A/N: Wow, I haven't uploaded anything on here in a long time. Most of my stuff just goes to LJ. I thought I'd break out of that habit and come back home. This story is basically just a study of Sherlock and what John means to him. Enjoy...

Steady hands peel away the fabric that loosely obscures John's body. The material is thin beneath Sherlock's pale, lanky fingers as he drags it over the other man's head. The detective rubs his skin against the fabric, feeling the soft garment brush against his nerves. After a few moments of staring at the faded article of clothing, he discards it, as if suddenly remembering that something more important is happening and he is only just remembering what. His hands trail across the doctor's form, determined and unrelenting, until he manages to remove each piece of cheap fabric that conceals John's flawless body, removing the tainting things with distaste. How dare they blemish perfection?

Sherlock stares at the man he calls friend, the only man he has ever dared to call friend. The detective stares, wishing that he will never have to look at anything else, not a single other object, not a single other person, ever again. So stimulating, for mind and body, just staring at John Watson, just devouring him, studying him, creating him, breaking him, solving him, needing him, taking him, loving him.

This man was his. His perfection. His cure.

He can feel John watching him, can feel his lingering gaze, can feel it in the way the other man touches him, the hunger in his hands, the fire in his movements, it all screams I understand. Sherlock wonders if he really does. Not many people understand, can understand, him. Not many people even understand themselves. That's what makes even the dullest most unextraordinary person so interesting, so entertaining. But John, John is far from dull, even further still from unextraodinary.

Sherlock, ever so slowly, hauls his lean body forward, shimmying his way along John's body, wriggling against it. He begins at the man's ankles, kissing them gently, seductively. He can feel John shiver and smirks against the hot skin. His lips suck longingly on the flesh. The detective moves a little higher, kissing John's shin, his knee, stopping to linger on the inside of his warm thighs, suckling greedily at the sweaty skin.

John moans, or wait, maybe that's him. Sherlock's not too sure anymore, and surprisingly, he doesn't care, it's one of the only things he doesn't mind being not too sure about. It doesn't really matter right then and there. Not much matters except them. Except the way his lips move against the exposed skin, except the damp mark his tongue leaves behind, except the way John's muscles tremble beneath him, legs quivering gently. He sees John's cock growing hard and allows one of his hands to slither forward, snatching it gently between his fingers.

It is as much for himself as John. Because when John feels good, he feels good. The look on the doctor's face as Sherlock manipulates the flesh, the joyous expression, perfect. Sherlock drinks it in, allowing his eyes to linger on John's face, devouring each expression, each gasp, each pant, each moan, each flutter of his lids. It makes Sherlock smile, makes him happy, makes him hard.

Sherlock wriggles even further up, pressing himself down, using his body to create friction, now covering all of John with himself, draping his slim form over the other man. Their erections rub together, and Sherlock begins to grind their bodies gently, moving his own up and down. He smiles again, unravelling John's expression, unravelling John's everything. It's everything to Sherlock. More than just bodies, more than just flesh. He would always be the first to admit that physical relations are most often just convenient, never needing an emotional element, an unnecessary attachment. This was the same, it didn't need an emotional element, but it had one; for the both of them.

Their bodies moved together, as if built for each other. As if forged from the earth as one, and then sliced cruelly apart and sent wandering through the cold harsh world alone, ever searching for their way back to each other, their way back home. It looked as if they had found it. At last.

More than flesh, more than bodies, more than pleasure. A hunger in him, a hunger than had never been fulfilled, finally satisfied. For John as well. Pain erased, or at least, replaced with better memories, move convenient feelings. The anguish swallowed whole by the bliss, by the sheer power of this, of them.

Sherlock prepared his friend, his lover. Entering him gently, if somewhat desperately. Their bodies moved, coiled, glided, swerved, bended, writhed, blended. Their bodies exploded with pleasure, with release, with joy.

It was … beautiful. Breathtaking, literally. Sherlock felt his breath hitch in his throat, tumbling over his dry lips. He grinned, unable to stop himself. He could feel John's sigh of content.

The doctor smiled too, his eyes glazing over slightly. Sherlock pressed himself against John, into him, as if in a desperate attempt to make them one again, for a bit longer, for as long as he could. John wrapped his arms around Sherlock, welcoming him, holding him close, as if to accomplish the same deed.

Sherlock had always had his brain, his intellect. It was … reassuring. Without it, he would be lost, banished to a dark hell. He had never had anything more. Now, after all these years, after all this waiting, he had a friend, he had something more powerful than his brain, someone to need, someone to love. Without it, without him, Sherlock would be destroyed; a fragment of a soul and the most jagged one at that.

Sherlock Holmes lay in the arms of John Watson, his friend; content.

A/N: Thanks for reading! Please review. :)