Author's Note: Um...so...I kinda accidentally sorta wrote straight-up fucking porn. That was not the plan, I assure you. I wanted vanilla. I wanted subtlety. I wanted metaphor and delicate suggestion. But what did I write when I got the damn pen in my hand? Smut. I'm gonna go ahead and blame John and Sherlock for this. They told me to do it. I had no choice. At least I did manage to avoid using "cock" and "fuck"! That's good, right? Ahhhhhhhhh, son of a diphthong...well...I hope you enjoy! Oh, and it's also an obscenely long chapter for me. Another whoops. I am made of fail (and burritos).

With both their heads settled on the shared pillow, and Sherlock, for once in his life, obeying a request for silence, John found himself pausing to absorb the image of the face so close to his own.

Perhaps it was the heavy influence of the fever or the blood rushing through his veins, but it felt, to John, as though he could truly perceive the man before him. While John did have an inherent ability to read Sherlock better than anyone else, that still meant he was only wading in the shallow end of a pool that extended fathoms deeper than his reach. The instances when he felt like he fully comprehended Sherlock Holmes were very scarce, indeed.

At the thought, he couldn't help but conjure the memory of their night at The Last Drop pub. The powerful clarity he'd had for those few special moments, when Sherlock's deduction process and relentless, surging genius revealed their nature to him, were still fresh in his mind. Of course, he'd been rather altered at the time, but that didn't stop the rare memory from imprinting itself on him. He'd latched onto it, cradled it deep inside himself like a secret. And perhaps it was; one he was certain no one else knew or ever would know.

Yet, the Sherlock before him now was different. Rather than having epiphanies of a tempest, of a sun, behind those sea glass eyes, John found him to be decadently serene. It was a demeanor not unlike the wash of gentle calm that always overtook the detective after he'd solved a particularly titillating case, but still different. Inverted, even.

John worried his lip, trying to uncover exactly what it was that set this mood apart, disappointed that his momentary lucidity towards Sherlock was starting to slip away. What the hell is in that head? he asking himself, frustrated. When he swallowed roughly against his aching glands, the pain triggered realization.

Sherlock looked as though he'd put something together rather than pulled it apart.

It was a staggering idea, for it went against the core of what he knew of the detective's process: he took complexity, ripped it down to its details, and laid it bare in a progression of merciless logic. And then, once the equation was simplified and solved, Sherlock would experience that short period of respite. And God, did John crave those times when that great mind was sated and dormant, for Sherlock's attention would always shift to him.

It was common during those times to find the detective handing John a cup of tea (shocking), or bearing one of his favourite films with minimal complaint. He'd sit close to him on the sofa, head lolling to the side and resting on John's shoulder when the pent-up exhaustion finally claimed him. John remembered every one of those moments perfectly, the comfort of Sherlock's warm body pressed up beside him, making him ask himself questions he'd never imagined would be answered. It was like Sherlock really saw John during those brief lulls. He wasn't just an instrument or an assistant, then.

Of course, the ebb would inevitably give and Sherlock would slip into his cankerous, consuming fits of boredom. John would sigh, gathering up all the patience he could muster, and bear the brunt of it, praying for a damn-interesting case to fall in their laps before things got too dire. People always seemed to wonder how John could stand Sherlock when he got like that. He would just shrug in response and act as though he hadn't the faintest, though he knew perfectly well why.

The black moods were always worth it for the lulls.

And yet, for all the familiarity John had with Sherlock's ups and downs, the kind of tranquility Sherlock was displaying now was fast becoming confusing. It seemed much, much deeper, less temporary than the simple post-case-bliss. He looked content. He looked like he'd crafted something tremendous. But what was it? Had John put that look on his face? Did Sherlock really want this, him, so badly?

John felt suddenly overwhelmed by the intensity of that thought, and with Sherlock's fathomless eyes set so closely upon him, he found himself unable to share in his apparent relaxation. John blinked and gulped against the swell in the back of his throat. He was no stranger to the absolute power, the passion, Sherlock could put behind something he was focused on.

A distressing thought struck him: was he a bit out of his depth here?

The fear, most unfortunately, seemed to render every nerve-ending on his body hyper aware of the man gently pressed up against it. He could barely feel the solid warmth of Sherlock's form behind the layers of pyjamas, but that was enough to swamp his body with sensation. Every breath of Sherlock's against his lips, every little twitch of the slender fingers on his back shuddered through him like a static shock.

To make matters worse, his gaze felt irrevocably locked with Sherlock's. Every fissure and swirl of color in his irises so familiar, and yet so daunting. It struck him, and he felt rather stupid for it, that they were really doing this. He, John, and Sherlock bloody Holmes were lying in bed together about to go at it. It was jarring, to say the very least, to have it become so unavoidably real after spending so long running over similar scenarios in his head.

And there was Sherlock, apparently impervious to any of the nervousness now beginning to wreak havoc on John's mind and body. God, did he look confident. And why shouldn't he?

When they had kissed, and Sherlock had begun to unleash some of his apparent hidden talent, John had nearly fainted, he was so affected. And that was just an experiment with set parameters. They were kissing, nothing more. Just the threat of it becoming something serious had John chucking Sherlock unceremoniously to the floor. He could still feel the echo of Sherlock's fingertip as it breached the band of his pants. The memory alone sent a jolt of tingling right between his legs.

Now, with their romantic relationship confirmed in no uncertain terms, there was nothing to keep them from going…further. John couldn't help but tremble at the thought. What did he know about sex with a man? Well, sure, he knew the basics from bits of research done out of curiosity. That was a Google search history he was sure to clear before Sherlock commandeered his laptop again. But even from the fairly innocent contact he'd had with Sherlock (and was currently having), everything was so utterly different from what he knew or was comfortable with.

Instead of curves and soft, pillow-like contours, Sherlock was all angles and sinew and narrow hips. And sure, Sherlock might have had the same basic physical schematics as he did, and he certainly knew his way around himself, but that could only take him so far. He felt like he was stranded in thoroughly uncharted territory, unable to rely on his wisdom or practiced skills.

Sherlock, conversely, seemed to be completely comfortable with any and all possibilities.

The fluttering beat of his pulse was starting to flood his ears, making him dizzy again and altogether anxious out of his mind.

When Sherlock, seemingly oblivious to the roiling crisis he was having, reached up to touch John's cheek with his fingertips, John flinched before he could stop himself. Sherlock immediately pulled his hand away, serenity draining from his face to be replaced with a calculating furrow.

"Problem?"

"No, wait, sorry—I was just—" John stammered, finding himself wishing the strange, calm expression would return to Sherlock's face and replace his deepening scowl.

"You're nervous again."

"I am not," John snapped, blushing furiously. "I just—"

"Yes. You are."

"Am not!" His voice cracked traitorously on the words.

"John." Sherlock arched an eyebrow, looking entirely unconvinced and a little bored. John grimaced.

"Well, yes, of course I bloody am! We're about to—I don't—how can you not be? It's not fair."

"Why would I be?"

"You aren't, I don't know, worried about—making sure you—oh, forget it," John groaned, extracting his hands from where they were curled in Sherlock's robe lapels, and covering his face. He sighed against his palms, cursing silently when he realized how traitorously he was shaking now. At least he could blame it on the fever.

He went a bit rigid when warm, long digits wrapped both of his wrists and eased his hands away from his face. When he blinked his eyes back open he found Sherlock, still just centimeters away, staring at him appraisingly.

"You're flustered because you're concerned about your sexual inexperience with men?"

John startled, and then chided himself from not anticipating that Sherlock would cut right to the core of the matter.

"Maybe," John muttered, hoping he sounded at least a little enigmatic, though that was really Sherlock's area.

"Unnecessary."

"What?"

"Your concern is unnecessary." The deep, crackling, damn-near-sultry voice the virus was gracing Sherlock with didn't help John's composure in the slightest.

"It's not like I can help it!" John bit back defensively. "You're so damn…calm about it. It's all so new to me, I don't…Jesus, I feel like a bloody virgin right now." If possible, he flushed an even deeper shade of red when the words fell out of his mouth.

Sherlock looked puzzled.

"You feel like a virgin," he stated, as though saying it out loud would help him understand John's logic better. John rallied his courage, figuring he might as well plow on since there wasn't a chance in hell Sherlock would let go of the comment now.

"Well, yes, in a way. I mean, I am, aren't I?"

"You most certainly are not."

"With men, I mean, Sherlock. I don't know exactly what I'm doing and every time you touch me it's like-," John growled, snapping his mouth shut before he said too much. Sherlock stared at him, brow crinkled. "Oh Christ, this is embarrassing-"

Instinctively, John dropped his head forward in an effort to hide his expression. Before he realized what he was doing, he buried his face under Sherlock's chin, eyes shut tight against the warm silk and t-shirt cotton of his chest. Sherlock's arm tightened on his back, and John shifted closer, sliding his own arm around Sherlock's waist. The steady beat of Sherlock's heart near his ear was remarkably soothing.

"Sorry," he mumbled into the fabric, absorbing the warmth around him and letting it quell his relentless trembling. Perhaps he was overreacting a bit. Once he actually had Sherlock there, in his arms, everything seemed much more familiar.

After a moment, during which Sherlock thankfully withheld from speaking, John pulled back far enough to look into his face.

"I'm thinking too much."

"Yes, you are. And thank you for doing so at the one instance when I'd prefer you didn't," Sherlock said acerbically, but John didn't fail to catch the glint of playfulness in his eyes.

"You're welcome."

"I already told you I have no expectations," Sherlock said after a beat. "I'd say we don't have to do anything if you don't want to, but I know you do, so I can only assume you're being obstinate again."

"I do want to."

"Obvious."

John rolled his eyes.

"Is that your favourite word?"

"No. Just the one I'm forced to use the most frequently."

"Right." John cleared his throat and adjusted his grip on Sherlock's back. Then he paused. "Wait, what is your favourite word, then?"

"I don't want to tell you."

John perked up instantly.

"Why not?"

"You're going to mock me."

"Probably, but tell me anyway."

Sherlock appeared to consider for a moment, fixing John with a narrowed glare.

"It's 'bumblebee.'"

John blinked.

"Bumblebee."

"Also 'gangrenous.'"

"Your favourite words are 'bumblebee' and 'gangrenous'?"

"Obvious," Sherlock rasped, a slight quirk tugging on the corner of his mouth.

"Smart arse. Do you want to know what my favourite word is?"

"No."

John scowled.

"Why not?"

"I already know it's 'suture.'"

John's mouth fell open.

"H-how the hell did you know that?"

"You told me."

"Oh. Right."

John's eyes flickered to Sherlock's lips, where the evidence of an impending smirk was unmistakable. Despite the flurry of nerves still rattling around in his chest, John found himself grinning foolishly. Sherlock gave him a look that said 'finally, you catch on' all too clearly. And John had.

He was just John and this was just Sherlock, and yes, Sherlock was right: concern was unnecessary.

"So, how about we go slow with this and just…see where we end up, alright?"

"That's exactly what I was planning on doing."

"Well, as usual, I'm a few steps behind you. You should be used to that by now."

"You keep telling me to stop talking, then you repeatedly force me to speak with you. I don't—"

John, realizing that he did, indeed, want their conversation to end, cut Sherlock off by joining their lips together. Sherlock hesitated, but responded quickly, slanting his head against the pillow and pulling John firmly against him.

And God, the taste of him. It rendered the soft camber of Sherlock's bottom lip suddenly irresistible, and John took it between his own, gently at first, then nipping a little. Sherlock was extremely responsive. He grazed the tip of his tongue between John's teeth, caressing in a deft sweep. A jolt of pleasure shot right through John's chest at the contact, surging down to his belly before it bloomed in his pelvis.

A primal, sudden, coursing need for more contact consumed him. He had to be touched, to push himself closer to Sherlock, to wring his pleasure from the body in his arms.

Tentatively, he slid his leg between Sherlock's thighs, allowing himself to be drawn even closer, until their hips were slotted together. He gasped into Sherlock's mouth when his arousal made contact with Sherlock's through layers of thin fabric. Clinging to him, one hand splayed out between shoulder blades and the other fisted against his chest, John breathed heavily against Sherlock's lips, trying to center himself. He was trembling fiercely, even from so little contact, with his forehead pressed against Sherlock's brow. Swelling, swift and glorious, pooled in his groin.

"Alright?" Sherlock whispered gravelly, his own breathing hurried. He cupped John's face with his left hand, the other still firmly wrapped around John's back, and gently ran the pad of his thumb across his cheekbone.

His eyes were smoldering in a shade somewhere between grey and cyan. There was definite concern woven in them, but also brutal, hardly concealed longing.

John was ignited by it.

"Mhmm," John hummed, and caught Sherlock's lips with a deep, open-mouthed kiss, plunging his tongue against Sherlock's without warning. He earned a low, rattling moan from the detective, who rolled his hips forward. The pressure of warmth and fabric against his groin was staggering, drawing an uncontrollable whimper from his throat. His clothes feel far too tight.

Wrapping his tongue around Sherlock's with rising fervor, he let instinct take over and arched his hips back against Sherlock in turn.

"Oh God," he gasped when the unmistakable form of Sherlock's erection met hard and perfect with his own through pyjama trousers. John panted, clawing at Sherlock's back to keep himself from rutting. His other hand slithered between pillow and neck to clasp Sherlock's nape, holding him close to keep those plump lips in reach.

He kissed him, again and again between frenzied breaths, every lungful growing more intoxicating as his mouth saturated with Sherlock's taste. He inhaled him deep into his chest until he was hardly able to tell where his scent ended and Sherlock's began.

"This is—" he kissed him again, "this is—" and again.

"Yes," the baritone replied.

It was too much. His head swarmed with dizziness, his throat went raw from holding back the moan that desperately tried to break forth. His skin felt too hot, and yet he wasn't sweating. The thought flickered through his addled mind that such must be a bizarre side-effect of the fever. And he definitely had a fever. It added an extra edge to everything, every move he made. He was delirious with it.

The kiss they'd shared before had been nothing compared to this. He was being consumed, conquered. They'd barely done anything and yet it was as though Sherlock knew exactly where to push, exactly how to kiss him to send him reeling. And worse still, John knew he was holding back, was relinquishing control as much as he was able. Of course, that didn't stop his hips from churning forward occasionally and oh, Jesus, if John didn't free himself from his pants soon he might scream.

Sherlock, seeming to hear his thoughts, began dragging down the hand on John's back. He weaved it in a slow circle, continuing to kiss John with unflinching technique, until he rested it purposefully on the arc of his hip.

Sherlock pulled back a fraction, catching John's gaze mercilessly. The sight of Sherlock's pupils, blown wide and black, surrounded by a sliver of grey-green, sent an uncontrollable frisson down John's spine. Sherlock's gaze was burrowing into him, deep inside, speaking to him without words. His intention couldn't have been clearer.

John clamped his mouth shut, exhaling hard out of his nose, and nodded. Though John didn't imagine it was possible, Sherlock's eyes flickered with an even more potent ferocity.

Sherlock had latched himself onto John, had clasped him with all the focus that magnificent brain could muster.

John could scarcely breathe.

And then one finger tip, then two, breached the band of his pants. He trembled, his grip on Sherlock's nape and back so taut his knuckles went white. Sherlock's gaze didn't break with his, didn't flinch, and John drowned it, panting as those fingers moved lower and lower.

Sherlock's fingertips grazed his belly, torturously slow in their movements, until they made contact with the first tufts of hair. A twitch shot through him and he blinked away the white spots threatening the edges of his vision.

"Oh, Jesus Christ," he huffed when Sherlock's fingers made first contact. He thrust forward involuntarily, pushing himself into Sherlock's own hardness, trapping his fingers between them.

John whimpered, knotting his own fingers in black, soft curls. Sherlock inched his hips back ever-so-slightly, and John almost protested until he realized Sherlock only separated them enough so he could wrap his whole hand around John's length.

A sweet sob broke from John's swollen throat. God, it was good. Way, way too good. And yet, it was wrong. It wasn't enough. Not nearly.

"Sher-Sherlock, wait," he choked out. Sherlock's hand froze but he did not remove it from John's boxers. "I want to—I—you, I want to touch you."

"Then touch me," Sherlock whispered huskily, his eyes glinting with challenge. To drive his point, it seemed, Sherlock gave John a slow squeeze. John stuttered an indecipherable sound, the dull throbbing in his abdomen growing sharper.

Gathering his courage, he swallowed hard and slid his hand down Sherlock's back. Trying his luck, and figuring if he was ever going to do it, now was the time, John trailed his palm over the curve of Sherlock's arse and gave it a quick pinch.

Sherlock's eyebrows arched right up his forehead.

"Always wanted to do that," John whispered, and before Sherlock could quip back, he swiftly drew his hand between them and cupped Sherlock's hardness through fabric.

Eyelids fluttering, Sherlock gasped quietly, and his lips parted. John took the opportunity to kiss him, before sweeping his hand up to the band of Sherlock's pants, and slipping it in.

Since John had never touched another man like this before, it took him a moment to acclimatize to the sensation. Sherlock, as with his general figure, was longer and more slender than John. The smooth, velvety skin was similar, hot and pulsing in his palm, but still unavoidably different. Somehow, it didn't seem as strange as he imagined. This was a part of Sherlock. A part of Sherlock that made him feel good. How could he not-

And John's thought process was staunchly derailed when Sherlock gave him a long tug, freeing most of his length from his pants, and forcing all of John's focus back to his eyes.

Sherlock was glaring at him mildly, his expression clearly stating 'you pay attention to me now.' John could do nothing but acquiesce, adjusting his grip, and pulling Sherlock free of his pants as well. With a sigh, he let himself sink back into that black and grey gaze.

"Ready?" John asked stupidly, imagining he would blush if his face could possibly get any more red.

Rather than reply, Sherlock began pumping John with a steady, bewildering rhythm that had him moaning shamelessly against Sherlock's mouth. Trying to compose himself and focus on his own task, which was proving obscenely difficult the more Sherlock tugged at him, John began moving his own wrist. He was rewarded with an immediate reaction from Sherlock, who inhaled sharply and crushed his lips against John's in a short kiss.

Dizziness began to burn in John's head, his focus narrowing sharply to grey eyes and a warm hand. He was fully panting now, claiming kisses whenever he caught his breath. He couldn't help but roll his hips into Sherlock's hand, doing his best to keep his grip consistent and steady despite the tingling fog threatening to overcome him.

Sherlock's face was similar to his own, though a bit more guarded and less overwhelmed. Still, Sherlock couldn't hide the way his pupils were contracting even wider, the way his cheeks pinked, the way his breath kept hitching in his throat.

"What—what do you need?" John choked, feeling himself hurtling towards the edge under Sherlock's perfect stroke. He wanted him to feel just as good, but knew his pace was faltering. His whole body was rattled with tremors now, leg muscles clenching and unclenching between Sherlock's thighs. Christ, he was lightheaded. It was so dangerously close to too much, the only thing keeping him anchored being the unflinching lock of Sherlock's eyes on his own.

"You. Need you," Sherlock whispered, barely audible. Immediately, John began working him with renewed vigor, Sherlock responding in kind. Somehow, impossibly, their eye contact pierced deeper.

"Yes. Come on," John groaned. He knew he was being taken. Claimed with sensation; fever, and anticipation, and nerves all coalescing in a pleasure that vibrated through his whole body, his whole being.

"John—"

"Yes. Please, yes."

"I'm gonna—"

"Me too, come on."

And then John was keening, arching into Sherlock with a broken sob, yet not breaking their eye contact. A white, shattering pleasure surged through his body, and a drenching sweat broke out from every pore of his skin. He spilled himself warm on Sherlock's hand and onto his shirt and stomach, feeling Sherlock's own release following seconds after. He watched as the grey spheres contracted, bliss contorting Sherlock's expression, before he found himself smothered in a frantic kiss.

Their tongues collided in a flurry, messy and gasping. John was soaked with sweat, as was Sherlock if the back of his neck was anything to go by. They were wet, hot, and wholly sated.

Soon, their kissing slowed to a languid pace, a deep relaxation smoothing over them. In unison, they inhaled and exhaled, the room now permeated with the scent of Sherlock, and John, and release. With one last tender pull, John tucked Sherlock back into his pants as Sherlock did the same to him.

Without requesting assistance, Sherlock removed his blue robe and began using it to clean them up. John would have been shocked to see him use his beloved robe for such an act if he wasn't so utterly incapable of being riled up by anything. Plus, the careful precision of the silk wiping away the evidence of their pleasure added a whole new level to his bliss.

Once finished, Sherlock tossed the soiled blue silk aside and settled back down beneath the covers. He took John in his arms, seemingly oblivious to the practically drenched state they were both in. John buried his face against Sherlock's chest, sighing and letting his heavy lids close.

Yet, just as John felt himself drifting into sleep, a sudden realization jolted him back into waking.

He ran his eyes over Sherlock, who was clearly perplexed at his sudden conviction, and flattened his palm against the detective's damp forehead.

"Sherlock…"

"What is it?" Sherlock asked in weak, crackling tone.

"I…I think…"

"What?"

"I think we broke our fevers."

To be continued...

Author's Note: And there you have it, my darlings: the end of 'The Temper Between'. I can't tell you how much fun I had working on this project. I'm a huuuuuge fan of sickfics, always have been, so I figured it was time to write my own. Having your support has been as wonderful to me as, say, meeting my soulmate in a morgue and promptly moving in with him after I shot someone on his behalf. Like, seriously, that good.

There will be a bit of time before the final installment in this trilogy starts to get posted. I have to do a shit-ton of outlining before I feel comfortable diving in, but I can assure you that I will work very hard to get it to you as fast as I can. I know sometimes I can take a bit long between chapters, but hey, there are worse WIPs out there. (If 'Academic Eros' doesn't update soon I might throw up on my cat). In the mean time, I've begun posting a short(ish) Potterlock fic called 'The Pensieve of Sherlock Holmes" which you can find on my profile page. Basically it's a loose retelling of 'The Prince's Tale' featuring Sherlock and John.

As always, I update my progress on my tumblr (rageofthenerd) so come introduce yourself if you're interested.

You readers have healed me as a writer in a way that I will treasure forever. 'Thank you' is quite simply not enough.

See you soon!

UPDATE: 'The First Trip' is up (or at least in progress)! Go to my profile to proceed to the final installment in 'The First and Last Trilogy'