There will be sex in this chapter, but I assure you it is nothing too graphic. If graphic sex is your cup of tea, then I apologize.

John insisted that they should take their relationship slowly in fear of overwhelming Sherlock.

Sherlock understood, but he desperately wanted to run his hands all over John's body, to thoroughly explore him, and vice-versa.

Four days had passed since their first kiss and all they had done since then was more kissing, just on the lips, and a little bit of hugging. "It's never wise to rush into these things," John had said.

"Why not?" Sherlock asked in exasperation. "It's not like we're two strangers who met at a bar. We've known each other for months now."

"I know," John ran his hand through the wild curls (an action, he's discovering, that Sherlock adores). "Trust me on this one, okay?"

Sherlock pressed a light kiss to his neck in response. "What exactly does 'taking it slowly' mean? What can we not do?"

"Sex," he said. "No sex."

"Ever?"

"Well, not ever. Actually, that depends. Do you want to?"

Sherlock shifted a little so his face was hidden in John's neck. "I don't know," he mumbled. "I suppose I might one day. But now…I'm not sure."

"We don't have to do anything you don't want to."

"But you're a sexual man, aren't you? Don't you want to do things?"

"Having an orgasm isn't worth hurting you, Sherlock."

If Sherlock's face were not hidden, John would have seen the blush that graced his pale cheeks.

It became apparent that while Sherlock wasn't ready for sex, he wanted to do more and was frustrated by his lack of knowledge on the subject of physical affection. John found it endearing and Sherlock glared at him for it.

"Don't be that way, Sherlock. I'm not mocking you." John lightly nipped Sherlock's jaw and moved down to his neck.

Sherlock wrapped his arms around John's shoulders and pulled them down on the bed, putting himself on his back with John hovering above him. John sucked on the sensitive skin and smiled when Sherlock gasped. He bit down and Sherlock, to his surprise, cried out.

"Shhh," John ran his hand over Sherlock's chest. "You'll alert the entire floor."

Sherlock was staring up at the ceiling with wide eyes, lips clamped tightly. "Did anyone hear?" John asked. Sherlock shook his head. "Stop for today?"

Sherlock nodded. He noted that sex was fine in theory, but a lot to handle in practice.

In the four months of John and Sherlock's arrangement, it had bothered John day and night that Sherlock was not allowed to leave his room except for using the lavatory and to shower. He remembered the awful story regarding dick-bag Victor Trevor. While Sherlock would never admit it, John knew he wanted to get out of there. There must have been some way.

"Please, Lestrade," John pleaded, "you and I both know that he's not dangerous."

Lestrade rubbed his eyes. "John, I know. I do. And I know that he's made a lot of progress since your arrival, which I really have to commend you for."

"See? Progress! He may insult some of the patients and staff, but he won't hurt anyone. I think it'll do him well to get out of that room."

Lestrade sighed heavily. "I agree with you, John. But without the Trevor family's wealth, this place would look like crap."

John laughed bitterly. "You're willing to treat one of your patients like a prisoner for money? I thought this place was supposed to be a haven for people like him."

Lestrade slammed his hand on his desk, "Look, there's nothing I can do about it! I don't think it's right, but we need the money." He lowered the volume of his voice. "I'm sorry. Really. But if Trevor sees Sherlock out of his room, we're screwed. You know as well as I that the government's least concern is the wellbeing of these people."

Anger boiled in John's veins. His Sherlock was to live a life in solitude all because of money? No. He was not going to tolerate it.

An idea struck. "What if we let Sherlock out when Trevor isn't around?"

"And then have a staff member accidentally let him know?"

"How would they do that?"

"If anyone even thinks about Sherlock being out of his room when they're around Trevor, he'd find out."

"What if only a handful of people know and those people aren't those who treat him?"

Lestrade thought it over. "I suppose it could work. We would have to monitor Trevor's schedule closely in order to do this."

"Does anyone know his schedule?"

"I'll ask around. I know he likes to be in the library a lot. I'll consider, John, but I can't make any promises."

"You're giving him a chance. That's all I'm asking."

"There's another problem," Lestrade said. "The other patients will see Sherlock and might tell him. What then?"

Crap. He hadn't thought of that. "Don't all patients have to be in their rooms by 9:00 with their doors locked?"

"Yes."

"Can't Sherlock be let out then? He doesn't get much sleep, anyway."

"Okay," Lestrade relented. "Okay, that could work. But John, I would really like you to monitor him during that time. "I'm not saying that he's going to do anything bad, but it'll make me and the rest of the staff feel better."

"Who are you going to tell about this?"

"I'll only tell Mrs. Hudson, Anderson, and Donovan, since they care for Sherlock during the day and don't deal with Trevor. No one else has to know."

"You trust Anderson and Donovan not to tell anyone?"

"They'll lose their jobs if they do."

That sounded fine, but there was another thing. John certainly didn't mind spending more time with Sherlock, but, "I get here at 10:00 in the morning. If I stay at night, I would be staying here over twelve hours."

Lestrade nodded in understanding. "Okay, you stay with Sherlock while he's out of his room and I'll change your hours to 9:00 until whenever Sherlock feels like going back to his room. Deal?"

John smiled in triumph. "Deal."

"Jeez," Lestrade sighed for what seemed like the fifteenth time during the whole exchange, "you're lucky I like you and Sherlock or else I wouldn't be putting up with any of this crap."

"Sherlock," John was smiling brightly.

Sherlock was reading The Turn of the Screw. "Hm?" he didn't look away from the pages. Sherlock loved that story. He had been telling John about its intriguing ambiguity the day before.

"I've got something to tell you."

"Busy."

John sighed. "Put the book down, you prick."

Sherlock didn't listen.

John huffed and snatched the book from his hands. "Listen," he said sternly.

Sherlock rolled his eyes but gave John his full attention. He then cocked his head to the side, "I can leave here?"

"I wanted to tell you," John frowned.

"You did. Your mind did. Lestrade arranged it. And-"

"Let me tell you, okay?"

Sherlock stopped talking.

"I went to Lestrade and he agreed that you should be able to leave your room for purposes other than necessity. So, all patients have to be in their rooms by 9:00 at night, right? Well, you can go anywhere in this place after everyone goes to their rooms, at least until the morning when breakfast is served. He's instructed the night staff to not breathe a word of it to any of the patients. The night staff doesn't deal with Trevor or any of the other patients, really, so they can't tell him. What do you think? You like the idea?"

Sherlock blinked slowly. "I can leave…"

"Yes."

"You did this for me."

"Yes," John nodded, still smiling.

Sherlock jumped from the bed and grabbed John's face in his hands, smashing their lips together. John jolted slightly in surprise but kissed back all the same. They parted with a small pop. Sherlock was grinning wildly.

John chuckled and cupped his cheek. "Now, Lestrade wants me to be with you during this, so my hours are changing."

Sherlock's grin faltered slightly.

"Don't make a face. My hours are from 9:00 until whenever you want to go back to your room."

"What will I do in the afternoon without you here? I'll be so bored."

"Yeah, but I'll be spending the night with you." He immediately regretted his wording. Sherlock could be so inappropriate sometimes. But then again, John wasn't much better. "Not like that!" he pinched Sherlock's cheek when Sherlock raised his eyebrow suggestively. "Listen, I'm going to go home for a little while. I'm starving and if I'm going to be with you tonight, I need a nap."

Sherlock pouted. "Fine."

"I'll be back tonight," John winked.

Watching Sherlock explore the facility for the first time in years was a sight to see. His sharp gaze scanned everything at once, a look of pure fascination on his peculiar features. It was sad, in a way, that he was excited by things that the others got to see every day. John wouldn't dwell on it too much, though. He didn't want Sherlock hearing.

Walking around at night was a little creepy, actually. Most of the lights were dimmed and John didn't know any of the night staff. But Sherlock had taken John's hand and dragged him quickly through the hallways yelling, "Come on, John!" He wore a manic smile on his face.

The library was heaven for him. He frantically went through every shelf to see the wide selection, tossing books to the floor left and right.

John laughed. "Calm down, Belle."

"Belle?" Sherlock asked distractedly.

"Belle. Beauty and the Beast. Forget it."

The library was the largest room in the entire building and did, indeed, resemble the Beast's library from the Disney movie. It had comfortable couches and armchairs everywhere. John sat down on a luxurious red char.

"Look at it all, John!" he spread his arms in glee. "This will keep me occupied for months!"

John smiled, enjoying the sight of his excited boyfriend. Boyfriend? What are you, a teenager, John?

Thankfully, Sherlock was far too preoccupied with the six books in his hands to have heard that little slip.

Sherlock and John spent nine nights straight in the library. During this time, Sherlock was far too interested in whatever he was reading to really talk to John at all. John wouldn't have minded, but his therapy sessions with Sherlock had practically been eliminated and replaced with this. He missed talking to Sherlock. He missed his laugh and the touch of his lips. Another problem was that Sherlock wouldn't return to his room until at least four in the morning and it was killing John's sleep schedule.

"Let's go somewhere different," John announced on the tenth night.

Sherlock frowned. "Why? There are still so many books I haven't read."

"You'll have forever to read those books."

"Not true, John."

"Let's go to the gardens."

"Why would I want to go outside?"

"Is outside a bad thing, or are you complaining for the sake of complaining?"

Sherlock grabbed his hand and muttered, "Fine, let's go."

The gardens were beautiful. The bright green grass looked blue in the moonlight and the water coming from the cherub's mouth on the large, stone fountain glittered. There were many different types of flowers scattered about. John couldn't name any of them, but he thought they looked nice. There were a few white marble benches scattered around with matching lamps shedding the only sources of light.

The pair took a seat in silence, staring up into the night sky. John was beginning to think how nice the night was—the late May air nice and warm with a gentle breeze and a full moon high in the sky—when John noticed Sherlock's silence.

"Whatcha thinking?" he nudged his shoulder.

Sherlock had his hands folded together, twiddling his thumbs. "I had forgotten," he voice was strangely hoarse, "what the spring air felt like, to have my skin warmed by weather rather than an artificial heater." He removed his socks and wiggled his toes in the grass. "It tickles," he commented.

If John weren't afraid of being caught, he would have kissed Sherlock mercilessly. He put his hand atop Sherlock's larger one instead. He didn't say a word, knowing it would only make Sherlock feel uncomfortable. He knew that for grazing his thumb over his hand was enough.

"Beautiful moon," John murmured.

"Mmm."

"Bit romantic."

Sherlock smiled. "Is it?"

"This is a very romantic setting. A beautiful garden under the moonlight on a warm, spring night? Romance novel material."

"Remind me not to read romance novels."

John laughed.

"By the way," Sherlock said quietly, "I heard what you thought a few nights ago."

That gave John an uneasy feeling. "What are you referring to?"

Sherlock looked away from the moon and to John. "Firstly, don't end your sentences with prepositions."

John nearly smacked him. "To what are you referring?" he revised his previous statement with a growl.

Sherlock smirked slightly. "You thought of me as your boyfriend. I don't mind."

Relief flooded through John. "Okay," he gave Sherlock's hand a light squeeze. "We're boyfriends. I'm in a relationship with my patient. Wow. Okay."

"Do keep your voice down. I can hear the thoughts of the maid just outside of here."

"Did she hear us?"

"No, but be cautious."

John let go of Sherlock's hand.

Sherlock suddenly threw himself on the ground.

"Sherlock?" John's heart hammered as he jumped from the bench.

Sherlock, however, didn't have a random fainting spell as John suspected. He was lying in the grass with a soft smile. "Didn't mean to frighten you," he said, "but I've been waiting to do this since we got out here."

John chuckled and sat back on the bench. "Could have given me a warning."

Sherlock spread his arms and legs as if he were making a snow angel. "It kind of itches."

"You better shower when you get in."

"I know that. I take my personal hygiene very seriously, John."

That was true. Sherlock always smelled sweet, like some combination between lavender and vanilla (how he smelled like this since the only soap at the facility was standard, John didn't know).

Sherlock closed his eyes and rested his hands behind his head. "The maid is gone. Everyone is inside."

"Is there a reason why you're telling me this?"

"I wanted you to lie with me," he said timidly.

John smiled and got down next to his boyfriend (that term would take some getting used to) on the cool grass. They laced their fingers together and stared into the dark sky.

Around 2:00 in the morning, John startled awake at the sound of a bird chirping a few feet away, perched on a bench. He lifted his head, momentarily disoriented, and then recognized the gardens. He discovered that his shoulder and arm were pinned down by a six-foot sleeping psychic.

Sherlock's head was resting on John's right shoulder and his arms were wrapped around John's tightly. His perfect lips were parted and his eyes were moving behind his lids in a dream. The moonlight cast a milky glow on Sherlock's skin. He was so gorgeous that John wanted to take a picture.

Actually…

John carefully removed his cell phone from his left jeans pocket and snapped a picture. It was slightly too dark, but John knew there was no way in hell that he could have turned the flash on his phone without Sherlock murdering him. Maybe it was a little bit creepy, but, he reasoned, he could now look at Sherlock during the day when he was at home.

John stared at his lovely man for a few moments before shaking Sherlock's shoulder. "Hey."

Sherlock's eyebrows twitched and his nuzzled into John's shoulder, mumbling.

John smiled fondly and shook him again. "Sher-lock," he called in a sing-song voice.

Sherlock made a grumpy groan and cracked open his eyes. "What?"

"We should go inside. I'm not sure how others would react to finding us cuddling in the grass."

Sherlock yawned and nodded. "Lead the way. Oh, and delete that picture you snapped of me."

The duo's nightly escapades were erasing much of Sherlock's more melancholy moods. He still insulted the staff and went into sulks, but he was becoming warmer. John knew that Sherlock would never fully understand social norms and feelings, but he really didn't care. As long as Sherlock tried, John decided, that was enough.

One night, Sherlock and John didn't return from the library until 5:00 in the morning. Sherlock found a book about Egyptian mummification and excitedly read to John until his voice began to croak from overuse and exhaustion. Both dead on their feet, they collapsed onto Sherlock's bed together without a second thought.

The couple would ever thank whatever omnipotent power there was that it was Mrs. Hudson who discovered them the next morning. She went in the room to bring Sherlock his breakfast and stopped in her tracks. Sherlock was clinging to John like he was a teddy bear and John's head was rested on his chest.

Mrs. Hudson stifled her gasp and quickly set the tray down on the bedside table to shut the door.

The click of the door roused John. He let out a little groan and nuzzled his nose in Sherlock's chest before lifting his head. For a second, he just stared up at Mrs. Hudson hazily. Reality crashed down on him and he jumped up, waking his bed partner in the process.

"Jesus!"

Sherlock whipped his head around. His eyes rested on her and he swallowed. "Oh. Hello."

"Boys," Mrs. Hudson sighed, "you really must be more careful!"

The pair blinked in unison.

"Wait," John rubbed his eyes, "you're not running to tell Lestrade?"

"Oh John, I've known that you two have been more than friends for months now."

She smiled when their jaws dropped. "It's really no mystery. Sherlock has been so happy now that you're here, John, and I'm not about to take that away."

Sherlock grinned and John laughed joyfully.

"Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock took her hand, "you are a marvel." He kissed hand in a way that made John's chest warm.

She giggled. "Oh Sherlock, how far you've come." She crossed her arms and took on an authoritative tone. "Now, you two were lucky that it was me who walked in instead of that Sally Donovan. We wouldn't want that, now would we?"

"No, Mrs. Hudson," they chorused.

"You said that you've known about us for months," John said, "are we giving off any obvious signs?"

"No, not really. I've just got a sixth sense when it comes to love, that's all!"

Their hearts clenched at the mention of love. When Mrs. Hudson left, they agreed to not stay up past 3:00 in the morning to prevent John from sleeping in Sherlock's bed (much to the latter's disappointment).

As much as Sherlock loved the changed of scenery, there was an advantage to staying in his room with John: kissing.

Inside the library on Thursday night, John was sitting in an armchair with a lap full of Sherlock. John's face was being cradled by Sherlock's large hands, his thumbs occasionally swiping over John's cheeks as their kisses became more heated. Sherlock wondered how the hell he ever lived without this man for all those years—or better yet, how he ever thought that he was better off alone. I'm an idiot, Sherlock thought for the forty-seventh time since meeting John.

He wanted John to know how much he meant to him, but Sherlock couldn't even attempt to voice his sentiment without stammering and quickly squashing the idea. He tried to let John know through his kisses.

They parted for air and Sherlock felt the increasingly familiar bubble of arousal settle in his stomach. John's hair was sticking up from Sherlock's eager hands and his cheeks were painted pink. He felt John's growing arousal beneath him and heard him mentally scolding himself for his body's reaction. Sherlock grinned and moved to kiss him again when the doors to the library opened.

John pushed Sherlock off his lap and turned around in the chair to see who it was. When he saw that it was a janitor, John forced a polite smile and said, "Hello there."

The janitor grunted in response and began to pick up books that had been flung to the floor by Sherlock, not even looking at the pair.

John sighed in relief and helped Sherlock from the floor.

When they got back to his bedroom, they agreed not to get heated when outside of Sherlock's room.

So, about five days later, Sherlock was absolutely starving for a good snog.

"John, can we stay here tonight?" he asked two and a half weeks after their first nightly adventure.

"Sure, but why?" John closed the door behind him.

Sherlock quickly leapt from the bed with the speed of a cheetah and pinned John's hands above his head on the door behind him.

"Because I can do this," he whispered into his ear and nibbled on it.

John stifled a groan. "Yes, that's fine. I approve."

Sherlock playfully bit his way from John's earlobe to his jaw, biting down a little more forcefully and smiling when John let out a small grunt.

"Jeez, where'd you learn this?" John hissed.

"Books," Sherlock stated simply.

"Of course. I should have guessed," John tilted his head to the side. "Romance novels?"

"Mhmmm," he bit down harder, but not enough to really hurt or leave a mark.

"When did you read romance novels? I would have remembered that."

"I did it when you fell asleep in the chair a couple nights ago."

John chuckled and Sherlock felt the vibration against his lips. "Did you wait until I fell asleep to start reading?"

Sherlock lifted his head to smirk. "Maaaaaybe." He kissed John deeper and moved one hand from his wrist to his cheek.

John used his free hand to wrap it around Sherlock's neck. Damn, he's a fast learner.

Sherlock pressed the length of his body against John's and—oh god, there's his dick!

Lust hit John like a brick and he growled, sucking Sherlock's plump bottom lip into his mouth. Sherlock moaned and pressed himself even closer, leaving no space between them.

He nipped and sucked the infuriatingly plush lips lightly with his teeth, his cock twitching at Sherlock's deep moan.

"Sherlock," he said breathlessly, "quiet down a little."

"No one can hear. Everyone's sleeping."

"Still," John kissed him again. "Are you okay, not overwhelmed?"

Sherlock tugged on John's collar. "Bed. Now."

Well, okay then.

As they fell on the cool sheets, John on his back, their tongues fought for dominance in their kiss. Sherlock won. John couldn't stop himself from bucking his hips up against Sherlock's. Sherlock inhaled sharply and lifted his hips for a moment, then hesitantly lowered them.

John bucked up again and rubbed his clothed, growing erection against Sherlock's. Sherlock broke the kiss and gasped.

"You okay?" John's chest quickly rose and fell with his breaths.

Sherlock nodded. "Of course I am." He was starting to realize that experiencing was very different from reading. But it was a good different.

"It's okay not to be okay," John told him.

"I know that," he snapped due to, John understood, his nerves.

"Do you want me to do it again?"

Silence followed by an averted gaze.

Don't shut me out now, John didn't bother to voice his thought.

Sherlock looked back at him, his gaze softening. "Yes, okay," he breathed.

John rubbed his erection against Sherlock's and felt his shaft growing stiffer. John set a slow rhythmic thrust of his hips, his own erection now pressing painfully against his jeans. Sherlock moved his hands to John's shoulders and gripped them tightly. Sherlock was noticeably trying to stifle his groans.

John slowed his thrusts to a pause. "Sure you're okay?"

Sherlock let out a small whimper and finally started to move his hips against John with a nod. "Yes, yes, keep going, will you?"

That small whimper broke John's control. He flipped Sherlock onto his back and attacked his long neck with hunger.

"John, you're going to leave a mark." He didn't seem too worried about this.

"Mmm," was all John said as he nipped under Sherlock's jaw.

"It'll…arouse suspicion."

It'll arouse more than suspicion.

Sherlock slapped him on the arse for that. "Bad boy."

John chuckled and stopped assaulting Sherlock's neck. The beautiful friction their thrusts were creating was bliss. John tugged at the hem of Sherlock T-shirt. Sherlock nodded to his silent question and then his shirt was off, John removing his jumper and undershirt as well. John had seen Sherlock shirtless before, but now he could actually run his hands over the warm skin of the porcelain chest. John lowered his head to dart his tongue out at a rosy nipple. Sherlock gasped and clamped his hand over his mouth. John closed his mouth around the bud and sucked gently. Sherlock's moan was muffled by his hand.

"John," he whined when he moved his hand, "I need…I need something."

How cute.

"John, don't mock me!"

"Sorry," he chuckled, "I can't control what pops into my head. It's endearing, anyway." His left thumb rubbed over Sherlock's nipple. "So sensitive." He stopped moving his hips. "Do you need release?"

Sherlock nodded mutely.

"Are you absolutely sure?"

"Yes," he grinded his hips in frustration, "just make it quick."

"You sound like you don't want it."

Sherlock turned his face into the pillow. "I do, but I'm afraid. I haven't really felt like this before, not even with Victor."

"Haven't you ever been aroused?"

Sherlock still had his face partially hidden in the pillow. "Of course, I am human. However, it only due to morning wood and such. Victor never made me feel like this."

"I see. Have you ever masturbated?"

"Sometimes, yes. Shouldn't we have this conversation later?"

John chuckled. "Yeah, you're right." He slid his hand down Sherlock's pajama pants to rub the delightful bulge there. Sherlock's moan was deep in his chest. "You like that?"

Sherlock nodded, his cheeks burning.

"Remember that you can stop me whenever you want to."

"I will murder you if you don't shut up."

John pulled Sherlock's pants down to his thighs along with his underwear to reveal his long, rosy cock.

John's own erection was begging to be released from its confines.

Sherlock reached down and unzipped John's jeans. "Better?"

John sighed in relief, "Better." He shucked his jeans and underwear off. He felt a little self-conscious upon realizing that Sherlock was longer than him.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Your size is perfectly proportionate to your body, John." He stared down. "It's quite lovely."

None of his partners had ever referred to his cock as lovely. It was kind of odd, kind of funny, and fully Sherlockian. John cleared his throat, "Uh, thanks."

To try to clear the awkwardness, John grasped Sherlock's prick and used feather-light strokes. He watched Sherlock's mouth fall open and his eyes grow hazy with lust. He tightened his grip and started to pump a little more firmly.

"Nnngh," Sherlock hid his face in the pillow again (whether it was out of embarrassment or to muffle his sounds of pleasure, John didn't know). John twisted slightly as he stroked up and ran his thumb over the head, smearing pre-come, and Sherlock threw his head back with a loud groan.

Fuck, I hope no one heard that. John started to stroke himself, sensing that Sherlock was a little too preoccupied to notice that John's cock was aching from neglect.

Sherlock had his arm thrown over his eyes. "Look at me," John softly commanded.

Sherlock shook his head.

John ran his thumb over the head again, "I said look at me, Sherlock."

Sherlock bit his arm and grunted, then obeyed John's command.

John kissed his cheek and let go of Sherlock's prick to pull him into his lap. "Wrap your legs around me," John said.

Sherlock did what he was told and also wrapped his arms around John's neck. "Kiss." That was meant to be a command, but it came out softer than Sherlock liked.

John smiled and kissed him softly.

The new angle allowed John to grasp his and Sherlock's cocks in his hand and rub them together. They moaned at the contact and John began to stroke and thrust into the air.

Sherlock's perfect lips were wet and opened in a heart shape and his fringe clung to his forehead. It would be no exaggeration if John said he had to look away to prevent himself from coming. Crap, when was the last time he had sex?

"John, you know that I n-never did this thing…"

"I know." The maddening pleasure was building by the second. He wasn't going to last much longer. John bowed his head on Sherlock's shoulder and grunted, "I know, Sherlock."

Sherlock moved his arms to wrap around John's back and began to thrust in the tight hold of John's hand.

"Oh, fuck yes," John moaned into the pale shoulder. "Let go."

He let out a small cry. "Oh Christ, it feels so good," Sherlock was clinging to John as if his life depended on it. His eyes were nearly black with desire and he started to thrust faster in John's hand, gaining some confidence. "So good…My John, so perfect…Y'know how gorgeous you look right now?"

John shivered. Sherlock moved to whisper in his ear, "Mon précieux." That was all John could take. He muffled his shout in Sherlock's shoulder as hot streams of come covered his hand and Sherlock's chest. His hips thrust clumsily as he rode out his orgasm, his free hand reaching to tightly grasp Sherlock's. "Oh, Sherlock," he groaned.

Sherlock sucked in a breath that resembled a sob. "Jooohn!"

He must have been closer than John thought because he gave a cry into John's neck and came, his whole body shaking violently. John held Sherlock tightly against his chest, "It's all right. Breathe," he panted, still coming down from the high. He lowered them down onto the sheets and stroked the pale, sweaty back gently. He could feel Sherlock's violent heartbeat against his own.

Sherlock took deep breaths and turned into a relaxed puddle in John's arms. He kissed the closest thing to his lips—the side of John's neck—and hummed contentedly.

After catching their breath and lying in each other's arms for several minutes, John caressed Sherlock's cheekbone. "So what was that, French?"

"Hm?" he didn't open his eyes. "Oh, yes. Mummy spoke French. Mycroft and I speak it fluently. I didn't know it would have such an effect on you."

John flushed. "That's news to me, too." He gently moved Sherlock's body onto the mattress and sat up. "We have to do something about this mess."

Sherlock tiredly waved a hand. "Don't have to. I'll just say I masturbated."

"This is an awful lot to have come from one person."

"Only a little has gotten on the bed and me. It's a suitable amount to have come from one person. Besides, I sleep naked, so finding me like this shouldn't be a total surprise." He pulled John back down to his chest.

John propped himself up on his elbows and kissed Sherlock's forehead. "Didn't you feel overwhelmed by that?"

"Hm, a little. But it's you."

John smiled a little. When he felt his eyelids begin to droop he said, "I should go."

Sherlock frowned. "Now?"

John checked his watch which had somehow stayed on during that whole endeavor. "It's 11:30."

"You've stayed longer."

"Yeah, but if I fall asleep in bed with you and someone finds us both soiled with semen, that will be the definition of suspicious."

Sherlock pouted. "A little longer. Please."

John sighed. "Just a few minutes, Sherlock."

Sherlock pressed a kiss John's shoulder and closed his eyes. It was hard to resist the urge to snuggle against Sherlock's chest and let his heartbeat lull him into a deep sleep. John blinked his eyes rapidly. No. He couldn't.

He noticed that Sherlock's breathing was deep and that his features were completely relaxed. "Sherlock?"

No answer.

John smiled. He would be the type to fall asleep not three minutes after sex.

John carefully moved out of his embrace and covered him up with the sheet. He stood up and dressed himself. He swept a damp curl from Sherlock's forehead. "Goodnight."

As John was driving home, he wondered how the hell he ever wound up having sex with his patient.

John could feel the eyes of Anderson on him the next morning. Shit. Stay calm. He doesn't suspect anything.

"John."

Shit.

Anderson walked over. "You were with Holmes last night, right?"

"Yeah." Keep calm, John.

"Well when I went into his room this morning," his ratty features scrunched up in disgust, "there were….bodily fluids….on him."

He tried to act dumb. "Bodily fluids? You mean, like, urine?"

"No, no, even worse...semen."

John wasn't sure if it were fair to consider semen worse than urine. He felt his pulse beat against his neck. "Semen? Are you sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure." He crossed his arms. "Holmes never did anything like that before. Hell, I didn't believe he was capable of it. Do you know anything about this?"

Fuuuuuuck. "No, mate. I knocked on his door last night and he told me to go away. I went in his room and he refused to look at me. He was curled up under his sheet. I left a few minutes after. I supposed he wasn't in the mood for company. Now I see why, if that's what he did when I left." He was surprised to have concocted a story so quickly.

Anderson eyed him. "I guess even that thing has urges. " He concluded and then shuddered, "Ugh. I don't want to think about it. Thanks for clearing things up."

As he walked away, John released a breath he had been holding. That was close.

"You couldn't clean yourself up before Anderson came in?" John crossed his arms in irritation.

"I was asleep when he came in," Sherlock defended, "what did you want me to do?"

"Look," he sighed, "that was close. Too close."

Sherlock looked down at his feet. "So, I suppose we can't do it again, then?"

John sat down on the bed with him. "Not necessarily. I guess we'll just have to be more careful. Okay?"

Sherlock nodded and gave him a quick peck to the cheek. He stood up, "Come on, I want to go to the library. They have books about bees, John."

Sherlock said that like it was amazing news. "Er, okay."

"Bees, John!" he insisted. "Bees!"

"Yes, I get the concept of bees! Why do you want to read about bees so much?"

"I like bees."

Sherlock was rambling about bees while they were walking to the library. John wasn't especially interested, but seeing Sherlock so excited about something was always amusing.

Before they entered the library, Sherlock abruptly fell silent and stopped walking.

"What is it?' John asked.

Sherlock gripped John's hand tightly. "He's in there, John. He knows we're out here."

"He?"

Sherlock let go of John's hand. He pushed open the library's doors and strode inside. John followed was surprised to see that a patient (he could tell by the man's clothes) was already there. Sherlock was still beside him.

The man was around the height of Sherlock with the same colored hair, but it was straight and short like John's. His tanned skin and strong jaw made him handsome enough that, if John were not committed to Sherlock, his bisexual tendencies would have sparked with interest.

"Um, hello," John greeted awkwardly, "and what are you doing out of your room at this hour?"

"I can ask him the same thing," he said in a melodic voice and nodded to Sherlock.

"Yeah, well, he's with me and allowed to be here. How did you even get out of your room?"

He ignored John. "Sherlock, won't you introduce me to your new boyfriend?" His tone held a politeness that made John want to punch him in the face.

"How did you find out?" Sherlock asked with a tone John couldn't quite decipher.

"I don't understand," John admitted.

"That isn't surprising," the man commented.

John, for a moment, was stunned. He was about to defend himself but Sherlock beat him to it. "Don't talk about John that way."

The man looked disappointed with himself. "I'm sorry," he said to John, "I haven't introduced myself." He smiled and his white teeth sparkled, "I'm Victor Trevor, Sherlock's ex."

John's heart stopped. He was standing in front of the very prick that locked up his poor Sherlock.

Trevor, all smiles, said, "Your angry thoughts amuse me."

"What do you want? Hm?" John clenched his fists. "Are you angry that Sherlock can walk around here like everyone else?"

"Oh no," he shook his head. "The whole thing about Sherlock not being able to leave his room was just a little bonus. I'm angry that he's cheating on me."

"Victor," Sherlock's voice was the coldest John had ever heard, which was saying a lot considered how much he loathed John at first, "I made it perfectly clear that I want nothing to do with you."

"Yes, I remember. You should also remember that I didn't like that very much."

John stepped in front of Sherlock. "If you dare to lay a hand on him again-"

"I wouldn't dream of it, Doctor Watson," he scoffed. "Well, at least not with you here. I just need to make sure you stay away from him. Do you know that I used to kiss him in this very room?"

Sherlock spoke, "How did you even know that we're involved?"

"Anderson, of course. What? Don't act surprised. The man hates you more than Donovan."

"He told you?"

"Nope, he was thinking about it as he walked by my room."

John paled. "Anderson knows?"

"He has his suspicions." His expression lost its feigned cheerfulness and turned dark. "To think that you, the blushing virgin, gave yourself to him," he pointed to John, "makes me sick.

John moved to punch Trevor in the face, but Sherlock caught his arm. "Victor, leave John out of this." His tone suddenly dropped all emotion. "Better yet, stop succumbing to sentiment—or rather, obsession—and continue to live your pathetic life without bothering us."

John had forgotten how hurtful this Sherlock could be. "I can and will report to Lestrade that you were out of your room at night," warned John.

"You think that will actually mean anything?"

No.

It took John a second to realize that Sherlock was no longer beside him, but standing only a foot away from Victor.

"You do realize that the more you do this the more I'm repulsed by you?" he spoke in a dangerous growl.

"You do realize that I hate John the more he spends time with you?" His hazel eyes narrowed.

"Do not harm John."

"You're cute when you're angry."

"That's it," John cut in and grabbed Sherlock's hand. "We're out of here. Trevor, I don't want to see you again."

He tugged Sherlock out of the room before anymore could be said. Their retreat to Sherlock's room was spent in silence, John gripping his boyfriend's hand almost painfully.

"That arsehole," John forced his voice to stay at a low volume in fear of waking those in the surrounding rooms. He flopped down on Sherlock's bed. "That fucking arsehole."

Sherlock was pacing. "A confrontation isn't enough. He's going to do something else."

"He implied that he's going to touch you when I'm not around." The thought nearly brought up bile.

"I'm not concerned about that," he tugged at his curls in frustration. "He'll do something to you. That much is clear. In his mind, you're his competition." He stood still. "I don't want him to hurt you, John."

"I know, Sherlock," he sighed. "I don't care what he plans to do. It's not going to keep me from seeing you."

"It will if it costs you your job."

John sat against the headboard. "Come here." Sherlock stared at him for a moment, took a little step forward, and then crawled into John's lap. His hesitancy always amused John. "We'll figure something out, okay?"

Sherlock said nothing.

"Whatever you're thinking," John murmured, "stop it." He buried his nose in the silky curls. "If he hurts you again, God, I don't know what I'll do."

Sherlock buried his face in John's chest and savored the warmth he found there, fearing it would be one of the last times he could do so. He felt John's steady heartbeat under his cheek. His mind floated around for ideas and screeched to a halt when he found one. He sat up so abruptly that he nearly toppled John over.

"John, will you send a letter for me?"

"That's pretty random, but sure. Do you have paper and a pen?"

Sherlock reached under his bed and pulled out a cardboard box. Inside, there were numerous envelopes which contained, John could only assume, letters from Sherlock's mysterious brother. Sherlock took out a pen and blank piece of paper from the bottom of the box. He leaned the paper on the bedside table and scribbled furiously. Within a couple minutes he was finished and gave it to John after stuffing it in an envelope.

"Drop it in the mailbox before you leave. Don't ask questions. Don't read it."

John nodded. "Okay then. Sure."

Sherlock relaxed and curled up next to John. "Good."

"You don't seem very worried anymore," John observed.

"I'm not."

"Why?"

"Did I not just say to refrain from asking questions?"

"Okay, okay, sorry."

Sherlock smiled and nuzzled John's thigh with his nose.

John swatted Sherlock's shoulder with the envelope. "That tickles."

"As much as I love you being here, you seem exhausted."

"Are you kicking me out?"

"Maybe, but only because I want you to mail that."

John lifted Sherlock's hand and kissed his knuckles. "Yes, bossy."

John's stomach dropped when Lestrade called him to his office the very next day. "We should have known he would find out somehow," he remarked drily.

Damn. No clarification was needed. John cleared his throat."He told you?"

Lestrade nodded.

"Has he vowed to cut off funding?"

Lestrade nodded again.

"And what, his family will give money again if Sherlock is locked back up in his room?"

This time Lestrade shook his head. His tired eyes were full of sympathy. "It'll cost your job."

John took a deep breath and released it slowly. "That doesn't surprise me," he admitted. "I understand if this is my last day." Actually, he thought it was total bullshit that he was about to lose his job for such a ridiculous reason, but he would never voice that aloud. He did understand that Lestrade was in a tough spot.

"I don't want to fire you, John."

"I know."

"You've made Sherlock into a good man."

John's heart panged painfully. "I've only brought out what was already there."

"Look, we already got the money from his family for this month. I can let you keep your job for the rest of the month until we need the money again." He looked awfully guilty. "Also, it's best if you and Sherlock don't go anywhere during your sessions. I don't know how he was able to leave his room, but he'd probably do it again."

John nodded stiffly. "Okay."

He walked to Sherlock's room in a daze as reality set in. A month. Not even a month, actually. He had less than a month with Sherlock. He had only known the beautiful, infuriating madman for six months, and soon it would be time to say goodbye. Sherlock had changed his life around, removing his limp and giving him something to look forward to every day of the week. John never cared so deeply for someone before. He couldn't bear to lose him now. None of the girlfriends he had in high school or university could compare to Sherlock. Though, John reflected, no one could.

John barely noticed he was upstairs until he was opening Sherlock's door.

Sherlock regarded him casually. "John."

"Sherlock," he found his own voice raspy.

Sherlock nearly rolled his eyes, but decided against it. "Don't be so upset, John. You won't be fired."

"And how the hell are you so sure?!"

"The letter, John, the letter," he insisted.

"Yes, this letter that you told me nothing about."

"Trust me, John. Do you trust me?"

"I do."

"Then you will have answers in due time." He got up from the bed and hugged John to his chest. "Trust me," he said again.

John wrapped his arms around the thin torso. "I," he cleared his throat uncomfortably, "just don't want to lose you, Sherlock."

"I know." What Sherlock left unsaid was swimming in his crystal eyes. John gently stroked a pale cheekbone with his thumb and Sherlock's eyelids fluttered closed, his brow furrowed. John caressed the brow into smoothness.

Sherlock met John's lips in a tender, heartfelt kiss, their chests pressed together so that they felt each other's heartbeats. It was a feeling that made them both lightheaded and ridiculously emotional. Sherlock held John tighter and deepened the kiss with a small groan. "John," he moved his kisses to John's neck, "I promise that we won't be apart." He sucked a spot under John's ear.

John gave a small groan and grabbed the firm cheeks of Sherlock's arse. "Whatever you're planning, it better work out." He kneaded the round globes. "I can't bear to be without you."

Sherlock smashed his lips against John's and lifted him off the ground into his arms.

"Wha-? Sherlock!" He punched Sherlock's shoulder. "Put me down!"

Sherlock chuckled richly. "But you fit so nicely in my arms."

John bit down on his clavicle, which caused Sherlock's knees to give out and ended with them crashing to the ground, John on top of Sherlock. They stared at each other, blinked, and burst into laughter.

John muffled his laughter with his hand. "Sherlock," he giggled, "we'll alert the whole floor!"

"Let them be alerted, I don't care."

John stood up and helped Sherlock to his feet. "You better know what you're doing."

"I do."

"When will this brilliant plan of yours commence?"

"Oh, within this week is my best bet. Lestrade said we can't leave the room?"

"Yes."

"And that you have until the rest of the month?"

"Yes."

"Then let us go on as if nothing happened."

That was easier said than done. Over the next few days, John's worry did not cease and Sherlock's nonchalance only irritated him. The other employees gave John sympathetic looks, especially Donovan, Anderson, Mary, and most of all Mrs. Hudson.

"Poor guy," John heard Donovan say, "I told him the Freak is nothing but trouble."

John didn't care enough to acknowledge her.

When John was lying in his bed that night, he looked to the right side of his bed and thought about how, in another life, Sherlock may have occupied the cold, empty space. The thought made his heart clench and his stomach knot. Feeling quite pathetic, he took the unused pillow and embraced it, forcing his mind to replace the sensation of the cold object with the warmth of Sherlock's body.

Little did he know that Sherlock often did the same.

It was a single day before he was supposed to be fired when John found Sherlock's hands shaking when he went to hold them.

"Sherlock!" he embraced his boyfriend on the bed. "What happened?"

Sherlock grabbed fistfuls of John's jumper and hid his face in his neck. "Victor," he growled.

John immediately held Sherlock tighter. "What did he do?"

Sherlock adjusted himself so that he was secure in John's lap. "He tried again, John."

"To touch you?"

He nodded.

It took all of his strength to not run downstairs and beat Victor Trevor with a crowbar. "Tell me everything."

"It was in the lavatory. We were the only ones in there. I did my best to ignore him but he grabbed my arse to get my attention." His fingers tightened on the jumper. "When I finally looked at him, the miserable sod was just smirking. I tried to just walk away, but he pushed me down and tried to beat me. I was able to shove him off with minimal damage. He said," Sherlock barely contained a shudder, "that he owns me after today."

John was shaking with rage. "Where did he hurt you?" his voice sounded unfamiliar even to himself.

Sherlock looked at him with apprehension. He gently removed himself from the embrace and lifted his shirt to reveal bruises forming on his ribcage.

John then decided to fuck everything. Just, fuck it. It was his last day at the stupid fucking place, with his fucking gorgeous man, and his gorgeous man's brilliant fucking plan apparently hadn't worked, so he decided that he had about enough of stupid, fucking Victor Trevor.

Bounding off the bed and striding so quickly that Sherlock couldn't keep up with him, John went straight to Trevor's room to punch him in the face.

And he did.

Without giving the bastard a second to even register what was about to happen, John punched him harder than he ever punched anyone in his life, hearing a nice crack from the cock-muncher's jaw.

John didn't know how long he punched—it was all in a red haze of fury—when felt arms roughly tugging him away from the man fallen to the floor. When he was pulled from the room, he recognized the men holding him as Sherlock and Lestrade.

There was a small crowd gathered around that held a frowning, worried Mrs. Hudson.

Sherlock was trying to conceal that he was impressed and amused. Lestrade looked disappointed.

"In my office. Both of you," he said tiredly.

John and Sherlock obeyed. They shuffled to Lestrade's office as if they were children going to the principal.

To John's surprise, there was a posh-looking man already there.

Sherlock wasn't fazed.

The man was tall, perhaps an inch taller than Sherlock, with thinning reddish-brown hair and a rather large nose. He was wearing a suit and had a black umbrella in his hand.

Lestrade entered and raised his eyebrows. "Ah, Mr. Holmes, I didn't expect you to be here yet."

Mr. Holmes?

"I only just arrived," he smiled politely.

He shook hands with Lestrade. "Have they really caused trouble on their last day?" he asked with exasperation.

Their last day? John was only getting more confused by the second.

Sherlock had his arms crossed petulantly, providing no assistance.

The man turned to John and held out his hand. "Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock's brother."

Oh. That explained a lot. Actually, no. That made things more confusing. John shook his hand dumbly. "Right, hello. So why are you here?" More importantly, wasn't Mycroft a psychic? Wasn't this unsafe for him?

Sherlock chuckled lowly beside him. "Oh no, John, he conceals it well."

Mycroft's eyes narrowed.

Lestrade, ever a step behind everyone else, only raised an eyebrow. "Uh, all right then. John, didn't Sherlock tell you his brother was coming?"

"No," he glared at his partner.

"Should I have told you?" Sherlock asked with disinterest.

"Yes. Well, I don't know. I still don't know why he's here."

"Ah, yes," Mycroft shifted his weight on his umbrella. "The letter Sherlock recently sent was to me, explaining your situation and…arrangement."

John would swear he heard Sherlock growl at that.

"Arrangement?" Lestrade questioned.

Mycroft ignored him. "He thought that I would be able to help the two of you. All it took were some alterations to Sherlock's file and the government no longer recognizes him as a psychic. I made a call to Mr. Lestrade to come collect him, and here I am. Unfortunately, you will still lose your job, Doctor Watson, but Sherlock will be with you when you leave."

That took a few moments to process. All it took was paperwork. Just the name of Mycroft Holmes saying that Sherlock wasn't a psychic. That was it. Seriously?

"Mycroft's name can open doors," offered Sherlock. "He's the British government."

"Oh, please," he scoffed, "I occupy a minor position-"

"He's the real-life version of Big Brother."

The brothers glared at each other. John found their relationship strangely sweet.

Sherlock and Mycroft shot daggers at John for that.

Lestrade, again, didn't know what was going on.

The reality of what Mycroft had said was beginning to sink in and a smile slowly spread on John's face. "So, Sherlock can leave."

"Yes," nodded Mycroft.

"And never return?"

"Yes," he gave a look that said are you really this daft?

John would have been offended if it had come from anyone but a Holmes. A bubble of joy built up in his chest. He turned to see that Sherlock was smiling, too, but not as excitedly as John. He probably anticipated this outcome. That would explain his recent behavior.

"Let me clear something up," Lestrade addressed Sherlock and John, "you two? Really?"

The pair looked down at the ground.

"Maybe," Sherlock muttered.

Lestrade stared at them for a moment, blinked, and then chuckled heartily. "You know, it's not much of a surprise. John, even if you had a slim chance of keeping your job, I'm afraid it's lost now."

John laughed, "Oh, I know that. It doesn't matter. I don't want to be under the same roof as Trevor anymore."

"Speaking of which," spoke Mycroft, "I was going to give you the whole 'hurt my brother and you'll end up in a prison in Siberia' speech, but considering what you have done for him, I don't believe I have to worry."

If John were to receive anything remotely resembling approval from Mycroft, that would be it. "I'm glad we understand each other. Mr. Holmes-"

"Mycroft, please."

"Right. Mycroft, where will Sherlock go?"

"My brother had often expressed to me through his letters that he longed for life in London. He enjoyed the energy when he was a child. I picked out a nice little flat on Baker Street."

Sherlock's eyes lit up. "You didn't tell me that."

"Well, now you know."

Sherlock was failing to stop the bright smile on his face. "And John? Can he stay with me?"

"Oh, I've already sold his flat and moved his belongings to Baker Street."

"What?!" John was flabbergasted. "You can't just do that!"

"But it will be wonderful, John!" Sherlock gripped his smaller hands in his own. "You, me, alone—think about it!"

John wasn't very keen on the idea of his freaking flat being sold without his permission, but if he were going to be with Sherlock, well, that changed things.

Mycroft checked his wristwatch. "I expect the two of you to be outside in twenty minutes. There is a car waiting. Say your goodbyes, Sherlock, if you have any. The same applies to you, Doctor."

Sherlock and John said goodbye to Mrs. Hudson. She hugged them tightly. "You better call sometime, you two," she said tearfully. They promised they would. There was no doubt that they would miss her motherly touch in their lives. "And make sure," she added, "that I'm invited to your future wedding."

They blushed furiously.

Much to the disapproval of Sherlock, John said goodbye to Mary Sherlock was fuming when they hugged.

"I knew it," she smiled. "In another life, I think we could have had a chance, but I'm happy for you. Really."

Sherlock silently thought that wasn't very appropriate to say, but he just growled to himself and decided that he would wait for John at the car.

When they were children, it was rare for Mycroft and Sherlock to voice their conversations. Talking was too tedious for them when they could easily send a message telepathically.

Mycroft started the conversation. Why did you pick John Watson, out of all people?

Problem?

No, I'm only curious.

Because he's John. That's why.

Feeling articulate today, aren't we?

Shut up. You're only jealous that I've found a partner while you drown your sorrows in pastries.

Mycroft looked like he was planning his murder when Lestrade approached them. "Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

Lestrade stared at him for a moment before he brought Sherlock into his arms.

Sherlock was surprised by the gesture and Lestrade knew it. He was a bit too stunned to hug back and, honestly, he wasn't sure if he would act differently if he knew what was coming. Only John Watson could touch him like that, Sherlock concluded, though Graham Lestrade wasn't so bad. "Yeah, this isn't your area, I know," Lestrade said. "It isn't really mine, either. Just, stay out of trouble, okay?"

Sherlock kept his arms by his side. "Of course, Graham."

"Graham?" he pulled back. "It's Greg."

"Is it?"

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Don't be so ignorant, Sherlock."

Lestrade seemed exasperated, but did smile. "Well, farewell, Sherlock. Your presence will be missed."

"That's a lie," Sherlock scoffed.

"Well it will be missed by me. Mr. Holmes," he shook Mycroft's hand, "it's been a pleasure."

"The pleasure's all mine," he grinned.

John approached and Lestrade gave him a quick hug. "John, I don't think we've had a better man here."

"Thanks, Greg, for dealing with our crap."

"Hurry up!" Sherlock snapped and stomped over to the car and jumped in.

Lestrade laughed. "He never changes, does he?"

"No, but I wouldn't have him any other way."

Mycroft looked disgusted by all of the emotion in the air. "Ready to go?"

"No messing around back there," he told them when John settled in the backseat next to Sherlock.

Sherlock growled, which John found incredibly sexy, and then hid his face in his hands when he realized that both Sherlock and Mycroft knew it.

Fucking psychics, he thought, and they smiled. Sherlock rested his head on John's shoulder and stared out the window. They watched the facility fade into the distance, and a happy sigh escaped Sherlock's lips.

Epilogue

"Sherlock!" John pinched the bridge of his nose. "I told you that I was more than happy to let you indulge in your experiments, but not if there is a bloody toe in the kettle!"

Sherlock, who was watching crap telly in his dressing gown on the sofa, looked up with innocence. "How did that get there?"

John groaned and went back to the kitchen to dump the toe into the trash.

"John!" Sherlock looked horrified. "I needed that toe!"

"Too bad!" John called back. Really. A toe.

"Where did you even get the toe?"

"A pathologist down at Bart's morgue fancies me. She lets me take body parts."

"Sherlock," John sighed as he sat down on the sofa next to his boyfriend, "it isn't very nice to manipulate people."

"Oh, I told her that I'm quite committed. She's still attracted to me, however, so why shouldn't I take advantage?"

"You're awful," John rolled his eyes and kissed his cheek. "You told her that you're in a relationship? She couldn't have taken that very well."

"She was a tad upset, but a rather smart girl. She'll get over it." Sherlock glanced away from whatever show he was watching to look at John, and then wrapped his arms around John's middle and kissed his collarbone peeking from his jumper. "Poor girl didn't know that I've been claimed by the most handsome, caring, amazing man-"

"You're doing this because you know I'm still angry with you for using that girl, aren't you?"

"Maaaaybe. But that doesn't make what I say untrue."

John chuckled and pinned Sherlock down onto the cushions, enjoying the look of surprise on his face. "You prat," he slowly moved his fingers up Sherlock's thigh to his groin. "It's wonderful now, isn't it, that we can be as loud as we want? That," he cupped Sherlock's growing erection through the fabric of his trousers, "we won't get caught?"

Sherlock was breathing heavily and he smirked. "Indeed. You can fuck me into the mattress and make me scream as much as you want."

John growled and attacked his lips.

All was resolved, all was well, and Sherlock and John would prove to keep their word; two years later, they invited Mrs. Hudson to their wedding.

Hooray for happy endings! Well, I hope you enjoyed this story, because I really liked writing this.

Thanks for reading!