Hi :)

I've never written anything slashy before so please forgive me :')

Disclaimer: Don't own Sherlock blah blah blah :)

The consulting detective leant against the wall, his icy grey eyes fixated upon his prize. He pressed against the wall, staring intently through his long eyelashes, droplets the pouring rain cooling him. Soothing him. A lock of dark hair fell from where it had been tucked behind his ear, its smooth curl brushing over his pale, sculpted cheekbones. Heart hammering in his chest, his pale lips took his prize into his mouth. He breathed in deeply, savouring the taste, the pleasure, the beautiful sense of guilt.

The last time had been almost a year ago. It had been particularly fascinating case involving a serial killer with a morbid fascination for carving grotesque eyelash shaped cuts from the corner of his young female victims' eyes. Case solved, Sherlock had gone back to Lestrade's office, where the two of them sat and drank late into the night. Everyone else had gone home, desks deserted, cleaners shifts long over. The two were left completely alone. They had sat for hours talking, discussing their lives, relationships, families and more. Sherlock didn't mean to give in to the temptation. It was the whisky that did it.

Working with John had made Sherlock more tempted than ever. He had often thought about it, during those late nights at Scotland Yard, after bursting through the door of Baker Street with his colleague after a sprint through the streets of London. Once, he had even considered it whilst examining a crime scene. He knew it would probably be considered completely inappropriate – after all, it wouldn't have been respectful towards the dead. What did that mater though? The dead were dead. There was nothing they could do to stop him.

The cold, hard bricks dug into his back as his breaths grew deeper. He flicked at the tip, its warmth glowing under the light of the street lamp. His eyelids flickered with the pleasure of it, yet he knew in his heart what he was doing was wrong. Suddenly, he picked up on the sound of approaching footsteps. Suddenly much more alert, he wrenched the prize from his lips and spun around to see John Watson's startled face approaching through the gloom.

"Sherlock, I-" He stopped once he saw Sherlock's expression of guilt. The consulting detective rubbed frantically at a patch of white on his coat collar, desperately trying to rid himself to the evidence.

John stopped dead.

"Sherlock – I thought you said…that night at the restaurant all those months ago. You said this wasn't your thing"

There was no hiding what he had done. To reply, Sherlock would have to open his mouth. He parted his lips and watched entranced as the smoke unfurled itself and slowly dissipated into the dark.

"I thought you said you didn't smoke." John said, slightly dumbfounded.

"I don't - not any more. It's just this case, it got to me. I couldn't resist any more" Sherlock sighed, brushing the last of the ash away from his collar. He flicked the cigarette away, taking a nicotine patch from his pocket and pressing it firmly onto the inside of his forearm.

"The great Sherlock Holmes, unable to resist the temptation of a simple cigarette" John smirked, putting up an umbrella against the pouring rain. Sherlock stepped forward, stopping to get under the shelter.

"Well, we both know that not the only temptation I've failed to resist." he whispered.

The rest of the Scotland Yard team were busy clearing away the crime scene around the corner. That's why there was no one there to see when Sherlock leaned down and brushed his lips against John's. That's why there was no one there to see John kiss him back. The umbrella was discarded, floating upside down in a dirty puddle as the two men indulged in a guilty pleasure.

Oh God. I'm so sorry. *hides*