A/N: I have a lovely follower by the name of Old Ping Hai who is marvelous and kind – she let's me know when I have missed something and she is wonderful about the time I misspelled her name;) To thank her I asked her for three words. She gave me revelation, truly, and magnanimous.:) I asked her the type of story she'd prefer and she said Humour and johnlock – lots of johnlock – the johnlockier the better:D – well what's a writer to do? Hope you like this OPH!

Thanks to mattsloved1 for the idea of Sherlock revealing something he shouldn't at a crime scene and for checking this over:D

Once again I do not own. I wish I did:( Even for, like five minutes;)

Things Not to Say at a Crime Scene

"John, look at this," Sherlock's tone was imperious and rude. The usual. John sighed internally and shoved off of the wall toward where Sherlock was bent over the body on the bed.

Sherlock waved his hand over the corpse of a 20 something male, nude, tied to the bedposts at the wrists, but not the ankles. John, gloves snapped in place, carefully looked into the still eyes, checked for a pulse automatically and peered into the mouth.

He turned to Sherlock and said, "it appears to be asphyxiation."

Sherlock huffed at John, "Yes, yes, I know that. Dull. I am talking about the knots on the ropes. Don't you think they are rather simplistic? He should have been able to free himself. He was tied up after the murder. You would have no trouble untying them, even in that position, which is why I would never use that particular knot on you. I would use one like I did last night." At that precise moment, Sherlock's magnificent brain caught up with his mouth. It may have been the utter silence that filled the deceased's flat. It may have been the look of astonishment and shock that beamed off of a few of the faces of the forensics team. It may have been the sight of 50 quid being slipped into Donovan's hand by one of the junior officers.

It may have been Lestrade's softly spoken admonition. "Timing, Sherlock."

More likely it was the look of complete horror that bloomed upon John's face. John's face turned a most breathtaking shade of red; Sherlock filed that sight away to look at it in the privacy of his own mind palace. It was very becoming. An enthusiastic and very eager part of him was wondering if he could get John to look like that later tonight. A realistic part of him was thinking he would be lucky to sleep on the couch after what he just said. He told that part to be quiet. John always forgave him.

"Oh, John, I, uh…well, that is to say, nothing I said would diminish your obvious masculinity and really you lasted much longer than the national average of a man your age and I did make you climax twice so really you come out on top. So to speak. Figuratively. Literally, it was my turn to top last night."

John's mouth fished open and closed about three times, he then looked at the ground, shook his head and turned abruptly to marched away from the scene before another crime was committed in front of half of London's finest.

Lestrade came up behind Sherlock who was standing there with a bemused expression on his face, watching the sight of John's short figure as it disappeared from the room. "Well that was quite the revelation, Sherlock. You may want to go after him and apologize."

Sherlock looked at Lestrade and scoffed. "Apologize? For what?" Sherlock shrugged himself deeper into his coat.

"For what? You just outted him to the forensics team and gave away some very personal information at the same time. I think you need to make it up to him." Lestrade shook his head. "Don't forget, he probably knows more ways to kill someone than you do, starting with his bare hands. I really don't want to have to put the good doctor away for your murder." He chuckled a little at his own joke, although deep down the D. I. thought there was always a slight possibility that at some point John would have just about enough and Sherlock would be dead.

Not that he'd blame John.

"That is highly doubtful," Sherlock frowned, slightly bothered by the notion John might have more information about murdering someone than he himself did. "I am positive I am aware of many more ways to kill someone than John has ever entertained."

Lestrade looked at him with a mixture of pity and humour. "I think you are missing the point."

He turned back to his team to see if there was any of John's reputation he could salvage for the doctor's sake, if nothing else.

Sherlock found himself indecisive. He didn't like this feeling, not one bit. On the one hand he needed to tell Lestrade about the murder. It was simple, really. On the other hand he felt something odd tugging at his heart. He couldn't quite put his finger on what it might be.

He glanced over his shoulder at Lestrade. As he did so he noticed Donovan and Anderson smirking at him. He rolled his eyes. They were not going to let this go. They were going to bring it up every time. He started to walk away, thinking what a nuisance and how utterly tiresome it was going to be. It wasn't much of a leap to think about how John would feel about that. He stopped in his tracks. He could picture clearly the look on John's face, as he had to see the deliberate smirks and hear the derisive comments thrown at him over and over again. His frown deepened. He didn't care what anyone thought of him. He was so used to people's snide remarks and belittlement he ignored it, most of the time. But John? John would care. He had feelings. He was private. He hadn't been ready to tell anyone about their relationship quite yet. He had told Sherlock two days ago it was new for him, being with a man, it was uncertain territory and he wanted to explore things slowly, carefully first. He wasn't ready to share his wonder and joy at the discovery. He also didn't want anything to jeopardize their new relationship still in its infancy.

A slow whining sound was building in his head as he realized he might have totally fucked this up.

He ran out the front of the building and quickly hailed a cab.

John meanwhile had stormed off in a cloud of embarrassment and fury. He could hear it over and over again, Sherlock just spewing out a seriously private piece of information.

He was so angry and hurt by Sherlock's callous disregard he didn't pay attention to where he was. Before he knew it he was far from anywhere familiar. His anger was burning off but his disappointment still prevailed.

By the time he had oriented himself and made his way back to where he could locate a cab, he had been gone for several hours. He told the cab to take him back to Baker Street. Part of him was fervently hoping Sherlock wasn't there, not sure if he could face him without wanting to tear him apart slowly and part of him hoped he was so he could.

The cab pulled up and John threw some money at the driver, bitterly aware that this day was going to be an expensive one in many ways. He was sure Sherlock had already paid for another cab or would do so shortly. He sighed to himself yet again as he pushed through the front door and made his way up the stairs into the flat.

He entered and stood, military ridged as he took in the forlorn sight that met his eyes. Sherlock was sat in his chair, head in his hands, fingers clenched in his curls hard enough that it made John's scalp ache just looking at him.

He stood there for a very long time, his head and his heart going in two different directions until finally he gave up and walked across the floor and sank down at the Sherlock's feet. He placed his hands on Sherlock's and shook them a little trying to gently dislodge them from his hair.

"Hey, hey now. None of that. Sherlock, look at me please."

Sherlock muttered a pitiful "No" and seemed to hunch further into himself.

John stroked the top of his friend's head. "Look. I was angry with you. I still am, but I came back. I came back so we could talk about this. Sherlock? Do you understand what you did was wrong and deeply hurtful?"

There was a tentative nod of the head.

"Would you look at me please?"

This time a definite shake of the head.

"Why not?"

"Because you hate me."

"I do not hate you! I am angry with you. If we are going to have a serious grown up relationship then you need to act like a grown up. Now lift your head and look at me."

Slowly he raised his head and John's heart did a funny little clenching squeeze. He almost forgave him right then and there but fortunately he kept his head and remained stern. Sherlock was a picture of abject despair. His eyes were red rimmed and he had his face screwed up in pain. John took his face in his hands and said. "You need to stop and you need to listen. What you did was not acceptable. You cannot go around spouting personal information like that. I am not quite ready to forgive you just yet. You are going to have to make it up to me, do you understand?"

Sherlock's eyes lost a little of their wild look. "I came back and you weren't here and you've been gone for hours. I knew you'd left me and I couldn't bear it, John."

"Look, Mr. Consulting Detective, look around the flat and observe. Do you really think I left? All my stuff is here, you git. I am not going to leave you just for that. I am cross with you. You are going to have to speak to the people who were there and apologize to me, in public and personally. Do you understand?"

A trace of a glint appeared in Sherlock's eyes, but was gone so fast John wasn't sure he'd actually seen it. He tilted his head and looked at his flatmate. "Sherlock?" he said with a smidgen of authority and a hint of suspicion.

Sherlock suddenly lurched forward and grabbed John's coat collar and roughly smashed their lips together. His tongue invaded his mouth and John, who was trying desperately not to think with his cock, thank you very much, tried to push him off. He did succeed long enough to shout. "Sherlock? No! You can't just kiss me and think that's going to make everything okay!"

Sherlock looked abashed, "I'm sorry John. I am not sure how to do this. And there is something about you that is so very appealing when you are angry. Your face gets red and your voice deepens and it's very difficult to keep my hands off of you. It was the same at the crime scene. When you were embarrassed, even though I feel absolutely terrible about what I said, I just wanted to rip your clothes off then and there and prove to everyone that you are mine. I want to kiss you and bite you and mark you. I want you to take me forcibly and it desperately makes me want you to fuck me. I don't care what others think, you know that." He looked down and frowned. "But I have to remember that you do. I am sorry John. It won't happen again."

John sat back on his heels, a little taken aback by the flood of words that came out of Sherlock's mouth. There was something very hot about the mental image that popped into his head when Sherlock talked about ripping his clothes off and the way he said the word fuck in his goddamn sexy-deep voice sent a shudder through John's frame. Sherlock didn't often swear but that word coming out of his posh, lush mouth was just so incredibly wrong in a very right way. He sternly told his libido to behave, but Sherlock's mouth was turned down in a slight pout, not his 'I'm not listening to you and I'm bored' pout but his 'please John, take my lower lip between your teeth and suck on it hard' pout. And John, god help him did just that. He couldn't stop if he wanted to. That insufferable bastard knew every trick it took to make him putty in his hands.

But John was also aware of it and he was pretty certain Sherlock wasn't aware that he was aware.

He was sure Sherlock was putting on most of an act. Oh, he was most likely sorry and he may have been a bit panicky at first to discover John wasn't home, but John had seen Sherlock's 'I'm sorry' routine too many times to entirely trust him.

So he thought he might as well enjoy himself while he taught Sherlock a lesson.

He deepened the kiss. Sherlock's mouth was absolutely created to be ravished. He kissed and licked and nibbled. His hands moved almost of their own accord and he heard Sherlock's eager and satisfied groan as he cupped his hand over the rather large bulge in the front of the expensive trousers. He rubbed his hand back and forth slowly and teased. Sherlock leaned into his touch and squirmed. He was making the most deliciously debauched sounds. John had to steady his own breathing so as not to come in his pants. He had every intention of making this last as long as possible.

Sherlock broke off long enough to hoarsely whisper, "Bedroom."

John looked at him with a slightly wicked grin. "All right, but we do this my way." Sherlock's eyes reclaimed their wild look but this wasn't a look of fake fear. It was one of complete and utter arousal.

The two men stood up and made their way to the bedroom, taking their time to remove each piece of clothing, discarded and abandoned on the floor. John pushed Sherlock to the edge of the bed and shoved him hard. He no longer wore his tailored shirt but his trousers and socks were still on. He forced Sherlock to move up to the head of the bed and began taking small nips along his pectorals. As his tongue swirled and teased the pink, hard nipples, Sherlock's hands ran riot in John's hair and he began to try to push him toward his aching erection. John stopped long enough to fondly say, "Bossy. No Sherlock, we are doing this my way." And he caught one of the long hands in his own; he sucked slowly on each finger and then carefully and gently tied Sherlock to the post by the wrist. "Is that too tight?" he asked. John looked down into silvery green eyes, Sherlock's breathing was rapid and he was making whimpering noises, as he shook his head no. John repeated with the other hand. He loved and reveled in how incredibly responsive he was to touch, melting into every stroke, every movement John made with his clever tongue. He returned to sweeping it over the pale chest, taking his time now that Sherlock's hands were out of the way and not ordering him about.

John moved a bit lower and Sherlock's head came up and he whimpered again as John deliberately avoided touching his erection. He moved past and down to the long, twitchy feet. Sherlock's toes were curling and uncurling and John kneeled in front of them. He caught and captured Sherlock's eyes as he removed one sock. He grinned wickedly and slowly began to suck on each toe. Sherlock started squirming and cried out, "No, no, no, please, no John. Not that." He was desperately trying not to kick John with his other foot. John grinned again and removed the other sock. Sherlock started begging before he had even touched it. He clamped down on the free foot so it wouldn't hit him and he took his time with this one. Sherlock was a babbling mess by the time he was through.

Next he slowly crawled back up and began to undo the belt, button and zip of Sherlock's trousers. He then hooked his fingers through the belt loops and slowly removed them.

Interesting. Just as I thought. Sherlock was going commando.

As he removed the trousers, Sherlock's erection bobbed free, a drop of pre-cum on the tip. John began to nibble on his inner thigh. Licking and sucking, he sat back at one point to admire the lovely marks he was making on the fair skin. He slowly swept his tongue over them as Sherlock bucked his hips and then John carefully sucked one ball into his mouth. Sherlock' response was a garbled, "Ohfuckinggod! Please John!"

That's one.

John sat up and reached over to the drawer and pulled out the lube, but no condom.

He had thought Sherlock's eyes could not get bigger but they did just that as he realised the implications. He threw his head back and moaned long, low and damn sexily. John's cock was looking up at him:

Don't you think you've drawn this out long enough, it seemed to say.

Patience, John said back.

John took a deep breath and he then began to prepare Sherlock, taking his time until he was beautiful stretched and open. He then lightly brushed his hand teasingly up Sherlock's cock, barely touching it. It twitched and moved, trying to reach John's hand so he'd touch it again.

Sherlock was almost crying with want. When John whispered his name, "Sherlock?''

"What, what, oh god, please John."

That's two.

"Do you promise never to do that again? Do you promise never to embarrass me at a crime scene?"

"Oh yes, anything oh please!"

That's three.

"Promise?"

"Yes! For god's sake fuck me already!"

John wasn't finished with him yet, however. He entered as slowly as he could and took his time.

The dark head was shifting back and forth on the pillow. And when John thought he couldn't take it anymore, he began to increase each stroke and deepen it. He was now lost in the feeling of Sherlock clenched around him, hot and tight and he didn't care anymore if he was teaching him a lesson. Sherlock came first, hard and his face was beautiful. John felt a return of that funny little dance in his chest and he realised despite how annoyed he was and how upset, he truly loved this man. He schooled himself firmly as Sherlock shouted out his name in a long groan, 'Joooooohhhhhnnnn!'

He then gave himself permission and he grasped Sherlock's hips so hard he was sure they would be bruised. Lost in the orgasm, he almost blacked out and found himself slumped forward breathing rapidly. He had the presence of mind to grab his vest and wipe off the mess striped across Sherlock's stomach and chest, before collapsing across his partner.

Sherlock lifted his head up off the pillow, his breath returning to him and his heart feeling a little less like it might explode in his chest. He felt the welcome and increasingly familiar weight of John's body draped across his chest and he smiled. He tried to shift a bit and run a hand through the thatch of blond and grey hair in front of him but he was still tied in place. He let his head collapse back as he slowly caught his breath.

"John?'

"Mmmph?" grunted the mostly inert form on the bed.

"John, that was, that was incredible."

John lifted a sleepy head, looked at Sherlock and then smiled a little. "You think so?"

"Yes, it was magnificent. I think you should definitely re-enact that particular sequence many, many times." He smiled his best winning smile at John. "Or perhaps I might be allowed to return the favour." Sherlock was feeling magnanimous after that incredibly hot shag. And John could read it in every smug line.

John's smirk widened a little and his tongue poked out and licked his lips. "Oh you do, do you?"

"Yes. I definitely do. In fact I think I should do that to you as soon as possible. I am definitely up for a repeat performance."

John pushed up on his arms, leaned forward and kissed him deeply and completely. The afterglow infused them both and the kiss was long and lazy and full of slow strokes of entwined tongues. John broke off first and gave Sherlock a loving peck on the nose. He tenderly brushed an errant curl off of the alabaster forehead. Sherlock tried to chase John's hand to kiss his palm, but he couldn't quite reach. John shifted away and carefully shoved off of the bed, stretching as he did so, giving Sherlock a fantastic view of his solidly compact and gloriously naked body.

"Well, I think I am going to have a shower and turn in. Night Sherlock. See you in the morning." And he sauntered out of the room after giving a saucy wink and a cheeky grin.

"What? Wait! What do you mean you're turning in? John? He isn't going to leave me like this. He wouldn't do that. Would he? Why would he? John? Jawn! I'm sure he will be back any minute. Of course he will. He thinks he can punish me for what happened earlier, but that isn't going to work. John? John, get back here right this minute and untie me! John!..."