A/N: First, Warnings: This story as not been beta-read so will most likely contain grammar and spelling mistakes. I did use spell-check, but there is only so much the thing can do. I apologize for these mistakes but you have been warned.

While watching the opening scenes of Hound of the Baskervilles, I couldn't help my mind running away with me for a few moments. This is what came of it. Enjoy.

Note: Fag is English slang for cigarette.

It was all Mycroft's fault. That fag on Christmas day, though well intentioned considering the turmoil, had sent Sherlock reeling back into old habits. And you know what they say; Old habits are hard to break. So now Holmes was going crazy with need for a cigarette after a disappointing case. He'd strolled back into the flat not two hours ago covered in blood and brandishing a harpoon gun to the surprise of his flatmate John Watson, who'd spent most of the morning reading the papers and enjoying the rare peace and quiet that came with Sherlock's absence. When he'd seen the blood his first reaction would probably amaze most people, it wasn't concern or horror, it was calm acknowledgement and a comment on Sherlock's travel arrangements.

Now dressed in a clean shirt and pants, with his favourite blue dressing gown on, bellowing behind him like some sort of superhero cape, Sherlock marched around the flat bare foot still carrying the weapon and snapping his flatmates head off, while John tried to distract him with various newspaper reports. He smirked as he mentioned another article on the world's only consulting detective, which had been publish along with the picture Sherlock despised of himself in the now infamous deerstalker hat.

Sherlock froze by the window, growing increasingly agitated. Slamming the butt of the harpoon against the floorboards, he turning desperate eyes on Watson. "John, I need some. - Get me some." he ordered.

John turned to look at his friend. "No."

"Get me some!" Sherlock repeated with more force, his face crumbling up in frustration.

"No. Cold turkey, we agreed. - No matter what." John informed him calmly, sighing with relief when Sherlock finally put down the harpoon. "Anyway…" he continued smirking. "…you've paid everyone off. No-one in a 2 mile radius will sell you any."

"Stupid idea. whose idea was that?"

John stared at him with the silent answer. 'yours'

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Leave it to John to point out his mistakes, he thought, yelling for his landlady, "Mrs. Hudson." before turning to rummage through the papers that were cluttering the table and window seal. Opening and closing draws, cupboards and boxes. Anywhere he might have hidden a packet.

John merely sat in his chair watching the scene with some amusement. He knew he shouldn't find Sherlock's distress funny, but sometimes the arrogant shit deserved it. He tried to concentrate on the newspaper in his lap but when books and papers started flying over Sherlock's head, landing all over the floor, John turned to glare at him. "Sherlock, you're doing really well…" He announced trying to sound encouraging but sadly coming over as patronizing. "…don't give up now."

"Tell me where they are." Sherlock pleaded sounding increasingly desperate. "Please tell me."

Suddenly Sherlock stopped his random fruitless search and turned to John, pulling what could only be described as his best attempt at a wounded puppy look, he even softened his voice. "Please."

John pressed his lips together trying not to laugh at the absurdity of it. Sherlock Holmes, the greatest detective of the 21st century couldn't find a small packet of cigarettes in his own flat. Now that was most defiantly blog worthy. "Can't help, sorry." he said shaking his head and turning back to his paper to hide the amusement.

"I'll let you know next week's lottery numbers." Sherlock bribed, his voice returning to its normal arrogantly confident, if somewhat despairing, self.

John just laughed. No matter how cleaver Sherlock Holmes was, he wasn't psychic and John knew that, even if Thomas down the street didn't.

Holmes huffed. "It was worth a try." he said, looking around the room, trying to deduce where John and Mrs. Hudson had hidden his emergence stash.

"Yeah well, you'll have to do better than that." John smirked into his paper. Words he would live to regret.

Sherlock stopped and stared at his flatmate. John knew where they were, it was just a matter of getting the information from him. Usually he would be able to deduce it from the way John sat, or spoke or looked. But he'd become too good at hiding the important stuff, after almost a year living together. Sherlock knew it was his own fault. By telling John how it was done, John could avoid being caught. Damn the man. But there was more than one way to skin a cat, his mother used to say. If he couldn't bribe the whereabouts from his flatmate, or deduce it, that only left one option open to Sherlock. Something he'd learn from his recent dealing with 'The Woman.'

John glanced up as Sherlock towered over him, a raised brow. "Yes?"

"Where are they?" Sherlock asked one final time, because he was always a reasonable man and if John told him now he wouldn't go through with his plan.

John however shrugged. "Told you, there aren't any."

"Wrong answer John." Sherlock said almost menacingly.

John squealed as Sherlock's mouth crashed down on his. The paper falling to the floor as he lifted his hands to fight off the crazed nicotine addicted detective. He tried to shift back against the chair to put some space between them, but Sherlock followed him, pressing him back into the cushions. His warm lips never leaving Johns. His hands placed on either arm of John's comfy chair. His knee resting itself against John's thigh to give Sherlock more leverage.

John kept his lips firmly closed, even though he wanted to order Sherlock to get the hell off him, his hands scrambled to Sherlock's chest, trying to push the man away while wriggling in his seat. All the time wondering what had gotten into his flatmate. Surely he wasn't this much in need of a fag. John wasn't surprised that it was so difficult to dislodge the detective, Sherlock may look all skin and cheekbones, but he was strong. - Especially when he wanted to be. Damn the man.

Finally Sherlock released John in order to take a gulp of well needed air.

"What the hell Sherl…" he didn't get to finished the question as Sherlock went back to his previous activity. John was still struggling when he felt a shift in Sherlock's weight. He thought that the man had finally come to his senses and was already thinking about the right hook he'd give him. Sadly he was in for more of a surprise.

~ SHERLOCK ~

Sherlock's was rather enjoying this, he had to admit. Making John uncomfortable was always fun. Surprising him was better. But like with everything else, it was getting harder and harder to really do so, at least till now, because there was no way John had been expecting this. He didn't even try to stop the arrogant smile spreading across his face as he continued to attack John's mouth. The woman was most defiantly right. Seduction was far easier than force or bribery. A little more and John would happily tell him where his cigarettes were, just to stop it. Just a little more pressure. Sherlock thought as he moved his hand from the right armrest of the chair and placed it on John thigh.

John practically screamed and jerked off his seat when he felt Sherlock's hand slide up the inside of his thigh. Of course Sherlock, bastard that he was, took full advantage of John's suddenly open mouth to slide his tongue inside and do an exploration usually only left to a dentist or whichever girl he'd managed to convince that sharing a flat with Sherlock didn't mean he was gay, despite what this little scene may suggest to the contrary. As Sherlock's hand moved closer to John groin, the ex-army doctor grew desperate. He was frantically pushing at Sherlock and struggling in his seat. He finally decided to resort to the most un-masculine thing ever. Sliding his arm around Sherlock's neck, he wrapped his fingers into the dark curls and tugged. Of course it was totally the wrong move he realized when Sherlock moaned into his mouth. And it didn't in the least portray pain. He was sure Sherlock's hand skipped a good four inches as it landed flat against his groin, eliciting a reluctant and shameful moan from John.

This was getting quickly out of control. They both realized, but strangely it didn't stop. Sherlock didn't pull away with an apology and John actually seemed to stop struggling. In fact he seemed to be arching himself up into the invading appendage that had set up camp against his jeans. His fingers continued to tug at Sherlock's hair, though it was more as a way to controlling the man rather than a form of punishment or defence. John didn't know when exactly it was that he'd started kissing back, only that he was and that he was actually enjoying it.

John barely registered the 'coo-we' called from outside the door, or the gasp of shock followed swiftly by 'oh my'. Sherlock on the other hand had. He didn't pull away from John, this was far too educational. He simply lifted his hand from the left armrest and waved for the woman to go away. Mrs. Hudson to her credit giggled and rushed off without a complaint. She'd been expecting to walk in on a scene like this since the day they'd moved in, so frankly it wasn't all that surprising to her. With the older woman gone, Sherlock returned his full concentration to John. He moved his hand against his flatmates crouch, in a hard motion and was rewarded with a groan that rippled right through both men's bodies. Despite what everyone believed, Sherlock wasn't completely ignorant when it came to sex. He knew what to do and how to do it. And he most certainly had experience in wanking, he was a man after all, he had needs.

While Sherlock's tongue battled John's for dominance of their oral orifices, his hand moved against the throbbing patch of coarse denim. John's fingers where still tangled in Sherlock's hair, both sets now, and his body was moving up to meet Sherlock's touch. Sherlock was enjoying this distraction immensely, it was most certainly better than nicotine and a good percent stronger than the tea Mrs. Hudson would have undoubtedly offered him. In fact, Sherlock made a note; this may have to become his chosen method of distraction in future. When life or cases became far too boring.

He knew John was growing uncomfortable in the confines of his jeans when he began to fidgeting in his seat. Once more Sherlock smiled into the kiss and his slim fingers moved to work at the doctors fly. Then the bubble was broken by the bellowing voice of Mrs. Hudson from the stairwell. "Boys! There's someone to see you. - It's a case."

At the mere mention of work, Sherlock was pulling away from John. He smirked at the man's disappointed groan that he quickly tried to turn into a growl of disgust. Of course, Sherlock wasn't fooled. Not for one second. Still only a few inches apart Sherlock chuckled at the stern glare in John's eyes.

"Next time John…" he whispered hoarsely. "…you'll give me the cigarettes."

John's face was hard, angry and four shades redder than was consider normal for such an emotion. It was far closer to the shade one went when aroused.

John swallowed several times before he spoke. "You do that again Sherlock, you won't need a cigarette, you'll need an ambulance." he said, putting on his best army tone. Sherlock gave him a cool lopsided smile as he glanced down at the bulge in John's jeans. "We'll see." Sherlock straightened up, marched over to the door to swap his dressing gown for his jacket, dropped onto the couch and pulled on his shoes.

All the while John sat dead still in his seat still wondering what the hell had just happened and telling himself over and over he wasn't gay; he'd just gotten carried away. He hadn't had sex in weeks; he was frustrated that's all it was. He wasn't gay and he most certainly wasn't interested in Sherlock.

"John." Sherlock said breaking into his thoughts.

"What." he grunted in reply.

"Make yourself presentable, we have a client to see…" Sherlock smirked, looking down at him.

John glanced up and instantly became more infuriated at the smirking, self-satisfied and completely composed ass of a detective. Bloody man was never rattled.

He was still fuming when he heard Sherlock yell at the top of his lungs.

"Send him up Mrs. Hudson."

John leapt out of his chair and moved to the table, at least until his body was under control. He turned to Sherlock who was making his way towards him. He watched the detective drop down into the chair, he steepled his fingers, his elbows resting on each arm to wait for the client. It was only when Sherlock shifted slightly that John noticed he was sitting a little too far forward, creating a shadow out of his torso. John couldn't stop the smile crawling across his lips. At least he wasn't the only one about to sit through an interview with a client with a rather unwelcome hard-on. It would teach the asshole right.

Sherlock glance at him out of the corner of his eyes and smirked once again and John absolute did not feel a shiver of excitement.

THE END