Somebody crowd me with love,
Somebody force me to care…

At night, they make love. Unless one or the other or both are so exhausted that they just collapse on the bed, or Sherlock doesn't come home at all, or they both don't come home until it's the next day. But if it's a quiet night in front of the telly, with dinner eaten and John working the next day, at some point John will stand to go to bed, and Sherlock will follow him, and there may be kisses in the doorway, or kisses on the stair, or no kisses at all, just two people going up to bed. They'll crowd together in the small loo and brush their teeth and make comments as necessary, such as, "You're running low on toothpaste. Do you want me to pick some up for you tomorrow," and "Yes, but don't get peppermint. I hate the peppermint."

The very thought of you and I forget to do
The little ordinary things that everyone ought to do.

And then they'll go into the bedroom, their bedroom; sometimes they'll slide under the covers and undress each other. Other times they'll simply strip themselves and slide in together, skin to skin, and it will be unhurried and lazy, with long, sleepy kisses and soft caresses along each other's legs and ribs and chests and backs. Sherlock, whose libido is a little lower than John's, or at any rate, less interested in the actual sex, will prolong this time, indolent in John's arms, basking in John's desire and John's kisses, slightly chapped lips, evening stubble, the taste of mint and tea. But the pace will slowly build until they are both eager, and John may take Sherlock or less frequently Sherlock will take John, or there may just be gentle reciprocal blow jobs, or even just mutual masturbation, and kisses, always the kisses.

I love all the many charms about you.
Above all I want my arms about.
Embrace me, my sweet embraceable you.
Embrace me, you irreplaceable you.

Before John Sherlock thought the term 'making love' absurd. One has sexual intercourse, or just sex. Nothing was made like one makes a sandwich or a cup of tea. Matter can neither be created nor destroyed. But he feels that he and John do make something when they make love. Something that is beyond themselves and is beautiful. After, they'll curl up together. Sometimes John's head on Sherlock's chest and sometimes Sherlock will fold himself up to fit under John's arm. They'll just talk, about everything and nothing, a quiet white noise of tenderness until John is sleepy. Sherlock may go back downstairs to his work, or he may curl around John and listen to John's breathing even out, inhaling the smell of John, the slightly sweaty and soapy scent of his pajamas, the oils of his hair, the sweetness of his skin.

Dawn's promising skies,
Petals on a pool drifting,
Imagine these in one pair of eyes
And this is my beloved.

He tries to tell John what it means to him, to make love. But he can't seem to explain that it's like light and warmth and home and safety and it does feel like the kinetic energy of their bodies is converting into an energy. And John teases that maybe it's like light—both a wave and a particle—not something that you can put into a jar and look at, but something like solar energy that CAN be stored up for dark days. And maybe that is it.

If I loved you,
Time and again I would try to say
All I'd want you to know.
If I loved you,
Words wouldn't come in an easy way
Round in circles I'd go…

He knows that he hates the idea of just 'fucking.' Once at a crime scene John crept up and whispered in his ear, "I want to take you home and fuck you till you scream," and Sherlock had flinched so hard that John had pulled him into his arms asking, "What, what? I'm sorry."

"Is that what we're doing, fucking?"

"No, no, so much more, so much more," John had murmured against his neck until someone said, get a room, and John replied that that was exactly what they were talking about and they both giggled.

Time after time
I tell myself that I'm
So lucky to be loving you

Of course, they make love in the morning too, and on languid afternoons when there is nothing else to do, and sometimes sensuously in the middle of the night. And it isn't always slow; sometimes it's fast and fierce and hard and they don't get to the bedroom. And he doesn't mind the word fuck when they're in bed as in, "Oh, God, oh fuck, yes, there, there, harder, fuck," or even, "Please, John, fuck me now," because those are barely words, no more important than the moans and gasps and whispers." They scream 'Oh, God' too and neither is religious.

Time and again I've longed for adventure,
Something to make my heart beat the faster.
What did I long for? I never really knew.
Finding your love I've found my adventure,
Touching your hand, my heart beats the faster,
All that I want in all of this world is you.

Before falling in love Sherlock thought that the term 'in love' was ridiculous too. It wasn't a place where you were—I'm in Japan, I'm in a taxi—although he supposed that he could be in a funk, in a snit or in despair, but those were all emotions that came and went. But being in love seemed to be something that you were in for awhile, and it was dependent upon the other person being in love as well. You were together in some sort of bubble. A bubble that surrounds you both, no matter how far apart you are. It is a physical sensation of being somewhere with John always, that is sacred to them. It's a place he's never been before.

Take my hand,
I'm a stranger in paradise,
All lost in a wonderland,
A stranger in paradise

He can't imagine not being in love with John and he cannot bear to think of John not being in love with him.

Strange, dear, but true, dear,
When I'm close to you, dear,
The stars fill the sky,
So in love with you am I.

John is his everything. More than the cases, more than the chase. John is his tether to the world, to living. John is his angel, his savior. John is his salvation out of the dark oubliette in which he often falls. John is his conscience and his bridge to others. When he told John that John laughed and said he wasn't a cricket, but kissed him anyway.

Somebody, make me come through.
I'll always be there,
As frightened as you,
To help us survive
Being alive.

He needs John. It makes him stronger, better and smarter even to be with John because he revels in John's admiration and adoration. He never wants to let John down again, because he owes John everything. His life, in more ways than one, and his happiness. John is peace and contentment, and John turns off the noise and the fear in his head. John is an addiction, and Sherlock knows it, but just like all his other addictions, he can't stop.

For love came just in time,
You found me just in time,
And changed my lonely nights that lucky day.

And he desires John in a way that he thought impossible or foolish or controllable. It isn't controllable. It's overwhelming and leaves him breathless. Sometimes after sex, when he's working downstairs he'll feel the wetness and slickness and it will make him almost double over with remembered and renewed pleasure and he aches inside for John. He wonders if this is what women feel when they desire, open and wet and throbbing inside. And he wants to run upstairs and wake John and make love again and again until they both collapse from exhaustion.

I'll sing to him, each spring to him
And worship the trousers that cling to him.
Bewitched, bothered and bewildered am I

And why John? Why this quiet and unassuming man? Sometimes Sherlock wishes that he were small, shorter than John so that he could lean on John's shoulder when they walk together. They've tried Sherlock's arm over John's shoulder and John's arm around his waist, but their gaits and strides were too different and they just tripped each other up, stumbling to the ground and laughing. The passers-by thought they were drunk and it didn't matter because they were laughing together. He wants to wrap himself up in John like one of John's sweaters so that the smell and texture and general Gemütlichkeit of John is around him always when he's cold and anxious. He wants John to be able to spoon against him comfortably. And if he must be tall, then he wants to be wrapped around John like a great coat.

His form and face,
His manly grace
Are not the kind that you
Would find in a statue,
And I can't explain,
It's surely not his brain
That makes me thrill.

And John loves, needs him and desires him. It makes Sherlock feel like he has a value that he doesn't need to keep proving again and again. It almost makes him feel…magical, but that's irrational. John worships him in bed. John will spend long stretches of time just running his hands and mouth over Sherlock's body. John makes Sherlock feel beautiful and he makes the world more beautiful in front of Sherlock's eyes.

There were birds in the sky
But I never saw them winging.
No, I never saw them at all
Till there was you.

From being merely a necessary luxury