A/N: Hello, people!

I don't own Sherlock.

I have no beta.

ENJOY! LAST CHAPTER!

"Sher, where did we get this ashtray?"

John held the really fancy crystal object out when Sherlock looked up inquiringly. Blue eyes sparkled as he answered, "Buckingham Palace."

That gave John pause. Buckingham Palace? How the bloody hell did Sherlock get his hands on it? "You didn't buy this, did you?"

"No."

"Why did you filch an ashtray from the royal family?"

…

…

…

John looked over to see if Sherlock was ignoring him but he wasn't. He was staring at the table, instead of the microscope, cheeks flushed a deep pink. He mumbled something.

"Pardon?"

"I said, 'because you wanted it'."

John looked down at the crystal and then thought back to their time at the Palace and smiled. So he had.

"That's awfully sweet of you Sher. Thank you."

"Hmph."

"John."

…

"John."

…

"John!"

…

"JOHN!"

"What?!"

Sherlock flushed suddenly and looked away while hiding his face behind his mug and saying, "The tea is good. Thank you."

He shuffled away then, leaving John to stare after him, wondering what that was about.

He shrugged and returned to his paper.

John hummed as he cooked. It was nearing the end of Novewmber and it was time for the Harvest Dinner. He had an entire meal to plan out. Why? Because they were going to have a very large get together and the only thing he requested for people to bring, was a dessert each.

Sherlock had a thing for sweets and would gorge himself on anything sugary before going for the real food. So, if he saw a big collection of desserts, John would be able to use them as an incentive to get him to eat a full plate of real food first. Sherlock was still too thin for his liking.

He hummed and swayed from side to side as he worked.

The other night dear, as I lay sleeping,

I dreamed I held you in my arms.

When I awoke dear, I was mistaken,

So I bowed my head and I cried.

Mrs. Hudson and Mrs. Turner, plus Greg and his children, Molly and her new lover, who also happened to be female - her name was Janine - and finally Mycroft, who had been reluctant from the giving of the invitation, were to attend. He had ot make sure everything was perfect.

You are my Sunshine,

My only Sunshine.

You make me happy,

When skies are grey.

You'll never know dear,

How much I love you.

So please don't take,

My Sunshine away.

Sherlock appeared by his side then, while he was busy making the chicken.

"I did not know that you have musical talent."

John smiled as rubbed the seasoning he'd made, all over the bird.

"There is much you still do not know about me. Talents acquired that were never put on record. Skills unknown to the world. I just don't feel like bragging about them, you know."

"If you can do it, why not flaunt it?"

"I don't get off on attention. I prefer to melt into the background and control situations with shock. Laying all my cards bare is tedious and perhaps I don't want people to know everything about me. It's hilarious to shock people, like with Irene."

"But you sing very well."

"Thank you."

"You like Johnny Cash."

"Yes. My mum was American and she favored Johnny. Named me for him too!"

Sherlock leaned against the counter and said, "You never talk about your family, except for you sister and even that is rare. Is your relationship like mine and Mycroft's?"

John's nose wrinkled at the thought. "I guess it's only fair to tell you. Even though it wasn't deliberate, I've seen what your family is like and I should return the favor."

He stuffed the chicken with stuffing and sausage and a few slices of apple, before shoving the entire body into the prepared duck he had already worked with. He sprinkled some more seasoning on the larger bird and then lifted it carefully, before stuffing the entire thing into the 3 Stone turkey they'd gotten. It had to be 4 Stone by now.

John sighed in relief once the entire thing was stuffed together and proceeded to fill all the nooks and crannies with various cheeses and vegetables.

"What are you making?" Sherlock asked, looking confused.

"You've never had Royal Roast?"

"No."

"Wow. Anyway, the Americans call it TurDucKen. Turkey, stuffed with a duck which is then stuffed with a chicken. I put sausage, apples, and stuffing inside the chicken because Sausage Apple Crisp Stuffing is the best. Fill in the cracks with extra vegetables or cheeses, I like to do both. I then I like to marinate it for an hour in a lemon mixture I've made. What you do, is you cut several small slits into the turkey and pour the juice over the top. I then like to stick small slices of lime into them and set it in the refrigerator for the time being. When it's finished, it goes in the oven for the next ten hours on a low heat. It gives time for the flavors to coalesce."

John washed his hands after setting the large bird in the pan in the fridge. He then sat at the table and began to slice some vegetables.

"So about my family…"

He frowned as he thought about it.

"We were a pretty basic family, living in Dublin."

"You're Irish?!"

He looked up to see Sherlock's surprise and smiled. "Yes. To be honest, I'm a Strawberry Blonde, but all those days in the sun in Afghanistan, affected my hair, naturally bleaching it. My beard and mustache grow in light red and can shock people. Since I'm getting older, the hairs are going silver. Red heads in my family go silver, not grey."

Sherlock nodded as thought about it. "You don't have that sort accent or dialect."

"Eejit*, me mum taught me well. Besides, spending so many years with men and women of various dialects and accents tend to wear on you. Sometimes I can even sound Cockney."

"Fascinating."

John could see that Sherlock truly felt that way.

"Thanks. Any who, life was pretty easy….. until I started skipping grades."

John trailed off for a moment so that he could arrange the apple slices in the proper form.

"I was ten when it all just went from okay to worse in the course of a year. I had done normal schooling at the Academy like everyone in my class. Had been with them all for years, but then I scored high on all of my end of the year exams and the chairman pulled me into his office and asked how often I studied. I hadn't learned of my grade yet, so when he asked me - a small nine, soon to be ten year old who was going into his penultimate year of Primary, who could read minds like it was nothing and was afraid of being ostracized if people found out - how often I studied my work, I told him that I didn't. I just did my assignments and when he proceeded to ask me in every way possible if I was telling the truth and ruled out that I indeed was being truthful, he revealed my scores. Highest for a person in my grade to have ever obtained in the Academy since its inception."

John placed the pie in the oven and returned to his cutting.

"They gave me an assessment test immediately and ruled out that I was more intelligent than my grade level and placed me in the last year in Primary. Mum was so proud, having skipped grades herself in America. My father however, was another story. He didn't finish school and settled down to be a farmer. It was mum's dowry from her father who was a wealthy American businessman, that got Harry and I through the Academy. Since father never made it far in school, he didn't like the fact that I was already passing him by. He didn't even want a son, if the truth must be spoken. That was the first mistake I made in life. And then when I passed the grade that he had dropped out from in his day, he was just angry. So angry."

John could see Sherlock's eyes roaming over him clearly. Trying to look for signs of abuse. He smiled a little. Sherlock was truly a sweetheart deep inside.

"He didn't hurt me physically, so you don't have to worry about that. But the verbal abuse didn't mean it was any better. He called me a 'swot' repeatedly. Insulted my love for science. Told me that I wouldn't amount to anything and said that no one would want me. He and mum fought over me constantly, but she stayed for Harry and I and didn't want to leave us with him.

It was Christmas when he made a choice. I was only ten. A mere six months after being bumped up a grade. Harry is five years older than me, so she understood everything better than I did at the time. But back when we were actually on pleasant terms, I used to be allowed to cuddle with her on holidays. We were in her room and we had stayed up all night, talking about everything we could think of. It was a tradition.

And then we heard a noise and we sneaked downstairs to see our father carrying bags out the door. I rushed to the window to see him getting into the car, it was an old Trident Clipper, which had been purchased by mum's father, for us. A garish yellow color that stood out against the snow and the darkness. I watched as he got in and proceeded to drive away. And then Harry was running into the cold, with only a dressing gown on, screaming at the top of her lungs for him to come back. She ran all the way to the end of the lane, before coming back and stomping to her room. Mum was awake by then.

I didn't know what had happened and when mum tried to explain in a kind and non trauma inducing manner, Harry appeared, screaming that it was all my fault and that he had hated me and that I drove him away. She'd been his favorite and was obviously closer to him than I was. We did not celebrate Christmas that year, Harry having destroyed everything in her fit of rage. She then stopped talking to me unless it was to put me down."

John combined everything into one bowl and proceed to pour extra virgin olive oil over the vegetables and pieces of chopped meat. He sprinkled some seasoning on it all.

"That wasn't all though, was it?" Sherlock asked, as alert as ever.

"I'm afraid not."

John waited a few more minutes, before continuing his story.

"Harry got into drugs two months later."

Sherlock stiffened at the tone he had used when saying the word. But seriously, he hated drugs.

"She began filching mum's money and using it to buy all manner of things to get high from. Then came the drinking. She was horrible to me and my schooling took a downward turn in those months. Mum even found me in the bathroom twice, surrounded by my own blood and multiple razors."

Sherlock flinched at that revelation, eyes going wide in horror.

"I was going to do it a third time, when something told me that I should ask for help instead. And with the blade in hand, I went out to mum and asked her to get me the help I needed. Around the same time, Harry was caught finally and placed in a juvenile holding center. Not exactly a prison but also not an asylum and not exactly a rehabilitation center either. It's hard to explain, but they helped her addiction problems while putting her to work. So while I was placed in intensive care for nearly six months until I finally just snapped out of whatever was wrong with me, she was going through specific training and rigorous detoxification in order to be allowed to return to society.

She went back to school in order to finish her last year of Secondary, after being away for two years. Imagine her surprise to see me, her little brother and the very person she despised most in the world, in the same form time and year as her when I was only at the age of twelve. I had dedicated myself after my return and began to actually study. I didn't expect that studying would make such a difference, but it did.

Our year mates poked fun. They liked me because apparently I'm 'warm and cuddly' to be around. And they asked why she wasn't as brilliant as I was. They teased her relentlessly as an 'addict' and a 'daft bimbo'. She struggled to pass and there I was, breezing by everything like there was no issue, having only advanced placement classes, while she was barely getting by. She reviled me constantly over it."

John rolled his eyes as he thought of the past. He hated remembering it all, but it was hard not to. He used Harry's old phone on a daily basis and seeing Mycroft made him think of his own older sibling.

"I got into the University rather easily. I was the genius boy that everyone knew about and the community pitched in to help our family. Mum didn't have to pay a thing for me thenceforth. Harry repeated her last year three times and when they finally just passed her to get rid of her, she didn't want to go to University and mum forced her to get a job in a local restaurant. She sold the farm and moved into a small one bedroom flat of her own.

I was eighteen when mum passed on, over a heart attack. She left everything in her Will to me. Harry's former anger with me, was rekindled. Mum left her nothing. Refused to pay for that type of lifestyle. Harry turned to drinking again, just as she had met her girlfriend, soon-to-be wife. They divorced a few years later. She met another woman and married her. That was Clara. We got on very well and she really cared about Harry. She somehow managed to get us speaking to one another again. Sort of like you and Mycroft, without all the posturing. But then a few months after I was discharged, Harry just walked out, after eight years of marriage. I still keep in touch with Clara, but besides the calls on my birthday or hers, Harry and I aren't on speaking terms.

We have no living family besides our mum's father's family, but they don't really care about us enough in order to keep in touch. Mum was the youngest in a long line of children and it's easy to forget.

As for our scoundrel of a sperm donor, he was found two days after he left us that Christmas morning. The car slid on some black ice and went over a cliff. He died by bleeding and freezing to death. Justice, I'd say."

That had to be the only true good thing about his family history. Was it bad for him to revel in his 'father's' death so much? Was that abnormal? Wrong? Did it make him bad for laughing about it the day the authorities told his family?

His busily working hands were being held suddenly. Long and pale fingers resting on his. He looked up, meeting Sherlock's gaze. The younger man was serious. His mind showing genuine feeling.

"You do know that he was wrong, right?"

"Hm?" John asked while getting lost in the color of those eyes and that fancy parchment.

"You have made something of yourself. You are amazing and you are wanted. I want you. I want you to be happy and laugh. I want you to not have to worry about unnecessary things and public opinions. I want you to be here with me and remain my only friend. I want you to be yourself. I want John Watson. Former soldier. Doctor. Friend. I want you to know how incredible I find you and that your father was a brain dead twat."

John had started off feeling very emotional at the beginning of Sherlock's speech and by the time he had finished, he was snickering, unable to help himself.

"Sher, you are the most amazing person I have ever met. Please don't ever change."

Sherlock gave a self sufficient nod and released John's hands slowly. "I shall endeavor not to do so. Thank you for all you do for me, John."

"It's a pleasure, Sher."

John went back to cutting and Sherlock began to ask more questions.

"Can you play an instrument? I have noticed your deft fingering when handling various weaponry, needlework, massaging, and typing. Though you've yet to mention or touch an instrument."

John was smiling again, brightly and full of embarrassment as he recalled his clarinet lessons. "In Primary, I attempted to take the clarinet but it was terrible. I can do a passable Do Re Mi on it though. That's it for Woodwinds. I play piano different than what is considered 'correct' by society. When it was discovered that I could play by ear, but that I couldn't take instruction from a tutor very well, I just purchased the books and taught myself the information I needed. I then began composing my own variations of popular songs. I haven't played in years though. I learned to play an electric violin, I cannot handle a regular however. The fit and the weight aren't enough for me. I can't handle the feel of the bow across the strings. I don't understand it but I feel a significant difference between playing the two types and a violin like yours just makes me uncomfortable."

He frowned, still not understanding it all himself. It made no sense!

"You appreciate good music then?" Sherlock asked, but John saw the alternate question he had wanted to ask.

Do you like how I play?

"Sher, I love how you get lost in your music. It's obvious how much you care for your violin by how you hold it, polish it, and generally play it. And your fingers are sexy when you play."

The consulting detective flushed for the millionth time and nodded. "Thank you. What about your literary preferences?"

"Emily Dickinson, Edgar Allan Poe, William Shakespeare, Alfred Tennyson, Homer and Aesop. Those are more toward poetry and older literature, but I do fancy poetry more. More modernly known authors would be J.R.R. Tolkien, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Agatha Christie, C.S. Lewis, J.K. Rowling, William Faulkner, Ralph Waldo Emerson and Harriet Beecher Stowe. I have many more that I love, but mostly the literature I turn to all come from those writers."

"A good assortment. I'm please that you know of Aesop and Homer."

John grinned, "'Sing, O goddess, the anger of Achilles son of Peleus, that brought countless ills upon the Achaeans. Many a brave soul did it send hurrying down to Hades, and many a hero did it yield a prey to dogs and vultures, for so were the counsels of Jove fulfilled from the day on which the son of Atreus, king of men, and great Achilles, first fell out with one another.'"

Sherlock returned the grin and continued with, "'And which of the gods was it that set them on to quarrel? It was the son of Jove and Leto; for he was angry with the king and sent a pestilence upon the host to plague the people, because the son of Atreus had dishonoured Chryses his priest.'"

The flatmates shared a giggle.

"So we have similar taste in literature. That's good to know," Sherlock nodded to himself.

John smirked, "Does that make you excited?"

Sherlock's brows drew together. "What?"

"Nothing."

John lounged on the sofa, reading the Hobbit, having felt inspired from watching the movie earlier. Sherlock entered the room in that moment, wearing his pajamas and his dressing gown. With a huff, he threw himself down on the sofa, head firmly landing in John's lap.

The doctor looked down at the head of curls and sighed. He began softly carding his fingers through the thick mass.

"Are you well, Sherlock?"

"Bored."

"Of course you are."

They sat in relatively comfortable silence for the next hour, until Sherlock got up and went into the kitchen, coming back with a bottle and two snifters.

"I saved the good brandy," he explained.

"Meaning, you managed to hide it from Mycroft during the Harvest Dinner?"

"Precisely."

Sherlock poured them both a glass and sat on the sofa beside him. A lot closer than he normally did. He was practically in John's lap, with how his legs bunched up, leaning on John's left leg and his head was against John's shoulder.

John smirked and shifted until he could place his snifter on the coffee table, adjusting his position in order to catch more light for his reading.

"Speaking of Tolkien," Sherlock murmured against his arm.

"Yes. Is it bad that I can hear your voice whenever I read Smaug's part?"

Sherlock looked up at him, heterochromatic eyes alight with mischief. "Not at all. I used to play Smaug when I was younger. I happen to know that I can play a very good Smaug."

"Prove it," John challenged.

The next hour was spent with John, literally immersed in the world of Tolkien, hard as hell from every rumble of words that spilled from Sherlock's cupid's bow lips. He even added little growls here and there, to make it more realistic. John was flushed and his mind was filled with less than honorable thoughts.

"You're amazing."

It came out in a breathy tone, making the consulting detective look up at him in question.

"Elevated pulse, dilated eyes, quickened breathing. My dear Watson, I do believe you are sexually stimulated to my voice. How… precious."

John shuddered as he registered those purred words. He looked away from Sherlock, not wanting his friend to see him flush.

"Come, now. Don't be shy," Sherlock teased, leaning over him as he quoted Smaug's line straight from the movie which they had watched only a few hours previous.

"Sher, you're a bloody cock tease. You have no idea what you're getting yourself into by doing this," John warned.

And he hadn't expected Sherlock to smirk at him. Sherlock so far had only flushed like a virgin maiden whenever John insinuated something along the lines of sex. But at that moment, he was partially pinning John to the sofa and smirking at him. And his parchment was replaced by images. Images of John and Sherlock doing unspeakable things. Many things. Sherlock was feeling confident.

John shifted slightly, allowing his back to lay out fully on the sofa. Sherlock pressed him into the cushions with his very warm body. Sherlock's legs framed John's hips and the detective pushed himself against John so close, his face was pressed into the doctor's shoulder.

"John," Sherlock said, vice muffled by the fabric of John's jumper. "You've been patient with me. Very patient. I'm sorry."

John frowned, "Sherlock, it's okay. I can wait for you and besides, you're close, I can feel and see it." He then shifted a big, raising his hips to brush against the bulge in Sherlock trousers.

The inexperienced man shuddered visibly and moaned into John's shoulder blade. "I wish I was more confident to take the next steps, but personally, I have no data in this sort of thing. I don't know what to do and I regret to say that I am feeling inadequate and exposed."

Sherlock's head was still down, an obvious refusal to look John in the eye.

"Sher, I find it amazing that you even want me at all," John confided, unable to keep the awe from his voice.

Sherlock snapped back and gave him a searching look. "You truly believe that," he said in a breathless tone that did nothing to help with John's current discomfort.

John shrugged the best he could in his position. "I'm not as good looking as you are, Sher. I have a lot of confidence and a man with confidence always looks better. Physically, I am severely marred and I hold nothing against your aesthetically pleasing self. Then there's the whole, seeing everything in your head, thing. That makes me uncomfortable."

And suddenly, John was looking deeply into Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock's mental parchment was being covered by beautiful script, describing exactly what Sherlock seemed to adore about John.

Always tells the truth because there is no reason to lie. Only lies have detail.

Has an amount of intelligence that is higher than most others. Could be considered on par with myself even if reading someone's thoughts is a part of the reason.

Appreciates the fields I base my experiments on.

Has a Masters in Biology and Microbiology.

Understands my adoration for The Work and assists in giving good reputation for it. Without John, there would be no Work.

The first person to accept all of me without hesitation.

The first person to truly care about my health as a whole.

My first friend.

My first 'crush', how juvenile.

He has a nice smile.

He only smiles like that when he's looking at me.

He's given me a diminutive term - nickname - and uses it often.

Cooks delicious food.

Makes tea and coffee just right.

Wears jumpers that make him seem cuddly and unassuming.

Good with a gun, inspiring fantasies I didn't think I'd ever be interested in.

Takes charge in important moments but does not override me and try to control me.

Taunts Mycroft in the most delicious of ways.

Confirmed Mycroft's status as a virgin.

Finds me attractive in more ways than just my appearance.

Doesn't pressure me and respects my boundaries.

Blunt about his feelings.

Likes touching me.

Has a gentle touch.

Talented in many areas.

Compliments me. I think I have a kink for it.

Finds my voice to be sexy.

Allows me to steal his laptop and gun with no complaint.

He is John.

The doctor flushed slightly. Sherlock's whole list was filled with sweet information that he didn't know Sherlock appreciated so much. He liked it when John touched him.

"Okay, I get it you great berk, you have many reasons to like me." He smiled. "Thank you."

Sherlock was in a cuddling mood. He normally wasn't, but today he was.

John's little problem went away not too long after. It was much nicer to just lay on the sofa, wrapped in the lanky extremities that made up Sherlock's body. He didn't know when the next time Sherlock would be like this, was going to be. He'd get his fill as much as possible.

John stared. He didn't really know what to make of the whole thing.

Sherlock was pacing the length of the living area, rubbing the crown of the skull's head. His eyes were closed and his mouth was moving a mile a minute.

He shrugged and moved into the kitchen to make the man some tea. John noticed his laptop open on the coffee table and Sherlock's mobile was resting on the touch pad. It was probably for a case. Before there was John, there was the skull and Sherlock used to use it to help himself find the answers faster.

He placed the cup of steaming liquid beside the laptop and smiled as Sherlock planted himself on the sofa with a huff.

He pretended not to notice how Sherlock's hand inched toward the porcelain and just returned to the kitchen to let the man think in peace.

Sherlock was being a prat. Or rather, to everyone else around. Sherlock was a prat. To John, who had seen more than anyone else ever possibly could, Sherlock was staking his territory. Telling all who would listen that John was his. Not just his flatmate, colleague, or blogger. Sherlock intended for everyone to know that he was romantically interested in John.

It had been a case. A man found dead in the most odd of ways, according to Sherlock.

Shot in the chest, but by the exit wound, angle of the shot, and the blood splatter, the person had been rather close. In fact, mere feet away. However, there were no clues as to the killer. Literally, nothing but the bullet, which was soon discarded since apparently they found the gun is belonged to, which was in possession of the dead man. Someone used his own gun against him.

Sherlock explained that nothing was out of place if showed possible worry, so the man hadn't been expecting deadly company. Nothing had been removed from the flat. It was a simple kill and run sort of murder.

Sherlock then claimed that it was a hired assassin, which was all they had to go on. When asked, he went on an extremely long winded speech of how and why.

The man, Eric Varner, was on good terms with everyone. A relatively nice man who was the sort most people couldn't help but like. He was a business owner and was very fair and understanding. His employees loved him. His friends had nothing but high praise for him. He was what most would consider, to be very successful in life.

So with no visible enemies anywhere, it meant that someone unknown had felt a sort of negative feeling for the man, requiring the assistance of an extremely skilled assassin to do his work. So skilled in fact, there was no evidence of coming or going. No fibers on the Persian rugs. No fingerprints or scuff marks. Nothing.

It wasn't until a month later, when another business owner was found dead in his apartment, with exactly the same info as the other man, was found. Sherlock immediately noticed that both men owned a particular business on the same street. Same side of the street as well.

When another man turned up dead, Sherlock realized that someone was trying to gain possession of the street itself in a sense. Three business were gone. All standing right in a row, though none had anything in common, just the street and the fact that they were neighbors. Sherlock was adamant that someone either wanted to buy the plot or just didn't like the competition, if that was what the dead men were to be considered.

Unfortunately, with nothing else to go on, the cases remained cold. Sherlock did not appreciate the fact that a level 10 case had so little information to give him.

He was already annoyed. Add on the fact that nearly every woman they came into contact with, kept flirting with John, Sherlock was downright hissy.

John thought it was cute.

And then he met her.

She was named Mary Morstan and she was a new nurse down at the nearby clinic. He'd gone for his yearly immunizations and she'd introduced herself. Both never made eye contact though.

She was witty and rather charming. She gave him a few good laughs, making the whole experience bearable. He hated shots.

He met her a day later, at Tesco's. They again, did not make eye contact. It was still nice to see her in a sense.

It didn't fully dawn on him until a week later, when he realized that he was seeing Mary everywhere. Literally, every time he went out and not just through his own eyes, but others as well. It was odd.

Sherlock picked up on it quickly and asked what was wrong. He explained that she was new and everywhere.

And so Sherlock hounded him no matter where he went. He then professed to finding Mary to be suspicious and asked John to look directly into her eyes the next time he saw her.

Her hands were too still, she regulated her breathing too masterfully, and most of all, she batted her eyes at John too damn often.

Most would assume jealousy, but Sherlock rarely felt need to be jealous. He explained that it was worse than the time he came to John for advice about the woman flirting with him. That it was too 'forced'.

The next encounter John had with her, was in the most unusual of places.

A church.

Not during mass. Not even on a day where service was held.

No, Sherlock messaged him to join him at an old church, regardless of convenience. It was very Sherlockian and John had gone, knowing it had to do with a potential lead to the level 10 case.

And then he arrived to find Sherlock tied to the large wooden cross, gagged with a strip of white cloth. The consulting detective was not worried. In fact, he looked annoyed. And John saw exactly how he came to be in that situation.

Mary.

Sherlock had been outsmarted by a woman who was a foot shorter than him and who was younger than he was. She defeated his Buritsu easily. His pride was hurt.

And then John spun around, quickly drawing his Browning and pointing it at Mary's chest. She was mere feet away and he realized that she had gotten behind him, much like she had with Sherlock, without making a sound. And the similarity of the situation hit him. A few feet away, unsuspected, dressed in all black and carrying a gun with a silencer on the end.

She was the assassin.

The two stared at each other and John felt a small amount of pride fill him at his quick thinking. She wouldn't be making it out alive.

Mary smirked, "Your withdrawal time is amazing. Faster than mine."

"Thanks," he said with false cheer. "I've had many years to work on it, you see. And how has it been, working for Mikhailov since early childhood?"

Mary's leader in Moscow. She was a part of the Russian mob. The Solntsevskaya Bratva, would be a better explanation. She had a good English accent though.

Yes, Mary - actually named Anzhelika Galina Renata Averyanova - was very good at her job. But she wasn't so good at hiding emotions and John's revelation of her boss, scared her enough for her to pull the trigger.

"John!"

John fell back with a shout, hitting the floor hard.

Marry moved to stand over him, but he was fast and flipped back, kicking the gun from her outstretched hand and twisting himself around to drag her to the floor. She toppled over his shoulder and he rolled until he had her pinned, his Browning pressed to her skull.

"H-how?!"

He smirked. "Sherlock's brother owed me a favor and neither of us ever leave for a level 10 case without our bulletproof vests on. Too bad for you."

And John quickly reamed her across the head, rendering her unconscious.

He got up, collected her gun, and moved over to untie Sherlock from the large piece of wood.

The man did not wait. He attacked John with such ferocity, the doctor moaned in surprise at their mouths connected.

Sherlock was groping at anything his hands could reach on John's form as he pulled the man in close, mumbling about brilliance.

"You were amazing, John," Sherlock breathed when he pulled away. "Incredible. Astounding. So in control. I confess myself, aroused."

Sherlock's heterochromatic orbs glistened with truth. He was grinning proudly at John and he was feeling incredibly horny.

John laughed a little, the adrenaline from the whole danger part finally catching up to him. "If this is the reaction I receive every time I save you, you should get kidnapped more often."

Sherlock simply pushed John back, until he had to sit on the pew in the front row. The consulting detective proceeded to straddle John's lap, taking his flatmate's head between his gloved hands and kissing him breathless.

After a moment of indulging, John had to be responsible and pull away. Sherlock whined slightly in disagreement and tried to chase him, only to latch onto John's neck when the ex-soldier turned his head away.

"Sher, we have to call your brother. I'm sure he'd like to know that you are safe and that someone not of British descent is running about the country illegally and killing people."

Sherlock huffed and got to his feet. "Fine."

And they fixed their attention on the unconscious blonde woman on the floor.

The following weeks were filled with Sherlock cornering John and pushing him up against walls and doors of all kinds in order to thoroughly ravage him.

Seriously, people apparently did get shoved up against things and snogged senseless. He'd never thought it was true but Sherlock seemed to be a practitioner of irregular actions and decided to be how own person. John approved.

Whether he was cooking, making tea, typing the latest case, or just sitting around, Sherlock would find him and display his attraction very clearly. It was hot.

Sherlock was also a lot more forward with his intentions and feelings where John was concerned. He also allowed himself to admit that he cared for John. John's heart was all aflutter for days.

Christmas came next.

Sherlock admitted to his family never celebrating it and instead, they burned a Yule log on the night of the Winter Solstice and exchanged gifts. John had seen it in his memories, but didn't really know much about it.

Sherlock explained that he liked sprinkling certain chemicals on different parts of the wood so that it would burn in multiple colors. One of his favored Chemistry experiments as a child.

Sherlock did concede to getting a tree though, for John's sake. He asked to decorate it though and so long as there were no body parts, John didn't care what went on it.

Well, Sherlock went fancy and purchased a large fiber optic tree that switched between red, green and blue lighting. The white of the tree itself stood out against the dark decorations that Sherlock had attached to it. Skulls, guns, some unused Chemistry utensils, and a lot of paper cut snowflakes, courtesy of John.

Sherlock's amazement at John's ability regarding paper and scissors, had him asking John to cover the tree.

In a specific way that John had learned in his childhood, he covered the tree in Sherlock and John snowflakes. Each looking like a silhouette of the two flatmates. Sherlock tried his hand at it and as expected, he did it perfectly.

John bought Sherlock a new microscope for Christmas. One of those several hundred quid ones that required special slides. He was excited to give it.

Sherlock refused to meet his gaze, not wanting to give away his surprise.

They had Mrs. Hudson over each night for supper. John cooked the food and she baked the goods and they had a simple little party. Sherlock played his violin in contribution.

Some hot cocoa and peppermint sticks.

World known Christmas music.

Sherlock burning his Yule Log on the night of the Winter Solstice.

Exchanging gifts Christmas morning.

Snogging Christmas evening.

Snuggling on the sofa early morning on Boxing Day.

Getting pissed on New Years Eve, resulting in many questions and concerns as to why they were cuffed together in Sherlock's bed. Though they awoke clothed.

Relaxing on New Years Day with a simple cup of tea between them.

Enjoying each other's company.

"John, may I use your comb?"

"You're actually asking? Are you feeling well?"

"Humorous John, truly tickling."

"Yes, you can use it. I don't care."

"What if I have lice?"

"Then I'll have lice too and we'll both have to go bald."

He looked up to see Sherlock's nose wrinkle at the thought. He brushed his fingers through his curls and shook his head. "I would immediately purchase a wig. I would not look good without head hair."

"I think you look good in anything."

The consulting detective smiled lightly and winked. "I know you do."

He swept from the room without a backwards glance.

Too gorgeous for his own bloody good!

John stared at Sherlock as he paced through the living area, hands held under his mouth in the 'thinking pose'.

He then moved over to the sofa, where John was sitting, and plopped down on it. His curly head rested in John's lap.

"Sher, it's really not that big of a deal."

"Oh, but it is, John! It is. It's so bloody confusing though."

And Sherlock's language turning a bit naughty there was a turn on.

John shifted slightly, but Sherlock head was right on his erection and it rubbed against him when he moved.

"What sexually stimulates you, John?"

"Sher, just looking at you is enough to stimulate me. Trust me, I've never been this easy to arouse before. You're a very special case, where my anatomy is concerned. Very special."

The curly haired man's eyes popped open and he looked up into John's eyes. They stared in silence, until Sherlock's hand reached up and tugged John's head down, pulling the doctor into an awkward angled kiss.

And even despite that little piece of information, John was filled with a strong warmth. Sherlock was like a spark. A flash of lightning. the static shock one would get after treading on a carpet.

He was allowed to pull away a moment later, noting that Sherlock was a mess. His eyes seemed to have darkened to a deep forest green color. Pupils dilated, cupid's bow lips parted as he took in ragged breaths. It was spectacular to witness. Knowing that no one else had ever seen the proud man in such a state, made it even better.

John smiled.

"You're getting a lot better at this, Sher. I'm impressed."

Sherlock's brow quirked, "Well I've been developing some skill thanks to all the practice I've been acquiring from you."

The blonde hummed and carded his fingers through Sherlock's curls. "Yes, you have."

"Sher, I'm getting old. You can't expect me to be so agile, you know."

Sherlock turned around and regarded him closely. "John, you aren't even near forty yet. You are young and rather fit. You can do this just fine."

The doctor sighed, knowing that his friend/something more? was right. He just really didn't want to do it.

"Can't it happen another way?"

"No."

"Please?"

"That look does not work on me, John."

"I hate you."

"No you don't."

He was right. Berk.

"Well, aren't you just darling together."

John smirked as he offered Irene some tea. Earl Grey of course, for her delicate taste buds.

"We're taking it low and slow, Irene. No need to tease him. He can snog very well though."

Sherlock scrunched himself in his chair and glared at the beautiful woman that had commandeered John's chair. She grinned back, obviously taunting him with her eyes.

He sniffed and looked to John expectantly. John sighed and went to fetch him some tea as well.

"You better drink it all, you twat," he mumbled, handing it over.

Sherlock did not move his gaze from Irene's and the two just stared at each other. John looked back and forth between them and rolled his eyes.

"So, Captain, would you like to go shopping?" Irene asked, turning to smirk at him.

"You'd have me waste money on things I don't need," he pointed out, knowing how she worked.

"Oh, come now. Surely you'd like for your detective to see you at your best?" Her mind was awash with images of him in very well fitted suits. And then she veered off to a famous 'toy store' she knew.

He couldn't help but nod. The thought of a special riding crop for other purposes, was nice. "Okay."

The Woman stood and placed her tea down. "Lovely. Come, let's leave your man to himself for a while. And when you return…."

He smiled and waved farewell to Sherlock who was still staring at them as they left the room.

Once they were in the car that Kate had parked outside, John turned and waved to the window, where sure enough, Sherlock was standing, frowning down at him.

"I hope you show me some good merchandise, because he's going to throw quite the fit."

"Don't worry."

He didn't.

The next five hours, he was poked and prodded and handed clothing. Once she was satisfied with the suits she had chosen, she towed him across the city to her fancy 'toy shop' and they perused the aisles.

"Sherlock has a riding crop and I favor it, but I'm always worried about what he used it for. He sometimes whips corpses with it and I have to wash it. I think it'd be better to just have another on hand. Maybe a few actually."

"Have you actually gotten to sex yet?"

"No. A lot of snogging, but he's unsure of himself and has been trying to educate himself by watching pornography on my laptop. The berk can't even use his own bloody laptop," John smiled fondly.

Irene leaned against the wall and quirked a brow. "You love him."

No denying it at all. John nodded, because he knew that he tended to stare at Sherlock lie he was the sun and the moon all wrapped into one. He was just that amazed.

"Well, he's very lucky to have you. So we should make your first time together, special. What sort of flavors do you both like?" she asked, staring at the wall of lubes.

John's new suits were delivered two weeks later and decided to do what Irene had instructed and chose to wear a suit all day, much like Sherlock liked to.

So when Sherlock received a summons from Lestrade to get to Scotland Yard, he told John to get ready and John immediately did so. He took great care. He left the tie on the bed and made sure to open the first to buttons of his shirt. Irene told him that since Sherlock favored wine colors, it would be best for him to wear shirts of similar shading.

So a dark mauve graced his skin, followed by his suit coat.

Sherlock's double take when he appeared in the kitchen, all properly dressed, was hilarious. His jaw dropped and he circled John like a vulture fixing on its prey. Eyes hungry and trailing over every inch of John.

Mission success. Sherlock was sufficiently turned on if his growing bulge was anything to go by.

John winked teasingly and was completely prepared for Sherlock to crowd him against the wall and snog him senseless.

Lestrade could wit a few more minutes.

Sherlock had decided to let him rest for the day and even made him tea before leaving! It was really sweet.

John got all caught up with his blogging and any side jobs he had received from Mycroft. He then sat and watched some Doctor Who.

John stirred as his mobile beeped.

He checked it, coming face to face with a photograph of Sherlock standing in front of a body on the ground. A dead body… on the ground. Sherlock took a cheeky selfie when there was a bloody dead body in the background!

John was all prepared to message back, asking whether Sherlock had lost all function of his saner mental capacities, when he saw the text accompanying the photograph.

It was enough to melt his heart and dissipate his annoyance.

Solved. Wish you were here. SH

He sighed and smiled.

:) Spectacular. Me too. JW

John was awoken on Valentines Day, by Sherlock, who decided to be adventurous and explore his first sexual act.

He looked down to find Sherlock literally fondling him, a look of concentration on his face. He was completely devoted to the thought getting John off and was excited to do a good job.

John knew that his partner had been doing a lot of studying in hopes of gaining mental experience in order to prepare himself for when he was fully ready for John. He found it sweet that Sherlock wanted to contribute just as much in their relationship. It was cute, how concentrated he was on the 'proper technique' required to sexually stimulate a penis.

Sherlock's long, magical fingers dancing across his rapidly heating flesh. They measured his length completely and wrapped around him. Even Sherlock's delicate, masterful fingers couldn't wrap all the way around John's growing erection. The revelation made Sherlock's eyes widen and he leaned in close to observe. John moaned when Sherlock's hot breath puffed against him.

"Sher!" he gasped.

The consulting detective glanced up and smirked, before lowering his mouth slowly, pressing a small kiss to the tip of John's cock. The doctor jerked, hips spiking upward.

And the Sherlock's lips parted slightly and he applied a very strong amount of suction to the slit.

John's whole frame shook and he was shocked, because all Sherlock did was hold and kiss him and suck just a tad on the tip of his erection. And yet those three things, were so hot! Probably because it was Sherlock doing it, since he'd never reacted in such a way to anyone else before.

And then Sherlock's cupid's bow lips parted fully and his dark curly head descended!

John had seen Sherlock do many sexy things in the two years they'd lived together, buts this had to take all the cake. It was gorgeous and the man's open eyes, watching his every reaction, just made it all better. All those images playing through his mind like a movie. Both Sherlock and John were the main couple and it was brilliant!

Sherlock pulled off with a loud pop that sounded so erotic it made John shiver.

"I can take approximately five inches without issue. Any further and it would enter my throat," Sherlock commented, sliding his fisted hand up and down John's rigid length.

He leaned down again and murmured, "It's a good thing that I have no gag reflex, isn't it, John?"

Just as the words hit home, Sherlock pressed his tongue flat against his cock and hummed.

John saw stars.

Best Valentine's Day ever. Especially when he returned the actions in kind. Twice in a row.

Spring and Summer were awash with cases. John felt so busy and he only got to give Sherlock a blowjob seven times! Unfair! He liked doing it, but there wasn't much time.

Sherlock was brilliant of course. Like he always was, though a little stressed.

Some things John couldn't help him with and he'd have to pace and mutter in solitude.

Autumn was a reprieve. Like the preamble to cold weather made people not want to commit such dastardly crimes. As if.

And then came the first snow fall. Sherlock went so far as to hit John with a snowball and so ensued the war that followed.

Though it was all in good fun, 'good fun' led to other things later on. Sherlock was ready and what better way to get warm?

John led his friend/colleague/flatmate/detective/partner and any other term one could think of, into his bedroom. He removed the man's clothing in slow, controlled motions. Sherlock's skin was bared to the room as article upon article of clothing was tossed aside.

John pulled the man into a heated kiss while his hands brushed up his sides and over his pectorals, brushing the hardening nubs resting there. Sherlock gasped and wound his arms tightly around John, moaning into the kiss.

John backed them up to the bed and turned, pushing Sherlock down onto the fancy mattress of his bedroom.

He reached into Sherlock's bedside table, withdrawing the lubricant. He'd seen in in Sherlock's mind many times when the man felt teasing.

But now, John was in charge and he was going to lead Sherlock in the most intimate dance of his life.

Sherlock demanded for his clothes to disappear as well and John allowed himself to be stripped without giving protest. Sherlock was in the moment and was completely dedicated to the experience. He wanted to get to learn John, so John let him.

Though he wasn't as muscled as he was years ago, he was still firm. Muscles weren't as defined but still obviously there. With his jumper gone, Sherlock was free to explore John's flesh greedily. The man mapped out every inch of John's torso, before pulling at his trousers and asking John to remove them quickly.

Once the doctor was garbed on in his pants - silken and smooth as ordered by Irene - Sherlock pulled him onto the bed.

"John," the man purred, elegant fingers trailing over his blogger's thighs.

"I want it, John. I'm ready."

Sherlock was only ever this open with John. That fact was almost as arousing as the picture of a very naked Sherlock laying on the bed and looking up at him with so much trust. It was cute, sweet, and all manner of words that Sherlock would disapprove of if he ever found out John thought them with him in mind.

Sherlock was a very emotional person, despite his whole sociopath spiel. John was the only person permitted to witness his other emotions though. It was not out of character for Sherlock to be considerate where John was concerned. And it most assuredly wasn't strange that his mental parchment was being covered in all the little romantic things that Sherlock couldn't bring himself to say aloud.

You make me better.

You care about me so much.

You are the moon that guides my shifting waves.

You are everything, John.

I think I love you. I've never felt like this and I like it. This isn't a disadvantage.

You aren't a disadvantage.

John smiled and leaned down to nuzzle Sherlock's nose with his own. "I love you too, Sher." Sherlock breathing stuttered.

The lubricant was uncapped and John looked up.

"How would you prefer it?"

"Facing you. I want to look at you," Sherlock answered, flushing at his admission. John was suddenly all warm, and not because he was turned on.

With a quick shift, he had Sherlock lift his hips so he could place a large pillow beneath his bum.

He looked down at the lube and grinned. Sherlock knew he liked strawberry. Naughty boy.

The doctor poured some of the substance onto his hands while leaning down and swallowing Sherlock whole. With practised movements, he rendered Sherlock to a shivering, quivering mess, waiting for the right moment to begin preparing him.

Unsurprisingly, Sherlock tensed at the intrusion of the first digit, but relaxed when John applied a lot of suctions at the same time. That was the trick that had worked for John. Also, the whole seeing your partner's thoughts was a help because it let him know what they preferred. Sherlock apparently, liked being filled.

A second digit added to the mix and the two spread apart slowly, stretching and digging in deep.

Sherlock was moaning a litany of the chemicals that caused sexual arousal. John found it adorable that Sherlock would resort to Chemistry when his mind was on overload. The last time he gave the man a blowjob, he recited the periodic table of elements in order.

"John!"

The third finger and some more lube worked on further stretching. As far as penis length and girth, John was a bit above average for a British male. About two and a half inches more than the average length. Preparation was very important, especially on virgins.

"John, please."

"You're not fully-"

"I'm ready!"

Maybe he was then.

The position was easy, the slide in was a bit more difficult, but eventually Sherlock's body gave way and soon John was pressed completely against him, covering his shaking form.

There a small whispered 'woah' and John pressed their lips together to calm Sherlock, whose eyes were blown wide in darkness.

Sherlock shifted and raised his hips. One leg and then the other hooked around John's hips. Sherlock's parchment was a mess and he pretty much understood the idea.

And he demonstrated quite thoroughly through the evening, why he was called, John Three Continents Watson. And the not so subtle worshipping of Sherlock's no longer virgin flesh was an added bonus.

John stared down at the box and then up to Sherlock, whose eyes were closed. Not giving away the gift, eh?

He accepted it slowly and opened the lid.

A smile broke out across his features and he tugged Sherlock into a steamy kiss. "Of course I'll marry you you bloody tosser."

Sherlock's eyes popped open and he sighed in relief, pulling John into his embrace while deepening the kiss.

And now they were engaged.

"Why are we watching this?"

"Because it's become a big deal in many countries and I'm curious."

"We are not children, John."

"So? Apparently a lot of people, including adults, have found this movie amazing. I'm not stopping it and since I know you aren't going to move any time soon, you'll just have to watch it."

"It's not even a Christmas movie."

"That matters not."

The credits rolled and it began with the standard Disney beginning.

One little girl wakes her sister up to 'build a snowman'. They play around and the younger is accidentally hurt by the older's ice powers.

The trolls in the mountains saved the girl's life, but erased her memory of her sister's powers.

When it came to the point of the father, the king, telling his daughter to hide her powers, Sherlock became irate.

"This is completely ridiculous! He's forcing her to hide away that which makes her special. They should be working on training the ability so that there aren't any repeats. If she learned to control it, there would be no accidents. Even in animation people are idiots."

John frowned as he thought about Sherlock's words. He had to agree. 'Conceal, don't feel. Don't let it show'. That wasn't something you should ever teach a child.

John understood why Sherlock was so affected by that. He'd been forced to repress his 'abilities' for years, because they 'hurt' or 'offended' people. Sherlock didn't like being forced to hide.

The movie wore on. The girls were growing up. The elder locked herself away and the younger was lonely, having no understanding as to why her best friend won't speak to her anymore. The years pass as Anna, the younger, tries to coax her sister out to 'build a snowman' again.

The parents go away and die in a shipwreck, leaving the children orphaned, with the eldest close in age to assuming the throne.

"If she really hadn't seen the light in that long, her complexion who be a lot paler," Sherlock pointed out as the second song came. "It's ludicrous that she assumes she'll fall in love in one night."

"It's a fictional world Sher. And all of Disney's movies have a love that springs up within a day or two, it's a repetitive process."

The consulting detective huffed.

Time wore on.

"I agree with the blonde, she cannot marry someone she just met, she knows nothing about him. I can already tell, he's a liar. He's the youngest in a long line of children and wants to rule one day, but knows it'll most likely never happen with so many brothers ahead of him, so he's targeting the redhead, knowing that she's not experienced in anything in particular and is emotionally stunted.

He'll worm his way into controlling the kingdom somehow and will be the general bad guy. The queen who is viewed as bad in the beginning will be good in the end. The younger sister will make some sort of sacrifice. There, it'll be boring, we should watch something else."

John glowered at the man and said tightly, "That's all well and good for you, but since you are obviously lacking in all the extra details, the movie stays on. Go bugger off if you're so bloody irritable."

John huffed and focused on the movie and how the queen was dashing across the now frozen lake, running from her problems.

Sherlock did not move. Instead, he pouted when John reprimanded him. He didn't want to watch the movie, but he wanted to be with John. He sighed in annoyance and snuggled into John's side, putting up with the movie in order to be near his fiancé.

The song that had most of the world going 'gaga' over it, came on and John noticed Sherlock sit up as it played through.

Let it go, let it go

Can't hold it back anymore

Let it go, let it go

Turn away and slam the door!

I don't care

What they're going to say

Let the storm rage on,

The cold never bothered me anyway!

John was surprised that Sherlock said nothing to interrupt this song. He let it play to the end. And when it ended, he said nothing! John had a feeling that it affected him more than he'd care to let on.

The story continued. The sister went after the queen, met a man and his reindeer. Found her sister, got hurt by accident again.

By the end, Sherlock had been correct in his deduction, but when John looked over to see his reaction to the 'act of great love', Sherlock was straight-faced. Nothing gave away his feelings. John was still adamant in believing that Sherlock was affected somehow.

When the movie was over, Sherlock stood slowly and stretched. "We should go to Angelo's tonight."

John's eyes went wide but he nodded, "Okay then. I'll go get dressed."

When they were dressed, Sherlock grabbed his hand and tugged him out the door.

Angelo greeted them like always and set a table up quickly, with a candle to 'set the mood'.

Outside, the snow was falling and the chilly wind easily blew it across vehicles and people walking down the pavement.

The food was great, as usual. Both shared lasagna and garlic bread. Sherlock actually ate!

John wondered if he was feeling well.

When they were on their way home, a large gust of wind literally came and - conveniently - blew John's muffler away.

He shivered instantly, feeling snow touch his neck.

His vision was suddenly obscured and when he looked down, Sherlock was wrapping his own muffler around John's neck.

"But you'll get cold," he tried to protest, but was silenced by a quick peck on the lips.

Sherlock pulled away and linked their fingers as he shrugged.

"The cold never bothered me anyway."

John's mouth dropped open as they walked. "I knew you were affected!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and tugged his fiancé along.

"No more talking, John. Let it go."

Thirty Years Later

"Sher, there is pollen on the table."

"I know, I was experimenting."

"Sher, the bees have to remain outside."

"I know. I was collecting it in a different way and I may or may not have accidentally dumped some."

John looked at his husband and smiled. After all these years, Sherlock was still at it with the experiments.

Sherlock pouted and looked to his book. John sighed and leaned over to peck him on the cheek.

The man looked up and set his book down so that he could stand and wrap his arms around John.

There, as the sun faded from the horizon and twilight was preparing to take over, John lowly sung the words to his favorite song as he and his husband swayed lightly side to side.

You are my sunshine,

My only sunshine,

You make me happy,

When skies are grey.

You'll never know dear,

How much I love you.

Please don't take,

My sunshine away.

A/N: Done! THE STORY IS OVER! Yes, I made Mary Russian and that Bratva is real. I do not own the quotes by Homer from the Iliad. Eejit- Irish for 'Idiot'. Irene is a good friend. Thanks for being with me through this whole story. You're all awesome. I hope you liked the ending.

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