Piss Off

"That was amazing," John had said.
"You think so?"
"Of course it was. Extraordinary. It was quite extraordinary."
"That's not what people normally say."
"What do people normally say?"
"Piss off."

"I see you didn't give fishing a chance," were the first words out of Donovan's mouth when John stepped onto the scene.

John had smirked awkwardly and said, "Come again?"

"Fishing," Donovan repeated, "You never gave it a chance. You're still hanging around with the Freak and," her eyes sparkled as she looked at the bruise just barely peaking out from John's collar.

"What are you insinuating?" John asked.

"Nothing," Donovan lied, holding up the crime scene tape for him to step across.

"Sherlock, I'm going to kill you," John said, standing in front of the bathroom mirror, examining the six bruises that started just above his navel and moved like stepping stones across his chest to the base of his throat.

"Why would you do that, love?" Sherlock asked, emerging from the other room, shirtless, wrapping his long arms around John's waist, leaning into him and resting his head along John's good shoulder.

Sherlock walked his long fingers across each of the hickey's, drawing a shutter from the good doctor every time his fingertips brushed skin.

"Sherlock," John breathed and with a sly smile, Sherlock attached his lips to John's throat, causing him to go half-limp against the detective, gasping and holding the arm wrapped around his waist for leverage.

When he broke the kiss, there was an angry, red mark, already darkening on his neck.

John caught Sherlock's eye in the mirror and shook his head.

Sherlock grabbed John by the waistband, spun him around and pressed flush against him. "You can wear a collared shirt."

"I suppose I can," John agreed.

Sherlock was, well, being Sherlock; bossy and talking to himself and moving with sweeping gestures of his coat.

Donovan was standing so close to John that he could smell her.

"What's the Freak like in the sack?" she asked quietly.

"What?" John reeled around, "You can't ask me that."

She smiled. "So, I'm right then? That little... love bite is from the consulting detective himself." Her words laced with venom.

John turned several shades of scarlet, licked his lips, returned to his normal color and said, "You know, Sherlock doesn't give your abilities enough credit." His voice cracked and he cleared his throat.

"No, he doesn't," she agreed, than dropped her voice low, "nor does he go far when looking for a cure for boredom."

"Excuse me?" John hissed.

"That was amazing." It was Sherlock who spoke this time, his breathing finally having returned to normal. Stark naked in his bed with John lying on his chest, Sherlock's right arm curled around to gently hold John's bad shoulder, the sheets tangled around their ankles. The afternoon light lay across their sweat-sheened bodies.

"Yes, it was quite extraordinary," John agreed, sighing contentedly. His left hand drawing lazy circles across Sherlock's perfect skin.

Sherlock got quiet a moment, biting his lower lip while still smiling. He turned over, rolling John off of him. "I want to try something," he said.

"You're bored already?" John asked.

Sherlock did not answer. He was already kissing his new lover's chest and stomach, discovering which spots made John giggle (he was a bit ticklish and had hid it well until now), which spots were unresponsive and which spots made him thread his fingers into Sherlock's hair, gasp and thrust his hips up. The detective proceeded to suck on those spots until the good doctor was bruised with pleasure and harder than he ever remembered being in his life.

But that only made Sherlock wonder what else he could suck on...

"You aren't actually suggesting I'm just a cure for boredom?" John was somehow managing to yell in a whisper.

"He's a psychopath. He's not capable of love or other such emotions," Donovan said. "I wasn't sure he was capable of.." she cleared her throat, eyeing the hickey on John's neck again. "Anyways, he gets bored. He cuts up dead bodies and does drugs. What makes you think you're not another cure for his boredom? What about when he gets bored with you? I think you should get away from him before he hurts you, because he doesn't have a heart which means you can't hurt him."

"You are unbelievable," John said, starting to turn away from Donovan.

She touched his arm. "I'm being your friend," she said, her words icy, "but you are free to make your own choices. I just want you to think about the reality of the matter."

"Well, thank you for your concern, but I don't think it's any of your business," John replied.

"Fine," Donovan agreed.

John had to go to work while Sherlock ran to and fro, looking for clues and solving the case, as always. John hated having to go to the clinic while Sherlock was on a case - he liked being apart of the chase, but he also liked having funds to live on and even liked the normalcy of it a bit. And, as of recently, it gave him something to distract himself from thoughts of... well, of what Sherlock could do with his mouth, and his hands, and even his legs...

But not today... Today he was not distracted by any of these things. Today, he was mulling Donovan's words.

John came home and stood at the bottom of the stairs and looked up them. He could neither smell or hear anything, so if Sherlock was experimenting with something, he was at least doing it quietly. He climbed the stairs and found the living room empty, checked the kitchen and it was empty as well. He stood there for a moment with his mouth dry and thought that perhaps the man was bored of him already.

He went to the door to Sherlock's room and pushed on it, lightly with two finger tips so it only opened two inches which he pressed his face against. The room was empty. Maybe he was still out on the case.

John checked his phone. No new messages.

Slowly, he made his way upstairs, the phantom pain in his leg occasionally buzzing, but he ignored it. He opened the door to his room and to his surprise found a barely clothed consulting detective sitting on the edge of his bed, peering up at him in a muted lamplight, wearing nothing but his blue robe, opened enough to reveal his chest.

"Sherlock?" John said, standing still in the doorway.

Sherlock pulled the robe closed. "Got the case solved several hours ago," he explained, "figured we could dirty your sheets next, but it is apparent to me you are upset about something, I could hear you favoring one leg all the way up the stairs. But, you're not upset about something that happened at work because when the clinic has upset you, you always head straight for a shower when you get home. Since it's not that, and you are being very quiet and have yet to kiss me, I assume you are upset with me for some reason?"

John shook his head and looked at his new lover, then he briskly crossed the room, threaded his right hand behind Sherlock's head and kissed him, gently on the lips, not letting the kiss deepen when Sherlock pressed into him. The kiss broke and Sherlock pressed his forehead to John's, looking into his eyes, his hand clasping John's wrist.

"John."

John then pushed both of his hands into Sherlock's hair and kissed him, deeply, the detective turning his face up to meet the kiss, his long neck bathed in the yellowed light. When he drew back, Sherlock was almost gasping.

"John, talk to me," he said.

He flopped down on the bed beside Sherlock and stared up at the ceiling.

"You are the only one who ever compliments the Freak," Donovan pressed the issue further.

John knew he shouldn't egg her on but found himself sharply saying, "So?"

"So, he doesn't have any friends, no other prospects, so he just," she stopped.

"He just what?"

"Beds the first person to say anything nice about him to his face," she finished.

Sherlock turned over and swung a leg over John's stomach and sat on him. John reached up and pulled the robe down so it fell off his shoulders and ran his hands up the detective's bare arms.

He peered down at the good doctor with his gray eyes searching the other man's face. "John?"

"Donovan suggested I am nothing but a cure for your boredom and that you picked me because I am the only one who has anything nice to say about you."

"Donovan is an untalented, frustrated woman who sleeps with married men," Sherlock spat, already working at the button's on John's shirt. He pulled the shirt free of John's pants, running his hands up the exposed skin, touching the day old bruises gently. John watched the fascination on his lover's face, the new experiences logged away. Maybe he was just an experiment, but now the worlds only consulting detective was unzipping his pants and, at least for the moment, he didn't care if he was just a cure for boredom. That worry would still be there when a handsome man wasn't undressing him.

Sherlock grabbed both of John's hands in his and pulled them up over his head, pinning him to the bed and kissed him fiercely on the mouth, than kissed down his jaw and latched on right below his left ear, sucking hard and making John squirm, another hickey rising to his skin. Then, his voice low and breathy, he muttered in the good doctor's ear, "John, I want you."

"Well, luckily, you have me," John said and awkwardly kicked off his shoes.

Sherlock let out a low growl, deep in his throat and reached one hand down John's unzipped pants, kissing him again. John's mouth lolled open and he pressed himself up into Sherlock's hand.

They had only been asleep two hours when Lestrade called at five in the morning.

John barely woke up, only drifted slightly out of sleep because Sherlock shifted his weight.

"John."

The doctor curled into his side, pressing his face into his rib cage, pulling one of the detective's legs between both of his.

"John?" he repeated.

The doctor mumbled into his chest but didn't otherwise stir.

"John, you have to wake up," Sherlock said, stroking John's hair gently with one hand, "There is a dismembered body Lestrade needs us to look at."

John opened one eye and looked up at him.

Sherlock smiled. "Good morning."

"Didn't you just say something about a dismembered body?" John asked, turning took look up at Sherlock.

The detective nodded.

"Not exactly a good morning than, is it?"

Sherlock kissed him on the forehead. "Waking up with you makes it a good morning."

John blushed and pulled Sherlock against him.

"But really, we have to go," Sherlock said, dropping the smile from his face and delicately prying himself out of John's grasp.

John shivered, his human heater removed from him and sat up. "Too early for this nonsense," he muttered.

Sherlock, already heading back to his room to find clean clothes looked over his shoulder and said, "I promise to bring you back to my bed when we're finished."

That was incentive enough for John to get out of bed and pull on the nearest pair of jeans and the first clean shirt in the pile.

He didn't look in a mirror before leaving 221B Baker Street.

Just because he kept body parts in the apartment for experiments or study didn't mean that six trash bags full of some poor young man hacked to bits didn't bother Sherlock. It just meant that he was able to keep his stomach contents to himself, which was more than one young officer on the scene had managed. The whole dark mood of the situation was dampening their budding relationship and it was not helped by the fact that Donovan was staring a hole into John as he studied the jagged edges of the cut severing the young man's left hand.

Sherlock was waist deep in the dumpster where the body had been found, pulling open bags, rifling through old paper. At least he'd taken his coat off and rolled up his sleeves.

John had seen enough. He stood up and moved away to the back of the scene to mull over the situation and wait for Sherlock to emerge from the dumpster.

"He'll probably be excited about this one," Donovan said, sidling up to John. "Something new for him to get off on," she said.

"Must we do this today? There is a man in six trash bags," John sighed, rubbing his face.

"Sorry," she said. John didn't believe her. "Look, I just don't want you to get hurt. Or end up dead," she looked at Sherlock, examining an old, leather shoe he'd found in the trash. "And you clearly haven't listened to me," she said, eyeing the hickey right below his ear so hard that John put his hand over it. He'd forgotten to dawn a collared shirt this morning, but even if he had, that one was too high to hide.

"I am an adult and, while I appreciate your concern, I will make my own decisions, thank you," John said.

He hadn't noticed that Sherlock had finally emerged from the dumpster, peeled off the rubber gloves that he'd put on for once in in his life and put his leather ones back on until he appeared beside John like an apparition.

"Unfortunately, with this one, you have to try something more blunt," the detective suddenly snapped.

John stared hard at him for a moment. Donovan rolled her eyes.

Sherlock than took John's right hand in his and clasped it tightly, but nonchalantly (yet even Lestrade noticed this from over by the Dumpster, it would be the talk of the Yard for weeks). He moved close to Donovan, even dipping down slightly so he was eye to eye with her, his gray eyes narrowed slightly and said, very frankly, "Piss. Off."

Her mouth fell open and for the first time since John knew her, she was stunned silent.

Sherlock straightened up, turned sharply and headed toward the main road with John in tow, still tightly (possessively) holding his hand.