(there are no words, and john is perfectly fine with that. sherlock had told him he might get quiet from time to time and when he did just to let him be. so john did just that.)

When Sherlock Holmes tells you he's a high functioning sociopath you figure, well, that much was half expected. (if you know what a sociopath is.) When you comment on Sherlock's dating status and he tells you "married to my work" you figure, i am a straight male, i wasn't implying anything—i swear to God. When Sherlock says he has no interest in you, you figure: good (and in the back of your mind, there's a bit of sadness, which you'll deny till the cock crows). You definitely don't expect Sherlock—who allegedly has no interest in you—to suddenly walk up to you, one damp and boring Sunday, and kiss you.

. : . : . : . : . : . : .

Well, no, not kiss. Snog. Sherlock is snogging John. And the only things that keep revolving in John's head are: Liar. and Oh my God, it feels /good/. and John opens his mouth a little willingly, letting Sherlock kiss him deep. John takes in the robust taste that is Sherlock Holmes. It's a really good taste, John finds himself thinking.

John Watson likes the taste of Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock Holmes tastes like black coffee and two sugars, with an undertone of smoke and haze, which is almost overpowered by the taste that is naturally Sherlock. And naturally Sherlock tastes like dead air and panting breath with lusty thoughts and heady scents,

(yes — scents have tastes, thank you)

that rut in your head like a horny teenager.

Sherlock pulls back from John and licks his lips sensually and John can't help but pull him into another kiss. Kissing Sherlock isn't a clean business at all. It's dirty and heady and makes John question his sexuality — and John loves it.

When John settles back into the couch, his fingers are still gripping Sherlock's jacket, but Sherlock doesn't follow him. Sherlock remains standing, no wobbly knees, he doesn't even properly bend over.

Sherlock—the prat he is—has the nerve to stand and smirk at John. Smirk. "So," he says and his tone is very certain, very sure. John looks down at his feet, then up at Sherlock, "So," he repeats.

"I find myself suddenly attracted to you. I don't know when it started, but I have fair idea it was possibly after about the third time you saved my life." Sherlock explains. John gives Sherlock a look for a bit — an evil, evil cruel look — or his attempt at one (because he's John Watson and he has been told that he's adorable and looks like he was carved from marshmallow); then finally utters, "Liar." In the most snarkish tone as he can muster.

Sherlock's look of shock doesn't even look shocked. It's more of a subtly risen eyebrow and a slightly clenched jaw, as so his mouth doesn't fall open. "As far as I know, I am nothing of the sort. I find myself to be very truthful."

"Yes, you are truthful, brutally so. But, no, not that." John starts in a tone that teeters on a cross between exasperated and upset. "You said and you consider yourself, and I quote, 'married to your work,' end quote." His emphasis is amusing and adorable. And due to an argument with Sherlock that didn't end in John's favour, "and made it clear by attitude and mannerisms, that you don't find me interesting." John pauses, thinks about it and then adds in afterthought, "In a sexual way." He clarifies.

They both stare at each other for a minute, recalling that night at the restaurant; the first time John saved Sherlock's life — the first, and they are both very aware — far from the last.

"At the time, that was true, yes." Sherlock agrees, finally, nodding, "But as we can both see, it's not anymore." John shrugs his acquiesce and Sherlock hooks a hand under his chin, leaning to give John another amazing kiss.

"Don't do that!" John doesn't shout like he'd wanted to, but instead remarks breathlessly. Sherlock smirks and it's beautiful. "You like it." John turns his head and avoids the consulting detective's gaze with a childish huff. "What makes you say that?"

"Well, you're reciprocating the kiss, avoiding me when I directly comment on your liking of it, blushing, oh, and let's not forget — " Sherlock looks pointedly down and at John's crotch, John follows the detective's gaze, horror mounting in the back of his throat. Oh, God he had a . . . because of . . . and he was . . .

Sherlock meets John's eyes evenly. "John? You are okay, yes?" He reaches out a hand to the doctor. John swats his hand away and—still blushing, skitters to the couch. "I'm fine, fine. Let me just . . . adj—"

Sherlock's mouth is over his again and this kiss is different. It's hungry and wanting, it's emotional and delicious. John hardly notices when Sherlock has deftly undone his trousers, his only concern being to return the kiss. John begins to notice when he feels the scratch of denim on his thighs, but by then Sherlock has ended the kiss and is down on his knees in front of John. John's eyes burst open and he gasps in amazement when he feels Sherlock's lips press against the head of his cock. When Sherlock then swallows him from tip to root John decides he doesn't want to know how he trained his gag reflex because he's never enjoyed a blowjob this much.

Sherlock is obviously very skilled in the art of cocksucking. He's a fucking pro. He does things with his tongue and teeth that reduce John from panting to breathless. And just when John is teetering on orgasm, feeling that familiar pressure and digging his fingers into Sherlock's scalp — Sherlock looks up. His grey-blue eyes are sharp, pupils dilated with lust and making the blue even, well, bluer.

Those most amazing eyes I've ever seen. John realises and he's gone. Eyes locked with Sherlock's he comes, straight down Sherlock's throat. Sherlock closes his eyes and swallows, licking his lips when he's finished and drying them as he stands.

Then he's kissing John again, but John almost doesn't like it. He can taste himself on Sherlock's tongue and — quite honestly — he prefers Sherlock's taste to his own. He tastes awkward; salty, a hint of sand and lemons, possibly some gunfire and iron — but not a bloody iron, simple iron. There are no undertones in the taste, simply what is. It's distasteful almost, and John wonders why Sherlock would want to taste that. It's dull.

Sherlock breaks the kiss lazily — a very un-Sherlock-ish thing to do, "The most amazing eyes, hm?" John blushes and looks away. "I need to stop thinking out loud."

"No, no!" Sherlock says, his voice high and excited. "I quite like it." John glowers at Sherlock and Sherlock grins cheekily back. "So, is this going to become a daily thing?"

"Will what become a daily thing?" John asks, utterly lost and a tad bewildered. Sherlock sighs, "Really John, there's no reason to be such an idiot." John shoves Sherlock, "Get off of me!" Sherlock laughs — another un-Sherlock-ish thing to do — and wraps his arms about John's waist. "No." John stares down at the man-child in his lap, "Okay. Who are you and what the Hell have you done with Sherlock?"

Sherlock sighs again, "This. Us. We. Will we become a daily thing, John?" John stops all motion and thinks about it.

With Sherlock's head resting in his lap and his elbow digging into the man's head, he perches his chin on the palm of his hand. He looks around the flat, seeing the mayhem he'd clean and the experiments in the kitchen. He counts the seven toes hanging from the lights and the moldy bread and the dinosaur figurines. He looks down into his lap, where Sherlock his shifted his head from lap to hip and is now nuzzling and biting a little bit.

John smiles and runs his fingers through Sherlock's hair, bringing the man to face him and he nods, "Yeah . . . yes. Yeah. I think I like it. No, I do like it. It. Us. We. Together." He picks up the solved Rubik's cube from the table next to him and starts messing it up, Sherlock whines at that. "I like us together a lot."

Sherlock grins and his face practically lights up, "Good. That's good, yes, I must say, I agree with you my dear Watson." John raises an eyebrow, and sets the messed up Rubik's cube down again. Then, with much thought and consideration, he slowly cups Sherlock's angular, gorgeous face in his hands and brings their lips together. He kisses Sherlock slow and lazy.

. : . : . : . : . : . : .

It's Sunday on Baker Street and it's dull, drab and dreary. The tenants of 221B are amazingly quiet. No gunshots, no shouting, no banging. Just shuffling and breathing, and letting out noises that are most likely not meant to be as loud as they are. Mrs. Hudson smiles nonetheless, happy that Sherlock was happy.

"See, I told you."

The skull on her coffee table stares back in reply.