A/N: Uh-oh, we seem to be developing a bit of a plot! Hopefully it's not too distracting. ;)

Four weeks passed, and Sherlock never once brought up what happened that afternoon.

I probably should have been relieved. After all, no matter what had or hadn't happened that day, I was straight. And living with the man. And chasing after him at all hours when he needed something. It was not exactly ideal conditions for any kind of relationship, even one purely based on sex.

But I had to confess to a certain restlessness.

It was probably because the situation had been so unusual. I'd been accosted by my flatmate – the same one who insisted that he was married to his work, ha! – and convinced that it was a good idea that I fuck him. It was not a good idea. It was a terrible idea. But it had happened, because never once had I said no to Sherlock Holmes

Now, I couldn't sleep.

Well, that wasn't strictly true. I could sleep, but only once I fulfilled certain… urges.

See, the problem with living with a one-night-stand is that you had to see them everywhere, doing everything. I saw Sherlock on his way out of the shower, with a towel draped around his feet because he'd forgotten it in his quest to grab a book he suddenly needed off the shelf. I heard him moan during his stretching exercises when he meditated on something. I felt him brush up against me when he stretched past at the sink, wanting something out of the cupboard.

And yet, Sherlock never once mentioned it. That night he had come walking in, dropped my shirt and coat on the floor, and gone upstairs without a word. Radio silence for the next four weeks.

Oh, we talked, but not about the only thing I really wanted to talk about. I told him about current events, the number of hits on the blog, and who I was dating this week. Sherlock talked about German writers, how to find a good Chinese restaurant, and the details of the case.

No need to mention the mind-blowing sex, then.

Eventually I had to put it down to the sad fact that it just hadn't been as good for him as it had been for me. It made sense; Sherlock was a sociopath or whatever it was that made him so ungodly annoying. He just didn't feel things that way. It had been an experiment, and it hadn't gone well.

Except… except that I could still hear him moaning my name, bucking his hips, begging for more. Surely I couldn't have imagined that?

Unless it had all just been an act, playing up to human nature for his own twisted reasons.

By the end of the month, I was strung-out and permanently irritated. I liked to think that it was because of Holmes's immaturity in failing to ever discuss what had happened, but that was such a lie that even my own brain wouldn't entertain it for long. First off, I could've brought it up just as easily. And secondly, I didn't need him to bring it up again.

I just needed to do it again.

My cock was sore, rubbed raw; I had no clean socks anymore. I desperately wanted to fuck Sherlock Holmes, and I wasn't going to be able to focus on anything until it either happened again, or I got some space.

So when Donovan asked me to house-sit, it was perfect timing. I suppose she thought I'd take care of the place, and at the same time it would get me some distance from "the freak". For once, we wanted the same thing, though for different reasons.

"Where are you taking that overnight bag, John?" Sherlock snapped as I started to walk out the door.

I frowned, confused. "What do you mean? I told you, I'm house-sitting for Sally."

"What?" he demanded. His forehead was furrowed and his eyes were narrowed. Not happy. "Why on earth would you do that?"

"Because… she asked me to? And someone has to do it?"

Sherlock huffed out an irritated noise. "Alright, well, for how long?"

"A week."

"A week?" Sherlock looked at me as if I was crazy.

I nodded. "Yup, a week. So… I'll seeya then."

"You're going? Now?" Incredulous.

"Yes," I said, trying to keep the exasperation out of my voice. "I am going, now, and I am house-sitting for Sally. So have fun with your little experiments, try to eat, and don't blow up my bedroom while I'm gone." Then I fled, before I could entertain the very tempting notion that he might beg me to stay.

Five days later, I was standing at a crime scene, waiting on Sherlock Holmes for once. I checked my watch surreptitiously.

"He'll be here soon enough," Lestrade said. He stared at me, looking puzzled. "By the bye, how come you're here without…"

Sherlock strode onto the scene, walking straight through the plastic barriers. His face was angry and his eyes were locked on me. I gulped.

"You took the computer," he glowered.

I raised my eyebrows and fought back a smile. "Yes, well, it is my computer, so I think I'm well within my rights to do so."

"I need it!"

"For what?"

His glare intensified. "For when I don't want to walk into the kitchen." I threw my head back and groaned. What could you even say to someone like that?

"Uh, boys?" Lestrade looked nervous; he was shifting his weight from foot to foot. "Did you have some kind of… domestic?"

"No," I said, at the same time Sherlock said, "Yes."

I stared at him. "What do you mean, yes?" I cried. "I'm house-sitting for Sally. That's not exactly a brick through the window, is it?"

"Oh thank God," Lestrade said in the background.

Sherlock stepped closer and loomed over me, using his full height to every advantage. "You have upset my working conditions."

I sputtered, "Upset them? I haven't even been there!"

"Precisely."

We glared at each other until Lestrade coughed into his fist and shuffled.

"Holmes? Dr. Watson? There is a body here, you know."

"Oh right, yes of course." I turned around, rubbing my nose. Stupid of me to get drawn into this, especially when I didn't even know what Sherlock was on about.

Sherlock was quiet, and stayed quiet through the viewing of the crime scene, until he seemed to reach some kind of breaking point and spewed out information about the obviousness of the killer until I definitely wasn't the only one who wanted to throttle him.

The two of us waited for the scans to run in an off-shoot of the main corridor. Sherlock for his own reasons; me because this was what I generally did, following Sherlock.

"Boring," he muttered, not looking at me. "Boring, boring, boring. Everything is boring!"

"I'm standing right here, you know," I said through gritted teeth. I'd known him for what seemed like ages, and yet sometimes even I marveled at how insensitive he could be.

"Dull," he pronounced. His eyes had a manic tinge to them. "Boring, boringer, boringest. Need I belabor the point furth - "

His words cut off when I grabbed him, wrenched open the first door I found, and thrust him inside.

It was a small lab room, with an operating table on one side and a long, built into the wall desk with a sink on the other. This clearly belonged to the interns, or anybody unlucky enough to piss off someone important.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock demanded. Without answering, I thrust him up against the desk and kissed him.

The kiss was hot; electric; it burned me, starting with my mouth and searing all the way down to my feet. It wasn't better than last time, exactly, but it was different. There was a month of anticipation behind this kiss and I wasn't gentle. I shoved my body into his and opened his mouth with my tongue, thrusting inside before pulling back and nipping his lip.

Sherlock was bent backwards over the desk, though not far enough to hurt, gripping at the edges of it with his gloved hands. He didn't struggle; didn't fight; didn't seem to move much at all but to follow the kiss. I thought I heard him mumble my name into my lips, but I wasn't sure and I couldn't stop to check.

Still kissing him, I pulled my body apart from his and began to undo the buttons on his shirt. His hand reached up, and I batted it away with a growl. I didn't want it off; I just wanted it hanging open.

Next came the pants. It was a struggle to undo the zipper because he was already so stiff against the fabric. I heard him moan and hoped it was out of pleasure, not because I was yanking too hard.

I stepped back and looked at him. Sherlock immediately leaned forward after me, but I shoved him back and growled, "Stay!" as I quickly undid my own pants.

After I freed my aching cock, I took a moment to look at Sherlock. He was leaning his back into the edge of the desk like he needed the support, though it couldn't be comfortable, fingers still gripping the edge on either side of his body. His legs dangled down at odd angles, like he wasn't using them at all to stay upright. The dark shirt he had on was lying open, and the strip of skin I could see was just as sexy as I'd thought it would be. Below, his long cock throbbed impatiently.

His mouth was red and swollen from my harsh kisses, and his eyes looked dazed, though it was hard to see them properly because they were trained on my dick. I realized with a jolt that he desperately wanted it.

"That's right," I said roughly. I stepped forward and pushed him into the desk even harder. He groaned, and I knew from the sound that he liked it, liked this. I swallowed, wetting my dry throat. God help me, I liked it too.

"So. Do you want it?" Our dicks were close. If one of us jutted our hips forward, they would touch. Tempting, but I needed to restrain myself for just a few seconds more.

"Want… what?" Sherlock asked, sounding dazed. Precise, even at this moment. I had to hand it to him.

I grabbed his chin in my hand and forced his eyes downward. His lips parted as he stared.

"Yes," he moaned. "Yes."

I forced his eyes back up so they were looking into mine. "Yes, what?"

He blinked slowly, like his brain was misfiring. The effect was so sensual that I wanted to take him right then. Resisting was impossibly difficult.

"Yes… please?" he asked tentatively.

"Wrong." I shook my head and took a tiny step back. He panicked.

Gloved hands flew forward to clasp my shoulders. "No, wait, I can get it! Yes, your cock." I shook my head. "Yes, I want you to fuck me." Another shake. "Yes, I need this."

I sighed, attempting to sound sorrowful. "Sherlock, I don't think you're even trying."

"I am!" He sounded frustrated and desperate at the same time; a powerful combination. "I am, John, please! I - "

"Almost there," I teased him.

His eyes widened in triumph. "Yes, John!"

"Aren't you a good boy?" I murmured as I pulled our bodies together again. A shiver of relief, or anticipation, went through him.

I circled my cock with my thumb and forefinger, and did the same to Sherlock's with my remaining digits.

"How badly do you want this, hmm?" I smiled.

"Yes, John," he panted. I smiled and shook my head at him. His eyes focused, recalling what I had just asked. It wasn't really in my plan, but I flicked my middle finger up and smeared his pre-cum over the head of his cock.

"Ahhhhnn," Sherlock moaned. He closed his eyes. "This is the only thing, the only thing I want," he whispered.

It was more than I was expecting, and my hand slipped. I found myself moaning along with him as our dicks touched and slid together. With whatever presence of mind I had left, I rubbed my pre-cum into my palm and slicked it between our rubbing skin. It wouldn't have mattered though, at least not to me; even if I had started outright bleeding I probably wouldn't have pulled away until I was finished.

I realized that Sherlock was speaking.

"Ahhh, John, John, yes John, don't stop, yes John…" He seemed to have latched onto the Yes, John thing. I hoped he didn't make it a habit; if he said it in public I was liable to start rubbing myself.

His eyes were closed and his head was tilted back, absorbed by the sensations. With great concentration, I reached up and took his chin in my hand again. His eyes fluttered open and he blinked at me.

"Well, Sherlock?" I panted. "Are you bored now?"

At that moment, his pupils dilated and he cried out, "JOHN!" so loud that it was only a matter of time before someone came looking. Still, I was nowhere near unselfish enough to stop; I rubbed my hands in his cum and rubbed it over myself, so close…

Then Sherlock dropped to his knees. He gazed at my dick, covered in his own cum. I just looked at him. I knew that there was a reason I should have told him to stop but I didn't. Couldn't. I just watched.

He opened his mouth and swallowed my cock, all the way to the hilt, in one clean motion. I'm pretty sure I screamed – maybe his name, maybe nothing. But as he bobbed up and down, choking a little, I began to hear myself again.

"Oh God, oh God, Sherlock, oh God yes, yes, that's right, don't stop, don't ever stop, oh oh oh oh - " My hands clenched around fistfuls of his black hair. He winced, but I couldn't stop. I pushed myself deeper into his mouth, aching for him to swallow every last drop…

"Sherlock," I groaned as I came. He stiffened in surprise, but I rocked my hips back and forth a couple more times, and I felt him swallow around my cock. God, that was sexy. If it hadn't been for the immediate need to get dressed…

Responsibility hit me like a wall the instant I thought of it. It was one thing for people to see me like this, but Sherlock was quite another. He wouldn't know how to handle it.

Telling him how wonderful he was, how amazing it had been, I coaxed his cock back into his pants and buttoned up his shirt. Sherlock still had the same dazed expression on his face.

I had just zippered my pants when a smug, satisfied voice echoed through the lab.

"Well, my my my. Would you look at this? I knew there was a reason you hung out with the freak. Is it good, Watson? It would turn my stomach, to be honest, but then I never understood why a relatively normal man would spend all his free time with a psychopath."

"High-functioning sociopath," Sherlock corrected automatically, his voice still thick. The grin on the man's face widened.

"Anderson," I spat. I pulled my shirt straight, but it was no use. Assuming that he had just come in – and there was really no telling, I hadn't exactly been in a fit state of mind – this was still more than enough to damn us. We looked like we'd just shagged. And there were very few reasonable excuses for that.

I chanced a look at Sherlock. His face was clouded, angry; the way he got when he wanted to hide how he felt.

"Well, I'll just be off," Anderson chuckled. "I have several bets I need to collect on." He turned and strode off, whistling.

My stomach clenched. I hated the man, hated him for ruining something that had been so incredible just a few moments ago. Now it was tainted; dirty. Not for me, but… I knew how Sherlock would think.

"Sherlock, stay here." I pushed him back into the desk without thinking and moved by.

"John."

"I'll be right back."

"John, I…"

I turned around and smiled at him. I hoped it was reassuring. "Two minutes, Sherlock. I'll be right back." Then I disappeared around the corner and jogged after Anderson.

He hadn't gone far; was right around the next corner in fact. He was humming to himself and snapping his fingers and I was surprised he didn't do a twirl. It was so easy to sneak up on him that it was almost insulting.

The blow took him by surprise. I grabbed his shoulder and slammed it into the wall, twisting at the same time.

"ARGH!" he shouted. His eyes focused on me. "Watson, what in God's name do you think you're - "

"You," I said, my voice filled with as much menace as I was capable of. "You are going to sit there and listen to me, and I am going to tell you a couple of things." Anderson struggled against my arm, but he wasn't going anywhere. I kept in shape these days – partially the military training, and partially because I never knew what Sherlock was going to land us in.

"You don't like Sherlock Holmes. That's fine. Most people don't, in fact. But." I stared him down, eyes boring into him. "If you try to hurt him, I will hunt you down, and I will make you wish you'd never been born."

"You're mad!" Anderson yelped. He sounded genuinely afraid.

I raised my eyebrows. "I don't see how that's any of your business," I leered at him. No harm in reinforcing the idea. I released his shoulder, digging my fingers in painfully before finally letting go. I back away with a smile.

"I'll… I'll keep your ruddy secret," Anderson said. For Heaven's sake, he looked like he was about to cry. "I don't even care, really. It was just a bit of fun."

I scowled. "Remember that." I watched Anderson scamper away before trotting back to the lab.

"All sorted…" I looked around. I was speaking to an empty room. I sighed and leaned against the operating table. Of course. When had Sherlock ever listened to me?

Except for fifteen minutes ago, that was. My blood pressure rose at the thought. Sherlock had listened beautifully then.

I stared vacantly at the empty inside of the lab. I wasn't sure exactly what I was going to do, but I knew one thing – this time, I wasn't waiting four weeks to talk to Sherlock again.