So, yeah. I went there; wrote a virgin!Sherlock fic. I can only hope I did an acceptable job. Here we go, then: the line yes I said yes I will Yes is lifted from James Joyce's Ulysses, but since this story is a journey at its core, Ulysess is also the title. John and Sherlock's exchange in German from the part V comes from Beethoven's sheet music; you can google it and read the article at Wikipedia (I'd also recommend listening to the music that comes with it). There are some spoilers for The Scandal in Belgravia, but except one they aren't plot-related; Irene Adler makes an appearance. Also, there is a bit of a soundtrack: three mentioned pieces, Schubert's Serenade, Beethoven's Moonlight and Ode of Joy (final movement of his 9th Symphony), and one more which perpetrates the whole story: Ralph Vaughan Williams's Tallis Fantasia. You should probably listen to them, especially the first three, since they are referenced in the story. The last one is up to you.

Another note: I have to thank CaffieneKitty, who recced my fics twice now (or was it thrice?). I appreciate it greatly and, well, keep doing it :D Finally, I'd like to thank all of you for all your splendid reviews and love. Also, I have to thank the OP of the prompt for which I wrote this. And last but not least, accept this story as my Christmas and New Year's gift to you all. Cheers!

I. We all have our little problems (they make our blood warmer).

Sherlock is barely fifteen when he starts despising his body. His flesh is bothersome and needy like an unpleasant relative (and he has plenty of those), always demanding food and care and sleep and sex; and Sherlock doesn't even have time for all the truly important things that interest him. Of course there wouldn't be any science without flesh and blood, but that doesn't stop him from passionately disliking his own corporeality.

Mind without flesh, it seems, would be the highest place for a man to reach.

II. A riddle to get rid of (one way or another).

When John discovers sex, he is seventeen.

Harry throws a party for her nineteenth birthday and invites the whole school. John wanders around the overcrowded house, not quite sure what to do with himself; he doesn't especially like getting drunk, and he doesn't have a date, and he doesn't even know half of all the people Harry invited.

Then, one of Harry's friends (tall and black-haired and with a wicked smile) pulls him into the closet in the hallway. And there (slow, she whispers, and then yes, like this, yes, don't be nervous, yes. you've got nice fingers, mate, use 'em) she takes a rather slow and delicious advantage of John.

Not that he minds. He keeps on grinning for days afterwards.

Sherlock is eighteen and winter holidays are tedious. He marches into Mycroft's study, locking the door behind himself. Then, he asks a carefully composed question.

He's expecting a very violent reaction; he is ready for it. He has envisioned the whole argument in his head already and he is going to win this one.

What he doesn't expect is exactly what he gets - calm consideration.

His brother slowly closes his book (politics manipulation of people boring) and gives him a long, even stare. "No," he says eventually.

Sherlock is silently reworking his plan in his head. No anger, no shouting, no exasperation - that makes it more complicated (Mycroft is getting more difficult to shock: update file). But then again, why 'no'? Mycroft is too clever for social standards, gender or familial relations to matter to him, and too alike Sherlock for the possibility not to have crossed his mind already. Something else is at work here, something he doesn't understand. And not understanding things is precisely why he's here in the first place.

"Why not?" It pains him to ask (help me understand, you're my brother, you've always helped me before).

"The data you require is easily obtainable from books, Sherlock." Mycroft is infuriatingly calm. "Why bother with a practical demonstration? You clearly don't want it."

"You don't know what I want!" The words are out before he can stop them, vulnerable with the desperate anger, and wrong, wrong, all wrong, because Mycroft is obviously right and he knows it and Sherlock knows it and they won't pretend that they don't, because pretending is for normal people and they aren't normal.

"Better than you do, obviously." His brother cocks his head, and his expression softens. "There isn't anything wrong with not wanting this, Sherlock. Trust me."

"I just want to understand," he says. "I cannot comprehend it. It's ... It's beyond me, Mycroft." And that alone, this confession about something being incomprehensible to him, is excruciating enough.

Mycroft sighs. "I know you won't agree with this, but there is always something incomprehensible, and not even we cannot understand it. Be glad it exists. It keeps us from living in an empty world."

"I don't have anything else but riddles." Because if you take his brain away, what remains? A pile of flesh. Some blood. A few hundred bones. Boring. Useless. (nothing but sociopathy and rudeness, I'm nothing if I'm not brilliant.)

His brother smiles at last, but it's a sad smile, and Sherlock can't look at him for too long.

"I'm going to need an enemy," he finally says, inspecting his nails. He initially intended to propose this after Mycroft obliged him on his first request, but that's immaterial now. "An immovable object for my unstoppable force. So to speak. Would you mind?" He knows Mycroft will understand; they are brothers after all, and so very alike.

Mycroft grins now, wide and pleased. "It would be my honour, little brother."

Sherlock doesn't say goodnight when he leaves. (He doesn't have to.)

III. Years pass, though (and the world turns but doesn't change).

John Watson is a riddle incarnate, shooting people and sleeping well afterwards, cleaning Sherlock's wounds with impossibly gentle fingers while yelling at him for blowing up a beaker of pig's blood. Sherlock doesn't want to solve him (you solve a riddle and then you lose it and then? and then you're bored again). He is more than happy to sit back and watch. It's rather like a fine mathematical equation, Sherlock muses, this John he has. Once picked apart, it loses its appeal.

There are, of course, some things that just never stop being interesting. Crimes, for example. Chemistry. Paganini. Beethoven, too. (and the way John smiles at me.) How he'll never, not even in a thousand years, stop loving his obnoxious brother.

Sherlock doesn't even try to solve John Watson. He freely admits it in the dark labyrinth of his thoughts: he's afraid. Afraid of what would happen if John ever stopped being interesting.

IV. Mirrors lie (never forget that).

Irene Adler is ... something else.

Sherlock knows what everyone thinks. Lust-sex-riding crop on his face-boring, but she isn't interested in all that, not with him, and neither is he. He does love her mind, though; so sharp and bright and hard, glittering like diamonds on her fingers.

So much like his own.

As mysterious as she seems to the world, she ultimately isn't a riddle for him. He thwarts her every time and in return, she dances in circles around him with a smile on her face. It's like a particularly fine version of perpetuum mobile. That's the only riddle here - the way he'll never get bored of dancing with her precisely because he knows it'll never end.

Simply put, she's him in another lifetime. And he's always had a very healthy ego.

V. It's really not a tragedy (but it feels like it).

John solves the riddle himself by getting married and leaving him. Bad ideas suddenly start to seem a whole lot better.

"Muß es sein?" John asks. Good chap, he knows his Beethoven, even if he's using it out of context. (Knows Sherlock's heart, too.)

(but it's the wrong answer and that makes the riddle unsolved.

it's too late now.)

"Es muß sein!" Sherlock answers, and dies. (Not really, but the high notes his nonexistent heart makes when it shatters apart make it seem a lot like a real death.) But the riddle isn't solved, not yet, perhaps not ever. That's the only reason he'll come back.

VI. Intermezzo (time to change the tempo)

After a year of being dead, Sherlock shows up on Mycroft's door. It's an ugly night, icy rain and bone-chilling wind making sure the streets are empty.

Mycroft opens the door and (lost weight got promoted had tea with John this afternoon cried afterwards why? because of me) looks at him like he doesn't even recognize him at the first sight. "Come in," he says eventually.

Wordlessly, Sherlock follows him through the silent, luxurious (empty and cold) house, dripping mud and rainwater on Persian carpets and hardwood floors, all the way to Mycroft's study (not his official study the one for business this one is only for him), which is smaller and quite a bit warmer than the rest of the house.

"What do you need?" Mycroft's face is expressionless. "Money?"

"Truce," Sherlock flatly declares.

He closes his eyes and collapses forward, knowing that his brother will catch him (he always does). He's shaking inside, feeling so brittle and far-stretched he's afraid he's going to shatter any moment now. His work isn't done, not by far, half of Moriarty's organization's still free, but he's so tired. He just needs a moment to lean on someone. A moment to close his eyes.

In the end, he clings to Mycroft for an hour at least, both of them sitting awkwardly on the floor, half-propped up on the bookcases lining the walls. Eventually, Mycroft's legs fall asleep, and he silently rearranges Sherlock's limbs until his head is resting in Mycroft's lap, slowly seeping water through his expensive trousers.

He holds him for hours and doesn't say a word.

And Sherlock sleeps.

(Mycroft will wake him up before dawn. He'll send him to the bathroom and told him to eat his breakfast, and Sherlock won't call off the truce until he's ready to leave, just so that they can sneer at each other a bit before he has to go back to the dead again.)

"Go home, Sherlock," Irene Adler says, eyes glittering under the shade of her black hat. Paris suits her, dramatic and beautiful and dangerous like a finely crafted blade.

"Not yet."

"Why?" Seine whispers in her hair, sun reflecting off her nails.

"You know why." He slides a finger over her wrist, counts her pulse. It still quickens up whenever she looks at him. It's a surprising comfort that some things just never change.

"But you don't." As poisonous as she is, she'll never hurt him (at least not fatally) and he's never been more grateful to know her. It's good to see himself in a mirror as splendid as she is, especially with all the little mysteries tucked away in the corners.

VII. And then some things shatter (yes, just like that).

All the same now, but when did one riddle become more important than all the others? (and that's another riddle.

this is getting ridiculous.)

Round around a garden like a teddy bear, and John Watson isn't a mathematical equation. He's something else, something altogether more complex and potentially unsolvable. He's tragically, painfully wonderful, completely foreign territory and also not his.

Staring at the ceiling of an old motel room, Sherlock lights his first cigarette in eight years. He lights the next one with the butt of the previous one and keeps on smoking through the dark quiet night until his blood feels like poison and his fingers tremble, cursing his brain to the hell and back.

VIII. Nothing comes without a price (but I always pay it).

"It's going to take me some time to get used to this," John states in a very calm voice. He's standing in the kitchen, completely, deathly still, and staring at Sherlock. (Sherlock with wisps of silver on his temples, Sherlock with a fresh bruise on his cheek.)

"I know," Sherlock manages to say. His throat is closing up so fast he can't do a thing about it, and he's unraveling, strings of thoughts flying apart, heart on fire, three years of alonealonealone, and then: "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry." (He hasn't said it before, just stood there silently and let John scream at him.)

But that's it now, he's done, he's so fucking done he barely even registers he's starting to shake, curling in on himself and repeating I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry like a blessed mantra, the only thing left that he can do (my lama in Tibet wouldn't like that one bit) because there's too much guilt for him to handle (how do people do this?) and then John's kneeling down before him and wrapping his hands around his wrists.

"Sherlock. Sherlock. It's ..."

"Don't you dare say that's all fine," he manages.

"No," John agrees. "It isn't. But it's a damn good improvement."

And this, this is like Schubert's Serenade (that one that's so perfect it nearly makes me cry with the beauty of it), because it's beautiful even when picked apart, and there are riddles inside, riddle in a riddle in another riddle and so on into infinity, and how could he ever think that he could grow bored of John Watson? He would sooner grow bored with his own brain.

And then, he allows himself a moment for a single vicious thought. He has always been nothing but brutally honest with himself, therefore (thank you for dying, Mary Morstan).

IX. But time doesn't stop, does it?

This time around, John doesn't get a job (or a girlfriend or a new flat).

He does get a licence for his gun, though. Sherlock calls Lestrade every single day and off they go, chasing after threads of information, prowling the streets of London like no time has passed in between one life and another.

When he eventually realises that he can at last afford solving a very old riddle, Sherlock spends merely five minutes calling himself stupid, thankful that John's at hospital.

Then he hunts down his nicotine patches and his violin.

X. Experiments gone wrong (such a bother to clean up, and acid burns on my face).

When John returns home, Sherlock is sitting by the open window, smoking his evening cigarette. He's mostly stopped smoking now and went back to patches, but old habits die hard and renewed old habits just don't die, period. That one cigarette he smokes every evening is probably the best he can and will do.

He knows John won't scold him about it. They are far more forgiving with each other now and, well, they're learning to pick their battles. John won't say a word about his smoking, but he will threaten to bin the more gruesome of his experiments if Sherlock doesn't clean them up himself.

Sherlock has to smile, just a bit. His fingers are trembling slightly, curved around the half-smoked cigarette. (I can say it's from cold, but why fool myself?) He takes a drag, inhaling deeply and holding the smoke in his lungs for several long moments.

"Tea?"

And exhales. "Please," he answers. A serious matter calls for a civilised discussion, and Sherlock is British after all. He listens to John moving around the kitchen, clinking with the kettle and the teacups, and slowly finishes his cigarette.

He waits for John to come to their living room, handing Sherlock his tea before sitting down in his armchair. For a few minutes, he listens to John telling him about one of the patients who'd came in with his thumb half torn off, bleeding everywhere and acting like it was just a scratch (three children unemployed wife works in a car factory the thumb was his fault came to the hospital because his boss likes to fire clumsy workers) and patiently waits for him to run out of things to tell. But John stops before he tells him everything (there was one more patient young girl propositioned him a trace of lipstick on his collar he moved aside in the last moment) and fixes him with a sharp look.

"What are you thinking about? Everything alright?"

"Of course. I was just wondering if you'd mind doing me a favour, John." Sherlock spares a moment to place his cup on the coffee table (how could I ever think I could grow bored with this man?) and then looks back up, crossing his legs and pressing his folded-up fingers under his chin.

John leans forward, looking wary. "I really hope you're not going to ask me to help you rob a grave or something like that. It always makes me nervous when you start acting like this."

Sherlock swallows a don't be an idiot which leaves him with a slightly bitter taste on the back of his throat. Then, he asks a carefully composed question.

He's expecting a very calm reaction (it's all different this time, John's different), hopefully a joyous one. He has considered every single possibility, he knows exactly what John will say and he's going to win. There's absolutely no conceivable reason John could have to refuse him.

But what he gets is exactly what he didn't foresee.

John doesn't even flinch at first; he remains as still as a statue carved out of warm wood. (he has so many shades of one colour, except the eyes, eyes are blue) Abruptly, his eyes narrow at Sherlock. "Is this an experiment?" he demands, voice hardened like he's staring down a criminal.

Mutely, Sherlock shakes his head. (why are you looking at me like I've just carved your heart out?)

"Oh." John exhales. "Oh, fuck. Sherlock ..." But he doesn't finish the sentence, dropping his head down instead and grabbing his hair with both hands.

Sherlock waits. He forces his legs to remain still. (give him some time. hydrogen helium lithium beryllium boron carbon nitrogen oxygen fluorine neon sodium magnesium aluminium silicon and then)

"I need some air," John says, voice strangely hoarse. "I'll ... be back. In a few."

He isn't back in a few.

Sherlock absolutely refuses to make any fuss about it. His experiments need tending to.

XI. Missing pieces (but the picture is still incomplete).

When John finally comes back, Sherlock's motionlessly staring through the microscope.

"Sherlock?"

"Not now," he says flatly. "Working."

"Sherlock." John's voice has just a bit of steel in it. "I may be an idiot, but I can see when the microscope doesn't even have a slide in place. Now, can we talk?"

Sherlock shoves the microscope away with a bit of unnecessary violence. "Don't you dare accuse me of being childish, you're the one who ran out," he bites out. John's looking cold and tired, hair windblown (been to the pub for a pint then had a long walk) and wrinkles around his eyes more pronounced (tender and sad and just a little bit exasperated). Sherlock wants to touch them, just with the tips of his fingers. (and then with lips but why?)

"That makes us even, then," John says, surprisingly affably. (and here it is, that spark in the corner of his mouth, that one that makes him so impossibly wonderfully destructively interesting) Then he very deliberately sits down on the opposite site of the table, slowly pulling his jacket off. He places his hands on the tabletop, between beakers and Petri dishes, palms against the worn wood, and looks at Sherlock.

"I'm assuming you're a virgin."

It's not so much a question as it is a simple statement, with the assuming bit attached on solely for the sake of manners. Sherlock crosses his arms over his chest, suddenly feeling supremely vulnerable. He has nothing to be ashamed about, but being in an inferior position is never comfortable. "I'd like to believe I've taught you better than to assume."

John finally raises his head, eyes sharp and unreadable. "I'm right, though, aren't I?"

"I fail to see how that's relevant."

John cocks his head, studies him for a moment. Sherlock stares back, feeling strangely petulant.

"Alright, then."

And that, well, that's unexpected. "Excuse me?"

"Alright, then, yes." John stands up abruptly, drawing his shoulders back. "I'm assuming you want to keep your bedroom out of this, so mine will have to do. I have condoms and lube as well. Let's get it over with so I can get some sleep."

It seems like he's getting what he wants after all, and that should please him, but Sherlock doesn't feel particularly pleased. This just doesn't seem right in a rather absurd way, and it's mostly got to do with John's hard, cold expression. It's so unlike him that Sherlock suddenly shudders in revulsion. He's never particularly relished the prospect of another person touching him all over his naked body, but he's rather certain that he wouldn't mind it if that person were John. Except that John now looks like a complete stranger, and Sherlock doesn't want that unfamiliar man anywhere near him.

"Certainly," he says, forcing a smile on. (can't back out now) "Just let me finish here, will you?" He grabs the microscope and slaps a random slide in. He needs to think, because this is getting rather out of hand now and he might actually be scared right now which is completely and utterly unacceptable, but ...

"God, you really are an idiot."

Sherlock's head snaps back up. John's whole stance has softened back to its comforting familiarity, his voice quiet and unexpectedly affectionate, and he comes around the table to stand at his side.

"You know I didn't mean that," John tells him, head still cocked (inquisitive rather than challenging now).

Sherlock can't help but nod. He knows (of course he didn't mean it, he's killed for me, he tried to die for me, it wouldn't make any sense but he never makes sense, that's why we're here now).

"I had no idea what do you want me to do," John continues, "but you've just narrowed down the possibilities considerably. Let's try this my way now."

John picks Sherlock's hand up, gently straightens his fingers, wraps his own around them.

"You're absolutely insane," he tells him.

"I know," Sherlock blurts out. He's never felt more out of his depth than right now, his hand in John's, John looking down at him with a gentle smile.

John overhears that. "But you've also saved me more times than I can count," he continues, unruffled, "and you're brave and really fucking brilliant and, alright, you're so beautiful it hurts to look at you. That's why I'd very much like to take you to bed, preferably every single day for the rest of our lives. That's also why you can't ask me for an impersonal fuck in the name of science and then be done with it." He pauses, studies Sherlock's hand in his for a moment before ducking his head and pressing his lips to the back of it for a moment, eyes sliding shut.

Sherlock stares helplessly at John's mouth on his skin, feeling a rather unexpected warmth spreading through his body, slowing him down, calming him, opening a yearning abyss in his chest. (yes I said yes I will ) "Yes," he says, barely aware of his words.

John's smiling now, a real smile, eyes alight. "Well, then."

Sherlock forces himself to focus. It really won't do to be so distracted. "Isn't this where you kiss me?" he asks (desperate foolish so warm),attempting to regain some control, because he certainly knows how this is supposed to go, he's studied the subject enough.

Except that practice is always different from theory, and while mashing mucous membranes together never seemed like an appealing action, it certainly is appealing if John's doing it, hand on Sherlock's cheek, brushing their lips together with startling gentleness, once, twice, thrice, then softly prising them apart and tracing them with the tip of his tongue, slow and tender like Beethoven's Moonlight.

"It doesn't make any sense," Sherlock says when John lets go of him, and he's surprised to find that his voice has gone low and unsteady. His mouth is tingling, which is illogical. He wants to do it again, which is irrational. His hand is clutching John's forearm and he doesn't remember putting it there, which is ... alarming.

John laughs once, quiet and affectionate, eyes shining. "Does it have to?"

"I don't know." Perhaps that's the appeal of it. "It's ... confusing. Again, please." More data is crucial, isn't it?

"Well, yes," John murmurs.

He pulls Sherlock up only to crowd him against the counter, hands reaching up, tugging Sherlock down by his hair and kissing him, harder now. Sherlock puts his arms around John, who is so impossibly, wonderfully warm, the heat emanating from his skin taking over Sherlock's mind like a fog. It still doesn't make sense but it's ... more than just pleasant or appealing, it's downright addictive, and unbelievably interesting, a whole string of information he's getting by having John so close (tender fingers soft lips agile tongue skin sensitive on the small of his back and if he pulls at my hair it makes me shiver); and the absurdly acute pleasure of having another mouth exploring his own (scientific fact lips are sensitive but this is absurd).

And he wants more; more of John, his skin, his mouth, more of everything. He tightens his embrace, tilts his head, tries to kiss back like John's been kissing him. His right thumb has slipped under John's shirt and he follows that addictive warmth, sliding his whole hand under and resting it on bare skin.

It earns him a surprised moan from John, and while he's busy enjoying the vibration on his lips, John bends his head and presses his wet (beautiful amazing absent) mouth to Sherlock's neck.

First lips, then tongue and at last teeth, sinking in with a rough gentleness, and Sherlock jerks and gasps, clutching John to him, mind going silent for a second and senses singing. That impossible, wonderful warmth is all over his body now, skin hot and flesh suddenly feeling hungry, and there isn't enough air. Getting his mouth on John's skin seems imperative, and he desperately presses his lips against his ear, biting down when simple contact isn't enough.

But then John's pulling away, and that's absolutely unacceptable. He follows him blindly, hands refusing to let go, even though John's firmly pushing him away.

"No," he says, but it's closer to a whimper, and then: "More, please, John."

"Christ." John's voice is ragged, breathless. He pries Sherlock's fingers from his jumper and takes a step back. He licks his lips once, then again, eyes glittering.

"What's wrong?" Sherlock demands. He can't stop staring at John. He can't breathe properly, either.

"I need to calm down," John says firmly, even though the effect is diminished by his flushed face. "And you have to slow down. Jesus, Sherlock, you can't ask me to be the responsible one here at this pace!"

Sherlock slumps against the counter, grinning. There really isn't anything to be nervous about anymore, not with his own blood singing in his veins and certainly not with John looking like that, absolutely ruined, hair mussed and breathing hard, eyes aglow, obviously aroused, and the magnificent display is Sherlock's doing.

And speaking of arousal, he's in a similar state himself, which is surprising to say the least. He's no stranger to perfunctory surges of libido; they usually demonstrate in morning erections once or twice in a fortnight and he takes care of them with the same impersonal attitude with which he performs his personal grooming. In his puberty, such occurrences were far more common. This, though, is the first time he's aroused because of somebody else, somebody outside himself and his thoughts, and the first time it feels so consuming, a storm of sensations all over his body instead of a mildly distracting ache in his groin. Such phenomenon is not to be wasted on boring notions of responsibility, not when every single cell of his body seems to be pleading for John.

"I want you," he tells John, watching his eyelids flutter. "I never wanted anyone before in all my life, John. And you want me too. I fail to see the problem."

John's pulse quickens up; Sherlock can see it in his neck. "Sherlock, you may be very ... enthusiastic right now, but I don't think you're in a right state to make decisions. The last thing I want is for you to wake up in the morning and regret the whole thing even happened."

"But I've already made my decision, John, remember? And you said yes." Why would he ever regret something as wonderful as this? He does regret not doing this sooner (four years wasted, god, it's criminal), so why waste time now? And right now, being this far away from John is downright unbearable.

John rubs his forehead, exasperated. "Sherlock ..."

"Touch me again," he pleads. "I cannot think like this."

Capitulation is unexpectedly glorious, especially when it comes in the shape of John gently stroking his cheek, passing his thumb over Sherlock's lips that part on their own accord. Sherlock leans into the caress, breath escaping him in a rush, nudging John's hand with his nose, dropping a kiss on the inside of his wrist and then coming back for another. He seeks a vein with his tongue, wondering if he could measure John's pulse like this.

"Please," he says, voice ruined, composure in shatters, broken down by a simple touch (not so simple it's John John and his cells on mine it's glorious it's mathematically perfect). It's terrifying, actually, that this is affecting him so much; he doesn't even care that he's begging, and that alone should be disturbing. The worst (the best) thing is that he would never suspect to end up enjoying this so much, this messy carnal act that was only meant to be an experiment.

And they haven't even started yet.

"This is insane." John's voice is shaking. "I shouldn't even be considering this. I ought to take you to a date first at the very least."

"Boring," Sherlock moans, biting his wrist and inducing a whimper from John that tingles down his spine like a caress.

John slowly exhales. "Fine. Fine." He kisses Sherlock's jaw. "I suppose we can at least take the edge off. So to speak."

XII. And then over the edge for a taste of death (a different death this time).

John takes Sherlock up to his room, closing the door behind them and turning up his bedside lamp. Then he turns to Sherlock, smiling softly.

Desire doesn't make him nervous, as novel as it is; but this look in John's eyes does. The unnamed tenderness and excruciating care with which he regards Sherlock are the main cause of the hungering ache he feels in the depths of himself. But he doesn't know what this yes I said yes I will Yes is, or how it works (he used to look at mary in a similar manner but never exactly like this, never burning so brightly), and it scares him.

This simply won't do, being scared now. "Right," Sherlock says pointedly, and unbuckles his belt.

John's hands stop him before he can get to the button. "For god's sake, Sherlock, slow down, will you. Come on, let me."

A logical choice would be to go for the front buttons of Sherlock's shirt, but John picks his left hand up and starts on his cuff. The buttonholes are small and fabric is stiff, but John's (short but nimble and unexpectedly lovely) fingers do the job admirably quickly.

"Something bugs me, though." John strokes the inside of his bared wrist with his thumb once before starting on the right cuff. "Why me? God, why not Irene?"

Yes, why? Sherlock knows he has a reasoning, but it seems a bit vague now that he has to explain it to John. "Because I trust you with my life, so trusting you with my body didn't seem much of a stretch." But that's not quite true, isn't it? "Because I've always wanted to know why people like sexual intercourse so much, but I've never met anyone I wouldn't mind performing it with." That's still not quite right. "I don't know," he finally admits, feeling slightly desperate. "I just wanted to understand. An experiment, do you see? And I trust you, I've always trusted you, and I know you so well but I still don't understand you, you're improbably interesting, a logical anomaly, did you know that? I thought I wouldn't mind the body fluids and the closeness and all the mess that comes with it, if it were you. I didn't expect to ... to like it, or for you to look at me like this."

John studies him for a moment, still smiling. "Should I be offended? I honestly don't know, this was quite a ramble, but since it's always the opposite with you, I'll just take it as a compliment. Well done."

Sherlock huffs (obviously, you idiot, can't you listen), but then John's pulling his head down to his and kissing him, and kissing him, and kissing him until the boring act of breathing loses its meaning completely. Oxygen isn't imperative anymore, since Sherlock has John to breathe for him now, pushing little shivering gulps of heartbeat down his throat. John's unbuttoning his shirt now, sliding his hands further under the fabric with each button undone. And here it is at last, John's hands on his skin, mathematical perfection-logical fallacy-wonderful against all odds, and most of all not enough, the heat rising somewhere deep in his chest and a strangled moan disappearing into John's mouth.

Not enough (never enough, not if it feels like this) and too much as well, and it isn't difficult to figure out, even with mind as compromised as this. John gasps as in pain when Sherlock presses their hips together (otherwise known as frottage expression derived from french word for rubbing) and he moans and does it again, then shoves a hand down John's trousers just to get at more bare skin. That earns him a buck of John's hips, a thumb rubbing his nipple, John's teeth in his neck again and Sherlock's knees promptly turn to water. It's insane, so much warmth and hot hands on his chest (sinking through the skin muscle bone to the heart) and glowing shivers of surprised pleasure consuming his flesh.

It's not enough for either of them, John pulling clothes away with amazingly steady hands and Sherlock kissing him even when the fabric of John's undershirt is between their lips. It's too much at the same time, because John's pressing his mouth to his skin everywhere he can reach, trembling lips and stuttering breath, and Sherlock surrenders the last remains of his composure with a gasp, falling backwards into the bed and pulling John down with him.

Only flesh and skin and John John John now, his body taking over with a shivering, hungry mouth and begging, greedy hands, and a wide-eyed, fascinated, desperate realisation that this is anything but carnal and boring; it is sublime beyond imagination, a perfection of mind and matter merging together into one single, shining, glorious flight of blinding pleasure. It's better than crime, his hips rising under John's, better than cocaine and a thousand times more addictive, a composition of compositions played with teeth and fingers, notes of Ode of Joy turned incarnate. This must be how his violin feels when he plays it, utterly at the mercy of his will while he's at the mercy of her voice.

Nothing to hesitate anymore, moments of mindless yearning blending together into the glorious cage of John he never wants to escape from. It feels like dying, body and mind unraveling and seeping through his skin; too much fascination and heat and golden songs of his skin under John's hands. It's merciless and terrifying and he never wants it to stop, just let it fly higher and higher, until there isn't anywhere to go anymore, the end of the road, even though it still isn't enough. At last control is relinquished with breathless abandon, standing on the edge of the abyss; he tumbles over, laughing, and disappears into the glowing depths.

It takes him a while to come back to himself after that. John's kissing him with trembling lips and breathing for him again, murmuring love you Sherlock so much in his mouth and Sherlock slowly wills his breathing to calm down.

His fingers are digging into John's hips hard enough that there will be bruises in the morning. Echoes of pleasure are still resonating through his limbs. John's stroking through his sweat-damp hair and he won't stop kissing him, pressing his lips to Sherlock's again and again like kissing is as imperative as a heartbeat.

Sherlock closes his eyes and kisses back.

XIII. Things to name and riddles to solve (from now on until the end of me).

And later, hours later, after they've slept and showered, John makes tea and toast and they sit on the sofa, Sherlock's feet in John's lap, and eat.

John has yet to stop smiling, and he keeps throwing small sideways glances at Sherlock. They've shared the shower, and his messy hair is still damp. A faint bruise is peeking from under the collar of his shirt. Sherlock knows John's thinking about the exact moment he made that bruise.

Sherlock leans over (he is mine now) and steals another piece of toast from John's plate. "I need more data," he states, deliberately keeping a level tone. It's more difficult then it should be; the last night is still fresh under his skin, in his bones.

John smiles even wider and slides his fingers over Sherlock's ankle. "Of course. Angelo's at eight?"

Sherlock is inexplicably puzzled for a moment. John always understands him, so why wouldn't he now?

"A date, you idiot." John's grinning at him and Sherlock is suddenly sharply transported years back, to a day like any other, when a small, unassuming John Watson killed a man for him and him alone, and called him an idiot for the first time.

He can't help but laugh incredulously, because this is wonderful. How far back does this go, then? All the way back to the day they met, all the way before the Reichenbach and Marry and The Woman? How long was there a possibility of yes, completely unnoticed and unseen?

Sherlock doesn't know. It's a riddle, then; another of those unsolvable ones that come with John. He's glad, though; he may just be able to solve them all before dying. He doesn't believe in fate, but he can see the facts and draw a conclusion.

"Yes," Sherlock Holmes says and kisses John Watson, upsetting their plates and sending his empty teacup crashing to the floor. "Yes, I will." Another kiss, and long years to come in which he will study John like an unknown landscape, made him his own completely and irreversibly. "Yes." And then the end, of course.

A glorious one.