudson mock-glowering at him as she pulled out the plug and placed the last of the dishes in the rack. "Nonsense dear, I'm already finished". She merrily bustled around, snatching the plate from in front of the now-comatose Sherlock, and flicking John with the tea towel. "That little madam isn't the only one who's tired, I think everybody in this house needs a good lie down this afternoon. And if it turns into something a bit more than a lie down I can use those lovely new earmuffs that Mrs Turner bought me, she said something about them being specifically tested against couples who were loud in the-"

"MRS HUDSON, I couldn't agree more," John spluttered, taking the tea towel from their landlady, who was definitely not their housekeeper in any shape or form and steering her out the door. "An afternoon for a nap. Excellent. You can go and have a lie down then, maybe watch some telly, and then later I'll bring some more of Rosie's bottle mix so you won't need to worry about running out again. Alright?"

He was given a very condescending roll of the eyes for his trouble, but she simply sighed and patted him on the cheek, before being unable to hold her composure and letting her face pull back into it's previous beaming cheerfulness. "Yes, lovely," she said, as she began to make her way down the stairs. "In fact, I might go visit Mrs Turner now, let her know of the new developments. But you be good to that boy!"

John shut the door quickly, shaking his head, making sure it was locked before he crossed back to Sherlock, who was now definitely beginning to nod off at the kitchen table. He took hold of his hands, pulling Sherlock up, wrapping his hands around his waist as the sleeping detective swayed against him. John buried his nose against the side of Sherlock's throat, pressing gentle kisses into the warm flesh as he smiled, tracing his nose up along the pale skin and back down, kissing over his pulse point. "Come on love", he whispered, pulling Sherlock's arms around him. "Come to bed with me".

It was a slow dance down the corridor, a waltz between a detective who was almost asleep on his feet, and a doctor who had wrapped himself around his partner, gently pushing him backwards down the corridor, turning the fluid swaying of his exhausted love into a dance he had never allowed himself to have.

He helped the man into bed, rolling his eyes as he flopped onto the covers, tugging at the bedding until Sherlock was tucked under the sheets and the duvet both, making soft, sleepy noises that weren't entirely unlike Rosie's. He left the monitor on the bedside table, before taking his shirt off and sliding in behind Sherlock, pressing up against his back.

The detective gave an unintelligible mumble, pressing back further until he was tucked tightly against John, his plush arse resting in John's groin, the warm skin of his back against his chest. John reached to wrap an arm around his detective, biting back a groan of delight at the stretch, at the feeling of covering Sherlock, the two of the pressed together in the warm cocoon of the bedroom.

He stroked Sherlock's hair idly for a long while, enjoying the feel of the dried, fluffy curls slipping through his fingers. He is tired, and he does want to sleep but he wants to stay awake just a little bit longer, huddled with Sherlock in bed while the little girl that he has come to think of as their daughter sleeps peacefully upstairs. Sherlock has begun to snore lightly, and John is drifting of to the sound when Sherlock's breath hitches and he mumbles quietly to himself, berating John for being an idiot who can't tell the difference between an antique diamond necklace and a clever hiding place for deadly explosives, still clearly asleep. John laughs quietly to himself, pressing kisses into the warm skin of Sherlock's back, tracing along a small constellation of freckles that scatter over his left shoulder. It seems Sherlock's dream has moved on, as he stops talking to an imaginary, idiotic version of John and his breathing begins to settle again. John is also mostly asleep, just barely in the mind frame between the state of consciousness that is neither asleep nor awake when he hears it. Mumbled, barely audible, almost completely evasive to the human ear. But he hears it, this form of Sherlockian sentiment.

"Doesn't matter that you're an idiot. I love you anyway."

AN - Thank you for reading, I would so appreciate getting to hear what you thought of this. Did I get it right? Let me know!