"I had a lovely time tonight," Lila said softly. She smiled prettily up at John, who thought it was quite nice to be smiled up at for once.

"So did I." He brushed her hair back from her blushing face. "We should do it again sometime. Sometime soon."

"Absolutely!" she said quickly, then giggled nervously. "I mean, yes, I'd like that."

He leaned in to kiss her goodnight, but an inch from her mouth, a brief vision flashed in front of him, of sharp cheekbones, small curved lips, a fox-like glare. A shadow shaded his face and he pulled away, kissing her on the cheek instead, cursing under his breath. John didn't know how that man did it, but he demanded all of John's attention, even when he wasn't around.

"I'll call you then, yeah?" Lila chirped.

"Yeah, yeah, of course. Please." John flashed her a smile and hoped it didn't look too guilty.

She really was beautiful, and funny, and sweet, John thought to himself. But after all, he had to get back anyway, since he never went to bed unless John was there to force him, and when he's tired the next morning he's even worse than usual. He doesn't think he needs sleep. He does.

The cab home seemed to speed along. John tried to think of her on the cab ride back to Baker Street, of the lovely film playing at the cinema that night at the way she had snuggled up against him towards the end. She was so lovely and quiet during the cinema; John wasn't accustomed to it. Sherlock always predicts the end or critiques the characters, not particularly loudly, but directly in John's ear. John shook his head violently as he handed the cabbie the fare, trying to think of words to describe watching cinema with Lila that wasn't dull…

He walked up the stairs, puffing his cheeks up and sighing. The door to the flat swung open, revealing the expected sight of Sherlock with his feet propped up on the couch, hands on a distractedly played violin.

"Guessing you didn't get the milk while I was out, then?" John groaned, shrugging off his jacket.

"You were out very late."

"Yeah, well, it was a date, Sherlock. Don't know if you've ever been on one, but often, the longer they go on, the better."

Sherlock cracked a half-grin. John didn't know if he was just tired, but it seemed more forced than usual.

"How was it, then?"

"Lovely!" John found himself scrambling for words. For some reason, it felt very important to justify to Sherlock that he'd had a good time. "Fantastic, even. She's great, just great. I had a great time."

"I have decided you shall limit your time with Lila to one date a week."

John started.

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me quite clearly, didn't you, or were the cab's windows open, affecting your hearing?" He tossed a glance over. "Definitely not, by the state of your hair, light tousling only, Lila's doing, so you've heard me."

John dug his knuckles irritably into his forehead, sinking down into the chair opposite.

"You can't be serious."

"Am I ever not?"

"Sherlock!" John exclaimed, standing up suddenly. "You've made some preposterous demands before, but this is beyond anything. Since when is my time with Lila up to you?"

"You've always listened, though, haven't you?" Sherlock's tone was slightly different than anything John had heard before, not quite his smug voice, not quite his proud or self-satisfied one, but a rather grating compromise.

"What?"

"To my....preposterous demands." Sherlock swung his feet onto the floor, setting the violin gently back into its case. "You've always listened. Why stop here?"

"B-Because!" John stammered furiously. "I'm not your toy, Sherlock! You do not own me; you do not have any right to tell me what I can't do, and I put up with your bollocks almost every day, but this is simply too far. I'm not just a replacement skull, you know, I'm not, and I'm not quite sure you've realized that yet." He sighed heavily. "And I'm beginning to think you never will."

"I have noticed," Sherlock said. He leaned forward. "Don't think I haven't. And don't think I don't know what you were thinking about when you failed to kiss Lila goodnight this evening."

John looked up at him, slowly, incredulously.

"What're you on about?"

"John, my "demand," as you so callously put it, was nothing more than a request to make both of us more comfortable."

Sherlock stood, eyes still piercingly fixated on John's. He walked over to where John sat and placed his hands on either armrest, body arching over the chair. John stared up at him, an odd sense of foreboding mixed with adrenaline coursing through him.

"Sherlock, I know you don't understand personal space, but -"

"I understand it perfectly." Sherlock was so close John could feel the man's breath on his hairline. "I manipulate it as I see fit."

John took a deep breath and made to stand up.

"If this is how you're going to be, all possessive and odd and cryptic, I'm just going to ask Lila if I can spent the ni-"

A slender hand, spread-fingered, pushed at John's chest, shoving him unceremoniously back into the chair.

"You will do no such thing."

John could feel his blood pounding in his ears. He wanted to push Sherlock away, but somehow, he couldn't bring himself to do it.

"For the love of God, Sherlock, you're acting like a child. I can do what I want."

"I believe, actually, for the first time in this particular field, I am acting like an adult." Sherlock smiled. "And you will do what I want." John wasn't sure if it was just the lighting or if Sherlock's teeth seemed almost pointed. It was causing something disconcerting to stir in John, something alluring but frightening, and John did not want to address it. "There are things I did not realize that I ever wanted. Things I did not realize I ever needed. Certain people do not need these things; I always thought I was one of them. I know now that I was wrong."

"What the hell are you on about now?"

"You know exactly what I'm on about." Sherlock traced a finger down John's cheek. "Limit your time with Lila...or else."

The skin where Sherlock touched him was buzzing with electricity. John didn't want to play anymore.

"Or else what?" He shook his head and broke the gaze, refusing to look at his flatmate. "You know what, no. No. I'm not a plaything. People aren't playthings, and you have no right to treat them that way. Especially not me, who's put up with so much bloody nonsense all this time."

Sherlock pulled back slightly, smiled.

"You're right, John. And if I want you to stop spending time with Lila, I should at least be quite up front with what you should be filling your time with."

Sherlock's mouth covered John's.

John stopped breathing.

Sherlock kissed him hard, expertly - John found he did not like the idea of Sherlock having experimented with this particular skill - coaxed John's mouth open, stroked the smaller man's tongue with his own. Sherlock was smiling, smirking rather, into John's startled lips.

Sherlock's hands moved to John's hips, pulling off his jumper. His fingers roamed over John's body, electrifying it, waking up the nerves that John hadn't realized had deadened. His lips moved to John's throat, kissing gently now, but pointedly, each movement of his lips tightening and marking his territory. John found his back arching into Sherlock's body, his mouth falling open in pleasure he hadn't realized he wanted.

Sherlock's fingers moved to the waistband of John's trousers – which brought John back to reality. He caught Sherlock's hand in his.

"Wh-what are you doing?" He didn't recognize his own voice, so dazed with desire and apprehension. "For the absolute last time, Sherlock, I'm not gay!" The words made sense, they were true, and yet, they seemed like the answer to a question that hadn't been asked, that didn't apply.

"I didn't say you were," Sherlock murmured. He licked his lips slowly. John regretfully felt his trousers grow tighter. "I'm not suggesting you are attracted to men." Sherlock's face contorted – his face darker, forehead furrowed, and John realized with a jolt that Sherlock's face was lined with emotions he had never even hinted at possessing before. There was lust, passion, desire – the familiar petulance – but most importantly, something entirely new. His face was…soft. "I am merely exploring that fact that you are attracted to me."

John's brain was whirring, trying to rationalize this, trying to convince himself that this was the one time – the only time – that Sherlock was wrong about him.

"Lila, Sherlock, I like Lila – "

The new, empowered look on Sherlock's face deepened.

"You want to believe you like Lila. Your feelings for me are much stronger than that."

He bent to kiss John again, and John was on the edge, about to give in, when he remembered that this wasn't just Sherlock – this was Sherlock, horribleness and all. He pushed back at Sherlock's chest again.

"What isit?"

"You get bored."

"What?"

"You get bored, Sherlock!" John pushed him farther away as he began to realize precisely why he'd never let himself address these feelings before. "You get bored, and you forget about your toys, and I'm not a toy, and you always want what you can't have." John was breathing heavily now. "I – I can't do this. Not if it's just you being a greedy child who will forget all about me when you're done."

Sherlock looked startled, and John vaguely registered that he had done the impossible and actually surprised the consulting detective.

"John, I told you before, this isn't about you being my plaything." He leaned forward, and whispered in John's ear: "This is about you being mine."

Sherlock kissed him again, and this time John kissed back. This time John kissed hard, competitively, because Sherlock belonged to him just as much as he belonged to Sherlock. He could tell the other man knew what he was doing when Sherlock smiled into the kiss, let John tug at the buttons of his shirt and rip it to the floor.

Sherlock didn't concede for long, though. He dug his nails into John's skin, scratching down the smooth flesh. He bit down on John's throat, his collar, his chest, sucking, marking, claiming. Sherlock's mouth on his skin was the touch John hadn't let himself realize he'd wanted. His nerves were on fire, his body wakening, his need growing. He felt his cock stiffening further, embracing it now, pulling Sherlock's hips down and trying to provoke friction. Sherlock grinned.

"Bedroom." He turned and walked into it without another word. John sunk back in the chair, trying to catch his breath, trying to figure out what was going on – then fairly ran into his bedroom before his brain caught up with his heart.

Sherlock knelt on his bed, shirtless, eyes focused commandingly on John. John stood in the doorway, unsure of exactly what to do.

Sherlock extended a single finger, and beckoned.

The next thing John knew, he was flat on his back, with Sherlock straddling him, kissing him fervently. He felt Sherlock reach for the buttons of his trousers again, and now he let him pull them off. Sherlock knelt back on his heels for a moment, and elegantly, somehow, pulled off his own trousers and pants with one gesture. John's mouth dropped open.

"Fuck." As a doctor, he had obviously seen naked men before, but never, ever in this context. He had never even considered being attracted to them, not seriously. But Sherlock was huge, his cock thick and flush with veins, and suddenly, John very much wanted to know what it would feel like inside of him.

John gulped.

Sherlock dug his fingers into the waistband of John's pants. John blushed slightly, annoyed that his own member couldn't compete – it wasn't small by any stretch of the imagination, but it wasn't Sherlock's massive size…

Sherlock's eyes lit up. They shone a vibrant, enthusiastic blue as John's body spread out, clean of clothes, and all of John's reservations fled. Sherlock pounced on his mouth again, but after the initial hunger, the kisses began to languish, longer, more intimate. John was aware of himself moaning, his hands pulling the other man's body toward him, flesh on flesh. Different from any contact he'd had with a woman, Sherlock's body on his felt a connection deeper than sexual, more necessary and rare. It awakened in him something darker than the need for release, something more ancient and long-lasting.

Sherlock's mouth traced down John's throat. His lips found John's scar and John stiffened – he never let anyone touch his scar. But when Sherlock pulled away obediently, John gasped and pulled him back.

"You never do as you're told!" John stammered, wrapping his legs around Sherlock's hips.

"You didn't have to tell me anything," Sherlock pointed out, flicking his tongue around the scar. "I know you."

At this, John gave in. He would never stop being overwhelmed at how Sherlock read him.

He clenched at the bedsheets, arching their bodies together. He felt Sherlock's arms envelop him, hold him close as teeth dug into his good shoulder. Sherlock wanted to leave new scars.

John pushed against him, feeling all of the thousands of places their skin touched. He reached down and grabbed at Sherlock's erection, squeezing it in his fist, loving the proof of what he already knew but never quite believed, that Sherlock was human, that no one else in the world could evoke this reaction, but he, John, could, and it was a powerful reaction. John rubbed their erections together, making Sherlock moan gently in his ear.

Sherlock let John grind their cocks against each other for a few more throbs, both of them relishing the other's heat and flesh, but then torturously, Sherlock pulled away. He smiled at John, a small smile, the most honest expression John had ever seen, and kissed his way down John's body.

No one had ever kissed John's stomach before. Rather pudgy it was, being years since he'd had to've been in shape for the army, and even then they didn't care overmuch so long as he didn't slow them down, so his stomach was pleasantly rounded. He had never been self-conscious of it – at least he didn't think he had – but he rather gathered the idea that girls figured he was, and so avoided kissing it or touching it at all.

Not so Sherlock. He kissed every inch of John's chest, his stomach, his hips. John had the not entirely uncomfortable notion that Sherlock knew every organ under his skin, its location and its function, and he was kissing them through John's flesh. This theory gained credence as Sherlock began kissing down his ribs. John realized in a flash that Sherlock was claiming all of him, every single part, every physical and nonphysical component of his mind and body and self, was marking it because he knew it, because he knew how it functioned, from John's lungs to his kidneys to his very soul, and no one else, not even John, knew it quite so well. Doctor as John was, he understood in that moment that Sherlock knew him better than he did himself.

And vice versa.

As John was busy realizing this, busy realizing the magnitude of the coincidence of finding this man as a flatmate, Sherlock's mouth had moved to his hips, kissing the bones there, and the inside of his thighs, and John was jolted back to the present as he realized where Sherlock was going next.

"Sh—Sherlock – I just – "

Sherlock looked up.

"Realized it, have you?" He grinned. "I thought you might, while I was taking ownership of your groin there." Not breaking eye contact, he placed a kiss at the very tip of John's cock, where a drop of precum was forming. He licked his lips. "That's right. You are mine. In so very many ways. That is why I absolutely cannot abide by Lila." The name already sounded foreign to John, something from a past life that didn't matter anymore. He had been with all those girls because he wasn't willing to accept that his soulmate was the insufferable Sherlock Holmes, but giving in was too rewarding to fight it anymore. "And I," Sherlock whispered, "am yours."

John's back arched off the bed as Sherlock's mouth pleasured his cock. He had always known that Sherlock's throat was unusually long; he had never begun to imagine how fucking good that would make him at giving head – Sherlock took the entirety of John's length in his throat, tightening his lips, and bobbing his mouth incredibly fast. One arm wrapped under John's thigh, the other slid between John's legs and began to fondle at his balls, caressing them, squeezing gently, making every movement of his mouth resonate throughout John's entire body.

Keeping up the impossible pace of his mouth around John's cock, Sherlock let his index finger slip down to circle at John's entrance. John had never been touched there before. Sherlock heard – sensed? – his breath quickening, and pulled away, reaching into the bedside table. He pulled out a tube of lubricant.

"How – how long has that been there?" John managed. This is real, he thought, this is happening, this is happening…

"About six months now. Don't look so surprised, it's in the trick drawer below the second shelf."

"The what? Wait, Sherlock – six months? How long have you been planning this?"

Sherlock draped his body over John's, stroking his fingers languidly at John's erection, letting the bottle rest against John's waist. His knee nudged against John's crotch.

"Perhaps since the day I met you. Perhaps since the day you shot the cabbie. I believe it was somewhere within that time that I realized I could never let you go. Took a while longer to fully understand why."

John was not only aroused sexually, though Sherlock's tantalizing fingers were certainly ensuring that. His whole entity was aroused, alert, confused and overwhelmed and somewhat nervous, but ready.

"Sherlock," John started, wholly aware that his voice sounded very, very small, "I thought you said sentiment was weakness."

"It is." Sherlock paused, his bowlike lips parted slightly. John was overtaken with the desire to lean up and kiss them, they tasted as pale pink as they looked, sweet and light and warm and thin but strong, just like the rest of Sherlock, but he resisted. Sherlock gazed down at him and tenderly nudged stray strands of hair out of John's eyes. "This isn't sentiment. Don't you see? This is power. This is the most powerful thing I've ever experienced." He looked steadily into John's eyes. "I have never had anything to protect before. I never knew the power it requires to want to protect something with all your heart. I have never used quite this much of my brain before, quite this part, the part in which you will determine every single possibility, no matter the consequences, to preserve the well-being of a person. I did not realize that beyond the trite surface of sentiment lies the mightiest force on the planet." He smiled thoughtfully. "I don't think people really access it, not as much as they think they do, certainly not as often. But I have. You've made me."

John's mouth had fallen open while Sherlock was speaking. Sherlock let him process it, stroking his cheek, his throat, his scar.

This man did not only want him or need him. They had been brought together, clicking into place. They could have both lived their entire lives without each other, lived perfectly well. Most people do. But once they met, by some luck or fate or design, there would be no going back. They did not complete each other. They were two separate, whole identities, each strong and unique, individual, independent.

When they were together, they formed something else entirely. They played off each other, enhanced each other's strengths, eliminated each other's weaknesses. They formed a new creature, and it was built on trust and companionship and endurance and – love.

Sherlock seemed to decide John had thought enough. He covered John's mouth with his, and as John began to incredulously kiss him back, slipped a lube-coated finger into John's body.

John bit down at Sherlock's lip, but did pull away. His breath caught at the new sensation, but Sherlock kissed his mouth, his cheek, his forehead, the tip of his nose, gently, reassuringly, and he let Sherlock slip a second finger in.

"I'm going to try something, all right? Let me know if it is unpleasant." Sherlock's tongue prodded out in concentration, and John noticed briefly that it was incredibly attractive before his body seized in pleasure.

"Ah! Wh-what was that?" Do it again…He was flushed bright red, he knew, because Sherlock's fingers were in his ass, but God…

"That was your prostate. Do shut up for a moment if it's not bothering you, let me try something else – "

"Yes! Yes, that's…that's good…" John murmured. His body was on fire with new sensation, new delicious pleasure. He burrowed his face in Sherlock's chest, squirming down harder on the fingers.

"Don't be embarrassed, it's the appropriate reaction to have when one's prostate is being stimulated, John," Sherlock said, infuriatingly, but he pressed his lips to John's forehead anyway. "It feels good, then?"

"Mmhmm." John's voice was just above a whimper.

"Will you let me fuck you?"

John's heart jumped, and he nuzzled further into Sherlock's chest, listening to the man's pulse. The steady rhythm comforted him.

"Mmhmm," he whispered.

Sherlock pulled away and positioned himself between John's knees. John immediately missed his warm body, but steadied himself as Sherlock rubbed his own large member with lubricant. John felt his own erection ache at the sight of Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes, touching himself…

Sherlock pushed John's thighs back, gripping them firmly, and waited. John took a deep breath and nodded.

It was like being torn open at first, incorrect and violent and violating and painful, but only for one moment – then Sherlock hit that new spot inside him again, now with his cock, thick and hot, and John was moaning.

"Harder…"

"I believe I'm meant to thrust gently at first; I don't want to hurt you."

"It doesn't hurt anymore."

"Yes, but – "

"You used enough lube. You know what you're doing."

"I don't want to – "

"Do you want to fuck me, Sherlock?"

"Yes."

"Do you want to make me feel good?"

"God, yes."

"Harder."

Blue eyes staring piercingly down at John's lust-glazed yet stern ones, Sherlock paused, then let his mouth turn up in a smirk.

He fucked John hard. Not fast, but hard, firmly. He did not break eye contact. John reached for his own erection, timing his grasps with Sherlock's thrusts, making his whole body contract and reverberate with unknown pleasure. The sight of Sherlock's face, slack and focused, knowing that it was for him, that Sherlock's arousal was entirely for him, made John fight to keep from finishing too quickly.

"You feel amazing," Sherlock murmured. "You look amazing, taking my cock. Your ass is so tight around me – you were a virgin here, weren't you?"

"You know that."

Sherlock smiled and gave a particularly pointed thrust.

"I like hearing it."

John gritted his teeth in protest, but Sherlock nudged his hand away and took John's cock in his palm, gripping it firmly, making John's fight to hold on nearly impossible – then he stopped thrusting.

"Sh-Sherlock!" John struggled furiously, trying to push back on the man's incredible prick.

"Say it."

"You're an ass."

"Not that."

"I was a virgin here."

"Good boy."

John waited patiently – for about three seconds.

"For God's sake, Sherlock – !"

"Hmm? What? What do you want?" Sherlock's hand stroked his cock slowly, teasingly, thrusts still completely stopped. "Tell me, John, tell me what you want. Tell me what you want me to do to your ass."

Bright red, but too close to argue anymore, John groaned.

"You are maddening…fuck me."

"Where?"

"Oh for the love of – fuck me in the ass, Sherlock."

With a satisfied lick of his lips, Sherlock did, thrusting faster now, and John's eyes clenched shut, giving in, letting Sherlock control his pleasure. John felt his cock jerked hard, Sherlock squeezing it just tight enough, thumbing over the sensitive wet tip just gently enough. Sherlock's own superb erection thrust deep into his ass, over and over again, pressing firmly, directly against his prostate. The thrusts came hard and fast, quick and pointed, pressing against that spot again and again. John could feel heat filling him up, the sharpness of an oncoming release, and he forced his eyes open at the last moment to see Sherlock on the edge as well, the sight of Sherlock's unguarded, ecstatic face pushing him over.

John came hard, blindingly, more intensely than he ever had before, his cum spilling over Sherlock's lovely fingers. His whole body spasmed with pure sensual bliss, the pressure against his prostate making the orgasm the most extreme sensation he had ever felt. As his body tightened, Sherlock's thrusts became erratic and John felt himself being filled with hot cum, Sherlock's cum, filling up his ass. John wrenched his eyes open again as his orgasm faded just in time to see Sherlock at the peak of his, his lip bit, his face raw and gorgeous.

Sherlock pulled out and collapsed on top of John. John gingerly rolled over and weakly wrapped his arms around him, holding their sticky bodies together.

They held each other until their breathing slowed back to normal.

"Sherlock?"

"Hm?"

"I'm not going to see Lila anymore."

Sherlock's gentle laughter filled John's ears, his hands stroking John's chest and stomach again. Both of them began to chuckle, John marveling at the magnitude of what just occurred.

"Sherlock?" John said again.

"Hmm?"

"I – I'm yours."

Sherlock leaned in, and their lips met.

"Always."

END