Disclaimer: I still don't own a thing, of course. A. N. Last chapter. I'll be sad to see this bit of cracky fun go, but my inspiration has officially run dry. I apologise. ^^''' Hope you enjoy the ending!

They were finally happy…and Sherlock would forever be ashamed that it took Mycroft's plan to get them there. "Well, that's the proof I'm the smarter one," he could hear his brother saying, a smug, hateful smirk even in his mind palace. As much as it was humiliating, he would forever be grateful to his big brother for that.

Mycroft did it on purpose, certainly. Not to see his sibling happy, but in order to have him owe an infinite number of cases. Because not even working permanently for his brother – as frustrating as it would be – would even begin to make a dent on the debt he felt towards Mycroft. Not unless he managed to find his brother a goldfish…and that would be difficult indeed. His sibling was, to be charitable, picky about it.

The sleuth had to admit the truth. There was no way that, left to their own devices, the two of them would have got around to admitting their feelings. Both too afraid of losing what they already had. But they had – become lovers, in all senses of the word, and Sherlock could scarcely believe it happened. Some days he wondered if he had slipped too deep in his mind palace, months ago, and never woken up. If he had, he never wanted to regain consciousness.

They were blatant, to the sleuth's giddiness. If they were not exactly hiding once they started being physically involved, now John wanted to flaunt their relationship. The very first day after admitting their feelings, his blogger had sat down and written a long, disgustingly (adorably) flowery post about how much he adored Sherlock, which the detective would never admit he'd learned by heart, even if he kept rereading it at least daily.

It finished with "Go on and be envious, if you want, because I'm afraid it's impossible you'll ever be as happy as I am," and of course, their readers took it as an invitation to comment. Many were delighted, thankfully, and some kind-naturedly admitted to being, indeed, a bit envious. The boys were surprised to find out that they didn't need to tear down the few haters, because their friends did them already. Particularly Mrs. Hudson, who had free time in abundance. The sweet old lady would be so cutting that the worst haters deleted their comments, hopefully ashamed of themselves.

What John refused to share, despite the many requests – from both fans and media – was the more private side of their relationship. Seriously, some people downright asked, "Is Sherlock Holmes as brilliant in the sack as in everything else?" The nerve of people. The fact that he didn't punch anyone was a testament to the blogger's self-control.

John tried – with little success, and secret delight – to control his partner, too, because the consulting detective's reactions were unpredictable. If he was in a mood, or didn't like the person enquiring, the detective would deduce aloud *their* sexual proclivities, point out how dull they were (no matter the unfortunate asshole's kink) and snidely ask if they thought the matter was one for sharing. Otherwise, investigating their sex life would evoke a lovely pink blush, and Sherlock would murmur that John found him adequate, as he'd last proved (insert their latest playing occasion and the number of times they'd indulged). Unless his beloved cut in, sternly, reminding everyone of their haste (which he sometimes made up).

It would be ridiculous to share their sex lives, besides, because that would require an encyclopedia. Not just because they kept very busy, but because if the sleuth hated anything with a passion it was routine, so they would indulge in whatever mood took them.

Some days the boys' lovemaking was sweet and slow, to the point that someone – most usually Sherlock, but John had his moments too – would tear up out of sheer emotional overwhelmedness. Some days – especially just after a successful case, high on adrenaline and ecstatic – they were frantic and eager and very, very loud.

And then, of course, there was that week when nothing came in – not a single case, not even a 'please look for my lost cat' – and Sherlock was ready to vibrate out his skin in sheer frustration. Well, John couldn't allow it.

Which was why he sauntered over to his sulking lover, oddly contorted on the sofa in his most "don't talk to me but please someone help" shape, and purred, "You know, love, you promised me something a long time ago, but then never got around to it."

That the consulting detective ignored his tone and retorted petulantly, "I am not going to clean out and reorganise the fridge right now, John, don't be ridiculous," was testament to how upset the man was. He didn't miss details that blatant, usually.

John plopped down in the tiny sliver of free space – left purposefully as hint that his beloved had not entirely lost all hope and could be tempted to drag himself out of his strop with the right enticement – and fondly patted the soft curls. They were simply too close to resist. "I know that, bee. I am not a complete idiot…besides, I've already done that, and if you ever opened our fridge you'd have realized."

The sleuth shot him an alarmed look, coupled with a frown. His blogger hurried to reassure, "I've not binned anything that wasn't originally supposed to be food. Your ears are safe. And properly labelled."

"Sorry I suspected you," the detective mumbled, moving his head from laying against his lover's thigh to right in his lap. "But if it's not that, I can't remember a promise I failed to accomplish."

John gasped loudly and dramatically brought a hand to his chest, faking horrified shock in a way that would have the worst amateur actor too ashamed to leave their dressing room forevermore. "Oh, love, don't tell me you deleted it!"

Sherlock huffed a laugh. Mission accomplished. Then, he casually remarked, "Possibly? It can't have been important." After all, he religiously kept anything that concerned John. So maybe he'd agreed to help someone else? Go some dull place? God, he hoped not. He didn't want to see anyone today. Not unless they were a client, and possibly not even then, if the case wasn't worth interrupting cuddles with John (so, at least a 7.8).

"I did tie you up once…but we never did the required training to ensure I'll be able to feed if we're both restrained. We really should have, you know. It's a miracle we haven't been kidnapped yet. What if when it happens I can't manage to get at you? You don't want me to starve, do you?" the blogger asked conversationally.

All oxygen escaped suddenly the sleuth's lungs in a warm, panting exhale. This sounded…interesting. And necessary. And certainly a better way to spend an afternoon than lying about, even cuddled against John. Speaking of John, his cock was right there, definitely growing interested, and if Sherlock could just get at it -

Before he could follow his instinct, his beloved's hands buried themselves in soft curls, and the detective found himself gently tugged away from his prize, a whine instinctively escaping his throat. "I am very happy that you are in the mood to help with my training. Lead by example, as it is. But remember, if we're to be ready during a case, we need to be restrained for this exercise," John tutted, "I'd suggest you tie me up first and then get yourself bound. As much as I hate to admit it, you're more limber…and your talent to escape handcuffs, chains and the like should allow you to slip inside them, too."

"I suppose," the detective agreed, proud of his lover's praise but privately wondering if he would have any fine motor skills at all when John's words had brought him from the abyss of boredom to the peak of arousal without any stop to organise his mind. He felt lightheaded with desire – hopefully he wouldn't pass out. That would be a bummer. "Preferences? Rope? Handcuffs? Zip-ties? Something else? I'm pretty sure I can find almost anything," he inquired. Take time to collect himself – and let John do the thinking, for once.

"Rope," his lover decided, smiling. "Let's start with a scenario of not too professional kidnappers, if you like."

"How did they catch us?" the detective inquired, needing another moment of pause if he was not to go off like a rocket as soon as he touched John.

"Beginner's luck," John declared, his eyes crinkling in amusement. "Now, if you agree, get around to have us caught, love."

Sherlock nodded wordlessly, and rummaged around in his closet to find the rope he'd bought a week ago for an experiment, before changing his opinion and deeming it a bore, too. Yes, here it was, behind the street police officer costume. Black, strong and not too coarse. It should do very well.

He went back to the sitting room to find that John had brought in an extra chair from the kitchen, and placed it near to the client chair. "I thought that it would be a more likely scenario than finding ourselves tied to an armchair," his beloved remarked with a shrug. "I'm all yours to play with."

The sleuth's mouth went dry at such a declaration. Of course, getting him naked before tying John down would not be a good training. If anyone tried that, no matter how much they appeared to have the upper hand, they would have two enraged detectives to deal with, and definitely end up with at least a few broken bones. Still, temptation was strong.

In the end, Sherlock opted to leave John's trousers alone, when tying his ankles. But he did open his lover's burgundy cardigan and a few buttons of his shirt, ruffling it. It could have happened during a fight, couldn't it? Anyway, John wasn't protesting, not when his fingers busied with his shirt nor when the detective couldn't resist and straddled him, dropping kisses in random spots of naked skin. If his mewls were any indication, John was very enthusiastic indeed.

To his credit, the sleuth managed to rut against him only a couple of times while fastening the ropes to his lover's arms. Otherwise, the fun could have finished before it even started. Finally, with a mournful cry, he left John's very welcoming lap to attach the proper bindings to his own chair and then slip on it. They were well done, if he said so. Of course, he could slither out of them like he'd slithered in, but they were done in a way that blindly struggling would have caused them only to tighten around him. It was the best he could do on his own, and it meant that their supposed captors weren't entirely idiotic.

Sherlock had just flopped against the hard back of his chair, unable to keep proper stance when anticipation was eating at him so cruelly, when John mumbled, "It seems like we're on our own. Our kidnappers have better things to busy themselves with, and it will be awhile before Lestrade finds us, I'm afraid."

Oh! They were actually playacting, were they? The detective had always secretly liked playing a part when undercover. He definitely could get along with that. "If he ever finds us," he snorted. "Unless my brother tips him off, I'm afraid it might be at least a week before his team can see the clues that are staring them in the face, much less follow them."

John chuckled at that. "That bad, uh? Anyway, I…well, I know your no-food-on-cases policy, but personally I'm a bit peckish, so I was wondering if you'd be…you know, opposed." That was exactly how it would happen – they might be shagging like rabbits already, but put them in a strange setting, with risk looming, and John would be hesitant and careful instead of diving for his lover.

Still, Sherlock rolled his eyes. "That's what it was intended for, in the first place. Help yourself, John," he urged, and if his voice was more hoarse than usual, nobody was going to tease him for that. He minutely inclined himself towards his beloved, spreading his legs as much as he could with his ankles bound, and careful not to accidentally tip the chair in his eagerness.

His blogger smiled predatorily, and then managed to bow his chest, despite the ropes, to nuzzle his lover's crotch. "Almost there," he breathed against it, "give me a moment…here." He opened the zip with his teeth, and even before anything happened, Sherlock flushed and exhaled beautifully. Oh, yes.

More biting and nuzzling managed to get the pants out of the way enough for John to take hold of his coveted prize, and elicit a long whine that made him shiver. Like this, he couldn't deepthroat Sherlock, of course. But he could lap at him enthusiastically, suck and hum around the bit he could get at, and judging from the unearthly moans coming from his bound lover, and the way he struggled mindlessly against his bonds to get closer and closer, his technique was flawless.

It was a somehow uncomfortable position for the doctor, true, but he didn't have to strain too long. Whether it was the roleplay (you wouldn't want to indulge too long if really captured, and Sherlock believed in method acting), the relative novelty of it, or maybe he accidentally hit on his lover's kink, it was only a handful of minutes before John's mouth was full of the most mouthwatering dessert in the world.

Just as he was coming down from his own orgasm, near senseless, Sherlock had enough coherency to notice his lover's massive hard on, and whimper, "Fuck me."

"You sure?" John asked, breathless. His love might like the idea in theory, but he could be too sensitive right now.

Sherlock nodded vehemently, slipped nimbly from his bonds and hurried to free his beloved. "Please, please, please," he begged.

Well, who was John to deny him? He insisted they move to the bedroom, since he was pretty sure they would pass out…err, nap afterwards, and the sleuth complied, pliable and content. Sherlock didn't need much preparation, fully welcoming of his John's touch, and somehow managing to be even more sensual when he was just lying there and breathing soft little sighs.

If his boyfriend, after undressing lightning quick, managed only a few thrusts before coming himself, overcome by desire and awe of his amazing partner, it was no wonder. "Love you," he mumbled in the crook of Sherlock's neck, against soft curls.

The hum he received in response was as good as a 'love you, too'. Yep, definitely nap time. John settled, with a last smile against delicious skin.