A/N

This is very spoilery for S3 and as I won't go too deep into what is going on in the series, I must assume that you know the storyline intimately. Furthermore, the timeline I follow here is what I believe is the real one, meaning we go into the future. For this story, I assume Sherlock and John first lived together from January 2010 to June 2011, Sherlock came back in November 2013, John got married in May 2014 not 2013 (and not August, I don't know what goes on on his official blog) and the events of HLV take part in December 2014. I know some people think it's one year earlier, but I am not one of them. Sorry ;)

I've written all four chapters of this story, so it will be posted. I'm in the editing process of the rest. I hope to be able to release one chapter every week.

Before the fall: 2010-2011

December 2013

"Oh dear God, I actually forgot you did that!" John was laughing despite the bare-chested man on the screen of his laptop. He dropped his tone of voice and mimicked himself and still laughing said, "Sherlock Holmes, go and put on a shirt!"

The man on the other side of the Skype chat didn't laugh along, but his lips twitched a little and his eyes were gleaming mischievously.

"No," Sherlock answered and sported his best pout and tilted his chin up for good measure. John laughed a little more.

"Christ, I missed this," he said. He sighed, not able, not willing, to hide his deep contentment.

March 2010

Sherlock Holmes slept naked. When John thought about it, which he really tried not to do (too often), it was quite obvious. A man who was impeccably dressed when he went out and could barely be bothered to put on clothes that didn't fall apart at the seams when at home, of course slept naked. For the first month or two of their shared living arrangements he held himself back and always made sure to throw something onto his lithe form when he left his room. John wanted to believe it was for his sake and because Sherlock was trying to not make his new flatmate uncomfortable. No, he was saving that for later in their relationship.

But in the end John thought it might not have been so much out of consideration for him as out of consideration for the season. It had been winter, and it was a cold one that year. Sherlock made allowances for sub-zero degrees.

So, the first time John had seen his new flatmate naked was in March when the temperature had picked up and he was taking a shower one morning. Or, more precisely, preparing to take a shower one morning. He had already stripped down to just his pants, when the door that connected Sherlock's bedroom to the bathroom was opened and his tousled, very sleepy and puffy-eyed and very, very naked flatmate suddenly stood before him in all his alabaster glory.

John was in fact used to the naked form and not so much embarrassed even though he felt somewhat uncomfortable at first. That feeling dissolved almost immediately when he noticed the look of utter confusion on Sherlock's face. When you live with a man who knows what you had dreamt about the night before just by looking at the creases in your pyjama bottoms and then you see the same man practically sleep-stumbling in on you in the shower and you could see that he was having difficulties remembering his own name and putting things together, you laugh. And that was what John did, heartily.

The sound of it roused Sherlock awake and he tried to hide the blush on his cheekbones behind an indignant glare. It didn't work on John, who collapsed onto the rim of the bath tub and held his sides.

"Sorry," Sherlock said primly and left the way he came, head held high. It was only later that John thought he might have taken his laughter the wrong way. John had not laughed at his naked body but at his sleepy state. Truthfully, he hadn't even seen a lot of his body, he was too preoccupied with mirth.

Sherlock was a little more aloof around him for the next day or two and John couldn't think of a single thing to say to him to make him feel reassured. He couldn't very well go up to him and say, "Oh, by the way, you needn't be embarrassed about your body. You really look fit." That was just weird, so he didn't. And he needn't have worried anyway, because it didn't stop Sherlock from sleeping naked.

In the end it was worse. Well, worse...

One of the very first things John knew about Sherlock from the bottom of his heart, was, that Sherlock never was embarrassed, even if he secretly were. So, to prove he was in fact absolutely okay with John seeing him without clothes, we started walking around naked. Not every day, not even every week. But occasionally, when he couldn't be bothered to put on something just because he fancied a coffee in bed or desperately needed something from the living room.

And John got used to it. At first it was a game between them, to see who would say something first. Sherlock was trying to get John to complain and admit he had a problem with a naked man in his flat, while John was hoping Sherlock would show some embarrassment. Neither won and after a month, the competition was forgotten.

Summer 2010

John was sometimes away from London, sometimes it was Sherlock, but in any case, you don't live together for months and become fast friends just to not talk for days when one of you has left the city.

They took to skyping over breakfast and at night, which meant they took their laptops to bed with them. Sherlock was always under his blanket and John barely saw more than his thin chest and he actually grew very comfortable with the sight. It became so common that he hardly noticed anymore. Sometimes, when he couldn't stop it and he did think about Sherlock (at night, mostly, when he was alone in his cold, empty bed) and what kind of relationship they had, he thought how weird it must look to an outsider if they were to observe them. John talked to the video of a bare-chested man in his bed, it wasn't difficult to make the leap from friends to lovers. He tried not to think about it too often.

Autumn 2010

The real problems started later.

It was not in Sherlock's nature to regard anything as off limits. It was one of the traits that made it so easy to compare him to a toddler. If he saw it and he grabbed it, it automatically belonged to him. He appropriated John's stuff within days and it really shouldn't be any wonder that he didn't stop at his laptop or phone. Some boundaries John was able to establish. His RAMC cup was right out, as was, strangely, his notebook. It didn't stop Sherlock from sticking post-it notes in it, but he never used it for his own purposes.

John's bed, on the other hand, was a different story. Sherlock pretty much regarded it as his spare, to be used when his was occupied with something else or "too soft to sleep in". Yet he was trying to be sly about it, as if he sensed that a bed would be something John would try fighting about.

The first time was after a mild concussion and John sent Sherlock to bed.

"You need rest," he argued.

"I can rest on the sofa," Sherlock said.

"You don't fit on the sofa. Bed. Now." But Sherlock's bed was already occupied by a myriad of disguises.

"You can sleep in my bed tonight. Makes it easier to check on you, anyway," John allowed with a sigh.

The second time was when Sherlock had a mild cold.

"John," he whined, nasally.

"Bloody hell, Sherlock, it's two a.m.! What are you doing here?"

"I can't sleep. I'll suffocate."

"Take the damn decongestant!"

"They make me drowsy." Said, as if it was a personal insult. John fell back into his quilt and drew it over his head, using the age old trick of becoming suddenly invisible to pests when you can't see them any more. Living with a semi-toddler made John revert to that stage, too, sometimes.

"That's the point, git," he muttered into his pillow. For a moment there was silence and John believed Sherlock had taken the hint and left. Alas, he had just pondered what to do next. Which was to sit down on the bed next to John, propped against the headboard to help his breathing.

"You're a doctor," Sherlock said petulantly.

"Not at two a.m., I'm not," John's voice declared muffled.

"You should worry about my well-being."

"I do. That's why you're still alive and there's no you-shaped hole in my window." Sherlock sighed deeply and John ignored him so Sherlock gave a pathetic little cough. John knew what was going on because he knew Sherlock. And this time, John was adamant he wouldn't give in. If Sherlock wanted to be a child and refuse to take his icky medicine, then let him suffer and die and preferably, in silence. Shortly afterwards, John was asleep and shortly thereafter, so was Sherlock.

He did survive the night miraculously.

The third time, Sherlock needed someone to talk.

"No, you don't," John snorted derisively and spread pointedly all across his bed, taking up as much space as he could and then some. "You just forgot that you spilled that stuff over your sheets and are too lazy to change 'em." They played a game of tug o' war with the blanket that John, lying down with no leverage, lost. He did take the spare pillow away, though. Sherlock demonstratively did not care.

The fourth time, John merely rolled over.

The fifth time, Sherlock lost his pyjama top somewhere on the way up the stairs, the sixth time it was joined by his bottoms and the tenth time he celebrated by slipping into John's bed completely naked. By then, John didn't even care any more.

"You're going to freeze to death one day, you know," John said over his shoulder. He didn't need to look. His bed was too small and by then they somehow always ended up touching at some point of their bodies, so he knew immediately that his bedmate was naked.

"Nonsense. Thermodynamics, John, I trust you've heard of them? With you here I run a greater risk of suffering a heat stroke."

"I was exaggerating."

"Poorly."

"Idiot."

"You too."

But John wasn't stupid. He knew it was part of an experiment, that Sherlock was testing how far he could push John before John snapped. That he wasn't being vicious on purpose, not really, that he still always thought that John would put a stop somewhere, that John would throw him out and end their friendship. He didn't know how aware Sherlock was of his reasons, but John did know that there wasn't anything Sherlock could do to make John turn his back on him. Of that John was sure.

The sixteenth time, John ran his fingers over Sherlock's cock for the first time.

November 2010

At half ten, John heard the all-familiar Skype ringtone. He smiled when he saw the caller ID and clicked on the little camera symbol.

"How's Amsterdam today?" he asked brightly. On his screen, a lightly green-tinted, tilted Sherlock scowled back at him. John could only guess that he was lying in bed in the tiny hotel room he so hated.

"Damp, crowded, narrow and altogether too hip," Sherlock said full of disdain. He shifted a little, making his laptop wobble for a moment, and slid his hand under his head to get more comfortable. "God, they should really screen who they let into the city." For four days, Sherlock had been in Amsterdam on a private case. He's left John behind reluctantly and John regretted his choice deeply. He'd never been to Amsterdam and despite what Sherlock said about the city was sure he would have enjoyed it. But alas, half the doctors in the surgery he often locumed at were ill and they had begged him to come in daily this week. After working with Sherlock for almost ten months, John didn't really need the money. He did, however, enjoy the independence it Gave him.

"Damn the E.U., making it so easy to travel for us all!" John agreed, good-naturedly mocking the man on the other side of the North Sea whose scowl was getting deeper.

"I swear half the town has been taken over by drunk Englishmen," Sherlock said slowly.

"Drunk Englishmen are the worst," John said and nodded empathetically. Sherlock pouted, the light from his laptop screen reflecting from his pursed lips and John was momentarily distracted by how there they suddenly were. He shook his head to clear his mind and focus on the conversation again.

"So," John cleared his throat, "was there a reason you called or did you just want to complain about the tourists. Again."

Sherlock flopped on his back dramatically, giving the laptop and the whole bed another dangerous shake. His quilt slid lower and offered John a generous view of his bare chest. Not that he had never seen it before. He had seen too much of it, truthfully. Sometimes the image of that slim ribcage and the light pink nipples followed him into his dreams. Where he then did unspeakable things to them. Yet on a laptop screen it had another, very different effect on John. This was not Sherlock carelessly forgetting to put something on and strolling around the flat. This was as if it was only for John's viewing pleasure.

As if reading his mind, Sherlock turned his head and his eyes bore right into John's. On a laptop, through cameras. John had no idea how he did that. For a moment they were both silent.

"No," Sherlock said at last. He licked his upper lip. "The couple in the next room are fighting and I thought if I had to listen to mindless prattle, I might as well call you."

"Well, ta very much, you wanker," John said with only half as much venom as that statement deserved.

"And there we go. Go on then," Sherlock replied. He drew his hand under his head again and gave John a look up his armpit. It should have elicited a neutral feeling in John at best, yet he found himself swallowing and longing. Longing to run his hand down the soft inside of that arm and down Sherlock's side. Or over his narrow chest. Anything, really.

Before Sherlock could catch him in his inappropriate longing however, Mrs Hudson's appearance in his flat saved John.

"Woohoo," she said and glanced at the computer atop John's lap. "Oh, is that Sherlock? Hello dear, how are you doing? Are you eating enough?" Sherlock rolled his eyes. John turned the laptop so it was facing their landlady as she sat down on the couch next to John, settling in for a little chat. John couldn't help but notice that Sherlock lowered his arm and altogether shifted around until he didn't strike a half as alluring figure.

"Why are you in bed already?" she asked after Sherlock had assured her that he was eating healthy, staying out of trouble and yes, he had already sent her a post card which should arrive any day now.

"It's almost midnight here," he explained and Mrs Hudson went on how strange a concept time difference was and how Holland was only a stone's throw away and she would have gone on forever if Sherlock had not interrupted her.

"Was there a reason why you called on John at this time of night?" he asked.

"Oh! Of course," and she turned to face John and beamed at him. "When will you be home tomorrow? I'm only asking because I have a parcel delivered and I just remembered I have an appointment with my hair dresser in the afternoon and you know those postmen, they always call when you're out for five minutes no matter that you've waited all day for them."

In the end John assured her he would be there to accept her parcel and he got her out of the flat again, finally being alone with Sherlock once more. John smiled somewhat shyly into the camera.

"It's not international crime," he said and run a hand through his hair, a sure-fire sign he was nervous, "just everyday domesticity, but it's all I have."

"Oh, I wouldn't say it like that," Sherlock said softly and John's interest was piqued at the tone, "I find myself missing you and all of that." The men smiled at each other, not full smiles, just little, unsure shadows. It was more than enough because they could read the meaning behind them.

"Then come home soon, because we're missing you, too," John offered.

They kept talking. Some time later, John took the laptop to bed with him and got changed outside of its camera's reach before slipping under the blanket and getting comfortable. Despite what Sherlock had said in the beginning, it was he who did the most talking and an hour or so later, John felt his eyelids getting heavier. He hoped Sherlock wouldn't take it the wrong way when he fell asleep, but it was too late anyway because minutes later he was gone. Sherlock stopped in the middle of a sentence and shut his mouth, looking at John. He couldn't explain why but he wasn't able to ring off. He, too, fell asleep soon enough, a sleeping John the last thing he saw before he closed his eyes for the night.

Despite the time difference John's alarm was the first to go off in the morning. He turned it off automatically and heard a groan from beside him. His eyes shot open and he turned to look, the utterly bizarre display of a very sleep-ruffled Sherlock on a laptop screen greeting him. For a moment John was speechless and then he started laughing, deep from the belly. Sherlock hissed at him.

"What?" he said indignantly. John wiped a tear from his eyes.

"This must have been the weirdest sleep-over in the history of mankind," he said with a hiccough, still chuckling to himself. Sherlock's lips twitched at the corners but he was able to suppress a full display of amusement.

John's laugh died right in his throat when not a moment later Sherlock started stretching his sore muscles, arching his back off the bed. Instead, John gulped and the longing was back. Every fibre of his body screamed to touch the other man and he felt the inexplicable urge to cry for all the miles between them. With surprise John noted that longing hadn't hurt this much since he had been a teenager. He sat up, turned his back to the camera before Sherlock could see him like this.

It was the first time that John could acknowledge, in the light of day and with as much honesty as he was capable of, that he wanted Sherlock. He had come to terms with his caring for the man, maybe even loving him and he definitely knew he had an unhealthy crush and was hero-worshipping him. But that day, in the cold morning light, John admitted that he wanted Sherlock with all of his body and soul.

December 2010

We're not a couple. -Yes you are.

The words echoed in John's head, over and over again. He had nothing to hold against them, because deep down he had known they were true all along. How could he deny their truth when he so longed for them to become his reality? Sharing their lives, spare time and work, mutual decisions, taking the other into consideration. Well, John did. He wanted to believe, Sherlock did too. Yes you are. They were.

Yet here he lay, New Year's Eve, so full of meaning, alone in his bed while from downstairs soft music was seeping into his room, the only reminder of the person he shared his life with. He had tried talking to no avail. John was not yet desperate and he was not stupid. He could take a hint. The first time, at Angelo's so, so long ago, he had accepted Sherlock's polite rejection. After today, when it was so clear to John and obviously to the bloody rest of the world, too, he had tried a second time, encouraged by the trust they had built between them over the last year. But he didn't even get as far as back then. This time, Sherlock stifled him before he could even start. It was worse than before. This time it was not only John's ego that felt the blow.It's only a crush, he told himself.Not the end of the world if he doesn't feel things that way.

And then the music stopped and then he heard footsteps on the stairs. John's breath caught in his throat. He propped up on his elbows and fixed his eyes on the closed door to his room. The footsteps stopped in front of it. A minute passed before the knob turned and the door opened slowly. Stealthily Sherlock slipped into his room, closed the door behind him and leant his back against it, looking at John.

"I don't know anything about you," John said helplessly when the silence became too heavy. "Are you gay? Straight? Bi? Asexual? You liked her, don't lie-" Sherlock walked over to his bed and sat down on the edge of the mattress. Hesitantly he reached for John's face. His fingers were just a little damp when they touched the skin, and shaking almost imperceptibly, but John felt it nonetheless. Or maybe it was him. He didn't think all too much about who it was that was nervous. John leant up and kissed him. Sherlock's weight pressed him back into the mattress as he lay down on top of John. His hands played with the hem of John's shirt, nervously, before he found the courage to slip them underneath and over his stomach. Sherlock's fingers felt icy against John's hot skin and a shiver ran down his spine, making him arch up against the man on top of him.

It was all that happened then. After a long moment Sherlock drew back, panting ever so lightly, and fixed John with an almost stern look.

"Is this what you want?" he asked. His voice was cold and distant, betraying his distraction only when his eyes met John's accidentally and John read something like fear in them.

"Yeah," John said and waited. He was good at waiting. The cards lay open in front of them and it was Sherlock's turn now.

"I have to think," Sherlock told him and left him wondering.

January 2011

Things were awkward after that. At least John felt they were. He had no idea what was going on in Sherlock's head, as usual. The man seemed distant, but then he had the whole Irene Adler-thing looming over him. It was at night, when John was not distracted by anything else, had the doubts came.

Sherlock had kissed him, had asked if that was what John wanted and John wanted it very much. All the women since meeting Sherlock were a distraction. He went through them like a horny teenager. John had always been rather "gifted" in picking up women, but five in half a year, that was a lot even for him. Now he could admit that the only reason it was so easy was because he wasn't interested in a long-term thing from the beginning. That made filtering them quite easy. There was no filter to apply.

Still John didn't know anything more about Sherlock. That first night a year ago, John thought Sherlock gay. It wasn't something he could pinpoint, just a vague feeling. It takes one to recognise one, maybe, even though John was not gay. He had always hated that label, when he saw what it did to how people treated you and more so, because it didn't fit him. John was sexual. Not hetero, not homo, not bi. Well, maybe bi. But in the end the gender of his partners had never mattered to him, as long as he could get them into his bed. He was shallow that way. If someone piqued his fancy, he wanted them and he never spent time on puzzling what that said about him.

Later, Sherlock ticked all the "asexual" boxes on John's list and the case was clear. He backed off. Still "asexual" was the most fitting description John could think of. Then came The Woman and John had to rethink his evaluation. He couldn't find signs of arousal in Sherlock, but he saw how fascinated his friend was with the admittedly supremely attractive woman. Maybe Sherlock wasn't so much attracted to the physical, but to a sharp mind, and Irene Adler had both in abundance. John cut his losses, knowing he couldn't compete on one end or the other.

Everything seemed to indicate that this time he was right.

Then Sherlock had kissed him and John had to start from the beginning. It was just too hard when Sherlock refused to answer his questions, and John had so many of those.

He wouldn't get answers when Sherlock slipped into his bed the next time. Suddenly, John was overly aware of his bedmate's nudity, something that had never (particularily) bothered him before, but this time, he felt the side of his body that was closest to the miles of naked Sherlock-skin tickle uncomfortably. It was like an army of ants ran through his veins, urging him to move his hand and put it on the man next to him. It grew to the point were John had no choice. He would've gone crazy otherwise.

The moment their skin made contact, the tingling stopped abruptly. Instead, he felt a heat spread out. He heard the sharp move of Sherlock's head on his pillow to face him, but other than that the man stayed silent. He just mustered John intently.

John turned on his side so he could face Sherlock. They were under the duvet and he lifted his arm to look under it. He wanted to see as long as Sherlock allowed him to continue. Because in John's mind there was no doubt that Sherlock would stop him, and quite soon.

His fingers were curled around Sherlock's far hip. They seemed dark against Sherlock's pale, pale skin. He traced the hipbone with his thumb as far as he could go and never took his eyes off his hand. Not once did he ask if this was okay. He trusted Sherlock to tell him otherwise.

John threw the blanket back and drank in the sight of him. Sherlock was spread out in front of him, not a piece of fabric on his body and the biggest surprise was that his penis was starting to get hard. Under John's gaze it deepened in colour until it was dark red and straining upwards. Just from looking at it. It was nothing to what it did when John closed his hand around Sherlock's erection. He felt it throb under his palm, the flesh filling with hot blood and expanding. Further up, the sounds of Sherlock's laboured breath reached his ears but John couldn't tear his eyes away. He loosened his fist and with the tips of his index and middle finger followed the superficial dorsal vein from base to tip while Sherlock's penis grew longer all the while. By the end of his glazial caress, Sherlock had grown twice in length and significantly in girth. John's lips were suddenly very dry.

A drop of pre-ejaculate escaped the slit. John dipped his finger into it and rubbed it into the frenulum. Sherlock was moaning and John chanced a glance. The sight was breathtaking, Sherlock with his eyes closed and his arms spread, surrendered to John's ministrations as his chest heaved rapidly. He took only shallow breaths and that was the moment that John realised: Sherlock was not going to stop him. He didn't only indulge John in his curiousity, he wanted it. Enjoyed it. Would eventually come from it. John took the opportunity.

He cupped Sherlock's testicles, suddenly curious what they would feel like in this hand. The answer was heavy and tight. They were already drawn up, accumulation sperm and almost ready to burst. John squeezed and Sherlock whimpered helplessly. The grin that snuck onto John's face at the sound could no longer be described as pleasant. He was enjoying this, this power he held over Sherlock, a man so restrained under normal circumstances. That is, until John laid his hands on him, at which point he became desparate.

He let the knuckles of his hand glide over the shaft, a little rougher than he would normally do, but Sherlock seemed to like it. He arched off the bed and made sounds that weren't even close to words. When John buried his fingers into the fine curls and tucked, Sherlock was too far gone to articulate even those sounds. He just moaned and thrashed on the bed. In his wildest dreams John hadn't pictured him like this, wanton and out of control, practically begging for more touches, flushed deep and breathless. He liked it a lot.

When John eventually started stroking him, it took no more than a dozen dry strokes before Sherlock came in John's fist. The semen was running over John's fingers, there was so much of it, and John thought that he had never seen anything as sexy in his life as Sherlock's sperm on his hand. He spread his fingers and watched it drop and run down on his wrist and it was fascinating. When finally he looked up to check on the other man, Sherlock met his look with an exhausted and happy one of his own. John could only chuckle and scrawl up to take his mouth in a kiss that Sherlock returned lazily.

February 2011

Because they were John and Sherlock, things weren't magically resolved or even just easier afterwards. Sherlock was still as aloof as ever and John disheartened. When a woman asked him out for dinner, he went.

"I had a date tonight," John slightly slurred the words into Sherlock's ear. He knew he was awake and if he wasn't, well John didn't care. The infuriating man lay naked in his bed. On the night John had a date. Of which he had known.

He slid his hand down Sherlock's spine and cupped his buttock. It was the alcohol, but then, Sherlock had asked for it. John was sure of it. Still he didn't hear a peep from him. John slumped down on the man's back and he felt him take a deep breath, definitely awake. He chuckled, a deep sound in his throat, maybe a little dangerous, but even to John himself it sounded sexy.

On second thought, it was the alcohol. Maybe he shouldn't have had the shots. Maybe, if they were to continue what they had started here, John should start asking for Sherlock's permission. Maybe even as soon as the next time, because this time, well let's say it was too late for that.

"Jenna," he said. His breath moved some of the hair around Sherlock's ear. John slid his hand lower, over his thigh and he drew it up on the inside a bit, spreading Sherlock's legs that way. His fingers went back to his arse.

"She was nice," John told him in a low voice while his finger found Sherlock's crack, followed the line down and back up again. "Funny, sexy, interesting. She's a stewardess, did I tell you?" He focussed on Sherlock's hole and Sherlock shifted under him, rearranging his weight into a more comfortable position and drawing his leg in. He huffed a breath, not really a moan, but close. The shiver that went through him at John's touch went through John as well. He smiled against Sherlock's ear.

"The places she's been to. I could listen to her talk for hours." John only stopped talking to coat his finger in spit to press closer into Sherlock. "I wanted to take her home." The tip of his index finger breached Sherlock and this time it was a definite moan. "Gorgeous," John whispered and kissed the shell of his ear, the sound from his flatmate leaving him in awe.

John lay fully dressed half on top of a naked Sherlock and he was getting hot. He felt his cock filling and pressing against the other man's flank, his heat going straight into him. A little torturous, but John liked it this way.

His finger played with Sherlock's arse and he liked that, too. In fact, both of them seemed to like it, judging by the way Sherlock was arching into his hand and the complainy sound he made when John withdrew it just to add more spit. Sherlock put his hand under his pillow hastily and it came back blindly pressing a tube of lube John usually kept in his bedside table into John's hand. John laughed quietly. It seemed that permission was granted implicitly.

"What else have you got there?" he asked and leant over, taking careful attention to press his dick into Sherlock's arse to torment him with what he wouldn't get just yet, drawing a deep groan and having Sherlock arch into his groin, making John wonder if that really had been the best idea. The plan was to torture Sherlock, not himself.

He reached under Sherlock's pillow and fumbling a bit, found a condom.

"I wonder what you have planned?" John teased and laid the condom down into the dip at the small of Sherlock's back, a reminder. He poured a generous amount of lube on his fingers and went back to his ministrations to Sherlock's arse, pushing two fingers into him easily, comfortably, deliciously.

"John," Sherlock said breathlessly.

"Anyway," John continued, ignoring him and his rolling hips, slowly pushing his fingers in and pulling them out again in a speed that was too slow even for him and had to be agonising for Sherlock. "There I was, with this sexy, likeable stewardess, the envy of all the blokes there, and I knew I could take her home. Fuck her." He gave an extra hard shove and was rewarded with another delectable groan here. "And then I remembered you. And I thought, hm, Sherlock almost never goes to bed before me. And he, what? Sleeps in my bed maybe once every other week? How often would you say you sleep here, hm?" It was cruel, going by the frequency of his breaths Sherlock was unable to answer questions, yet John posed it.

"Sherlock?" he asked, reminding him of his presence with a lick along the ridge of his ear. "How often do you sleep in my bed? Hm? Come on, I know there is an equation." It took a while, three deep breaths, before Sherlock could stutter the answer.

"Once in ... once in ... every ... twelve ... John!" Unfairly, John had pressed down on his prostate and was stroking it tenderly now.

"Once in every twelve what, Sherlock?" he teased. John was enjoying it. He knew it would come back to bite him sometime and rather sooner than later, but right now Sherlock was in a state of arousal so high and he was only in the blissful, enjoyable beginnings of it, so he had to take advantage.

"Days!" Sherlock shouted, groaned. He curled in to push his arse against John more comfortably.

"Alright. So, I thought, he only sleeps in my bed once every twelve days, and he's slept with me only five days ago. Plus, he almost never goes to bed before me and Sherlock, it wasn't even nine then, so I was sure you were still awake. You see, I knew you only pretended to not listen when I told you I was going out on a date, but I know you, don't I? I know what you're really like." John chuckled again. "I know what you really like," he said amused. "What do you really like, Sherlock? Tell me."

Sherlock groaned, this time in frustration. He was writhing under John and trying to get his fingers deeper into him, and preferably make them move faster, too, and then John kept insisting on asking those pesky questions, kept insisting on making him talk, when he tried so much to keep his sounds in.

"Tell me," John repeated in a very smug tone and stilled his fingers so that only the very tips remained in Sherlock, way not enough.

"John!" Sherlock groaned.

"Yes?" John was audibly enjoying this.

"Your fingers," Sherlock said.

"You like my fingers?" John asked.

"Yes!"

"What about them? What should I do with them?"

Sherlock wasn't able to answer. Impatiently, he grabbed for John's wrist and shoved his fingers back inside, groaning when he had them where he wanted them. John looked on fascinated as Sherlock fucked himself on his fingers, as he used his hand like a toy. It was so hot. For the first time John lost some of his control and he fumbled for his fly, opening his trousers and pulling out his cock, relishing in the loss of uncomfortable pressure and a breeze of cool air on his heated skin.

"Another!" Sherlock demanded and John pushed in the third finger along the other two.

"Oh God," Sherlock shouted and John took his momentary distraction to take back control over his hand. He took a deep breath, steadying himself, and went on with his tale as he again slowed down his thrusts to a punishing pace.

"Once every twelve days, slept with me not long ago, too early for you," he summarised and it was getting more difficult for him to talk. He had to wrap this up. "You never sleep in my bed when I'm not there except when I'm out of town. You always sleep here when I'm out of town, don't pretend, I can smell you on my sheets afterwards. There was no way I should bring home this girl to find you already in my bed, except that there was every possibility that you would be. I calculated a probability of 95% and sent her home. A stewardess, Sherlock! Every bloke's dream! God, she was hot. But I knew you'd be here, in all your ... naked glory and I didn't fancy a slap in the face, so I sent her home and went to a pub and I had some shots. And fuck, I'm gonna do this, fuck." He snatched the condom that had rolled off Sherlock's back into the blanket by his side under his writhing and ripped it open and rolled it on. His cock was hard, had grown to full erectness within the last two minutes, spurred by the sounds coming from Sherlock.

"You want this, right?" John asked, pleaded, already aligning his dick with Sherlock's hole that was still gripping at the fingers of his other hand.

"Yes, God, John, yes, do it already!" Sherlock's hand grabbed at him and squeezed at John's cock, too hard, and he hissed.

"Careful!" John chided, presence of mind momentarily restored.

"Sorry, just do it. I've waited so long," Sherlock moaned as his hand slackened. It were entirely the wrong words to say in that moment.

John withdrew his fingers and pushed himself off Sherlock, brought a few inches of distance between them.

"Fuck!" he shouted and pressed the balls of his hands into his eyes, breathed deeply and willed himself to calm. It was difficult. He was so drunk and Sherlock willing and he so hard.

"What, John? What is it?" Sherlock asked. He turned around to see what was going on, his hair sticking to his head, damp from sweat. He was flushed all over, not that John could see it with his eyes shut. "John? John!"

"You're a virgin!" John said after a while. Sherlock groaned exasperated.

"Yeah, so?" he asked impatiently.

"I'm drunk!" John answered.

"That's it?! I don't mind as long as you're not going to be sick on me." And here John laughed, actually laughed. He needed that, he could feel his erection going down with it, a little.

"What is so funny?" Sherlock asked, sounding furious and indignant and thankfully, as if he was pouting like a thirteen-year-old and John felt it was safe to look at him. He looked every bit the way he sounded.

"I'm not going to fuck you, for the first time, while I'm drunk. You don't deserve that," he explained with a warm look in his eyes.

"I was under the impression that all first times occurred under the influence of alcohol, so why not mine as well?" Sherlock tried logically. It kind of worked. John remembered his first time, he and the girl where both drunk on beer they had stolen from her parents.

"Fuck, that's probably true," he admitted and rubbed his forehead.

"See?" Sherlock said and climbed into his lap. More gently this time, he reached for John's now only half hard cock behind him and rubbed it against his arse, rolling his hips in a way he had probably seen in movies. It caught John's penis's interest.

John sat up and against the headboard. He pulled Sherlock to his chest and stilled his hands, pinning them by the wrists against his sides. He kissed him.

Sherlock's inexperience showed. The kiss was chaste and close-lipped at first until John licked his mouth open. And even then Sherlock drew back a little so they went back to it with their lips closed. He seemed to enjoy that a lot, making little humming noises against John's mouth. After maybe two minutes John stopped.

"I'm not going to do it, Sherlock," he said calmly and looked into the other man's eyes, pleading with him to see reason.

"Why not? I want to, I'm sober."

"When we're going to have sex, we're both going to be sober. I want to remember everything. And I don't want to regret anything," John explained and could only hope Sherlock would understand.

"We've been sleeping together for weeks, we've done ... the thing then and nothing more," Sherlock said sadly. He climbed off John and sat next to him against the headboard, distance once more between them. It felt cold this time. "You're never going to have sex with me when you're sober," he concluded. John shrugged. It was probably true, but it wasn't his fault.

"You don't even want to do it," he said and was not able to hide the reproach from his voice. It wasn't that John didn't want to. It was Sherlock. It was always Sherlock. "You don't want to be in a relationship with ... touching and ... feelings." Because that John had learned in the last few days. Sherlock would let him touch him, in the darkness of the night, but in the light of day nothing had changed. It was enlightening.

"Who said anything about a relationship?" Sherlock asked impatiently. "We were just talking about sex!" That, too, John had realised. But could he be friends with benefits with Sherlock? He doubted it. Mainly because he hated the idea in its entirety.

"I did," John told him. He couldn't look at Sherlock and stared at his hands clasped in his lap. His eyes inevitably fell to his now soft cock still in its condom. Distastefully he slid it off and threw it into the waste bin. "Forget it. I'm drunk. Talk to me again when you've thought about it." With that he pulled the blanket over his half-exposed body and turned on his side. Sleep found him much faster than he had anticipated.

March 2011

Then there was the talk.

"What would a relationship entail?" Sherlock asked. He sounded cold, detached, barely present, in short, highly intrigued. "With you?" he added after a moment for clarity's sake.

"I don't know," John sighed.

"How can you not know? You're the resident relationship expert!" Sherlock interrupted miffed.

"Can you let me finish?" John rebutted just as acidly. He stared at Sherlock over the table, eyes narrowed. Sherlock pursed his lips and turned his head away.

"Not much would change. Apart from the physical I mean. I'd expect you to always tell me what's going on with you. Honesty. That kind of stuff."

"That sounds exactly like what we already have. Except the physical, which you refused," Sherlock pointed out. For John this was difficult.

"Sentiment, feelings, loyalty. I'd expect your consideration of me, you couldn't just do stuff without stopping to think what they'd do to me."

"I do that already!"

"Oh, you don't!" John glared at him. "You do?"

"Of course I do," Sherlock assured him confidently. John wearily shook his head, but Sherlock, encouraged by this small victory, pressed on. "It's simple chemistry, I can explain to you exactly what's going on in your brain at any moment. When I touch you, neurons fire impulses through your nerves. You call it love, but it is nothing so quaint. Love is merely a word, created to cater to simple minds. Romantics. There are studies that have determined the factors of successful relationships." Sherlock counted them on his fingers. "We're five years apart which falls perfectly into the proposed span of four to seven years, we've both obtained university degrees, even the difference in our intelligence is indicative of success. You see?" He was wild with glee.

"That's, that's all? Chemistry and psychology?" John asked incredulously.

"Well, to be fair, psychology is mostly chemistry." At John's tired look, Sherlock backtracked. "But you're also attracted to me and I to you! We like each other and I'm perfectly willing to put your concerns into consideration, regarding any matter. We already know that we can live together. We already share expenses. If anyone, we should be able to make this work. All this needs now is a name." John only stared at him. The thing about Sherlock's crazy was, it so often made perfect sense. Yet in this, John was adamant.

"This is why," he said pointing at Sherlock, "we can't be in a relationship. This is not enough for me, Sherlock. It will never be enough. Chemistry. No. I want love, not some... convenient arrangement." John made an abortive gesture with his arms and knew in that precise second that he went too far, felt bad about it and couldn't stop it either way. It had to be said. Maybe he'd get a chance at rephrasing it soon. He would create an opportunity. Till then he refused to look at Sherlock and his big, wide eyes. Not very mature, John knew, but it was the easy way.

"Okay," Sherlock simply said, stood up and went to his room. He didn't run, his pace was perfectly normal. "Thank you for telling me."

If John were still five years old, he would have cried. Fifteen, he would have chased Sherlock and tried to make up. As it was, he was almost forty. Grown-ups behaved more dignified. It was just sad that dignity came with such a high price.

March 2011

"John," Sherlock whispered in the dark.

"Wuh?" John answered eloquently. He forced himself awake and tried again. "What's going on? You alright?"

"Yes," Sherlock said from where he was sat on the edge of John's bed. There was a pause in which John sat up and looked at Sherlock, his eyes getting accustomed to the dark.

"Sherlock?" John's hand twitched. He folded them in his laps before he did something inappropriate like reaching out for Sherlock.

"May I?" Sherlock gestured at the bed, at John, looking insecure and hesitant. It struck John strange, as Sherlock has not once asked for permission before. But of course that was before John told him in no unmistakable words that he was never going to pursue a relationship with him. His heart ached at the sound of Sherlock's voice. He seemed hurt.

"Of course," John said and slid over, giving Sherlock the warm spot. Always, he wanted to add. You never have to ask. Because John was a besotted teenager that took every chance to be close to the object of his infatuation even though it meant he would get hurt in the process. Maybe it was just chemistry.

They shuffled in the bed until they lay side by side, facing each other. Their hands placed in the space between them, not touching, but only an inch apart. Their eyes wide in the dark.

"Sherlock, I didn't-"

"I'm sorry." They spoke at the same time. John smiled, indicating Sherlock should carry on. The man swallowed hard, shut his eyes for a moment.

"You're..." Sherlock paused, looking for words. "The..." His gaze dropped to their hands on the sheet and he tapped John's index finger, once. "There's no-one," he started anew. "Nothing more-," he corrected. John took pity on his stuttering explanation. He put his hand on top of Sherlock's, trapping his fingers, and leant over to kiss him sweetly. Not rephrasing his words, but maybe Sherlock would understand the meaning in the gesture. Another chance to make it right, now that they had talked.

"It's fine," he breathed as he leant back. Sherlock's eyes were closed and remained so for a long while. John stroked his thumb. "Is this alright?" he asked after a while when Sherlock hadn't moved at all. Sherlock nodded, the sound of his hair on the pillow filling the still night air.

"Yes," he whispered and finally opened his eyes to look at John. John smiled, his eyes alight with happiness. His fingers travelled up Sherlock's arm, leaving goosebumps in their wake before they grabbed hold of his hand once more. He shifted closer until their foreheads touched.

"I love the feel of your skin," John confessed softly. It was smooth, unscarred, incredibly soft and perfect and there was so much of it on his lean, long body.

"I," Sherlock said and swallowed, omitting the word and clearing his throat instead, "Your smell." He softly nuzzled John's nose, their lips brushing against each other just so. It was the first night after the talk that they spend together again. They never talked about relationships again, both men with their own agenda. Sherlock knew where he had gone wrong and wanted to show John that even though it was just chemistry it didn't mean he wasn't happy about its presence. And John wanted to show Sherlock what he could have if he let himself.

Spring 2011

What John and Sherlock had was not a relationship, but only because they didn't call it that. It was as simple as that.

Three occasions with Lestrade stood out that described the progression of their platonic relationship to a physical one.

On the first of those it was an early morning on which John was skipping tea entirely and went straight to preparing the strong coffee Lestrade undoubtedly needed if you were to judge by the dark shadows under his eyes. The inspector took the offered mug gratefully and sunk down on the sofa, his head thumping loudly against the wall behind.

"Where's he?" Lestrade asked. He didn't have to be more specific, there has ever only been one person John and he were talking about, sadly.

"Still asleep," John explained, taking his own mug and sitting down in his chair. "Give it a minute, the smell of coffee always lures him out." He took a sip and so did Lestrade.

"No hurry," the inspector said. "A break, 's all I need." They were silent for a couple of moments until heavy steps could be heard on the stairs. Sherlock bypassed the living room and went straight to the bathroom through the kitchen, Lestrade only caught a glimpse of this naked calves under the dressing gown before he was out of sight again.

"You two switched rooms?" he asked John conversationally.

"No," John replied and stopped breathing, waiting for the penny to drop.

"Oh, because I thought you slept upstairs," Lestrade explained, oblivious to John's tense, forcefully nonchalant posture.

"I do," John said. Only now did Lestrade look at him. One of his eyebrows shot up, he looked comical trying to hide his surprise while wanting to appear unimpressed.

"Right," he said at last. After a while he added, "I'm sure you have a sound explanation for it?"

"I do," John repeated. He took another sip of his coffee and almost burned his tongue, all to look as if he didn't feel the tiniest bit under scrutiny or uncomfortable.

"Good enough for me," Lestrade ascertained him and let his head fall back again.

That's how Lestrade found out they sometimes slept together.

The second incident took place a while later in the middle of the night of a particularly vicious double murder, when Lestrade called them to the scene. John was awoken by the sounds of the phone vibrating against the wood of the bedside table. Irritated and grumpy, he answered it.

"Yeah?"

"John?"

"Yes, it is." John cleared his throat. He supposed that he didn't sound completely recognisable and like himself, but it was the middle of the night and he had been asleep just a moment ago.

"It's Greg. Sorry to wake you, but we could really use your help with a double murder. Mother and daughter, it's... we have no idea what kind of weapon they used. Huge wounds. Erm, it's, we're, we could really use him."

"Yeah of course, did he not answer his phone?" John was rousing himself awake. Next to him, he felt Sherlock was already awake and looking at him interestedly but keeping quiet for now. On the other end of the phone, Lestrade was silent for a minute.

"This is his phone," he said, carefully, after that. Shocked, John stared at the phone in his hand and sure enough, it was definitely not his own. Biting his lip and willing himself not to lose it, he merely handed the phone over to Sherlock, whose excellent hearing in the still night had allowed him to listen in on the conversation. Who was grinning wildly now. John wanted to kill him so badly.

"Good morning, Lestrade," Sherlock said disgustingly cheerful. John fell back on the bed and planted his pillow over his face. "What did you say to my boyfriend that he is now trying to smother himself?"

"Boyfriend," John groaned and pressed down harder on the pillow. Sherlock pulled his hands away and that's how John didn't die of embarrassment and Lestrade found out that they didn't only sometimes shared a bed, platonically, but did stuff in there that took them wide out of the range of what could be called platonic.

The third time occurred in a hotel not long before the end and it was a memory that would haunt John for far too long.

A private client had come to them with the theft of a family heirloom. The case turned out more complex than John had thought, which probably was why Sherlock had taken it in the first place. In the end they had to consult with a real life police-man, someone who could do arrests, so they called Lestrade because they knew he wouldn't ask too many questions and do what they told him to.

Before they could get to the arresting part though, they had to spend a night in a strange town where their client arranged a room for them. One room for all three of them, and it had only two beds.

"Right. How're we doing this then?" Greg asked. He was uncomfortable and a little twitchy, which Sherlock regarded with open contempt and ignored him for afterwards.

"You take that one, I this," John said stepping in and pointing at the beds.

"What about you?" Lestrade asked Sherlock who didn't answer. John sighed.

"He won't sleep," he explained.

"Won't sleep?" Lestrade repeated to Sherlock's exaggerated eyeroll. John quickly handed him his laptop, successfully distracting him before he could insult the inspector and insult John instead. Sadly, that was a much more preferable outcome.

"The netbook, John? How am I supposed to get any work done on this thing?"

"Be glad I brought it at all," John retorted. "Now say 'Thank you' or you'll have to content with your phone." Sherlock didn't thank him, but he stopped complaining, which was almost as good.

Much later, Sherlock came crawling into John's bed anyway.

"You're going to sleep?" John asked over his shoulder, his voice husky and low, so he wouldn't wake Greg in the other bed. He felt Sherlock's answering nod against his shoulder and settled into his embrace, at the same time thankful for him wearing a shirt and pants and hating that his friend felt the need to restrain himself because of Lestrade's presence.

John was the first one up the next morning. When he was back in the room after a hot shower, Greg had woken up as well. They talked little, but what they said was said in whispers for Sherlock's sake. Sherlock had rolled onto the space John had occupied before he had left and pushed his pillow against his chest in a poor replacement of the man. John couldn't help but brush an errand curl out of his face. He felt indescribably happy out of nowhere and it was a little embarrassing, so he tried to hide his smile. Lestrade saw, observing him and the way an unconscious Sherlock arched into his hand, aching for the contact.

"Does he know?" Lestrade asked all of a sudden.

"Know what?" John asked back, reluctantly looking away from Sherlock and at Greg instead.

"How you feel." John averted his eyes, saying nothing. Lestrade filled the silence. "I know that you two..., it's none of my business, of course. But I see the way you look at him when he doesn't know it and the way you look when he does, and it's not the same. Whatever you two are doing, but does he know you love him?"

John shrugged his shoulders after a moment and sniffed. He brushed his fingers through Sherlock's messy hair.

"He's Sherlock," he said, "He knows everything."

But Sherlock didn't know this and John never got to tell him.

May 2011

Because they had some kind of yet undiscovered telepathic connection, Sherlock always knew exactly when John was bored out of his mind at the surgery and would show up, unannounced and unexpected but never unwelcome, with an armload of unhealthy extra-B BLT sandwiches and packets of crisps in his lunch break. John loved those days.

They sat in the lunch room of the surgery and were enjoying the last crumbles of their meals when John's newest colleague, an unfairly young woman, joined them. John made the introductions.

"Jane, this is my flat mate Sherlock, Sherlock, this is Jane. She started only last month, fresh from uni." Jane was an average looking woman, a little shy in groups of people she didn't know. She did however, and John hadn't been aware of that, been playing the cello for the better part of her life. With Sherlock's talent for knowing everything about people in no time flat, it didn't even take five minutes before the two of them were discussing the different classical composers and arguing about their virtues and shortcomings rather heatedly. To Jane's honour, she seemed to take everything Sherlock threw at her in stride and gave back as good as she got, throwing in a few clever insults at Sherlock's talent at the violin here and there just by the pieces he admitted to prefer. It was, strangely, fun to observe and John leant back, relishing in seeing his friend engaged in a conversation where, for once, both sides were equally strong. Even though he was left out of most of it and his confession to a partiality to Tchaikovsky earned him confusingly similar haughty snorts. He kept his mouth shut after that.

Before long, John's time was up and he got to his feet.

"I'll just get this, then," he said and cleaned their things away while no-one was paying him any heed.

"Right. Please be nice," John told Sherlock and leaned down to him and kissed him. It was their first kiss in front of an audience and it came out of nowhere. John didn't know why he did it, maybe because of Jane even though he didn't feel threatened by her, she was too young and too female to be of any interest to Sherlock (who John strongly believed to be gay that day, almost 95% sure of it even) and there was no need to stake his claim. Maybe it was because Sherlock had all but ignored him for the past half hour and he wanted to gently remind him of his existence. Maybe it was just that Sherlock looked almost happy and as if he was enjoying himself and therefore, so handsome, John just had to had him right then. In either case, Sherlock locked eyes with him after the kiss and smiled warmly and John just had to kiss him again, only this time with every intend.

Now, while Jane could accept one kiss, two were too much for her patience. She made a disgusted sound and pretended to be vomiting.

"Very mature," Sherlock drawled and looked at her unimpressed around John's head. John turned to look, a faint blush on his cheeks.

"If you're quite done snogging your boyfriend, maybe we could get back to the topic at hand," Jane told Sherlock. "That is, if you have enough blood left in your brain for a discussion." Sherlock's eyes gleamed dangerously and John knew he was forgotten once more. He went to leave the room, able to hear Sherlock's last words before the door closed behind him.

"And if I lost a third of my blood, I'd still win any discussion with you," Sherlock said and John muttered, "So much about being nice."

Later, when John came home, he heard an unfamiliar melody coming from their flat. He walked up to the music stand and glanced at an unpronounceable, Russian name he had never heard before. Sherlock stared at the music full of disdain. John understood the sentiment; he didn't like it either. Just looking at the notes made his head swim but listening to them being played didn't help either. The melody was too complex for his tastes. John preferred the simple ones.

"So, any plans then? Or will you just be playing that all night?" John asked when Sherlock paused in playing.

"Your ... doctor friend ... is coming over in a while. We'll be playing together," Sherlock informed him. John's eyes grew wide.

"Jane's coming over?" he repeated.

"Yes, I just said so, didn't I?" The piece of music was posing a bigger problem to Sherlock than he had anticipated and he was already irritated by it, letting it out on John.

"And you couldn't have told me so earlier? We have nothing edible in the flat, Sherlock, I could have gone and picked something up from the super market." Sherlock stared at him as if John was from a different planet.

"Why would she want to eat something? She's coming over to play." John gave up on explaining to him that normal people did eat at regular intervals. He had tried that too many times before and failed spectacularly. Because while Sherlock could understand that John needed nourishment more than once a day and was happy to provide him with it, he wouldn't go as far as expand that thoughtfulness to anybody else.

In any case, Jane arrived with her big cello and the two of them got down to it. Before long Mrs Hudson joined John on the sofa. John wouldn't have believed that cello and violin could sound so well together, but they did or maybe it was the two master players in his living room or just the pieces they chose, but it did sound beautiful. And it was just for him and Mrs Hudson and he couldn't, for the love of him, tear his eyes away from Sherlock. His boyfriend, Jane had called him. John longed for him. So much, it hurt in his chest. It didn't help when Sherlock's eyes met his and wouldn't look away for long minutes. They had never talked about a relationship again, yet John was quite sure Sherlock's stance hadn't changed. It was all John could do to be patient and show Sherlock how much he loved him and hope he would come around at some point. All while he tried not to hope too much in case his attempts would backfire and would leave him heartbroken. He couldn't allow that.

"It's so beautiful," Mrs Hudson cooed beside him, meaning the music and dabbing at the corner of her eye with a tissue.

"Yes," John affirmed, meaning Sherlock.

They did all have Thai after the little concert and John saw to it that Jane was safely in a taxi home, but he couldn't wait to get them all out of his flat. Once they were finally alone, he took Sherlock by the hand and led him upstairs. There, he laid him out on his bed and proceeded to rid him of his clothes piece after piece, taking all the time in the world to kiss every centimetre that was bared to the air, starting at his miles-long neck and even sucking at his toes at one point. By the time Sherlock was naked (and John still as dressed as he had been when he had started), Sherlock was writhing under him, his cock full and fat flat against his stomach and leaking generously. John feared that if he touched him he'd come in a second and so refrained from laying his fingers on the purple flesh for now.

"I have no idea what I did to deserve you," he whispered into the man's ear and ran his fingers along the line of his opposite clavicle. John lay partly on top of Sherlock and Sherlock arched and thrust up against him, rolling his hips to get pressure where he wanted it, needed it, the most. John shifted his leg between Sherlock's and then held still, allowed the man to rut against him from below. Fascinated, he watched him move. He saw the moment Sherlock was unbearably close and helped him over the edge by taking his balls and squeezing gently, something he knew Sherlock enjoyed. He did, and shouted out as his orgasm hit him, spurting come into John's shirt violently and clutching at him, pressing him so close it must have hurt him actually, trapping his cock between their bodies as the aftershocks ran through him.

"Let me watch you," Sherlock said hoarsely a minute later. He didn't often get to see John, the man mostly finishing just after Sherlock when he was too out of it and practically blind from bliss.

John nodded his consent and opened his trousers, fishing his hard cock out and holding the shaft in his hand only for now. A moment later, he brought his other hand to the glans and stroked it as his other hand slid lower and his fingers brushed against his balls, hidden in his trousers.

"Undress, please," Sherlock said. John shook his head, thrown back against the pillow and eyes shut. His face contorted in almost pain.

"No time," he panted, "Too close." Unseen by him, Sherlock's hand joined his on his cock. John shouted.

"No," he said, pleaded, "Don't do that! Embarrass me." He meant that with Sherlock's fingers on him John would come within seconds and he was a grown man, for God's sake, he had some stamina. Sherlock withdrew his hand, brought a centimetre of distance between their bodies, not enough to no longer feel the heat coming from the other body, but not touching anywhere any longer. John didn't notice. His eyes were still shut and he didn't see the look on Sherlock's face or else he would have stopped.

"Say something," John grunted. "Your voice. Say something." Sherlock shook his head minutely, not knowing what to say.

"John," he whispered at last and John groaned from deep inside at the sound of his name in that voice.

"Christ, yes," he hissed and allowed himself over and came, his come mixing with Sherlock's on his shirt.

"Your voice does things to me," John told Sherlock conspiratorially a bit later and turned his head to grin at him widely. Despite himself, Sherlock had to return that smile. He was helpless against it. Hard, John grabbed him by the hair and pulled him into a violent kiss, Sherlock whimpering into his mouth and then melted into him. John made sure his come-soaked shirt didn't touch him anywhere.

"Be back in a mo." Sherlock heard John walk down the stairs and a moment later, the water running in the bathroom. He rolled onto his back and closed his eyes against the ceiling. He didn't know what to feel. He knew John cared for him, he could tell from the way he made love to him every time. It was just, more and more often Sherlock wanted more and he hated himself for it. What more was there to give? He couldn't even tell, just knew it was missing.

Because the thing was that for all their intelligence, when it came to emotion these two men were incredibly stupid. John, head over heels in love, feared Sherlock more than anything. He knew he wasn't safe, that he could destroy John with one sentence. He feared talking about love with Sherlock and used sex to show him what he felt. It never once occurred to him that Sherlock could want to touch him in return the way John craved feeling him because he didn't believe Sherlock in love, too. That was his big mistake, because Sherlock drew the only conclusion he knew to draw, which was that even though he wanted John, wanted him to the last hair on his body, his soul, his mind, John didn't want him in return. Oh, he was aware that John loved him in some way, how else could he explain that John would go along with the sex. He just figured that it was something else John did for him, on par with providing Sherlock with food and making sure he stayed healthy and having his clothes cleaned. It gave him a kind of satisfaction that made him happy, but in the end that was all it was for John. John was someone who needed to feel needed.

And that realisation hurt Sherlock.

June 2011

Sleeping had become difficult these days, what with all the things going on in their lives. First Moriarty walked free, now the police were after Sherlock and Sherlock distanced himself so much from John, it was infuriating. They had something, they had trust. But Sherlock, John knew, didn't fully trust him any more. He held back. How was one supposed to sleep with that looming over one?

John went to the bathroom in the middle of the night and saw the light was still on in Sherlock's room. He washed his hands and made a decision. He had never spent the night in Sherlock's room, this would change this night. He opened the door without knocking first and got into the bed, all while Sherlock followed his steps with wide eyes. The light was on, yes, but he was only thinking. No laptop, no mobile. Only Sherlock propped against the wall, staring into space. John was on his back under the covers next to him and gazed up at him.

"What's going on?" he asked without much hope of getting an answer. "Hey." John moved to his side and raised a hand to touch the warm skin on Sherlock's hip. Sherlock's eyes were fixed on John's fingers. John reached up as far as could and pulled Sherlock down to him by the neck, who came willingly. Their mouths met in an urgent kiss and Sherlock rolled John back onto his back so he could lie between his legs. Within seconds he had divested John of his t-shirt and pressed their bodies flush against each other. Their mouths were like glued together as Sherlock made short process of John's pants until at last they were both naked with matching erections. John fought his lips free.

"What do you want?" he asked breathlessly before Sherlock recaptured his mouth. That wouldn't do, he wasn't allowed to separate them.

"You," Sherlock muttered into the kiss, rutting against John's thigh. John swallowed hard and nodded, took Sherlock by the hip and shoved him until their cocks were aligned so he could take them both in hand, bringing them off together.

"No," Sherlock said and shook his head violently, separating them himself this time. "You, in me. I want you in me this time," he said and sounded so desperate.

"Okay," John whispered a little worried. He cupped Sherlock's head in both his hands and brought him back down for a, much simpler, slower, kiss until Sherlock was still again. "I'll need lube," John told him then.

There was lube in the bedside table, remnants of what they later called The Great Lube Experiment of 2011, as well as condoms because Sherlock was never anything but prepared, even though they had never gone this far before. John coated his fingers in the cool gel and started probing at Sherlock's arsehole. The angle was a bit awkward but he sensed letting go of Sherlock's mouth was not an option.

"Help me a little here," he murmured. Sherlock's hand came, shaking, around to meet John's. John retracted his finger to get more lube. In a sweet, gentle gesture he spread the new portion over Sherlock's hand and then guided his fingers to his arse. Together, they pushed their index fingers behind the tight ring of muscle that was Sherlock's anus and Sherlock took a sharp breath.

"That's it," John cooed, kissing him in order to distract him. It didn't work.

Tenderly they pushed in and pulled out, millimetres at a time. Sherlock's finger was much longer than John's. His free fingers stroked the rim of the hole, smoothing it in lube and encouraging it to open up more. After a while, John put a second finger in, followed fast by Sherlock's second so that he was accommodating four in all. The stretch was tight and John refrained from spreading his fingers.

"You alright?" John asked after a while when Sherlock started meeting their fingers' thrusts with his arse.

"Yeah, do it, now," was the reply.

"'kay." John withdrew his fingers, letting Sherlock's where they were, and applied a coat of lube to his hard, sheathed cock. He treated it to a few strokes before it felt too good. Batting at Sherlock's hand to open the way, he guided his prick to his arse and pushed the glans in carefully.

"Oh God, John," Sherlock moaned and threw back his head.

"Hold still," John instructed and stilled his lower body with one hand to a hip. He didn't push further, just waited for Sherlock to get accustomed to the new stretch. "You okay?"

"Yes, yes, keep going," Sherlock panted impatiently. John drew back a little and pushed in some more.

"Oh fuck," Sherlock groaned.

"Not good?" John asked, terrified he had to stop, panting just as badly. The tight grip on the tip of his cock felt heavenly and he didn't want to stop for anything in the world, but if Sherlock couldn't take it, he would do it of course.

"God, no. 's great," Sherlock reassured him.

"Oh thank fuck," John breathed out and used the hand not steadying his cock to pull Sherlock's mouth back to his for a greedy kiss Sherlock returned enthusiastically. He used the distraction to push in another centimetre.

"God, you!" Sherlock screamed into his mouth. They built up a rhythm of ins and outs until John's entire length was buried in the man above him. He had brought his knees up to give Sherlock something to brace against and his hands were under his buttocks to help him move his arse up and down John's shaft. Sherlock's legs were shaking but still he wouldn't give up his position.

All too soon John came, come caught in the condom. Carefully he pulled out of Sherlock, mindful of his over-sensitised cock.

"Sorry, I neglected you," he whispered into Sherlock's mouth, knowing that the man had been too inexperienced to have the confidence to touch himself during their lovemaking and John had been too distracted by the feeling of his tight arse on his prick for the first time to think about anything else. He rolled Sherlock onto his back and slid down his body, ignoring the protests resulting in the lack of continued kissing for now. John had never done this, but Sherlock's cock was wet with precome and he figured he wouldn't be doing it for long, as he started licking it. Above him, Sherlock let out a stream of indecipherable, contextless, nonsensical syllables, telling John that whatever he was doing, he was doing it right. He brought two fingers to Sherlock's arsehole and pushed in easily. Looking for his prostate and finding it, he gently nudged at it with the tips of his fingers. It was too much. Sherlock came screaming, spurting strings of sperm over his stomach and up to his chest. John dipped his tongue into his navel, tasting his come.

"Oh God, please stop, no," Sherlock moaned from somewhere above and John retracted very reluctantly. He flopped down next to Sherlock and laid his head against his arm and waited for him to come around.

"Please don't fall asleep," Sherlock pleaded when he finally turned his head to look at John and immediately John's blissful afterglow had dissipated.

"You need to tell me what's going on," John implored. Sherlock didn't, wouldn't, but it was painful for him.

"Please, just don't fall asleep just yet," Sherlock repeated. His hand caressed John's face reverently as his mouth fell open in wonder that John didn't stop him his time. His hand trailed downwards, over John's shoulders and chest and Sherlock's eyes were never far. When he had felt and seen everything, he tasted it with his lips and tongue. John's hand was buried in his hair, he allowed himself to be distracted. John knew a lost battle when he saw one and whatever it was Sherlock kept from him, he wouldn't tell him, but at the same time it seemed important to him to catalogue John's body with all his senses. That John could grant him, and there would be time to make him talk later.

John's nipples were extremely responsive and Sherlock was fascinated by them. He flicked them, licked them, nipped at them and blew at them and reduced John to a writhing mess below him, his eyes, beaming, glued to John's face to not miss a single reaction.

Later, he took his limp cock into his mouth and John groaned, "Too early, Jesus, give me time," but he didn't stop Sherlock from doing it, either. So Sherlock was able to experience him growing hard on his tongue, and growing longer and bigger until only the tip had enough room left in his mouth to fit comfortably. When his inexperience showed too much, Sherlock coated the cock in lube and sat down on it, wincing just a little at the stretch.

"No, don't," John panted, "Condom." Sherlock shook his head and started sliding up and down on him, his hands on John's chest.

"I want all of you," he explained and kept going. John's hands grabbed at his hips and he rolled them expertly, showing Sherlock how to work them for maximum effect with minimum effort. Sherlock hummed appreciatively.

"Lean back a little," John said after two minutes of this and Sherlock did, his hands on John's thighs now for support. John tipped his pelvis forward and on the next upstroke his cock brushed against Sherlock's prostate. He took a sharp breath. "Like that, don't you?" John said smugly.

Their second round lasted much longer and John didn't forget to bring Sherlock to orgasm first and so was able to feel him contract around him. It was like nothing he had ever felt and enough to make him follow within two more strokes.

Later, when they lay hugging and John was still not allowed to go to sleep while Sherlock was slyly groping his back and arse, he said, "When this is over, whatever this is, we have to go away. A holiday. You'll have to tell me then." Sherlock didn't reply, but his fingers moved slower over John's skin.

"Where to?" he asked finally. John chuckled lowly, tiredly. "What?"

"I was trying to picture you at a beach," John said and nuzzled Sherlock's neck. "You know, sun, sand, palm trees. Your natural habitat."

"Very funny," Sherlock remarked drily.

"I thought so," John said. And after a while, "Where d'you wanna go?" He didn't expect a direct answer and was surprised when one came almost without time for thought.

"Glen Coe."

"Explain." Sherlock sighed a little sigh of exasperation as if it were clear why Glen Coe and nowhere else would do.

"Neither of us likes places with lots of tourists which, as it is summer, is pretty much everywhere. But you like mountains and Scotland's in particular, and I like ... massacres." John contemplated the idea, admitting that it was sound.

"We could get a cottage somewhere. Rent a car. Go hiking. I'd like that. Wouldn't you get bored?"

"I'd have you," Sherlock said and gave a little extra squeeze. But of course they never went, because two days later, Sherlock killed himself in front of John.

September 2014

"Why don't you start at the beginning?"

"You were fascinating. Army doctor with a psychosomatic limp? You knew it was only in your head and you accepted it? No, that didn't make any sense. You wanted it. Embraced it. Did you think you deserve it? Were you in for the sympathy? No, you were eager to downplay it. What was it then? I never found out.

"Then there was you. Enough people have been impressed by me, as long as I didn't mention their shortcomings. You? You wanted to know even more. I confess I was flattered. I wanted to keep you, show you more, show you what I could do."

"Show off you mean."

"Hush, I'm telling a story here. Then it became a test, an experiment, if you want. Show you bits and gauge your reactions. Show you more. Make you do things. See how you'd act. Push you, find your limits. And... John, there were none. No matter what I did, you were always there. So eager for even more. And your confidence, it was beautiful. You became self-assured and cocky, so much the opposite of the timid ex army doctor I first met. But even then you weren't really timid, were you? No, you never were. It was a mask, only ever a mask.

"I'm not an altruist or philanthrope, as you can confirm, but seeing you become you, it was all I ever wanted. You were so alive, so beautiful.

"I'm not naive, weren't then either, I knew you got off on that. I knew what I was giving you was a purpose and filling you with life and virility. And it was difficult for me, because at the same time as I was binding you to me, I was pushing you away because I couldn't give you an outlet for that energy. It... was distressing, to say the least. I knew I was going to lose you one way or another."

"You started sleeping in my bed."

"Yes. I thought, if I gave you physical proximity, it might be enough. Studies have shown that people are physically attracted to people they share dangerous situations with. Their heart rate accelerates just the same as when they fall in love and their brains can't interpret the difference, only notice the reaction thus making the people believe themselves in love. We... have dealt with many of such situations. In order to keep you I needed you to fully bond with me. Physical affection releases hormones, you know that. I was counting on the chemistry."

"You wanted to keep me?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"What do you mean, why?"

"Why me? What was so special about me? What was in it for you, Sherlock? I don't get it. I 'get off on it', you said. What about you?"

"I...

"I got to have you."