Warnings – Basically, it's a PWP. Yep. A delicious, slashy, PWP with much shagging and naughty behaviors between our favorite confirmed bachelor and his consulting detective bedfellow. Adult language and shagging abound.

Disclaimer – We don't own Sherlock and made no profit off this fic except an unhealthy tingling feeling throughout.

Summary – Another RP adventure between myself, Calabash, and my dear friend Driffta. She's such a sexy Sherlock. *hugs* again, she is taking Sherlock, and I am writing for John.

ESTABLISHED RELATIONSHIP - John has been away from Baker St for two days on a case. Sherlock is conducting an experiment. What happens when his experiment takes a completely unexpected turn?

It had just finished raining. John scowled up at the overcast skies, heaving a great sigh as the cab came to a rolling stop by the curb, and he pressed his nose to the glass window. "Damn," he muttered. Rain always made things more difficult. He could see the glow of flashing lights down the street, and knew Scotland Yard was waiting for him there... waiting for him and Sherlock. But Sherlock wasn't there, and Sherlock wasn't coming. No, Sherlock was no doubt curled, warm and cozy, with a cuppa tea and a slice of cake, watching crap telly while John did his dirty work. Who had put in a full day on the case? John. Who had spent twelve hours on his feet? John. Who was dry and warm and relaxed at home right now? Sherlock. And John was rather peeved.

He paid the cabby, and pushed the door open, laptop under his arm. He sighed again. A corpse was bad enough; a rain drenched corpse was simply unbearable. He began to stride, swiftly and determinedly towards the crime scene. The faster he got there, the faster he could be back home in a hot tub. His phone beeped in his pocket. He set his jaw, and snatched up the mobile. "What?" he snapped. He knew who it was before he ever even looked at the bloody thing.

Sherlock stretched languidly on the sofa and glanced at his mobile. John should have just arrived at the crime scene. Why wasn't he calling? Turning the telly off, Sherlock picked up the phone and dialed John's number. Two rings, John must be upset, Sherlock mused. He was right, John was irked. 'Have you had a chance to view the crime scene?' Sherlock knew he had not, but he asked anyway, just to get under John's skin. 'Right,' he said with a smile 'I'll want you to give me a full rundown of the scene tonight, make sure to get pictures as well.' He paused, listening to John's reply. 'No, no I won't need you to set up the web cam, as I said, pictures will be sufficient. We can talk later tonight when you reach the hotel.' Sherlock held the phone a little away from his ear as John let out a string of curses. 'I can't be bothered to look at the crime scene, John, it's too tedious. Most likely the brother-in-law killed the woman with a kitchen knife and tried blaming it on the maid. Make sure to check underneath his fingernails for skin follicles. I'm hanging up,' and with that Sherlock ended the call. He yawned a little before turning the telly one once more. After a few moments he stood up and walked over to his laptop. Should he turn it on now or wait? He could wait for a little while. Maybe take a bath, put the kettle on. Yes, that's what he would do.

Damn him, damn him DAMN HIM! John cursed all the way down the street, his fists clenched. He could just picture him, sprawled out on the sofa, barefoot, robe hanging off his lean frame, hair tousled... He drifted a moment, and growled under his breath. Another night. Another night in a hotel room with a lumpy bed, a pillow with a questionable stain, and a shower with mildew stains. Another night away from the flat... another night away from Sherlock. He approached the crime scene, and forced every thought away from his mind but the case. Focus, John. Focus on the work. The work is everything. And one more night wasn't going to kill him. It was just going to royally piss him off. The tape was lifted, and he ducked beneath, eyes darting. Now. Where the bloody hell was the brother-in-law and his damned fingernails?

He'd been on the scene for a half hour, and taken the photographs Sherlock wanted, and accumulated as much data as he could amass, when his laptop blipped. He was crouched in a corner in the yard by the greenhouse, uploading the data, and his eyes darted to the blinking window below. He lifted an eyebrow. What the hell did Sherlock want now?

He clicked on the message, sighing.

Sherlock had just stepped out of the shower when a thought occurred to him. He wrapped a towel loosely around his hips before walking to his laptop and turning it on. Sherlock had already figured this case out when Lestrade had given him details about the crime scene and suspects. It was indeed the brother-in-law. The reason why Sherlock was dragging this whole thing out was for a different reason entirely. He was conducting an experiment of sorts. He and John had not spent more than two nights apart since the first time they had 'become a couple', and Sherlock was curious as to how John would hold up, how he himself would hold up. Sitting down, he sent John a message.

Turn your webcam on. Urgent. - SH

There, he smiled. With any luck John would respond right away, though there was a small chance he might hold out for a little bit to be impertinent. The computer beeped as John sent a video request to him. Excellent.

John drummed his fingers on the keyboard a bit as he placed the video call, and he felt impatience rising in his chest. The screen glowed blue on his face as Sherlock materialized on the other end. "Sherlock," he said wearily, rubbing his eyes. "What, what do you want? I'm uploading it all now."

Sherlock leaned back in the chair, his pale chest fully exposed, the slightest hint of soft brown hair peeked out from the towel. 'Just checking up on you,' he rumbled, pushing a lock of damp hair from his eyes. He noticed a slight change in John, an almost imperceptible hitch of the man's breath, a slight flush on his rain kissed cheeks. How interesting. Sherlock let out a small sigh and moved his shoulders back a little, gauging John's reactions. Could it be? Was John...aroused?

John barely caught the choke in his throat as Sherlock's blurry figure came into focus in the screen. Why? Why did the universe hate John Watson? That smooth expanse of creamy flesh filled the window, and John felt his heart begin to pump madly in his chest. His fingers tightened on the computer. His eyes flicked up to watch the constables pass back and forth, and he shifted uncomfortably.

His lover blinked back at him innocently from the flat, murmuring something about checking up on him, but John knew better. Sherlock was teasing him. He was such a bastard. "I'm fine," he muttered irritably, unable to keep his eyes from his beautiful body. "I'm cold, and wet, and tired. I'm evidently staying another night, though I could just as easily take the train back, but I'm sure you have other things for me to do here tomorrow. So I'd like to finish up here if you don't mind, go back to the hotel and get some sleep."

Sherlock watched John's reactions with interest. 'Hold on one minute, John, I hear the kettle.' Sherlock gracefully stood up, making sure John could see every movement he made, making sure the towel slipped just a little lower on his thin hips. He had not meant for this to happen, he had not thought John would react this way. He had simply come to the conclusion that his experiment had failed, in fact he had decided to tell John that it was the brother-in-law after all, and could he hurry home because Sherlock was bored. But this, well, this was promising. He walked into the kitchen and clattered about. The kettle had not even been on, but he had needed an excuse to let John get a full view of what exactly he was missing. An evil smile played on Sherlock's lips, his eyes narrowed in delight. John was not going get the easy way out of this. 'I've changed my mind, John. Tell me about the crime scene.' Sherlock called over his shoulder. 'Is there anything that is odd?' Sherlock listened with all his might, wanting to hear how John spoke rather than what he said. How excited was John? Would he be able to concentrate on the case? Would Sherlock be too distracting? So many possibilities ran through Sherlock's head. This could prove to be highly entertaining.

John's mouth was hanging open. He knew it was, but he couldn't seem to close it. In fact, if he thought about it, he imagined he rather looked like a cartoon dog with a large tongue lolling out. It was completely humiliating! And yet... Sherlock was standing in full view of the webcam, his sloped back naked, his hip bones jutting out from beneath a too-short towel, and John could see the curve of his buttocks, the terrycloth barely covering them. He swallowed the groan that desperately wanted to rip out of his throat, and he shifted so that he was crouched on his haunches, his jeans feeling two sizes too small. "Ah..." he tried looking away, thinking about the case, the poor murdered woman, the fingernails... Sherlock's beaded skin. Sherlock's wet curls. Sherlock's naked arse underneath that towel... He shook himself. "What do you want to know?" he managed, but it was with great effort, and he balanced the laptop on his knee with one hand, the other slipping down to discreetly adjust himself. He was in the shadows, and no one was paying attention to him, but he didn't want to take any chances. His jeans were tight enough to show an erection. And John Watson was getting an erection. He tried to glare at Sherlock's back.

Sherlock heard the shift in John's voice; he was fidgeting, uncomfortable. Sherlock turned around and walked back, carrying a mug. It was only filled with water but it wasn't as though he was going to be using it. Sherlock made a great show of sitting down before he propped his elbows up on the desk and leaned forward a little. 'What's the matter, John? You seem distracted?' He watched a spasm cross the other man's face, how John's mouth opened and closed a few times without making a sound. Sherlock leaned back against the chair again scratched nonchalantly at his chest. He felt smug as he saw John's eyes follow his hand. Sherlock allowed his hand to brush down his chest until it lay on his lap. 'John?' he asked again, feeling quite pleased with himself.

John's breath was coming faster as he watched those thin fingers trace a seductive line down Sherlock's chest. His eyes were inexorably drawn to the dark, hard nubs on his chest, and John licked his lips. He tried to speak, but his voice failed him. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Yes?"

'Have you been...lonely?' Sherlock put a low emphasis on the last word, his voice low and enticing. He knew John could not resist it when he spoke with that tone. 'It's been a few days since we've had sex. Tell me, have you...touched yourself while you were all alone in the hotel? Do you miss me?' Oh God, the thought of John wanking made a pool of heat well up in Sherlock's abdomen. It was an alluring thought.

John's eyes grew huge, and he reached down to adjust once more. He ignored the fact that he left his hand there, not cupping, not rubbing, just a warm presence, his thumb grazing between his legs. He had indeed been lonely. Achingly so. His sex drive had always been fairly strong, and since Sherlock... well, everything was MORE since Sherlock. More danger, more fear, more passion, more laughter, more sex. He opened his mouth, fully intending to say "What about the case, Sherlock?" but instead, he was horrified to hear his own voice, dropping low and rumbling sensually, reply, "You've no idea, Sherlock. You've honestly no idea."

Sherlock allowed himself a small smile. 'Then why don't you tell me, John. Tell me, what did you think during it, John? Did you imagine me stroking your chest? Did you feel my hand on your cock? Did you see me, John?' Sherlock brought his hand up to his lips and brushed them slightly. 'Did you remember the last time we were together? Remember what I did for you? The feel of my tongue running down your cock? Do you remember? I do. I thought of you last night, John. I remembered.' Sherlock traced his jawline the way John liked to, bringing his thumb down to his neck, along his adam's apple until it reached his clavicle. He watched John lick his lips and felt an erection of his own begin to stir between his legs.

"That's not bloody fair," John rasped, but he couldn't help but taste his own lips just the same, remembering, oh, all too well the last time they had been together. For so long he wondered what Sherlock's angelic mouth would feel like, wrapped around his cock, and now, he wanted it again. And again. He craved it. Sherlock was his addiction, his cocaine, his seven percent. He ran his tongue over his teeth, desperately wanting to sink them into the crook of his neck. His erection was raging now, pressing against the denim, and he felt heat flooding his face. His breath was coming in swift pants. All around him, Scotland Yard bustled, ignoring the small man in the corner with a glowing laptop on his legs, and John pondered for a moment. Did he have time? Could he make it back to the main drag, catch a cab, and find his way to the hotel room before having it off with Sherlock? He glanced down at himself. Fuck, no. His eyes dragged slowly back to the screen where Sherlock was waiting for him, pale, silken, his chest rising and falling rapidly. Those silver eyes were dark, and hungry. "Sherlock," he whispered, and his voice was shaking. "Two seconds." He hauled to his feet, head whipping about for a darker corner.

Sherlock moved his hand down, gently brushing a pert pink nipple. 'Hurry it up, John.' He moaned, closing his eyes. He was remembering the other night, how perfect it had been. Sherlock heard John move, heard the breathless okay, and he reopened his eyes. John's back was to a damp brick wall, his face was flushed, his eyes were bright with arousal. This was new territory for both of them.

'Tell me, John, can you feel my hand? Touching you? Where would you like me to go first? Would you like me to kiss you? Shall I lick those rosy nipples of yours?' Sherlock slid a finger down his stomach until it reached his own cock, already hard. His lips parted as he let out a low guttural moan. 'Show me where you want me to go, John.'

John's hand was in his pants far too quickly. He was so eager. So damned eager. This was new, and dangerous. John could still hear the buzz of the police and paramedics around the corner. Someone could peer down the alley at any given moment, and see him stroking his cock for his flat mate. But as he watched, Sherlock's eyes met his, and those thick lips moaned for him, and John dissolved against the brick. He slid down, unzipping his jeans and freeing the hot flesh that throbbed there, and he placed the laptop on the ground, angling it so Sherlock could see his hands fumbling with the buttons on his jumper, see the pulsing length that wept for him. The bead of moisture at the top began to fall, dripping down the side as John bit his lip, groaning. The jumper fell, and his shirt followed. His chest lay bare. He panted, stuttering. "My chest, Sherlock... you... remember how you touched me... pinched me last time?" His cheeks flooded with color. One thumb brushed his nipples, hard with cold and arousal.

Sherlock licked his lips in anticipation. He did remember, oh, how he remembered. The whines that action had caused, the frantic pleading. 'Pinch it, John, exactly how I did; hard. I want to see it turn red. Don't forget the other one, John, give it a good tweak. I want to hear you.' Sherlock loved saying John's name, he loved the way it rolled off his lips. Gently, he pressed his hand against himself, palming his length. His other hand played with a nipple, brushing it, twisting it.

"Sherlock!" John barely kept his voice down as his thumb and forefinger rolled his right nipple, tightly, and he pinched, hard. His head fell back, exposing his neck, and he gasped, eyes wide. Oh yes. He remembered how that felt, Sherlock's hands on his body, hurting him, making him beg, making him scream. He reached up with his other hand to the left nipple, and twisted them both, arching.

"Oh, yes, Sherlock, shit that feels..." Marvelous. Agonizing. Wonderful. He stared down at the screen, stared down at his lover, rubbing his cock through the towel. "Stand up for me, Sherlock."

Sherlock obeyed John, standing up. Really, he told himself, it was the only option he had. Watching John touch himself like that, hearing that authoritative voice...there was no way Sherlock could have refused. The towel fell to the floor as he stood up and he gasped as the cool air of the flat hit him. 'What,' he panted, swallowing thickly, 'do you want to see, John?' He waited with baited breath, unsure what this would entail. Sherlock was excited, a little scared, and incredibly aroused.

"Everything," John muttered to himself, but the sight of Sherlock's body, so thin, so perfectly formed, sent him into a dizzying spiral of desire. He sat there in the dirty, dark alley, fondling his own chest for a few moments, memorizing every detail. The way Sherlock's stomach was flat, and slid down ruthlessly into gorgeous sex lines, and dark, matted curls around a thick, pink cock that curved slightly to the left. The way the muscles in his jaw jumped when he was horny, when he was aroused, when he was amazed, as he always was when John looked at him this way. No matter how many times John told him how beautiful he was, Sherlock always seemed completely baffled by John's interest. What an idiot. What a bloody fool. John leaned into the camera, lifting his eyebrows. "You know what I want to see, damn you."

Sherlock let out a long, heavy breath. 'Tell me,' he said, twisting his fingers in his pubic hair just above the base of his cock, teasing himself, making himself even harder. He let out a little yelp that reverberated in his throat and chest. Oh God, John was watching him so intently. He didn't understand John. He didn't understand what made John stay. John was different from other people, John was a constant reminder that there were good people in the world. John was, amazingly enough, in love with Sherlock, and that was something the younger man could not understand. He looked at John through heavy lidded eyes. He was handsome, tanned and broad backed. His muscles rippled underneath his smooth chest. Sherlock was entranced by the way he breathed, the way his body arched ever so slightly when he was around Sherlock. Sherlock loved the way he could make John hard in less than a minute, just by brushing a thumb against his crotch. John's crotch, fuck, Sherlock loved that part of him as well. John wasn't as long as Sherlock, but it was a magnificent cock, so thick and so incredibly hard at the moment. Fuck. Sherlock wanted John home.

John's hands were beginning to shake. He let them wander, over his pecs, down his stomach, finally wrapping them both around his cock and letting his head fall back to the brick, hard. He thrust it backwards, hitting it against the wall, frustration and desperation warring within. "Show me," he begged, his rough palms and fingers beginning their familiar dance, sliding up and down his dick, sending his body into convulsing shudders. "Show it to me, Sherlock, show me that monster." He grinned as he said it; he didn't even have to look to know that Sherlock's pupils just blew up. That his pulse was racing. He continued, letting the words flow freely from his lips. He had no shame, not when it came to his best friend and lover. He'd do anything for him. He'd proven it a hundred times over. "Show me that monster you like to plow me with, Sherlock," John grunted.

Sherlock gulped in air as he moved his hand down, grasping his cock firmly, pumping it, sliding his fingers down the length of it until they touched the mushroom head. 'Aaaah!' he whined, bucking his hips. 'Oh God,' he roughly played with the little slit, already glistening with precum. 'John, John, John.' He repeated over and over, a litany of love. He did not care that John had taken control, he did not care that John was telling him what to do, all he wanted was to feel the hotness of John surround his dick, he wanted to fuck John so hard he'd scream Sherlock's name until he had no voice left. His hand got faster, more intense, needier.

"Oh, fuck." John began to stroke in earnest. His entire body felt as if it were on fire. He could no longer feel the cool of the wet pavement, the frigid brick against his back. All he could feel was the rough pads of his hands on his cock. The image of his Sherlock, standing nude in their flat, pleasuring himself with little gasps and moans and John's name on his lips was burned into his memory for the rest of eternity. And it wasn't enough, no, John needed more. He gulped down a great lungful of cold, damp air, and he scooted closer to the computer. In the background, he heard cars pulling away. The investigation was wrapping up for the night. Eventually, someone would come looking for him. He shivered, and knelt before the laptop, pressing his cock up close to the tiny red dot on the camera. "Look at me, Sherlock. Look what you've done to me," he hissed, and threw his head back again, moaning. "Oh, for fuck's sake, Sherlock. I can't do this." He was stroking, with both hands, thumbs running across the tanned, bulbous head, fingernails scraping the veins, shoving his cock at the camera, at Sherlock. "Look at it. Look at it. You want it, don't you?"

Sherlock moaned loudly at the sight of John's pulsating cock. 'Fuck! Yes! Oh, fuck I want it!' Sherlock could feel the orgasm working its way up from his toes, he was so close. He wanted John. 'John, oh god, John. I'm...I'm...FUCK!' He shrieked, 'I'm going to cum.' He could not look away from John, he wanted that glorious dick in his mouth, hell, he wanted it in him. This was the first time hehad ever wanted John to fuck him. He imagined John riding him, thrusting into him. 'FUCK! FUCK! JOHN. OH GOD.' Sherlock came in pearly white spurts, so much semen. It got all over the screen, the desk, the mug, the floor. Sherlock collapsed to his knees, not noticing the jolt of pain the sudden impact caused him. He leaned against the desk, panting, his lips parted.

John stopped mid stroke. His entire face, previously flushed and hot, had suddenly drained of all color. He knew that cry. He knew it intimately. He knelt there, watching his lover spend himself, his eyes huge, heart slamming, body rigid. He waited until Sherlock was hunched over the desk, gasping for air, his eyes cloudy. John swallowed. There was cum on the camera. It was blurred and smeared, and he trembled as one of Sherlock's thin hands struggled up to wipe it off. There was a moment of perfect silence. John lifted the laptop in his hands, and brought it to eye level. "I'm coming home."

He knew that cry. That was not Sherlock's normal cry. That was the pleading, begging, desperate cry of a man who needed to be shagged, right then and there. John knew this because he'd heard it so many fucking times ripping from his own throat in the dead of night, when all he had were fantasies and his own wild imagination. But now... Sherlock was crying out for him. For his cock.

And by the fires of hell, John was going to give it to him.

Sherlock looked at the camera weakly. 'Hurry, John.' He pleaded, his voice cracking. This was more than he could take, he needed John, he ached for John. If John got a cab in five minutes he could be home in an hour. Could Sherlock wait that long? He would have to. There was a hole in Sherlock's chest so large it was painful. He felt himself getting hard again for the simple reason that John, his John, was coming for him. His John was going to take him and fuck him until morning, until Sherlock could take no more. 'Oh God,' he groaned, licking his lips. 'Pay the fucking cabbie extra, tell him to break the rules.' I need you, Sherlock thought, his eyes glazed over, his breath coming in heavy shudders.

John fumbled with his jeans as best he could while balancing the laptop on one arm. "I'm coming, I'm coming," he muttered, but there was no petulance in his tone, only a frantic impatience. Pay the cabbie extra? Sherlock fucking Holmes was waiting for him in their flat, naked and, for the first and only time in the history of their relationship, practically begging for John to come home and fuck him. Fuck HIM. Fuck. Him. Pay the cabbie extra? John laughed softly to himself as he staggered back against the brick wall. He'd shoot the cabbie in the head if he dropped below 90 MPH. "I have to go," he tossed at the view screen, and rolled his eyes as the panicked look on Sherlock's gaunt face. "Sherlock, I have to hail a cab." He couldn't get the buttons in his jumper in the right holes. Damn. He snorted, and gave up, darting about the corner, looking left and right. His erection was painful. His clothes were a shambles. But no one looked at him. John smiled. There were advantages to not having cheekbones, and high collared woolen coats. He slipped past the last remaining constables without being spared a glance, and he headed for the main road. "I'm shutting down now, Sherlock."

Sherlock wanted to protest, to make John stay on, but he knew that it would only impede his arrival so he nodded with a small whine. John's image disappeared and Sherlock got shakily to his feet. Without even bothering to shut the laptop off, he stumbled to their bedroom. They would need lube and condoms. He frantically scrabbled around, upending the dresser drawers, pulling clothes out of the closet, looking everywhere. He found a glass jar and smiled. Condoms, where, where bloody, oh fuck it. He knew John was safe, he certainly knew HE was safe. John was the only person he had ever let himself be this intimate with, the only person he had ever wanted to be this intimate with. He kept thinking thoughts of John; John's expressions, his gorgeous, authoritative voice, those strong rough hands, his sturdy legs, his cock, oh God, his cock. Sherlock let out another desperate whine as he practically ran to the sofa, waiting for John to come home.

"FASTER!" John knew the cabbie was driving as fast as the law would allow... but DAMN IT, hadn't he and Sherlock done enough for mother England to warrant a little speeding infraction? He certainly thought so. He closed his eyes tight, trying not to scream at the cabbie again, but the moment his eyelids slid shut, all he could see was Sherlock. Sherlock, naked. All sharp angles and warm skin and breathy pants and pleas. Was he waiting in his bed? Was he on his knees? Would John simply walk in the door, drop his laptop on the table, strip, and shove his cock in that tight, hot virgin arse? "FOR FUCK'S SAKE, FASTER!"

Sherlock could not wait much longer. This night was not going at all how he had planned, no, it was going so much better. Should he wait for John to get here? Should he sit tight? Slowly Sherlock moved his hand down in between his legs until it reached the pucker. Carefully, curiously he pressed it. 'Ah!' He gasped, his muscles clenched defensively. Sherlock knelt down on the floor, his legs spread. Fingers shaking a little, he unscrewed the bottle and smeared a little on two thin digits. With some trepidation he pushed one finger inside him, willing his body to relax. He felt a strange sensation, slight burning pain, pleasure. John, hurry home, please.

John practically threw the money at the cabbie, and barreled out of the car. He hit the door of 221B with too much force, and probably woke Mrs. Hudson, but at the moment, he really didn't give a shit. His feet made a terrible row as he raced up the stairs, and burst through the doorway to their flat. He was completely and utterly unprepared for the sight that awaited him.

Sherlock, his Sherlock, was on the floor, kneeling, as naked as the moment he'd left him on the webcam. He was on his knees, hunched over the sofa, and he... John's head reeled, and he had to shoot a hand out to the wall to steady himself. Sherlock was fucking himself. He had two long fingers, deep inside of his ass, and he was mewling, moaning, those full, bowed lips open and twitching.

Unearthly eyes forced themselves open and fell on John, and Sherlock's body convulsed. John stood, unable to move, every hair on his body standing straight up, his cock flexing beneath his jeans.

Sherlock's cheeks were flushed, his eyes over-bright. John, John was standing in the doorway staring at him. 'Haaaa,' a low call escaped his throat, 'John,' Sherlock eyed the bulge in John's jeans with hunger. 'John.' He moved his two fingers out then stuck a third one in, closing his eyes from the jolt of pleasure that exploded in his brain. What was John doing? Why wasn't he fucking Sherlock senseless? Why was he waiting? 'John, please.'

Sherlock said please. Sherlock never said please. And he wasn't even asking for cigarettes. He was asking for...

John shut the door firmly behind him, and stepped into the flat. He watched Sherlock squirm, for one full second. One second to commit this moment to memory. One second to store it in his mind palace... or rather, for John, his mind bunker. It was not as grand, nor as large as Sherlock's palace, but it served its purpose. It stored those precious few moments that were really worth remembering, and oh yes, this was one of them. One second. And then, he was behind him, hands roaming, a dusty blonde head falling onto his back, clothes torn and ripped from a tanned, muscular body. "Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock.. you're beautiful."

Sherlock leaned against John, relishing the feeling of heat, the hardness that was resting between his cheeks. He bucked against John, wanting him to hurry up. 'Fuck me, John,' he whispered 'fuck me now.' He felt those muscular arms surround him in a tight, safe embrace. Sherlock felt loved. Sherlock felt wanted. Sherlock felt fucking horny.

John didn't have to reply. Sherlock already knew. He wanted this man, wanted him like he'd never wanted anything in his entire life. John held him close, remembering how frightened he was the first time, how intense the emotions were, and how Sherlock was unused to such sensations. He nodded against his back, and leaned up, licking his ear, shivering at the wanton sound that escaped his lover.

"Sherlock.. it's going to be all right. Just hold on to me, okay? Just hold on to me." Let me anchor you. He waited until he felt Sherlock's breathing even out a little, and then with one hand, he guided his cock to that red pucker, and with the other, he placed it around Sherlock's long neck, lightly caressing, reminding him that he was still being taken care of, still being watched over.

With a gasp and a great deal of restraint, John pushed inside.

Sherlock's body convulsed. How had John known the right things to say? John had always been better at that sort of thing. Sherlock would have never admitted to being frightened, not even to himself, yet somehow John knew. Tears surfaced, the mixed pain and pleasure of John being inside him almost ripped Sherlock apart. Slowly, very slowly, Sherlock relaxed, melted against John, allowing those wonderful, strong arms to support him. John was inside him. It felt like nothing Sherlock had ever experienced before, it felt so fucking good. The younger man waited for a few moments, wondering why John was not moving, then he realized and his heart flipped. John was waiting for him, that realization made Sherlock so absurdly happy. John was so thoughtful, so kind. Sherlock rocked against him, wanting more, wanting to be torn asunder by John's beautiful cock.

The moment he was inside of Sherlock, John felt everything inside of him begin to sing at once. Loudly. Screeching was more like it. His blood, his brain, his muscles, his nerves, all shouting and screaming and throbbing against one another in a joyous refrain. He was inside Sherlock Holmes. INSIDE Sherlock Holmes. That virginal pucker stretched and twitched around him, and the walls of Sherlock's body stroked and heated his cock, comforting, soothing, wet velvet. It was all John could do not to pull out and slam back in, hard and fast. But... as badly as he wanted to fuck Sherlock like a madman, he would not cause his lover pain. Sherlock had always been so good to him in bed. John was determined to return the favor. He shuddered as Sherlock panted below him, and then there were stars behind his eyes as Sherlock slowly rotated his hips, sliding forward, canting back again. John let out a strangled cry. He began rocking in time, and the world was all at once beautiful, and made only for them.

Sherlock let out a loud scream, his world had been shattered and rebuilt all in one swift movement. John moved against him, each time going harder, faster, deeper inside Sherlock's hole. It was one of the most amazing sensations Sherlock had ever felt, it was every bit as good as the first time he had ever mounted John. It was heaven, hell, and earth all rolled into one. The stars could be raining down on earth in a fiery torrent, the sun could be crashing down, the world could be exploding and Sherlock would not have cared one single bit. All he could feel, all he needed was the body next to him, ramming into him, filling him completely. 'John, shiiiiit, John. I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you. John, oh God, John, you're so bloody hot...I...aaAaah!' Sherlock's brain began to short circuit on him, he couldn't think, all he could do was breath and move with his universe, his John.

At Sherlock's hasty cries, John began to fuck him faster, his hips pistoning in and out, his face twisted and desperate as he shouted his lover's name. He grabbed Sherlock roughly, pulling him back into his chest and lap, and John propped himself up with his hands flat against the floor, his thighs strained as he shoved his cock up, up into that wet heat, and he watched Sherlock ride him. It was bloody glorious. Sherlock was sweating, his pale skin glistening and dewy, his legs were spread on either side of John, and he was stroking his own cock in time with John's deep thrusts, jolting and crying out hoarsely every time that cock drove in, pounding his prostate again and again. John grinned despite himself. He could hear it in Sherlock's shouts. He could feel it in the clenching muscle around his dick. He knew from experience exactly what was happening in that limber body. Sherlock was about to come completely undone. And it wouldn't be like anything he'd ever experienced before. John let his head fall back, and he let instinct take over, rutting like animals on the floor. The tightness surrounded him, building in his gut, and he started moaning. "Sherlock.. Sher...Sh... I.. Ahhhh... AHHH... FUCK..."

Sherlock's eyes popped open, wider than he'd ever known he could open them. He could feel John inside him, cumming in thick spurts, it was...there were no words for it. 'hnnnnngggg,' he moaned out, not able to utter a single word. He pumped his own cock and felt his own orgasm building up, pushing its way out for the second time that evening. 'AAAAAAAAH! JOHN.' He called out hoarsely as he came into his hand, onto the couch and floor. He fell back against John, still clutching onto his limp cock. 'John,' he whispered weakly, turning his head, searching for John's lips. His other hand found its way to John's back, hugging him as closely as he could. He needed John right now, he needed John to hold him, to tell him it was okay, to tell him he had felt good.

'John.'

Sherlock. Oh Sherlock. John's face was pressed flat against his back, and he stayed there a moment, riding the high. The pleasure still had not dissipated. It reverberated through his entire body, sending him into literal shockwaves, and he stiffened and relaxed several times against Sherlock, before sliding both arms up, up to Sherlock's chest, under those wiry arms, up to grasp at his shoulders. John held him tight, embracing him, showering light kisses on his back. "Mmmmmm," he hummed, and reached up to press his lips on the nape of his neck. "You all right, Sherlock?"

Sherlock let out the breath he realized he'd been holding. 'Yes, yes I'm wonderful.' He turned around in John's safe arms and flung his own about that edible neck, kissing John soundly on the lips. 'I am so much better now that you're here.' He leaned close to John's ear and kissed it lightly. 'Thank you.' Sherlock rested his head against John's, feeling the short sandy hair brush against his temples. Sherlock was content.

John sighed, nuzzling his nose into Sherlock's neck, nipping playfully at his earlobe. "I love you, you know." His hands wandered that long body, his back, his legs, his arms, his stomach. "You were going to make me stay away another night, weren't you?"

'I was,' Sherlock said ruefully, a smile playing across his lips as he arched his back to John's loving caresses. 'I didn't expect these results. I didn't expect...this.' Sherlock flopped his arms against John's back, gesturing the situation they were in. 'I - I missed you.' He murmured, snuggling closer, wanting to fuse their bodies together, never wanting to part.

They sat there for several moments on the floor before John began to shift beneath him, uncomfortably. "Sherlock? I... I need to go to the loo."

He smiled up at him reassuringly, and petted his dark curls. "Actually.. I'm very tired, and very cold, and could really do with a hot bath. Would you.." John's eyes lowered a bit sheepishly. "Would you like to join me?" he asked.

Sherlock eyed John thoughtfully then disentangled himself from the other man and stood up, holding his hand out. 'That would be acceptable.' He said with a nod as he felt John's seed oozing out between his legs, such a strange sensation. He squirmed his arse a little without meaning to. It wasn't unpleasant, just...odd. They would have to repeat this experiment again, someday...it had been...

Sherlock closed his eyes, recalling the passionate exchange that had occurred only a few minutes before. It had been delightful.

John smiled, a genuine, brilliant grin, and he allowed Sherlock to pull him to his feet. He stood on his toes for a kiss, and let his eyes slide shut when his flat mate obliged. "Come on then," he whispered, and began to lead him down the hall. "Think we woke Mrs. Hudson?"

'Without a doubt,' Sherlock said unrepentantly as he followed his lover, holding his hand. Sherlock Holmes loved John so very much that frankly, sometimes it hurt.

John opened the door to the bathroom, and flicked on the light. He glanced in the hallway, and hesitated. Sherlock stood in the darkness, and he had that look in his eyes, the one he got right after he'd said something insensitive, right after people called him a freak, right after he was hurt. John stepped closer to him, and cocked his head. "Sherlock." His tall, young lover glanced up, barely meeting his eyes.

John leaned in, brushing a rough hand over his face. "Sherlock. I still want you."

Dear gods, John thought. He's still the virgin inside.

Sherlock bit his lip, but felt reassured by John. He shook his head and moved next to John, looking down at him, he couldn't help but worship this brave, wonderful man. Deep down Sherlock had always been a little scared, no, terrified that if he let John on top that John would become disenchanted, would not want him anymore. Sherlock had never told John about that fear, he didn't want John to see that weak part of him, he wanted to be strong and perfect in his lover's eyes. He leaned down and drew John into a kiss, telling him everything that words could not even begin to convey.

John returned the kiss, dragging his fingers through his hair, and worshiping him. He was his Sherlock. He was his everything. And John belonged to him.

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