Right... this should be the last part of A Pink Apron (if I can get everything I want into it and it isn't too long... um... :/) Anyway! Enjoy it peeps and please read it! (Oh and since I'm a desperate writer in need of reviews so as to write brilliantly; I have another fic called 'I can see you' which you might like... yes, I'm pimping my fics out. Live with it! :p)

Anywho, enjoy and please review. Kasey

...

EPILOGUE

...

(Narration)

"SHERLOCK!" John shouted feeling the rather annoying sensation of déjà vu as he stared out across the glass-walled balcony at the figure he'd been looking everywhere for, "SHERLOCK!" life hated him, and it seemed that it hated the wayward detective as well.

Frantically looking about himself for something, anything, to help him John swiftly stamped down on the bubble of fear growing in his stomach; freaking out wouldn't help Sherlock so it was an irrelevant thing to feel. But he wasn't Sherlock so he still felt it, he just didn't react to it other than to swallow thickly and hurry back the way he'd came. He was hoping that Sherlock could hold his own whilst he hurried over and how stupid was he for picking the wrong building again!

The sound of his beating heart was loud in his ears, keeping time with the sound of his footfalls on the tiled floor as he hurried along the corridor towards the staircase; he was so busy focusing on getting down to Sherlock that he almost missed the suited man ducking into one of the cubicles as he turned the corner. Almost.

Freezing mid-step John had but a moment to recognise the threat and dive to the side as the suited man stood up, gripping what looked to be a rather unfriendly AK-74 (original much) and pointing it directly as the army doctor. Landing in a heap on the floor John kicked out and propelled himself behind the printer-copier machine off to the side, huddling up and trying to pull out his Browning from the waistband of his jeans but damn it that guy was shooting way too close for comfort!

When he finally got the Browning handgun out he knocked off the safety and taking a deep, calming and focusing breath, dove out of his hiding space, landing on the ground on his side and aimed the gun directly at the other shooters head and- BANG!

The resounding shot was loud enough in the quiet room to make John's eardrums hurt but he dismissed the noise as he scrambled to his feet and moved over to the now unmoving shooter; kicking the AK-74 away and checking to see if his aim had been true. Sure enough it had and the guy was now sporting a rather fashionable hole in the middle of his forehead.

Quickly picking p the AK-74 John continued on his way, hurrying into the stairwell and was about to descend the steps when he heard the sound of a door opening a few floors above him. Though he knew Sherlock was in trouble and needed his immediate help, John also knew that when his gut told him something it was a good idea to follow the gut; and right now his gut was telling him to get up those stairs and find out who had opened that door.

Gripping the AK-74 tightly in his hands John quickly and efficiently ascended the stairs all the way up until he came to the door that signalled that he'd reached the rooftop. Carefully and silently John slipped into full military-mode and covertly made his way out onto the rooftop, pausing to make sure the door didn't make any sound as it closed. Stepping lightly on the gravel-like ground John moved over towards the edge of the building, in the direction where he knew Sherlock was, and froze again at what he saw.

Now he was truly glad that he'd listened to his gut instinct because crouching not ten feet from him was a black uniformed man who was looking down the scope of a high-powered Sniper Rifle; aiming at Sherlock! John crept up behind the sniper, making not a sound on the ground, and he felt a growing rage and anger deep inside him roar and growl as he situated himself behind the sniper and with one fell swoop of the AK-74 brought it crashing down on the top of the sniper's head. He knew before the guy hit the ground that he wouldn't be getting back up; the sheer force he'd used and the location he'd hit meant that the sniper's skull had crushed his neck and severed his spinal cord; and he couldn't care less for the guy.

Kneeling down on the ground John placed the AK-74 next to him and positioned the Arctic Warfare Sniper Rifle in his hands. Taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly John composed himself and allowed his breathing to slow down and become steady and deep. Looking down the scope of the rifle he noticed that Sherlock was standing in the midst of about half-a-dozen armed men, glaring at them defiantly as Moriarty smiled and clapped in amusement. Bastard. How John wanted to shoot the crazy psychotic madman but Sherlock was getting jumped on and John made a split-second decision.

Pulling the trigger John made sure that his bullet hit one of the goons attacking Sherlock, the glass of the building fracturing but not shattering and it seemed that no-one had noticed; which John guessed was because of all the noise, at least he hoped it was that and not that someone had fired off a shot at the same time as him. Quickly and efficiently John fired the rifle three more times before the glass actually shattered and Moriarty's attention was drawn across the way and onto the rooftop John was currently on.

Sherlock, now that he was only against two opponents, dealt with them quickly and effectively as John aimed the rifle at Moriarty's confused face; 'smile at this' he thought as he pulled the trigger. But Moriarty's face wasn't blown to pieces like John had expected and he frowned; checking the rifle he groaned in sheer frustration. He'd ran out of bullets. How many self-respecting sniper's only had four bullets!

Looking back into the scope John watched as Moriarty smirked and high-tailed it out of the place as Sherlock his last opponent, "Damn it!" John snarled as he threw the rifle down and ran towards the staircase; fully intent of reaching Sherlock.

...

...

(John's POV)

If Sherlock ever, I mean, ever does this to me again then I swear to God I'll shoot him and save the criminal world the bother! Again! He's actually done this before though hasn't he... of course he has, he's Sherlock! As if that whole escapade at the swimming pool wasn't enough of a problem, Sherlock then has to go and agree to another meeting with the psycho of crime, without telling me! I'll kill him, I swear I will bloody kill him. Slowly.

And do you know what's worse? What's worse is the fact that I would never have known about the whole 'meeting-thing' if I wasn't paranoid and had set-up some of my own surveillance. Sherlock might have the homeless network and Mycroft might have the government owned spies, but I think mine trumps the pair of them. I have the army; every soldier who I've served with, who isn't overseas, and every soldier I've saved has done the impossible for me. They've done what Mycroft's little hoard of government assassins couldn't; my every day, unremarkable soldiers have located Moriarty and then as an added bonus tracked down Sherlock when he went AWOL. Brother in arms indeed.

Anyway, the whole reason I'm running up this Goddamn stairs is because of Sherlock and his annoying need to do everything alone; oh yeah, he takes me to the crime scenes and he lets me in on certain things but ultimately, because he thinks no-one understands him in his entirety, he thinks he has to do things on his own, without asking for help. And without thinking of the consequences. Arrogant, suicidal, genius of an arse.

By the time I reach the floor I know he's on, sometimes I love the precision of the military, he'll probably be lying in a pool of his own blood, bleeding out his precious life force and I'll have just a moment to see him before he's gone and his eyes dull and he-

Bollocks to that! Faster! Run faster damn it! Stupid leg! Stupid psychosomatic limp! Stupid staircase! Stupid night-time policy of shutting down the lifts! And stupid bloody Sherlock!

Wait-wait-wait! This is the floor, that door John that one you bloody pratt! Okay, brilliant, I'll just insult myself, that'll help. Yep. Fantastic. I run, and I mean 'run' not a half-hearted jog or a power walk, I mean I run like the Devil is on my bloody heels; or Mrs Hudson when we've broken her best china...

I can feel my heart beating so loud, so fast, and damn it but there's no tremor in my hands; nothing to betray the fact that I've been shot. I love this, this danger, this feeling that I'm doing something that I might not come back from; and that therapist was an idiot! I could never give this feeling up, especially now since Sherlock is like a splash of technicolour in a dull world. He's not bound by social conventions, not contained by the stupid fragility of the human psyche and what can and can't be done. He's just... Sherlock, and I love him for it.

At least, I did love him until I reached the balcony; and what is the point of having a balcony when it's covered in glass? It's nothing more than a bloody viewing room to see the London skyline. Bloody ridiculous. I want to shout and scream and rant and rave and- okay, I don't really, I want to be over there next to him, protecting him, but I'm here, he's there and all I can do is pointlessly shout his name even though there's no hope he'll hear me.

"SHERLOCK!" wow... déjà vu much... where's the cabby? Focus John! "SHERLOCK!" Damn it you stupid, stupid, ignorant, idiot! Damn it to hell! I can't do anything from here except watch him as he loses... and oh God what am I waiting for God's sake? Come on John! Get your head into gear!

Right, back the way I came; running, running and I really hate running. Down the corridor, all the way back to the stairwell door so I can hurry down and hurry to Sherlock's side; quickly now. Only a few hundred steps to go. Turning the corner I see what looks to someone ducking into one of the cubicles and my natural instinct is to stop, and who am I to ignore natural instinct? It's kept me alive thus far. And it's keeping me alive now as well because damn it to Hell, that guy's got a bloody AK-74; shit! Duck, tuck and roll!

The copier's just saved my life; thank you copier. Gun, gun where's my gun? Oh yeah, waistband of my jeans, come on, come on. Whoever this guy is he's got a good aim and Jesus! That bullet just missed my toes! I should buy a gun holster or something for this bloody thing; and yes! It's free; remove the safety and deep breath. On the count of three, dive out, aim and blow his head off... I think I need psychiatric help if I'm enjoying this.

I'm quick to relinquish him of his weapon, he won't be needing it anymore since he's dead, and I'm quick to hurry towards the stairwell; extra alert now just in case there's anymore nasty's out there waiting for me. When I reach the stairwell and open the door I stop because I'm sure, positive, that I've just heard one of the doors above me open and shut. Is there anyone else here? The goon who shot at me was obviously checking the floors making sure no-one was around so what if there's someone upstairs and they're unarmed? I can't leave them to get shot can I? And this AK-74's got a scope on it so if I can't get to Sherlock in time I can always take a shot or two from here, my aim might not be all that good but it'd be enough to dissuade anyone from going after Sherlock. Hopefully.

Right, sorry Sherlock, I promise I'll try and protect you still; I swear I will. Up the stairs I go, and most of the doors are shut, locked so I'm guessing the door that's open is the one I want to go through? Sound logic John, perfectly sound. And the only door that's unlocked is the one onto the rooftop; maybe it's a good thing I came up here afterall...

Carefully I push the door open and step out onto the gravel-like ground, I hate this type of covering they put on the rooftops nowadays; it makes it that bit harder to sneak around. Anyway, quietly and efficiently I'm moving across the rooftop, heading towards the side of the building which Sherlock is closest to, sweeping the rooftop effectively and I'm rewarded with the sight of a uniformed man; probably an ex-soldier, whose crouching down and looks to be assembling a sniper rifle. Of course. I should have known sniper's would have been involved in this. Brilliant. Bloody fantastic.

I come up behind him just in time to stop him from positioning himself properly, to take a shot at my Sherlock the bastard, and with a brutish amount of strength, I bring the butt of the AK-74 down and hit him on top of his head. He's dead before he even hits the ground; being a doctor's useful for some things afterall.

Making another split-second decision I kneel down, placing the AK-74 down next to me and pick up the Arctic Warfare Rifle; good model, and fix the scope so it's to my specifications. Peering down the scope I immediately pick out Sherlock standing in the middle of six guys; oh if we get out of this alive I'm seriously going to murder him. I scan along the floor Sherlock's on and I pause, there he is; the bastard who's caused all this chaos in our lives. What I wouldn't give to blow that manic smile off his face! But there's a reason why he's smiling; there always is with the maniac so I bring the scope back around to Sherlock and that's when whatever restraint I had snapped. All six of those men, six, jump my detective in one fell swoop and there's no chance that he'll fight his way out so I do what is only natural. I aim and shoot the bastards hurting my Sherlock.

Amazingly enough my first shot isn't detected and the glass doesn't shatter; it fractures due to the laws of physics obviously but it doesn't shatter which is quite something. Anyway, I manage three more shots; the second one shatters the glass and I'm quick enough to get a third one in before they wise up. Moriarty's looking shocked and confused, not for long though. I aim for his head, right between his evil eyes and pull the trigger... except he doesn't die, there's no recoil and I've ran out of bullets! Seriously! What self-respecting sniper only has four bullets! Absolutely ridiculous!

Moriarty's running and I can't do anything to stop him; I can't even help Sherlock with those last two goons, even though he's handling them perfectly fine so I do the next best thing. I grab the AK-74 and sprint towards the staircase; I'll either, catch Moriarty and put a bullet between his eyes, or I'll reach Sherlock and ensure he's still breathing.

...

(Sherlock's POV)

This isn't a particularly intelligent situation that I've put myself in I must admit. I probably should have informed John, or Mycroft, about this... meeting of mine but the threat of John getting hurt is too much of an incentive for me to keep it to myself; and I'd rather gnaw my own foot off than willingly involve Mycroft in this affair. That being said, I should have had a viable contingency plan just encase this meeting went wrong; which it, undoubtedly, has. But I can't change the past so I'll just have to, as they say, 'deal with it'.

This past week I haven't been acting normal; normal for me at least, and I know that it's worried John but I just couldn't bring him into this, not this time around. When Moriarty is involved it is always better for me to deal with him alone, without any innocent bystanders for Moriarty to target and shoot and burn and kill and-

In addition to the three lackey's in here Moriarty has now deemed it fit to add an addition three more so now I'm against six immediate threats; i.e. the ones who will happily paint the room with my blood, and the most dangerous of all. Brilliant deduction Sherlock. Quite spectacular.

"Oh Sherlock darling! How lovely to see you so soon!" I really do despise that man, his voice is so grating with its pitched insanity in it; I'm almost offended that Anderson calls me a psychopath when I compare myself to this... crazy boy. He says we're alike, I beg to differ. I have something he'll never have. Thankfully.

"I must concur," I respond, not moving or attempting to find a way out of this; there's no point, I won't get out of this alive, that much I know, "But it's quite rude of you to invite guests; If I'd known we were bringing friends I'd have brought a few of my own."

"Implying you have any Sherlock?" Moriarty chuckles; I think I hate him more than I do Anderson, but Moriarty's got a brain which is a problem, "We both know that you can count your 'friends' on one hand and still have at least three digits spare."

"In regards to that I beg to differ; you have no friends and I sincerely doubt you know what a friend actually is," a biting, scathing remark, so below me but I can't help myself; this man does strange things to me and speaking rashly is one of them.

Moriarty pouts as though I've hurt his feelings, pointless since he needs to have feelings for me to hurt in the first place, and I watch as he strolls towards me; slow, steady and confident paces, he's entirely certain that I won't try anything due to these rather unsurprisingly dull brutes guarding me. How mundane of him to think I would be predictable.

He's less than three feet away from me and that's when he stops; just out of my reach unless I move. Those dullards around me seem to be flexing their muscles in an attempt to intimidate me; how pedestrian, muscles mass counts for nothing if you don't know how to use it correctly and effectively. He smiles at me and mock-whispers, "Tell me Sherlock; how's Johnny-boy?"

Bad idea. Very bad idea. Threats to myself I can handle, they're of no concern to me, but threats to John; even veiled as this one obviously is, is not good. I can feel a monster, a beast deep inside of me, rearing its head and roaring in anger and defiance; it's enraged at Moriarty threatening John... I should let it loose, let it devour the suited fool, let it take him apart agonisingly slowly and give it the satisfaction of watching those dark eyes become void of anything. But I need to think clearly; unhindered for a while, so my base instinct has to be over-rode and I need to continue to play this game of ours.

I don't answer, my throat tightens and constricts almost painfully, and as Moriarty watches I can see triumph growing in his gaze; he thinks he's won this round, and maybe he has, I don't know right now and I don't care. He's moving away and his lackey's are moving towards me; violence is on their minds and I can't fight them all. Two on the far left are two microseconds slower than the one directly in front of me; he's priority then, leader of the lot and the instigator. Remove him quickly and effectively then focus on the rest.

Aim for the jaw; one-third of the way from the chin, right hand side, use half of usual strength and maintain contact for four-point-six seconds. Result; opponent one neutralised.

Second two, targeting my lower abdomen; they're cowards, secondary fighters, followers into battle rather than leaders. Main weaknesses; first opponent has weaker left knee, main target, second opponent is in the beginning stages of arthritis, aim for joints such as shoulders and elbows. Main priorities. Remove threats; immediately.

Sound registers; doesn't relate to current affairs so is irrelevant. Focus on opponents.

Problem though; forgot about other three moving slowly, they're threats too, but I can't fight them all off. Must focus on one or two at a time and hope for the best; the logical outcome however suggests I will be incapacitated within the next four-and-a-half-minutes. Important note; do not go down without a fight!

Swift kick to the left knee of first opponent, result; he's down. Grasp forearm of second opponent; twist and enact karate chop with free hand. Result; arm broken at the elbow, second opponent defeated.

Turning to engage in combat with remaining opponents, ready to assess and analyse their weaknesses; only they've been incapacitated. No longer a threat me but who has done this? I look out of the window, across the way and I see something on the rooftop of the building opposite; a sniper? Why would they have shot Moriarty's men then? Unless they're not on Moriarty's payroll... one of Mycroft's men then? A distinct possibility. I must find out.

Moriarty has fled; coward that he is won't face me on even ground. I will catch him however, one day I will find him and there will be nothing between us; no bodies for him to hide behind. And what that day comes, he will lose; he will die.

...

(John's POV)

I can see him; he's safe, he's breathing. Thank bloody God for that! Now I'm going to kill him. Stupid heroic pratt. I got rid of the AK-74, after wiping my prints off it of course, in the plant in the lobby of the building before I strolled out and slipped across the road towards Sherlock. He's looking about himself, confused but composed; and how is it that he can look sexy like that? And I still want to kill him, even if I'm taking note of his absolute sexiness; I'm human!

"Sherlock!" I shout as I hurry across the road; looking both ways because I really wouldn't want to hit ran over right now, and I stop when he looks at me as though I'm just a mirage. Although, since he wasn't expecting me to be here I can understand that response; still not happy with him though, "Sherlock! What the hell did you think you were doing?" I bark at him and he seems to unfreeze from his surprise; he's standing right in front of me quicker than I can blink and his hands are all over me. If I was of the variety where my mind was perpetually in the gutter then I might think he wanted to do unsavoury things to me; but I'm not so I know he's checking to see a) if I'm uninjured and b) if I'm really there. Paranoid much.

"Sherlock! I'm here, I'm breathing, I'm uninjured and stop that!" I exclaim as his hands slip a little lower than what is conventionally acceptable in a public place; correction... a lot lower.

He pauses and looks at me; he's surprised, shocked, confused and just that little bit relieved that I'm alright and the anger inside of me just drains away. He looks so... well, he looks so young and lost, "Sherlock, I'm fine; I promise," I say, my voice is softer now and I can see him start to relax as his minds computes my words into Sherlock's version of 'he's right, he's fine, stop worrying you ninny'.

He doesn't speak, or he doesn't seem to have managed to master the art of speech at this present moment in time, and instead tugs me along by the arm; he's gripping me so tightly that I think he's afraid that if his grip loosens then I'll disappear. Yep. Definitely paranoid.

I can hear the sound of police sirens in the distance but they're not my concern; my concern is Sherlock and the fact that he's dragging me in the direction of the taxi rank which I know is about five minutes away. Though in Sherlock's case with his long-legs and power-walking abilities it's less than two minutes away; I hate his abnormal height you know.

We're in a black hack and heading towards Baker Street before Sherlock speaks; I'm almost surprised by his voice actually, I thought he'd started on one of his silent periods. Evidently not, "Why were you there John?" his voice is low and it sounds so confused and vulnerable that I find it hard lie to him; it's only a little lie anyway.

"You've been acting strange all week; I was worried so I followed you," I answer; half the truth and it's entirely conceivable that it's the whole truth. But I'm talking to Sherlock here so if he believes this then I've either become the world's best liar, or the detective's not actually paying attention. Could go either way really.

"You shouldn't have come," Sherlock whispers quietly, not looking at me; he's staring out to the window but I know he's watching my reaction in the reflection.

"You shouldn't have faced Moriarty on your own!" I hiss as I lean closer to him and tilt my head so I can see his face as opposed to just his reflection, "You wouldn't have come out of there alive if I hadn't of followed you Sherlock! Why didn't you tell me?"

Sherlock is silent; big surprise there, he doesn't want to tell me. He doesn't want to talk about this, well tough; I'm not going anywhere until he tells me why he didn't take me. I have an idea but I want him to confirm it; or I want him to hit me with a scathing remark which will prove to me that he's fine.

He's silent for the rest of the journey back to Baker Street and I feel like hitting my head against the window; stupid bloody idiot! I'll wring his bloody neck for this! I swear I will. He throws a twenty pound note at the cabby; doesn't even bother to check if it's right amount and I'm too concerned with hurrying after him to make sure myself. When he opens the door to Baker Street he steps in and waits for me to follow before closing the door and leaning against it; now this is unusual, and I'm seriously worried. What if something happened to him? Something that I didn't see. Oh God, what if he's been hurt and I didn't catch it!

"Sherlock?" I say tentatively as I reach out a hand and place it gently on his arm. The response is instantaneous. Seriously, I didn't have the chance to blink. I'm up against the wall, my wrists pinned almost painfully by my head, with a panting Sherlock towering over me.

"John..." he whispers, his voice low and deep, oh Jesus... condemn to me to hell and eternal damnation; just give me Sherlock and I'll never complain. I swear...

His head moves down, slowly and when his lips touch mine I feel like I'm burning alive; so hot, so needy, burning me and boiling me in my skin. I respond to the touch of his lips on mine, pushing up desperately and deepening the kiss; his tongue sweeps across my lips languidly and my knees weaken as I moan into our kiss. His hands slide my wrists up along the wall and using one hand he pins them above my head; his free hand runs over my chest, light and teasing as I continue to moan and stand on the tips of my toes.

His hand slips underneath my jumper and his hands are cold, so so cold, but by God they're so smooth; like marble and I shiver in delight as his hand searches higher and higher along my torso until the cold flesh sweeps across my nipple. I groan and my back arches almost upon its own accord as Sherlock presses closer to me and pinches my nipple between his forefinger and thumb.

I strain against his hand pinning my wrists; I want to touch him, oh Jesus, I need to touch him, but he just holds on tighter and presses against me harder. I can feel him, all of him against me, and he's so hard that it's like being poked by a piece of metal in the side but I don't care about that... I just care about him and his- hands...

His hand continues to taunt me and he breaks off our kiss, I whimper at the loss of his lips on mine but it turns into a sort of half-moan as he attaches his lips to my neck and begins to kiss, suck, lick and bite along my neck and jaw-line. I can't think properly... all I can do is feel...

Somehow he manages to get me up the stairs and into his room before I notice anything; sneaky git. He's got both of his hands underneath my jumper now and as he pulls it up and over my head his left leg snakes out and he trips me so I land in a heap on the bed. As I lie there, panting and needy, he slithers along the bed, along the length of my body, until he's lying entirely over me and his arms are supporting him as he raises his upper body up and grinds his hips down against mine. Oh!

I arch up, searching for more friction, but as I do he swoops down on me and bites my neck; hard. I yelp and then moan in pleasure as he licks the abused flesh slowly and it's so damn erotic that it should be illegal or something. I can feel one his hands running down our bodies and I'm dimly aware of the sounds of zippers being undone but he's still assaulting my neck and I can't do much except gurgle and moan in pleasure.

When he pulls back away from my neck I growl in annoyance and pin him with a stare as he kneels over me, straddling my hips with his zipper undone and his belt loose... oh... of course... he's looking at me with a question in his eyes; a question that I'd be mad to say no to, so I nod and he quickly sheds his pants and he's pulling down my jeans before I actually realise he's doing it.

We're left with our boxers and I reach up to run a hand along Sherlock's flat stomach in a gesture that's more intimate than it is lustful; I want to feel him in a way that would show him how much he means to me, I want him to know the lengths I'd go to just to protect him, the lengths I have gone to. He shivers as my hand trails down to the waistband on his boxers and I decided to take the initiative; I grasp the material tightly in my fingers and pull until I see him. Every last, magnificent bit of him.

He almost collapses on top of me and I can feel his hands gripping my boxers and in one fell swoop he's shoved them down past my knees and I kick them off as he does the same with his own. Now we can see each other, entirely and as his hands run along my arms and my chest I smile and kiss him; deep and loving as he grinds his hips down against mine sending shockwaves of pleasure along my body. We're touching and grasping and moving against each other so much that I'm almost offended when he pulls away from me and rolls to the side.

I lie there, panting and trying to get myself back under control and I hear the distinctive sound of a drawer being opened, something being taken out and then the subsequent 'click' of a lid. Within moments Sherlock's draped across me again and he stares at me, silently questioning me as to if this is okay; whether he can continue and all I can do is raise an eyebrow and smirk at him in a challenging way. I'm not backing down from this; no, bloody way.

Sherlock's fingers are slick and cold when he presses them against my opening and I tense automatically, but he's stroking my cock and it's not long before I relax and he presses a finger into me. It's so fucking intoxicating that I can't speak... can't do anything except moan and press down on his finger as he stretches me and strokes my prostate. By the time he adds a second finger and scissors me I'm writhing on the bed and I arch up as he presses against my prostate; Jesus Christ!

He slips his fingers out of me and I want to complain but all that comes out is a desperate keening sound which is replaced by a cry of pleasure as his cock presses against my entrance and he pushes in slowly... I can't... it's... it's indescribable... just... oh God...

And then he's moving and whatever ability to think or speak goes right out of the bloody window... harder, harder, oh please Sherlock! Harder! Yes Yes! Just there... harder... more... please... Oh God... heaven isn't as good as this... Jesus... Lord... Just... there... no no no... stop... I'm not going to-

Sleep seems like a good thing right now... yeah, a good thing... and Sherlock's curled up next to me so yeah... really good idea...

...

THE END

Okies... that's it folks; no more now. It's over and I hope you liked this last bit (the problem when you do POVs is that such scenes as this are so hard to write since it's most "Oh God... more... yes!" etc). Anyway, tell me what you think of this and if you insist I'll do an one-shot to this which will give you the last scene in third person (which means it'll be far more detailed... ;p).

Kasey