"Fantastic!" Sherlock says, springing to his feet and dusting himself off as if he hasn't just very nearly been eviscerated by a metre-long ancient Caledonian sword. "Absolutely brilliant."

John is too busy remembering how to pump blood to his brain to give him more than a weak smile, but Sherlock is so high on the case he doesn't notice.

"Trust a Scot to pass a grudge down for nineteen centuries, eh John? Tracing the genealogies of the Italian victims was a rather genius stroke on my part, but you did well, too. I can't say I expected him to have a second weapon on him."

"If that's your way of saying thank you for saving your life again, you're welcome," John says dryly, unable to avoid a small smile at Sherlock's predictable myopia. "Now can we please get dinner? You may not need food when you're working but I can't live on biscuits and adrenaline."

"Of course, John!" Sherlock claps him on the back, fondly, in his usual state of euphoria after a success. He's always like this when he's solved something, and it's only heightened by the accompanying late-night chase and brush with death. John feels it too, but is too staid to show it more than a little. Besides, someone has to keep Sherlock's ego in check.

"I'm famished," Sherlock continues. "What do you say? Angelo's? Kebab? We could wake up Mrs. Hudson."

"She may adore you, but that won't stop her murdering you if you try that again. It's two in the morning! Angelo's is closed."

"We'll wake him up!"

"Kebab," John says firmly, not wanting to find out if the burly thief's affection for Sherlock extends to nocturnal takeaway orders.

Sherlock continues crowing about the case on the way to, and through, dinner. "This was a good one, best we've had since Baskerville."

"And you didn't even have to drug me," John interjects.

"Better give it a clever title, John," Sherlock says, ignoring him and tackling his third helping of curry. "It deserves it. God, this is great. Better than sex!"

"I'm sorry, are we talking about the food or the case now? Because either way I think you might be doing it wrong."

"What are you on about, John?" Sherlock finally focuses on him properly for the first time since he had tackled the murderer, just in time to turn the blade away from Sherlock's heart.

John grins, and spears a piece of meat with his fork. "Sex, Sherlock. The meal and the case are both top notch, you have me there, but if either one is better than sex you have definitely been doing it wrong."

Sherlock is, very briefly, speechless. He recovers quickly, but John notices and becomes awkward. He hadn't meant anything by it, just a joke between mates, but he definitely hit a nerve. When Sherlock returns to his topic of his own genius, John nods encouragingly but files away the incident in his head in case it's needed later. He tries to think about his flatmate and sex as little as possible.

"Did you see Donovan's face when she saw you with the sword to his neck?" John comments.

" 'Who the hell let him have a bloody sword?!' " Sherlock quotes in a passable imitation of her tone. They both roar with laughter, and the moment of strangeness has passed.

John is in the shower. It is far too early, and it was far too late a night last night, which came to nothing. There is a hostage involved this time, but they are at a dead end for now, and John is glad for a chance to clean up and catch his breath. He lets his mind go blank as the scalding hot water beats down on him. He is startled by the sound of the bathroom door as Sherlock enters, talking.

"…so really the problem is, if those footprints weren't the kidnapper's, then whose were they? John, are you listening to me?"

John grunts. This is not the first time Sherlock has wandered into the bathroom or bedroom or otherwise private area while thinking over a case out loud, and he has lost the will to train him out of it.

"Well, what do you think?"

"I don't know, I didn't hear the first half. You do realize I can't simultaneously be in the other room and in here, right?"

"The footprints, John!" Sherlock exclaims, frustrated, and rips aside the shower curtain to look John in the face.

"Oi!" John yelps and scrambles to cover himself with the washcloth. Sherlock looks confused by his reaction for a moment, then it sinks in that John is naked and perhaps sticking his head into the bath is not entirely appropriate. "Sherlock! Not good!"

Sherlock withdraws with a cough, replacing the shower curtain. John doesn't have enough energy to be furious. There is silence, then Sherlock says, "It's been 267 days."

"What? The case?"

"No. It's been 267 days since you last had sex."

"What are you talking about? And how do you – no, you know what never mind, I really don't want to the answer to that."

"If casework is not better than sex, then why do you not engage in more of the latter and less of the former? We've worked on 38 cases of various quality since your last sexual encounter."

It takes John a second to tie this back to his remark from weeks ago. He silently bangs his head against the tile wall. "I am not having this conversation with you. This is not a conversation that people have. Now get out of here and let me finish my shower in peace before I brain you with the soap."

"Don't be ridiculous, you couldn't apply enough force with soap to fracture my – Ooh, yes! Of course, he must have used the removable showerhead to knock her unconscious! Stupid! John, get dressed!" He runs out, still talking to himself, or possibly the imaginary version of John he seems to keep with him at all times.

John attempts, and fails, to block the previous exchange from his mind. Fantastic. Naked John makes Sherlock think about sex. The last thing he needs is to think about Sherlock thinking about sex. He looks down. Oh. He sighs and turns the shower to cold.

They rescue the girl. It was the shopboy, but he was egged on by an older neighbour and that one's the real sadist, and dangerous when cornered. He gets Sherlock with a broken broom handle, leaving a jagged wound in his calf before John can tackle him and knock him out.

John rushes to Sherlock and inspects the damage. Bits of wood are embedded in it and it's ugly, but not too deep. There is a lot of blood. John's heart chokes his throat, a visceral reaction to the sight of injury to his friend, but he swallows it back and removes his jacket to staunch the flow.

"Don't worry, Sherlock, it's going to be fine," he says, his hands steady on the skinny leg.

"John…" Sherlock whispers.

"It missed the artery, it'll just be a nasty scar."

"John, your shoulder!" he says more urgently. John looks down. His shoulder, not that one, the other one, has a large piece of wood sticking out of it. A piece of the broom handle has broken off inside. He hadn't even felt it, but he feels it now and he drops the jacket and sits down, suddenly woozy.

He feels like he's going to faint, but strong arms catch him. "John, this is going to hurt. I'm sorry."

John barely registers his words before the blinding pain explodes in his head as Sherlock plucks the shard from his shoulder. He is unable to stop a scream and Sherlock looks away, surprisingly squeamish. The next thing he knows, a soft silk shirt – expensive, tailored, emerald – is being held to the hole in his body, and Sherlock's heavy wool coat is wrapped around him. Sherlock's face, pale and tight-lipped, is the last thing he sees before passing out.

He wakes in hospital, stitched up and full of painkillers. Sherlock is nowhere to be found, but Mrs. Hudson is there and Lestrade shows up soon as well.

"What happened to the kidnapper?" John asks.

"Dead," Lestrade says. "I'll need a statement from you, when you're feeling better."

"Dead?" John asks incredulously.

"You don't remember? Sherlock said once he knew you had him, he slit his own throat right there. Nasty business, this whole thing. Is that what happened?"

John grows cold inside but shakes his head. "I passed out, I'm sorry."

Lestrade nods. "Only thing is, he also had blunt force trauma to the side of the head, the kind that would have put him out of commission for at least a few minutes. Odd then, to wake up from that and off yourself. Of course everything else lines up, the knife, the fingerprints, the angle of the cut, the time of death, so unless you have anything new to add…"

He's trying to protect Sherlock, John can see. Despite Sherlock's frequent aspersions on the DI's intelligence, he's a smart man and moreover he knows Sherlock too well, knows it wasn't a suicide. John spreads his hands helplessly.

"Right then. Well, ugly end to it but best to have this guy off the streets. Looks like this wasn't the first girl he had a hand in kidnapping, but she was the first to get out of it alive. Get well soon, Dr. Watson."

John is released the next day. He takes a taxi home, with Sherlock still at large and John not wanting to disturb Mrs. Hudson. He can hear the sounds of the violin from their flat when he walks in the front door, and it enrages him. He darts up the stairs, quick as his injury will allow, and bursts through the door.

"How could you?" he demands. Sherlock turns around with only mild surprise and looks at him innocently. "He was unconscious, he wasn't a threat anymore."

"I don't know what you're talking about John, but I'm pleased you're well. I didn't expect them to release you this soon."

"Well, you wouldn't know, you weren't there, were you?" John growls. "And you know perfectly well what I'm talking about, don't change the subject. The kidnapper. You murdered him in cold blood while he was lying there in the gutter, didn't you?"

"He wasn't unconscious," Sherlock said darkly, putting down the violin. "I made sure of it. I wanted him to know what going to happen to him."

John feels sick and advances on his friend. "Why?" He's seen this side of Sherlock before, but it's never gone this far.

Sherlock says nothing but glances at the bandage on John's shoulder.

"For me?"

"He could have killed you. He was trying to kill you – a few inches down and to the left…"

"That's not the point. You're not a vigilante, you're a consulting detective, so start acting like one! You can't just kill for me." John's voice is loud, angry, and scared. Sherlock forces himself not to cringe away from it.

"You've killed for me," Sherlock points out, and so John has. More than once.

"That's different," he says, lowering his voice. "Your life was in immediate danger. It wasn't for revenge."

"And if someone had killed me. Would you have left them alive?" They are close now, so close John can feel Sherlock's breath on his forehead.

"I would have taken them apart with my bare hands." A pause, and John seems shocked by his own admission. "But I'm not dead. And I don't want you to be a murderer for me."

"He killed at least three other girls, and never would have gone to trial for those murders. His sentence for the kidnapping, had he lived, would have been far too light. He would have gotten out, he would have done it again."

"But that's not why you killed him."

"No."

John can see that Sherlock is shaking ever so slightly. He doesn't know what makes him reach out and put his hand on Sherlock's arm. They stand like that as the seconds tick by, something passing between them that neither man understands.

Finally, John says, "Promise me you won't do that again."

"I will not."

"Sherlock, I can't have you going to jail. Not for me, not for anything. Do you understand that?" His voice is tinged with a hint of desperation, and Sherlock's expression changes from one of stubbornness to something else entirely.

"I promise," he says at last. John nods his thanks, squeezes Sherlock's arm despite himself, and retreats to his room without another word. He takes one of the painkillers he was prescribed, not because his shoulder hurts but because he can't handle thinking about the implications of this night.

Weeks pass. John heals. They do not speak of that case or the events surrounding it. New cases come, some exciting, some dull. There is a new tension between them. They are careful around each other. When they touch accidentally, both jump. John starts looking for a new girlfriend, feeling hard up but unable to resign himself to casual sex. He fails, miserably, unusual for him – he gives off the ultimate nice-guy vibe and has never had trouble getting a date before, although with Sherlock around keeping them has been much more of a challenge. He refuses to think of the possibility that his heart is not in it this time.

There is a lull in work. Sherlock runs out of experiments and grows sulky, then destructive, then despondent. Cocaine is the next stage of boredom, and John doesn't want to know what comes after cocaine. Lestrade throws them a bone, a cold case, which Sherlock takes with unusual enthusiasm and John joins in with relief, glad the drugs have been avoided, at least this time.

The cold case turns hot, a string of previously unconnected housebreakings and rapes becoming a pattern under Sherlock's scrutiny, every three years, with one imminent. Rapid footwork, Sherlock's deductions, and some esoteric medical knowledge from John prevent it in the nick of time. They arrive home, flushed and triumphant.

"Glorious," Sherlock declares, shedding his coat.

"You weren't bad," John allows, grinning.

"Actually, I meant you this time," Sherlock, says rounding on him with shining eyes. "Without your knowledge of rare blood diseases I don't know that I would have been able to find him. Well done."

John finds himself blushing. Praise from Sherlock is rare, and never this blatant. And he is standing too close, dangerously close. "Well, I was pretty impressive," he admits, faking bravado.

"Don't get used to it," Sherlock says, but without venom. Somehow John has been backed against the wall and Sherlock has blocked his exit with an arm. Sherlock also seems uncertain as to how they got here, but doesn't move.

John gulps, and will never know what makes him ask, "When I was hurt, in hospital. You took me there?"

"No. The police did when they finally showed up."

"And you never came to see me. Why?"

Sherlock spins away from John and walks a few steps, forcefully, aimlessly. "I knew you would be fine, John. I had things to finish up." His voice is a study in carelessness. "I can't coddle you all the time."

"No." John's voice is firm. "You were upset enough to kill a man for me, but not enough to check on me?" He walks over to Sherlock, who's back is still to him. "Tell me why."

Sherlock turns around, angry that John is making him do this. "Because," he hisses, "people die in hospital. You could have died. I couldn't… I couldn't look at you there and think…" He can't finish the sentence, can't look at John, is livid that this admission has been drawn out of him. "Is that what you wanted to hear?" he spits.

"Yes," says John. He is afraid of what happens next, but knows he's going to find out anyway. They have left this too long, and he can't pretend anymore. He doesn't even remember why he wanted to pretend in the first place. He does nothing except place his hands very gently on Sherlock's hips, a gesture not overtly sexual but that could never be considered platonic. "I'm sorry."

Sherlock does not pull away, but shakes himself like he is in a dream. "Sorry for what, John?"

"Everything. Nothing." He looks up into Sherlock's clear grey eyes, bright in the fading daylight, and his face is guileless, open, accepting. Sherlock still doesn't move, but he is tense, poised for flight, like a deer frozen in the scope of a hunter, like he's been suddenly exposed and has nowhere to run.

John has never kissed someone taller than him. He closes his eyes and goes up on his toes, expecting to lightly brush lips with Sherlock, a chaste peck, a beginning. He is surprised when Sherlock responds with bruising pressure, bearing down on him, as if trying to transmit a litany of unsaid thoughts and feelings through the meeting of their lips. Then he jerks away, uncertain, doubting his reaction.

"John, I –"

"Don't," John interrupts. "Don't think about it. Turn off your brain." It is almost an order and Sherlock is shocked into silence. John takes Sherlock's hands and places them firmly around his own waist, then reaches up to wrap his around Sherlock's neck.

He looks at Sherlock for confirmation and Sherlock gives the slightest nod. John pulls Sherlock down to him this time, and the kiss is far more equal, warm and moist. Sherlock's lips part ever so slightly, and John runs his tongue along them, questing but not invading. He feels Sherlock's tongue meet his and the kiss grows passionate as they open to each other, shyly at first, then more confidently, then hungrily.

They break apart but don't let go of each other. John smiles, sheepishly.

"But, John… you're straight," Sherlock manages.

"Yes. And you're…asexual?"

"Apparently…not," he replies, motioning to the growing bulge in his trousers.

"What did I say about the brain?" John kisses him again, just for a moment, then pulls away and turns around, heading to the stairs. He can sense Sherlock's panic at this development, and turns back to him. "Can you please trust me, Sherlock?" He motions for Sherlock to follow him and goes to his bedroom, shutting the door behind them.

"I do," Sherlock says, finally. "I just thought…"

John grabs him by the shirt, crushing dark silk in his hands. "Don't think. Tell me. What do you want? Whatever you want." He looks at Sherlock meaningfully. "I will do – or not do – whatever you want. But you have to tell me."

Sherlock is paralyzed. This is new. His past encounters, few and youthful and generally unpleasant, were about taking – him taking from someone or someone taking from him. Nobody asked. Finally he manages a clumsy, "You. I want you." He holds his breath, in case this is the wrong answer, although objectively he can deduce from John's behaviour that it is exactly the right one.

John grins, and pulls him over to the bed, yanking him forward until they topple on to it and find each other locked in one another's arms, kissing. Sherlock is still uncertain at first, expecting rejection, but as each advance is returned enthusiastically by John, he begins to let go, lose himself in the sensation. Despite John's orders, his brain won't shut off entirely, but it moves from thinking about past, worrying about future, to cataloguing the experience of the now. There is a lot of new data to collect, and he doesn't want to miss any of it.

The taste of John's mouth, to start. Vaguely sweet, a tinge of sourness from the long night, a hint of a breath mint to try and hide it. John's smell. His shampoo and deodorant and aftershave mix together with his natural musk and a hint of sweat from their chase, plus the remnants of fear and adrenaline lingering but now overlaid by a smell Sherlock recognizes as desire.

It drives Sherlock wild and he rolls himself on top of John and begins to strip him, pulling off the light grey jumper and undershirt awkwardly, distracted by another sensation – the twin pleasures of John's soft lips and rough stubble working their way up and down his neck, with the occasional sharpness of teeth nipping at his tender skin. It's delicious, but he has a different aim in mind and once he has John shirtless, he straddles him and pins his wrists to the bed above his head.

"Be still," he orders, and John chuckles but complies.

He starts with John's hair. Nuzzling it, breathing in the faintly herbal shampoo, running his hands through it experimentally, feeling the length (a bit shaggy, due for a cut), recording the colour (light brown, nearly, blonde, sandy, each strand variable), noting the texture (thick, pleasant to touch, wavy to curly around the ears and neck). Oh, there is so much here, how could he have missed it before, when it's been sitting in front of him, living in his flat for more than a year?

He pauses to kiss along John's hairline and nape of his neck, biting at an earlobe on his way. He expects John to complain, to squirm, to ask what he is doing, but this does not happen. Instead John lies quietly, content, and says, "Talk to me. Tell me, tell me what you observe."

Sherlock moves on to John's face. "Eyes. Blue. Dark blue, often mistaken for brown but in reality closer to slate. Though they change colour in the light and with your mood. How can eyes change colour? Skin, clear but weathered." He runs fingers over John's face, lightly caressing all his features. "Fine wrinkles around the eyes and mouth. Lips…soft… full…" He traces John's jaw line. "Dimples, slight, only when you smile very widely. Chin, small but strong. Ears stick out…" he licks along the edge of both. "Beard, two days growth, coarse like thick grained sandpaper, slightly reddish…" He rubs his own smooth cheek against John's experimentally.

John quivers beneath him, amazed at how erotic being examined like this is. Perhaps it is merely the thought of someone caring enough to want to commit him fully to memory. Sherlock does not stop. He has moved on to John's neck, shoulders and chest now, has found himself fascinated by the hollow of John's collarbone, and taste of John's skin.

"Salty from sweat, plus your unique combination of pheromones, a slight soap residue… touch of garlic from our supper. And…citrus. Why do you taste like citrus? Ah, you had an orange with breakfast."

He continues this way, his voice catching a bit when he reaches John's shoulders, now both marked by scars, the right one still pink and shiny. He kisses both with upmost delicacy, and John cannot stand to be passive any more. "You can finish later," he whispers and sits up, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's torso pulling him back down, somehow escaping Sherlock's vise-like hold, and beginning to unbutton his shirt, carefully, methodically. He slips his hands underneath it, revelling in the smooth skin beneath his fingers even as he feels Sherlock beginning to undo his trousers. He slips the shirt off Sherlock's shoulders and climbs on top of him, gasping a little at the beautiful sight of the alabaster body beneath him.

They wriggle out of trousers, now holding each other in only their pants – two thin layers of fabric (one cotton, one silk) all that separates them. John feels Sherlock's hardness against his own, pressing insistently up into him, and it is almost too much for him, but he wants to remember this moment.

"Tell me what you observe, John," Sherlock says, nearly begging.

"I'm not observing, I'm looking," John replies, slowly moving his hands across the impossibly slender chest, the narrow waist, the surprisingly strong shoulders. "And what I see is… dark curly hair that I want my hands to get lost in. Clear grey eyes that see into everything. Lips with a curve meant for kissing. I see perfection."

They both abandon control at the same moment, colliding roughly, restraint and appreciation replaced by need and desire. They crush against one another, devouring each other with their hands. John reaches into Sherlock's boxers and wraps a hand firmly, gently around him. He is hard, throbbing and already slick, and Sherlock moans, thrusting his hips at John and fumbling with his hands for John's groin. He growls in frustration when John releases him – soon, too soon, not enough – even for the brief moments it takes to remove their pants.

The sensation of bare cocks, bare thighs, bare everything pressed against each other is exquisite torture for Sherlock. "Please John," he whispers, between kisses. "I can't take it anymore."

John wraps his hand around both of them and they rock together, Sherlock arching his back against him and gripping his arse tightly with both hands, pulling John's hips to him, needing the pressure, needing the release. A few measured strokes from John's strong hands send Sherlock over the edge and the sensation of his hot wetness spilling on John's stomach and cock are all it takes for John to follow, collapsing on top of Sherlock as they shudder together, John never ceasing his kisses to Sherlock's chest.

They are silent, taking in what they have just done. After a few moments, John grabs his discarded boxers and gently wipes them both clean, settling back down in the crook of Sherlock's arm.

"Should I leave?" Sherlock asks after a long stretch of silence, tentative.

"Is that what you want?" John raises his head so he can look him in the face properly.

"No…"

"Then no." John kisses him on the shoulder, and runs a hand lightly over his body, fondling his hipbone and coming to rest there. "What do you want?"

"I…want to do that again. Only… more. More of that."

John can see this is not an idle request, Sherlock's cock stirring again already at his touch, and he smiles, pulling Sherlock on top of him and rising to meet his mouth, the heat of his body, the thrust of his hips. John runs his hands up Sherlock's back, tangles them in his hair, and then slips down, beneath Sherlock to take his length in his mouth, feeling him grow hard under his lips, gripping his buttocks firmly to control the speed of his motions. John has never done anything even remotely like this before, but it feels completely normal and he can tell from Sherlock's soft gasps that he is on the right track.

He concentrates on sucking slowly, occasionally, shyly, stroking Sherlock's balls with his free hand, and pausing to lick up and down the length of the shaft. It's not long before he hears, "John, I… I can't…" and he stops, not wanting it to be over so soon again. He needs his face to be close to Sherlock's and they tumble over each other, landing side by side pressed against each other, legs tangled, bodies pulsing with need, breathing raggedly.

"Sherlock," John breathes into his ear. "Tell me what you want."

The question again. Sherlock feels a stab of fear when he thinks of his desires. It seems like too much to ask, but John's breath is hot on his cheek and it makes him bold.

"I want to fuck you through to the next floor," Sherlock growls. It comes out harsher than he intended, but John's eyes light up.

"What a coincidence," he replies, and reached into his nightstand drawer, pulling out a bottle of lube and some condoms, left over from his last girlfriend, Sherlock is sure, and not placed here in preparation for this. At least not consciously.

John's reaction encourages him and he says bravely, "No. No condom. Please? I don't want something between us."

John frowns briefly and bites his lip, no doubt thinking about the drug use. At last he says, "I trust you, Sherlock," and scatters them to the floor, reaching up to run his fingers through the dark, silky hair again.

John begins to feel nervous as Sherlock's slicked fingers work their way slowly towards his entry, skittish of his own reaction, of how practiced at this Sherlock might or might not be, but he forces himself to relax. He trusts Sherlock, he repeats to himself. He gasps as Sherlock slips a finger inside of him, and Sherlock stills, letting him get used to the feeling, steadying his shoulder with his other hand and laying firm, reassuring kisses on his neck and face. John makes a soft noise of assent to let him know he can continue, which turns to whispers of pleasure as he feels first one finger, then two, then three, moving inside of him, carefully exploring, stretching, seeking.

There is some pain, more discomfort than true pain, and the more he relaxes the more it ebbs away in favour of the pleasure. Sherlock switches his grip and strokes his hard cock with his free hand, and John fumbles to return the gesture, certain he is doing a terrible job given the addled state of his brain. But Sherlock doesn't complain, and in fact fairly purrs at his touch.

They take their time, existing for long minutes in a limbo state of pleasure, exploration, soft touches, until at last Sherlock can take it no longer. "Now, John? Please?"

The need in his voice wakes the hunger in John, and he nods eagerly. He rolls over and feels Sherlock line himself up, long fingers gripping his hips tightly, and then slowly, too slowly, slides himself inside of John, just a tiny bit. Pleasure and pain explode behind John's eyes, but he finds himself begging for more, more, please Sherlock more and he is filled completely. He reaches down to take himself in hand but Sherlock beats him to it, and pulls him up off all fours until he is sitting on Sherlock's thighs, one of Sherlock's arms tight around his chest and the other stroking him gently.

There are too many sensations to process, and John is content to be still for a moment, being filled, being touched, being together. Slowly, Sherlock begins to move, lipping the back John's neck, seeking permission. John rolls his hips in response, reaching back to grip Sherlock's waist, keeping them tight together even as Sherlock thrusts, slow at first, then harder, matching his strokes to the tempo of his thrusting.

John twists around to kiss him on the mouth. "Sherlock…yes…oh please…yes…"

It doesn't last long. John comes into Sherlock's hand, head thrown back in ecstasy, fingers dug into Sherlock's hipbones and sure to leave marks. The sound of his cries alone could drive Sherlock to orgasm if he wasn't most of the way there, and the feeling of Sherlock exploding, overflowing inside of him at almost the same time overcomes John completely, leaving him sagging in Sherlock's arms.

They break apart and fall to the duvet, hot, sweaty, panting, but keeping fingers and legs in contact, afraid if they stop touching the moment will be gone somehow. John has never felt so completely used up and so completely fulfilled at the same time. He feels his heart swell with emotion, but says nothing, only lazily traces patterns on Sherlock's forearm.

"You were right, John. This is better," Sherlock says, when he can speak. "Much better."

John grins and doesn't need to ask what he's talking about. He pulls Sherlock closer and kisses his temple.

"Would you… do that to me sometime? Not now. Sometime. Soon."

John stops himself from laughing and says solemnly. "Definitely."

"Not just once. We need to do that a lot. In many combinations. For data. Comparisons."

"Sherlock, we can do that and more as many times as you would like. For whatever reasons." John is still a bit shocked at everything that has happened this evening, but he committed to a course of action and second thoughts aren't in his nature. And it was, he admits, the most spectacular sex of his existence. Next comes the interesting part. Continuing to live together while buggering the brains out of one another on regular basis. Some people would refer to that as a relationship, but John wasn't betting on anything with Sherlock. If there was one thing he had just learned, it was that every expectation he had about the man could turn out to be wrong.

In the meantime, however, Sherlock seems perfectly happy to engage in old-fashioned cuddling, even pressing himself into John's side and throwing an arm carelessly across his chest. "Stay here tonight?" John whispers into his hair, and Sherlock nods, closing his eyes.

Sleeping with Sherlock is both simpler and more of a headache than John anticipated. On the one hand, much of the framework is already there – they live together, work together, and Sherlock has John trained to do most of the domestic chores. People already think they are a couple, and they don't mention the change in status to anyone, although at least poor Mrs. Hudson downstairs must know, as the walls and floors are none too thick, and Sherlock tends to be both loud and unconcerned about what they might be doing to her nerves.

On the other hand, it is exactly as exhausting as John might have guessed, and infinitely more unpredictable. Sherlock has gone his entire adult life without regular gratification, at least ten years without any at all, and at least one year in unrequited lust after his flatmate – he intends to make up for it now. He has also apparently decided to adhere to the "if sex is better than casework, than there should be much more sex than casework" theory he had outlined for John. John is more than happy to oblige, but Sherlock has inhuman stamina and apparently little need for rest, even when not on cases.

Sherlock is downright predatory. He pounces on John when he walks in the door, when he gets out of bed, when he gets into the shower, when he gets out of the shower, when he makes tea, when Sherlock has a brilliant idea, when Sherlock has no ideas, and, especially and inevitably, every time John attempts to walk out the door to go anywhere else. It's not that John has no interest in initiating things himself, it's just that if there is a moment that could possibly be used for sex, Sherlock has already tackled him. John is patient, assuming Sherlock's appetites will calm eventually, at least a little, and tries to stay hydrated.

The bonus of all this, is that John discovers that all the thoughts and feelings that Sherlock doesn't know how to talk about, he is quite adept at expressing physically. John learns to read his body like a book, and realizes he can get more out of him that way than talking. There is a difference in how he moves, how he kisses, what he wants when he is tired and needing comfort, when he is worried, when he is lost in a case and needs a distraction, when he is angry, when he is bored, when he is getting dangerously bored. All of these don't seem to affect his level of desire, but there is universe of variation in what he wants and how, and John quickly learns to decipher it all.

John does, however, have to institute a few rules for his own sanity. The first, only a week into what he has decided is indeed a relationship: Finish what you start. Sherlock has discovered that nothing provides as good a distraction from a tough puzzle than a quick tumble with John. So good, in fact, that the solution often comes to him halfway through, leading to several incidents of Sherlock running off in the middle of things, leaving John frustrated, unfulfilled, and decidedly cranky about putting on his clothes and following Sherlock into the cold streets of London.

Sherlock grumbles about this rule, but John is firm. He is willing to do virtually anything Sherlock wants, but a man has limits. Plus, even Sherlock Holmes needs manners. "If you are going to think of something so urgent you can't possibly take five more minutes to wrap things up, then don't start!" John tells him after the third time it happens.

"I don't know what I'm going to think of until I do!" Sherlock protests, but he complies, worried John will revoke his privileges entirely.

The other rules (mainly, no sex at John's work, no sex at Scotland Yard, no sex in the taxi – John gives in on snogging, because a taxi is a very good place to snog), elicit similar complaints, but Sherlock eventually submits, mainly because he can think of no way to change John's mind.

The no-more-drugs rule is never explicitly stated, and Sherlock is not sure if it is actually a rule at all, but he certainly doesn't seem to need them as much with this new activity serving to both calm him and stimulate him variously as needed. And he has a sneaking suspicion if John sees drugs again, condoms will also miraculously appear, and that is something he is interested in avoiding at all costs.

One side effect of the relationship that John really should have foreseen is Sherlock moving from possessive (which he has been since day one), to maddeningly, viciously possessive. No woman who dares to speak, smile, or, God forbid, touch John is safe. The reactions range from pulling John away for something urgent, with a venomous glare, for minor infractions, to completely eviscerating her self-esteem publicly, using basic facts deduced from her person, for the high crime of attempting to slip John her phone number.

"Okay, that was just cruel," John tells him, irritably. "And you did it on purpose, too. Knock it off. She was no threat to you, and you know it. And what about that waiter last night? He was all over me, and you thought it was the funniest thing you'd ever seen."

"Well, it did get us a free bottle of wine, John," Sherlock says smoothly, speeding up just enough so he knows John has to trot to keep up.

"I'm serious. You treat a woman who looks twice at me like prey, but a man practically tries to put his tongue down my throat and it's a source of light amusement. I'm lost."

"Well, you're not gay, John," Sherlock says, as if it should be obvious.

"I've got a sore bum that could argue with you."

Sherlock pulls up short. "Yes. From me. But you like women. You're not going to just run off with another man, I'm the only man you're interested in. But you've always liked women, and they like you. Too much."

"So sure of that, eh? You're the only man in the world that I could possibly be seduced by, so great and irresistible are your charms?"

"Yes."

John snorts. "Alright, yes. But at the risk of fatally inflating your ego further, there's not a woman out there that has a chance either. So take it down a notch."

Sherlock is insufferable for three days after this.

They sleep together, when Sherlock does sleep, usually in John's bed, despite Sherlock's being both larger and nicer. For Sherlock's part, this is because he finds being surrounded by John's scent and the detritus of his life both reassuring and sexy. For John's part, it is because he hopes the extra set of stairs will prevent their long-suffering landlady from being woken by their exertions at all hours of the night, even if there is no hope of her breakfast not being interrupted by their morning shag in the shower.

John begins to blush furiously whenever he sees Mrs. Hudson, though Sherlock is completely unabashed. On the way to a case, he is unable to avoid her in the corridor, and she gives him a look that he swears will kill his libido for at least a week. "Ah, Mrs. Hudson, hi, sorry about all the…um, well, sorry," he finishes lamely. Sherlock is tapping is foot impatiently outside.

"That's alright, dear," she said patting him on the shoulder. "Honeymoon phase. I've heard worse!"

"Have you?" John could not imagine that's possible, and in fact Mrs. Hudson shakes her head kindly.

"No, not really, dear." She gives him another knowing smile. Two weeks, he decides, but immediately reverses his decision when they get in the taxi and Sherlock swats his arse discreetly for making him wait.

At least one other individual is fully aware of the extent of their relationship. Sherlock returns home one day from a visit to Mycroft, beaming like he just caught Jack the Ripper. John is unnerved – a meeting with his brother usually results in a days-long sulk, and although John is grateful this has been averted, he is also suspicious.

Before he can ask, Sherlock crows, "Mycroft is removing all surveillance from 221B immediately! Not that the monthly bug sweep wasn't a nice part of my schedule, but really it's about time."

John is speechless, and more than a little horrified. "Wait, what? He was still doing that?"

Sherlock rubs his hands together. "Of course. He's been spying on me since I was twelve. I'm sure he still will, just not inside the house. Nice work, John!"

"What did I have to do with it? What did he say?"

Sherlock straightens and adopts his brother's buttoned up attitude with uncanny ease, quoting in a single breath: " 'You-win-Sherlock-I-can't-take-another-day-of-watching-my-baby-brother-being-buggered-sixteen-ways-from-Sunday-in-the-sitting-room-it's-indecent-worse-than-that-there's-audio-and-as-a-point-of-interest-how-do-you-manage-that-thing-with-your-leg-no-please-don't-show-me-just-leave-all-my-love-to-John!' " Sherlock looks entirely pleased with himself.

John has nothing to say to this, except, "And I thought my relationship with Harry was screwed up." He sincerely hopes he won't have to face Mycroft any time soon, though can't help but be pleased that it seems Mycroft approves of him in general, even if he is less than thrilled to be exposed to the specifics of what John has been doing to his sibling.

There are plenty of things they don't say, don't talk about. Sherlock is never good with feelings, and John is more of a man of action, preferring to show rather than tell. It is not so much that they are avoiding it, but that they have better ways of communicating, and some things just don't need to be spoken.

They have never and will never say "I love you". Such words are not in Sherlock's vocabulary. As for John, he feels too strongly to say it, as if to verbalize it would be to dilute it somehow. What is love, anyway, if not one life lived together, two bodies tangled beneath the sheets, curves fitting together just so? The willingness to kill, to die, to live for the other? The hand in the hair, the lips on the shoulder, the fierce, fierce, loyalty that overrides all other relationships, even those of blood?

Love is too weak a word. John loves his sister, his blog, his favourite blend of Earl Grey. There is no word he knows that can encompass what he has with Sherlock, so he does not say anything, trusting that his actions, his body, his very existence, their existence together do a better job of expressing it than he ever could. They do not discuss the future, either, because there is nothing to discuss. They are both in this for life and, John realizes, they always were. Marriage is not something that occurs to him, but if it did it would seem as unnecessary as it certainly does to Sherlock.

Lastly, they do not discuss the fear. It grips one or both of them occasionally, when a case goes beyond the usual adrenaline rush into the realm of the truly dangerous. If there is a close call or one of them is injured or nearly killed, they don't speak of it, but John can feel it in both of them, the unspoken thought of possible loss, making them a little crazed, needing to be with each other urgently, immediately, to reassure themselves that they are both still there, still okay, still whole.

John did not know it was possible for a human being to be this happy. It feels criminal, illicit somehow. He doesn't want to share it with anyone, doesn't want to tell friends or family for fear it might disappear. He worries, deep in his heart, that it can't last, that the universe will not allow this level of joy to endure between two people. He tries not to let the thought grip him too tightly, but it always returns, usually in the dead of night when he can feel Sherlock breathing against him, and he thinks that if he ever had to go without this, he would die.

As a lover, Sherlock is magnificent, creative, and surprisingly talkative. John is more the quiet type, though hardly passive, but he enjoys Sherlock's stream of consciousness, his unpredictability, when it is on display. Often he takes the scientific approach, such as laying John out in front of the fire, licking a patch of skin and then blowing on it, observing the minute movements of the hairs, the time it takes to pucker into gooseflesh, and comparing the rates on different parts of John, providing a never-ceasing narrative about nerves, follicles, and temperature differentials as he ravishes John from head to toe. Or informing John that he is going to count every freckle on his body and that John is not permitted to move until he is finished.

Sometimes he is filthy, alternately demanding, ordering, pleading. God, John, I want you to fuck me into next weekend, I want you to fuck me so hard I can't think straight, I want you to suck my cock until my come runs out your ears and then I want to you to do it all over again, oh please, John… Others he is poetic, playful, excited, and very nearly romantic. John, you're like the city, you're like London, you're like home, endless twists and turns, darkness and light, but always there, always leading me back to you, always making me a part of you, the molecules of your body turning into my flesh and bone and back into you again…

Still others he is quiet, focused, intense, saying not a word but approaching John with such dark gravity that John is silenced too, and something deep passes between them. It doesn't matter how, John just wants it never to end, wants them to go on like this for eternity, flatmates, friends, partners, lovers, everything to each other, all the time.

But Moriarty returns, as they knew he would. John doesn't realize it at the time, but slowly Moriarty's poison infects their lives, and before John can even grasp what is happening, his world with Sherlock is narrowed down to a string of last times, whittled away little by little. Looking back, he can see that Sherlock knew, or at least suspected, how it would end the entire time, can read the dread in him retrospectively. What he had interpreted as focus, as the normal distraction of a case, the disengaging from John, was really an attempt to hide what he knew was inevitable, to prevent John from putting up a fight until it was too late.

The last time they make love, after Moriarty is acquitted but before they are drawn into the nightmare of fairy tales and destruction, Sherlock is spooned around John, in the small hours of the night. John is tired but Sherlock is insistent, needy, and John doesn't have the heart to refuse him. Later he is grateful he didn't make that mistake, that they had one last, quiet, tender moment together, even though it shatters John's heart to remember it. Sherlock is so gentle that night, worshiping John's body with his hands, memorizing it, and utterly, profoundly silent.

The last time they kiss is the next morning, right before the call about the kidnapped children, and John is certain something is wrong. Sherlock is closed off from him, hard, cruel, mysterious in a way he hasn't been in months. But John thinks it is just the fear, after what Moriarty put them through last time. They will beat him, Sherlock will beat him, and it will all go back to normal.

The last time they touch, they are handcuffed together. John cracks a joke. Briefly, there is laughter, the familiar rush of adrenaline, and Sherlock is his again, just for a moment. Even then, John is still sure he will find a way out for them, that everything will be fine.

The last time they speak it is all lies, every word, and John cannot let himself think about it, can't believe he couldn't stop it, didn't know, couldn't sense it. And then it is over, has slipped away from him, exactly as John had feared, only worse than he could have possibly imagined. There is nothing left to him, not even a man to take apart with his bare hands, not even vengeance.

A year passes. It is a bad year. John's limp returns. He quits the surgery, takes cases from Lestrade full time. He is not as good as Sherlock, but it is the only thing he knows how to do anymore, and Lestrade is desperate for the help and guilty about his part in Sherlock's death. John receives mysterious supplements to his bank account, enough to not worry about rent or getting additional work other than the meagre fees from Scotland Yard. He knows it is Mycroft, but refuses to see him.

It is a dark year. He contemplates suicide often, but that would negate everything he had with Sherlock, even as he is furious at him for taking that option, even after he finds out why he did so. Still, more than once, he finds himself holding his sidearm in the dark, longing for the release it offers.

It is almost exactly one year later when Sherlock comes home. He walks through the door without ceremony, while John is reading a case file. He is somewhat the worse for wear, thinner, paler, greyer, but then so is John. They stare at each other. John does not move, cannot move, cannot think, cannot breath.

Sherlock doesn't know what he expects. Anger? A punch in the face? Weeping? Kisses? He gets none of these, so he waits, waits for John to decide what to do with him. The silence stretches on too long, dull, heavy, suffocating. At last Sherlock breaks.

"John, I'm sorry." He spreads his hands. "I owe you a thousand apologies." The words do not come easily to him, but he does mean them.

At last John stands, with difficulty, and says bitterly, "Don't. Don't you dare."

Sherlock starts to reach for him, but thinks better of it. "John, I had to, just let me explain–"

"I know," John cuts him off angrily.

"You...how?"

"Your phone. You meant us to find it, hear the recording, didn't you? I know why you jumped. What I don't understand is why, if you were alive this whole time, you stayed silent."

"I just wanted to protect –"

John cuts him off again, cold, ruthless. "Just don't, Sherlock." The way he says the name slashes like a knife, so different than the way it has ever sat in his mouth before, like the man before him is a stranger.

"John, you asked me not to be dead..." He knows as soon as the words leave his mouth that they are a mistake. Rage lights behinds John's eyes and Sherlock thinks for a moment, hopes, that he might hit him. But he doesn't.

"You were there," John says dully. "You were what, twenty metres away from me? You heard everything I said and couldn't find it in your heart to give me an iota of hope. You had a whole year to contact me, anything, even just one word in a text message, and chose not to. You just walked away, didn't you?"

"I didn't want to. If you had known, even suspected I was alive, someone else might have too. I couldn't risk your life for that, not until I was sure it was safe again, not until now. Can you ever forgive me, John?" Sherlock's voice is as close to pleading as it ever gets.

John looks at him levelly. "No."

"What do you want me to do, John? Tell me, I'll do it. Do you want me to leave?"

John sighs. He does and he doesn't. He can't stand to look at Sherlock, but the thought of him disappearing again fills him with dread. "You know, if we hadn't been... before…if you hadn't given me so much happiness, shown me how good life could be together, if we had stayed just flatmates, just friends, I could have forgiven you."

"And now?"

John shakes his head. "You were so selfish, do you even understand that? You knew what might happen, you could have shared it with me, you could have warned me, we could have made a plan together. But you cared more about beating him than you did about me!"

"I did it for you!"

"No, you did it for you! You were so concerned about keeping me safe, not taking a chance, so you wouldn't have to ever risk facing life without me. Did you even think, Sherlock, even for a moment, what facing life without you meant for me? Did you really think I was actually safe like that, that you could just step back into our life here without any consequences? My God, Sherlock, I nearly –"

John breaks off, controlling himself, but it's too late, Sherlock has read the truth in his face. He recoils, horrified at the thought, horrified at himself for not realizing what he had done, what might have happened. "Moriarty…" he says, weakly.

"Moriarty didn't take everything I had away from me, Sherlock, you did! Christ, you're so bloody arrogant, you think things will be exactly how you want just because you're a genius, and you've figured it all out. You decided for both of us, you didn't give me a choice. That's not how you act when you care about someone, you don't just decide the entire course of their life based on what you want! I would have been safer," he spits the word, "knowing you were alive. I would have been safer with you."

Sherlock nods helplessly, knowing anything he says now will only make it worse. "Do you want me to leave?" he repeats.

There is a long pause. At last John says, "No. No, I don't suppose that would help. Your bedroom is the same, I didn't touch anything." He turns his back on Sherlock and goes upstairs to his room without a word, leaving Sherlock standing in the sitting room, desolate.

So little has changed about the flat that Sherlock could almost imagine he hadn't been gone, if it weren't for a musty, empty, unused feel about it. It seems darker and colder. John barely speaks to Sherlock, although he does, occasionally, stare hard at him, as if trying to remember who he is, what they were to each other. Sherlock tries to figure out what he needs, tries to give him space and time, but he is at a loss. Some days he thinks he should just leave, just get out of his way and let him go on with his life, but he doesn't want to, and he worries that it might make things worse for John. He won't go unless John tells him to, he decides.

This state of half-life between them persists for more than a week, until Sherlock can stand it no longer. He needs John. He barely held onto sanity over the past year, was pushed to his limits in his attempt to root out Moriarty's network, had been tortured, starved, and forced to do things even he has to admit were extremely distasteful. Through it all, the thought that had sustained him was coming home to John. And now home isn't home and John isn't John, and it's all wrong.

He corners John in the upstairs hallway, as he's coming out of his room. Sherlock knows, knows he shouldn't do this, but he can't help himself. He has do something. He is tall enough to prevent John from moving past him, at least not without a good shove.

"John," he says, leaning over him, desperate to get just a little bit closer. "I had no idea. I should have done, but I didn't. I just want things to go back to how they were. Tell me what I have to do, and I'll do it. Anything."

John looks up at him, so sadly, not even angry at being trapped like this. "There's nothing you can do. It can't ever be like it was. Life doesn't work like that. Now, just let me go."

Sherlock doesn't move. "I can fix it, John, I can figure it out. I swear I can. Let me show you." He grabs John by the waist and kisses him hard on the mouth, trying to communicate the depth of his regret, his longing, because he sure as hell doesn't know what words will work. He presses against John, aching for contact, sure he can make him understand.

John pushes Sherlock off him, with enough force for Sherlock to nearly lose his balance and stumble back against the opposing wall. He'd forgotten how strong John is. "You can't fix this!" he yells. "Just stop it. Stop it right now. You can't just pretend the past year never happened, act like it's fine. Don't you think I would if I could? But it's not fine. I'm not fine, Sherlock."

It is the first time he's said his friend's name in days, and the two stare wordless at each other for long seconds. John is appalled at the degree to which his body has responded to the unwanted kiss, how delicious the taste of Sherlock on his lips again was, how he warmed at the touch of his hands. He hates Sherlock for making him want him again.

"I know, John," Sherlock says finally. "I'm sorry. I'll go. I think… I think it's best if I go." He turns slowly, but is stopped by a strong hand on his bicep.

"Don't you dare," John says. His face is like a storm cloud and his voice is still cold, but Sherlock doesn't care because John is touching him, John is kissing him, even if his kisses are hard and unforgiving and full of rage. He can let John take all his anger out on him like this, if it will help. John can do anything to him – the only thing he can't stand is John doing nothing to him.

They fumble their way to the bed in John's room, tearing at each other's clothes, Sherlock submitting to John's almost resentful advances. Even as the need rises within him, John is ashamed of himself. He has never felt ashamed of anything he's done with Sherlock before, but he knows this wrong, knows this isn't how it should be, knows he is taking advantage.

But he can't stop himself, he hasn't felt anything in so long, and Sherlock is right here and warm and wants him, and maybe can make him feel something, even if it's something bad, and God, it's Sherlock and he's back and it's all he's wanted for the past twelve months and now he hates him and wants him and needs him all at the same time.

They are quiet, desperate, and violent, biting and clawing at each other, not holding back, John leaving marks and wanting to be marked in return, wanting to inflict and receive pain because it's all he knows anymore. The energy between them is darker than even their harshest previous encounters, some quite rough but never tinged by genuine malice before. It's not long before they are naked, and John, without preamble, grabs the bottle of lube and condoms from his drawer and tosses them at Sherlock. "Here. Use them."

Sherlock hesitates. "John, I just want you to know, while I was away, I didn't… I mean… there was no one, and I did nothing that might…" He had stayed clean, and celibate, for John.

John's face darkens even further. "Well, you're not the only here, so just use them, okay?"

It takes Sherlock a moment to understand what John is saying to him. He drops the bottle and condoms on the bed and moves closer to John, who pulls away. "Don't," he says, withdrawing, pulling the sheet around him.

"John…what… what did you do?"

John won't meet his gaze, but says, "I just wanted to feel something, anything. Cocaine always seemed to do it for you, but it made me see things, see you, not like this, bloody on the pavement, falling through the air, and that was worse. So, I thought maybe if I found someone, I could close my eyes, and pretend, pretend for a moment that it was you, that I was with you, but…" he shook his head numbly.

There had been a string of anonymous men, tall, slender, handsome. John had hated all of them, hated himself, and none of them had made him feel like Sherlock, even for a second, even when John was very drunk, shutting his eyes in a dark alleyway, trying to hard to imagine he was in the arms of his partner instead of being fucked by a cold, uninterested stranger. "I wasn't careful, and I haven't been tested. I didn't care."

Sherlock is blind with rage for a moment, it fills his head like static. Other men, touching John, violating John. It makes him sick. He wants to find them, tear them apart, destroy them so that there is no one left but him who has known John. But it dims quickly, and only then does Sherlock truly understand the extent of what his choices have wrought, fully grasp that John is right, they can never go back to what was before.

He lowers his head, in grief, and takes one of John's hands. He brings it to his lips and kisses it over and over, wanting to do more, wanting to enfold John in his arms, tuck him away inside his heart, but he senses John is on the edge and is fearful of pushing him over, losing him forever. He says nothing, just holds the hand to his mouth, hoping to convey everything he cannot say with the gesture. Eventually he feels fingers in his hair, stroking his cheek. Permission.

He pulls John to him and they sink to the pillows together, wrapped up in each other at last. Sherlock can feel John's silent sobs begin to shake him, and to his amazement discovers his own cheek is wet as well. They hold each other a long time, faces buried in the curve of necks, not speaking, waiting for the overwhelming pain and relief to ebb enough to move, to think.

At some point, they start again, and it is still different than it ever was before, but it is no longer angry or unhealthy and it doesn't feel wrong or shameful. The poison has been drained from the wound, but it still needs to be tended to. Their movements are soft and sweet, but also mournful, a testament of what has been lost. They are careful and a little bit fearful, Sherlock that John might break and John that Sherlock might vanish. Neither wants to take his eyes off the other, even for a second.

After what feels like ages of kissing and caressing and taking each other in again, John climbs atop Sherlock, barely having time to ready himself much less scramble for one of the discarded condoms, before Sherlock is wrapping long legs around him, trying to draw John into himself, desperate to feel him inside.

"Are you sure?" John whispers, trying to hold back, be sensible. "It's not safe like this, we should at least—"

"I don't care about safe, I don't care about pain, I just want you, nothing but you, John, please…"

And John can't refuse him, doesn't want to. He enters him carefully, mindful of Sherlock's reactions but hungry to feel his friend enveloping him, surrounding him again after so long. Sherlock gasps, and John hesitates, not sure if it is in pain or pleasure, but Sherlock only pulls him closer with strong thighs, moaning, demanding more, until John is buried deep within him, Sherlock's cock pressed between them, chests touching, faces nearly so, breathing one another's scent. They are still, reacquainting themselves, savoring the moment. John has one hand behind Sherlock's neck, tenderly, and the other on his shoulder, while Sherlock holds John's hips to him, as if he might try to leave even now.

John kisses Sherlock on the forehead and starts to move, gripping his neck more tightly and wrapping his other hand around Sherlock's leaking cock, stroking, but not too much, not wanting it to be over. They press together as much as they are able and John rocks slowly, agonizingly, deliciously slowly, wanting to sear the feeling of Sherlock body into his heart and mind, wanting to fill and be filled. All thoughts but this are gone from his head, the desire for Sherlock, for them to never be parted again.

John can feel the climax swelling within him, and grips Sherlock tighter, trying to hold on just a little longer. He feels Sherlock's hand against his cheek, fingers in his hair, the smooth voice, now jagged, saying, "It's okay John, just let go."

And John does, spilling over, emptying himself completely into Sherlock, even as he feels Sherlock shudder and explode under his hands, bending down to lick the hot fluid off his chest, wanting to taste, to know, to have some of Sherlock within him too. They stare into each other's eyes, unmoving, unblinking, until John slips quietly from Sherlock and comes to rest next to him, suddenly bashful.

Sherlock is breathing heavily, aware that there is a space between them again, unsure if the anger and hurt is about to return, if this was a renewal of closeness or a goodbye, not wanting to ask. Both men are awkward, feeling they have just shared more than they meant to, uncertain what it means. Finally, Sherlock finds the courage to say, "John? Can I…may I…hold you?"

There is a pause and he feels John smile, feels his assent, feels the space between them recede, and he curls himself around the doctor, trying to touch every centimetre of skin with his own, pressing his lips into the nape of John's neck and leaving them there.

"We can't go back, Sherlock," John says softly. "You know that now, right?"

Sherlock nods, and wraps his arms more tightly around John's torso, afraid of what he will say next, that he will slip away from him again.

Then he feels John's hand on his arms, squeezing with equal pressure. "But," he says huskily, "I think maybe we can start over."

Sherlock lets out the breath he was holding, and closes his eyes in sheer relief.

"Stay here tonight?" John asks.

Sherlock relaxes and settles against him. "As long as you'll have me," he whispers.