When John pulled back, Sherlock's lips parted, searching for words. "Breathe," John reminded him, and he took a shallow breath. The kiss left him in a trance. John placed his hand on the detective's face, trying hard not to laugh at his silly reaction. Sherlock's response was to be expected—he was the ever-detached detective, after all. Caressing Sherlock's cheek, John asked sweetly, "Are you alright?"

John knew that Sherlock was more than alright, but he couldn't help himself from asking. It was so adorable—and rare—to see Holmes at a loss for words. Sherlock only stared at him in response. Watson laughed, "I've broken you!"

"I'm afraid you have," Sherlock replied softly. His expression was far away, as if he hadn't quite recovered from his ecstasy yet. "Thank you," the breathy words escaped his tingling lips.

John took the uncommon gratitude with a smile and yawned. "God, I'm exhausted. And my back is bloody killing me! You definitely won't find me sleeping against that couch again any time soon. I need rest." He rubbed his forehead and sighed.

Sherlock was brought back to reality, disappointed at the prospect of leaving John's side. "Oh," he scratched his neck and reluctantly made for the door.

"I didn't say you had to leave." There was a soft hopefulness ringing in John's voice. He wanted Sherlock to stay with him, to lie with him as he drifted into a peaceful sleep. Surely, Sherlock would understand.

"Why would I stay if you're going to take a nap?"

John sighed in disdainful disappointment. He had almost credited Sherlock for being too human. "No reason at all." John kicked his slippers off and laid down. "Close the door on your way out."

The detective looked at John, once again lacking words. He always believed in the axiom that if one's speech contributed no worth, then it was not worth speaking at all—though he usually excused himself from that rule—and now he found himself in a moment to which words could not contribute. He was at a loss.

Sherlock turned and walked slowly to the door. He held the knob for a moment and looked back at John. He didn't want to leave, and he was positive that John didn't want him to leave either. For a moment he was conflicted. He smiled, closing the door, and walked back to John's bed. Sherlock slid between the covers and laid beside John, who looked at him with gratitude. He took Sherlock's hand.

They laid together, John on his back, and Sherlock curled up on his side. As the detective watched John, his mind reached a record stillness. Racing thoughts and rushing deductions were of no use to him here. He just watched patiently as Watson's chest rose and fell with each breath. He had the strangest urge. He longed for more closeness, for a comfort that could only be provided by love. For the first time in his life, Sherlock craved a companionship that only John could give him.

Sherlock propped his head up on a pillow and stared at John. When latter noticed, he looked over and gave a small but sincere smile.

Sherlock admired his flatmate. John's crystal-blue eyes, his earnest facial expressions… Sherlock could read him like a book, a book beautifully bound with worn leather and the sweetest text between. Sherlock imagined that if John were a book, he would be filled with philosophy and silly morals, theories on pointless things like existentialism and aesthetics, things Sherlock hardly considered noteworthy. And yet, despite all the scientific inaccuracy, Sherlock would read and savor every last word. Sherlock would consider John H. Watson to be the finest of all literature, no matter how speculative his contents may be.

Under Sherlock's thoughtful stare, John's face began to turn pink with a sudden self-consciousness. He did not move away, but his heart palpitated as Sherlock examined him.

In a sudden and beautiful movement, Sherlock leaned into the doctor's lips, kissing him more intently than before. He pulled away for a mere moment to look at his now-lover. John entwined his fingers in Sherlock's dark curls, bringing their lips closer and gently locking them again. Sherlock's lips parted ever so slightly and indulged in the warm moisture of John's tongue as it traced gently across his own. John wrapped an arm around Sherlock's thin torso, thinking back to their embrace the night before. Sherlock undoubtedly made the same connection because his heart suddenly ached.

"John, I-" he tried to protest, but he couldn't. John couldn't fathom leaving the warmth of Sherlock's lips for even a moment. The detective pried himself away and placed his hand on John's chest to prevent another advance. His eyes were raw with emotion and anguish. He shook his head and furrowed his brow, mercilessly cursing himself. "I can't forgive myself. And you shouldn't, either."

"Sherlock, there's nothing to forgive. You did nothing wrong. Don't you see? I chose you. I chose you. I knew what the stakes were, but I didn't let that stop me. Being with you is worth every moment of stress and frustration," John smiled with honest understanding. "I wouldn't stick around if I didn't intend to stay. Danger and fear, criminals and murders—I will stand by you through it all. I know the cost, but I'm willing to do this for you. You told me that you love me, and here I am! How can you not see? Sherlock, I love you back."

Overcome and touched by the confession and promise, Sherlock dove upon John's lips, embellishing his face with adoration. John wrapped his arms tight around Sherlock, and the detective pressed himself against John in return. He couldn't possibly get close enough. He unknowingly rubbed his pelvis against John's, causing both men to exclaim as desire overwhelmed their bodies. Their kissing grew passionate—undeniable—only broken by the occasional exhalation or whimper of pleasure. John suddenly found himself on top of Sherlock, kissing the pale skin on his neck. He ran his tongue across the tender flesh, sending shivers through Sherlock and causing him to gasp in delight. The detective unbuttoned his shirt, and John warmly accepted the invitation.

He moved lower and lower on Sherlock's body, tasting his way down to the supple skin above his collarbone. He left a purple lovebite, and worked down to Sherlock's heaving chest and fluttering stomach. Just below Sherlock's navel, he reached a trail of hair leading to exciting and unexplored territories. The temptation was overwhelming. He looked up and saw that Sherlock was in pure heaven, so John sucked gently on the skin between above his pelvis bone. John felt his member grow stiff as Sherlock moaned aloud. He tore off the detective's trousers and pants without a word of protest; Sherlock was all-consumed by his desire. John heard Sherlock's weak pleas, begging, urging him to continue.

So he did; John positioned himself between Sherlock's bare legs and held the thickened member to his mouth. He gave his head a small lick and Sherlock's legs writhed in response. With a smile, John went down on Sherlock, taking the shaft in his mouth. The detective's back arched in surprise, praising the hot envelopment of John's mouth. He gasped in shock and pleasure. John slid Sherlock's penis slowly out of his mouth and back in, stopping only to suck briefly on the swollen head. He could already taste pre-come exuding from his lover's inexperienced body. Impassioned by lust and eagerness to please his lover, John worked the penis in and out of his mouth with more speed and infatuation. He moaned indulgently as Sherlock's member moved across his tongue. The taste, the smoothness, the newfound pleasure of his lover thrilled fJohn. Taking the full length of Sherlock in his mouth, John eventually made the detective cry out. The moist skin was so lovely against John's tongue, convulsing and releasing a hot white burst of approval.

Feeling all of Sherlock's muscle relax and grow tired with satisfaction, John placed loving little kisses along the detective's thighs. He lapped up some of the discharge and wiped the rest away with his sheet. Sherlock's splayed his arms above his head, barely able to catch his breath. John was so experienced, so knowledgeable. It was easy for him please Sherlock, for the virgin detective was unprepared and had no idea what fantastic elations sex could hold. He waited with laboured breathing for sensation to return to his limbs, watching John kiss him affectionately. John Watson was an uncommon man to Sherlock: a man who stayed with him, a man who adored him, a man who made him cry out in primal ecstasy. He loved this uncommon man with all of his life.