Holy wowza! It's been a while... I'm so sorry. Life kind of got the best of me. I was surprised to see a review in my email and figured this deserved something of an update. I've been working on my own writing for a while and a Hamilton fanfic for my coworker lately and a lot of my older, unfinished fics took the back burner. I'm working on finding time and motivation to wrap them all up and then move them to AO3. I really appreciate seeing that there is still interest in stories I thought would die out. I'm so sorry to have abandoned them for so long!

Anyway! Enough excuses. Y'all deserve some sexy times.

Read. Rate. Review. Be jolly and enjoy veggie pasta with turkey meatballs in vodka sauce!

To say he was shocked was an understatement. He was incapable of figuring out what was happening. He felt the lips on his, the warmth was unmistakable. And yet, it was as though he was outside of himself. He could see it as clearly as a picture; a tall, beautiful man with a possessive hand on the chin of a blushing, frazzled med student as he claimed his mouth in the most delightfully mind-boggling kiss in the history of one John Watson's life. He was waiting for his mind to catch up with reality. He was not sure when that would happen.

His body was incapable of responding to the touch. He had not know he had wanted this until it had happened. That was just the way it was with Sherlock. It was only as Sherlock began to pull away that John was able to muster some sense of the reality, only then grasping the situation.

"That is what you wanted, was it not?"

John stared blankly. He wasn't sure how to respond. It was. It was just that he hadn't been aware of it himself. Or rather, he had no intention of his attraction being acted on. Seeking Sherlock out had not been a conscious action. He had always justified it with the need for something else. It was why he had not replied to the text messages. He didn't have a valid reason to. Right?

He felt his cheeks burning and looked down, intent on staring at Sherlock's throat instead of his impossibly fierce face. "You'd probably know better than I would…"

He would bet that the detective was smirking, even suppressing a laugh. He shifted in his seat. He was very aware that he was turned entirely towards the man behind him, his back twisted in a punishing position. He righted himself; a distraction from the tension in the air. He looked at the papers before him and wondered how to extricate himself with some dignity.

He should have known that Sherlock would pick up on his attraction. No, he hadn't been subtle despite his own denial of the interest that burned inside him. Although Sherlock did preen under compliments John assumed he was used to had chalked it the reaction up to mild narcissism. Perhaps it was that Sherlock was just as interested. And wasn't that an idea!

"Indeed. I would bet I know exactly how to make you tick. Shall we test it?" His voice rumbled and John felt the air leave the room. Or maybe it was just his lungs. Who could be sure?

There was a hand on his upper pectoral then, broad and strong. It could not be called a claim but it certainly felt like one. He felt trapped in the best of ways. He would not allow himself to shiver of lean into the touch. No. He was not so hard up that he need appear wanton.

"You're awfully self assured, aren't you?" He stuttered out.

"For good reason." Long fingers began to furl and unfurl in a slow, steady rhythm against his skin. "Do you doubt me?"

John let out a laugh. No. God, no. He knew Sherlock could take him apart and show him parts of himself he didn't even know where there. He would never be the same. Nothing would be the same after this. Then again, that was already true. He would never be the same after meeting Sherlock. He would never feel this amazement, wonder and utter desperation for another person. Sherlock had consumed his mind.

It was only right that he consume his body too.

He turned in the chair. The hand on his chest naturally shifted to cup his ribcage. He met a smouldering blue gaze with some determination. Have some nerve, John. "I do. Perhaps… perhaps you'd better prove it after all."

The smile that grazed the lips that had claimed his was not human. It was primal. It was animal. It was exciting. His heart skipped in his chest. A small reprieve from the constant fluttering that had been plaguing him.

Sherlock slowly removed his hand from John's person. It was a controlled drag, to sighed with longing. At his leisure, the detective moved around the chair and leaned against the edge of the table. His legs extended beyond him. His body suddenly seemed to take up the entirety of the room. John was not filled with the urge to crawl into the small space left for him against the front of his long body. Absolutely not.

"Come, John. You look like you're ready to jump out of that chair." He opened his legs; an invitation into the space John wanted to fill.

He swallowed thickly but moved mindlessly into the void. The heat that washed over him may very well have been from his own body but it felt like it was coming from the man before him. He worried his teeth between his lips. It felt awfully foolish to be standing scarily still before a man whom he had just kissed. No, who had just kissed him. He had been kissed.

He had been kissed by a tall, dark, mysterious man who, now that he thought about it, had tasted of smoke but not of cigarettes. His brow furrowed and he focused all his attention on Sherlock's mouth. There was always the slightest hint of smoke attached to him. But the kiss had been tasted of something else. When their lips connected what John got was smoldering ash, a soft burn of something organic. It was raw and warm and not at all unpleasant.

"You don't smoke," he conceded.

Sherlock looked amused. It was clear he was waiting for John to arrive at a conclusion. There was something mildly irksome about that. The look of expectancy on his face gave John pause. He wanted to please him. A startling thought actually. He thought and pondered and wracked his brain for what felt like hours. He came up blank.

"I'm at a loss...You don't smoke but you always smell like it. It's not at the front of your breath. It's soft. Barely there, really, but it's there. I don't get it." He was not aware that his frustration had turned to something between a frown and a pout.

"Shall I tell you?" Sherlock reached a hand forward and tugged John into him by a loop on his trousers.

John let himself fall into the movement. He pressed firmly against the length of Sherlock's body. It was good. Better. But he couldn't really think now. He could hardly be expected to focus on processing thoughts with Sherlock gripping his hips. He shifted his weight to be more comfortable and relished the way their bodies slid against each other. Shit.

"That would be ever so magnanimous of you. Do tell this mere mortal your secret, o' great one," he said dryly. Truth be told, he needed to misdirect so that Sherlock wasn't completely aware of where his mind was wandering. Anything to shift the focus away from what was rapidly becoming a dead give away in his pants.

There was something about the cadence of Sherlock's voice that had him thinking terribly dirty things. The growl that lay under every word spoken made his pulse race. In combination with the physical contact, which was more than John was accustom to as of late, was, well… stimulating.

"Sarcasm is unbecoming. We'll have to remedy that nasty habit of yours." John may have thrilled at the way the word nasty rolled off his tongue. It sounded more like a promise than distaste. "But since you're so concerned," he broke off. His hand had worked its way down to the curve of John's arse and he gave a firm squeeze.

John gasped. His back arched and he gripped the red fabric of his button down. In this position, Sherlock reclind as he was and John between his legs, they were nearly face to face. Sherlock made his move. His mouth was pressed to the skin behind John's ear. He turned his head towards the sensation on instinct only to receive a punishing squeeze to his rear. He whimpered and exposed his neck slightly. His fingers clung to fabric as he lost his grip on the conversation.

Sherlock paid great attention to his neck. He nipped and sucked and licked and kissed at his leisurely pace. He clearly had no mind to rush. For a detective, he really sucked at getting the hint. John whined and pressed and moaned with only mild abandon as he could do little else. Sherlock's arms were like steel around him. As he wasn't moving any time soon, he allowed himself to enjoy what was truly sweet torture.

"Did you know," Sherlock asked as he took an earlobe between his teeth, "that dragon's enjoy collecting pretty things? I think you'll make an excellent addition to my collection."

He was only half listening at this point. He wanted to touch, to move. He ached for some friction. He was half mad for relief. He longed to be kissed. He struggled to get closer. He struggled to form a reply.

"Erm- as nice as that it, you can't collect huma- you think I'm pretty?" He turned to face Sherlock, their noses now brushing. Oh… that was close.

His mouth was once again being seared with a kiss. This time, however, he opened to it. There was a rumble that most definitely had not come from him. He melted. His hands finally managed to move. He wrapped them around Sherlock's neck and he pulled the man closer. He was moaning into each stroke and press. It was hot and wet and he was a mess.

When Sherlock began to pull back, he tried to follow. He tried to pull him back to him. He let out a disappointed noise when he did not succeed. Sherlock's eyes were on fire. He looked positively ravenous. "Oh,s yes. You are exquisite. I'm certain I shall never grow bored with you."

"That's just charming. Really. Do you enjoy the sound of your own voice?" He asked scathingly. He was annoyed that Sherlock had broken a magnificent snog to say something so condescending.

"Not nearly as much as you do it would seem," his leg shifted and his suddenly John was straddling his thigh. He bucked his thigh up and it pressed firmly against John's arousal.

His breath hitched. It was hard to argue with that. The heat passed over him with each word uttered. The low vibrations and gravelly speech had him on edge. He had never been so relaxed and on edge at once. He wanted to grind down on the leg between his but wasn't up for the embarrassment that would ensue after.

He didn't get to think about it. Sherlock gripped his hips firmly again and began to move them for him. The moan that he let out was broken at best. His head fell forward into Sherlock's chest. He let himself be worked like a puppet in a slow, long rhythm until he wasn't sure who was moving anymore. His hands were tangled in dark curls and he was pressing hot, open kisses to any skin he could reach. He felt like he was on fire. He was vaguely aware that Sherlock was growling dirty things into his ear. The sound alone was enough to spur him on.

He was only just aware that it was him creating friction when he felt a hand in his hair, tugging on soft blond curls and the other was palming at his thigh, thumb dangerously close to his straining erection. His mouth was claimed in another smokey kiss. He keened softly into it. He could feel his climax rising. Shame could wait. For now, he was getting exactly what he wanted.

Well, not everything, but it was still a marvelous adventure.

He rutted shamelessly. The only sound in the room were half articulated utterances of Sherlock's stuttered name, moans and whines, the softing rubbing of fabric, the occasional groan from Sherlock. He announced the tension building in his abdomen.

"Want to come," his voice cracked. He felt it. Just out of reach. He needed something more… he just wished he knew what it was.

"Of course you do, pet. I can practically smell it on you." He said slowly, his thumb stroking his inner thigh.

"Sherlock," John whined.

"If this is what you're like from a little grinding, I can't wait to bend you over and fuck you."

It was uttered into the skin of his neck with a harsh bite and fingers digging into his skin. His climax hit him hard. Apparently, the visual of Sherlock actually fucking him was enough. His release was nearly sobbed out. His fingers dug into pale skin through fine fabric and he shook until he was spent.

He was hazy for a handful of moments. He felt soft strokes and tender kisses and the soft movement of Sherlock's thigh between his. He was suddenly aware of every ounce of exhaustion that had been built up through the semester. He knew that there were chemical reasons for his sleepiness, but he was going to give credit to Sherlock for a first class orgasm.

"I'm not convinced," he mumbled groggily, nuzzling into Sherlock's neck. He was a cuddler. Sue him. "You'll still have to prove it."

There was a resounding huff. He pressed a sleepy kiss to the skin he was nuzzling. He felt like he weighed a thousand pounds. He couldn't keep his eyes open. A small nap couldn't hurt...

Is it my finest work? Nah. Am I happy with it? Yah. I wrote this on my lunch break at work and I'm pretty happy with this. I'll wrap it all up soon, you guys! John is a little oblivious... poor bean!

Thank you so much for reading and for your continued support. It means oodles! The bestest cinnamon rolls.