Wrote this last chapter late last night in a fit of exhaustion. I edited it somewhat, but not much. I'm not too proud of this story, what can I say. But I did what I could. There's sex in this one, guys, and a WHOLE lotta fluff. I tried to write the sex the way I thought Sherlock would see it- I figure he'd be overwhelmed by the sensations, y'know, with his overactive mind, so that's what I tried to convey. I hope it worked, and doesn't JUST sound overdramatic.

Also, I am too lazy to research how long it takes for a bullet graze to heal, so I made some shit up. Ignore my incorrectness, 'kay?

Anyway... enjoy!

They sat that way for a long time (an hour, maybe?), until Sherlock's jittery fingers laced with John's were simply too annoyingly fidgety for John to stand anymore. He shook him off with an awkward laugh. "Go back to your little... experiment, whatever it is, Sherlock," he said dismissively. There was still a slight rouge to his cheeks from the lingering afterglow of the pleasure Sherlock had granted him. Sherlock couldn't help smirk at the sight of his as he stood.

Ah, stretching his legs felt nice, but his side felt cold. He had gotten used to the warmth of John beside him. It was weird. He brushed off the feeling as quickly as possible, and returned to the slide under the lens he'd left unattended. But oh, what a pleasant reason to abandon the work. Pleasing John was as satisfying as the work was. It was another mode of science, one as fascinating and full of possibilities as chemistry. Sherlock was enthralled by it. His desire to hold John's hand, however, was a different reaction altogether. He had not expected that from himself. He could not take it back now, though. What's done was done.

The rest of that day passed a little uncomfortably. Sherlock was feeling uneasy in his own skin, for his body was betraying everything he thought he'd ever been sure of. Was this what it felt like to go unsatisfied? Was this his heart wanting to please John further? He couldn't tell. He had never been so confused.

There was one thing he could be sure of: love and sentiment were chemical defects found only in the losing side, and that could not be what this was. This was only a physical need, not an emotional one. It had to be.

He shifted constantly while he sat in front of his microscope, as though there was a furious itch someplace he could not reach. It was an itch that seemed to reside deep in his marrow: unreachable and unnamable. He hated not understanding himself; he hated not understanding things in general. It was a useless distraction, one that was causing discomfort and frustration and was just an all-around waste of time. Damn John.

At this rate, John was sure to notice him squirming. He kept crossing and uncrossing his legs, and occasionally clearing his throat. But John made no indication of noticing him, and for that, Sherlock was grateful. They kept to themselves, and the day was uneventful.

In fact, the entire week following was painfully uneventful.

John was healing. He didn't do much. He took time off from surgery, and they got no new cases that required leaving the flat.

Sherlock got a few phone-ins, but they were dull. Dull, all so dull; why do people always bring me such simple problems? Why are people so boring? So stupid?

Just once, Lestrade showed up at their door. After explaining the recent case, Sherlock sighed dramatically. He stood, and started to pace. "Once again, Lestrade, you are simply failing to see what is obvious." The facts he had been given already spelled out for him (somehow, in that impossibly genius mind of his) exactly the answers the Inspector was looking for. He went on to detail exactly how the murder was committed and who they were probably looking for. Lestrade sat there open-mouthed, and John could be seen in the corner grinning to himself, despite not looking up from his computer screen.

Another excruciatingly quiet day went by, and there were still no interesting cases to speak of. Sherlock was actually dressed, however (this was rare when there were no cases to be solved). John took it as a sign that Sherlock was desperate for action.

Desperate, indeed. Sherlock had just thrown his mobile across the sitting room. "Idiots!" he shouted, wringing his hands. "This... is... ridiculous!" The sound of Sherlock's mobile slamming into the floor and breaking into its separate parts caused John to look up.

John's arm was mostly healed, now. Despite how much blood he'd lost and how much worry Sherlock had exerted over it, he was really fine. His movement was still a little stiff, and his arm still throbbed when he moved his arm too much, but that was all normal, and it was nothing compared to what he'd experienced in Afghanistan.

"Sherlock?" John didn't need to say more than that. He could tell Sherlock was looking for any invitation to speak more.

"Oh, it's ridiculous," Sherlock went on, starting to vent. "How are people so stupid? Why is there nothing interesting going on in all of London?"

"It's alright, Sherlock," John said calmly. "I'm sure a nice murder will come along soon enough."

"Yes, and what about now? What am I to do now?" He looked wild. Mad. His hands were in his hair. "A week, John! A whole week! I need... I need..." He stopped pacing. He stared at John with wide eyes.

John understood, and he shook his head quickly. "No," he said. "I'm not getting you any. Drugs aren't going to help you, Sherlock, and I'm not going to help you get any, so don't even try."

Sherlock looked intensely frustrated at this, and threw himself onto the sofa. He groaned as though being tortured. "John!" he grumbled melodramatically. "The world is vapid. How anyone survives the mundane existence of an ordinary life, I cannot understand."

John simply shrugged. "We manage," he said. As Sherlock rolled over, looking dreadfully irritated, John had a sudden thought. He could not help Sherlock with getting a case, and would never submit to Sherlock's desire for cocaine or cigarettes, but he could give him something- at least some short term distraction. Sherlock rolled over again, so he was face down on the sofa, breathing awkwardly against the cushions. He looked as though he was trying to suffocate himself. "Alright," John said, putting aside his laptop and getting to his feet. "That's it. I'm going out."

"Why?" Sherlock said. His voice was muffled. "What for?"

"You'll see," he said.

"Fine, go, You're lucky to be the idiot you are and still take pleasure in going out for useless things. I envy you."

John rolled his eyes, and left.

By the time John returned, twenty minutes later, the consulting detective had overturned the sofa. "Sherlock!" John placed his shopping on the floor by the doorframe, and approached the wreckage, not really sure what to do. "Sherlock... what...?"

Sherlock grunted. He was seated in his armchair, hugging his knees close, rocking back and forth. "Bored," was all he said, in a voice low and packed full of anxiety.

"Oh, Sherlock." John may have once pitied the man, but he was all too used to these tantrums by now to pity him any more.

"What did you get while you were out?" Sherlock eyed the plastic bag by the door. John went back over to it, and lifted it. "Ah," Sherlock said. "You got alcohol. Obviously."

"How-"

"The sound the glass made when lifted from the ground, and the specific audible sound of the swirling liquid."

John smiled. "Obviously."

Sherlock pulled a mocking face. "Yes. Obviously." He then glared at the bag John placed on the coffee table between their chairs. John sat, as well, and the thing sat between them like a challenge. "What is this for, John? Is this you having a laugh at my behavior the last time I consumed alcohol?"

"It was whiskey, wasn't it?" John asked, removing the amber bottle from its bag and placing it with a dull clunk on the wood surface. Sherlock nodded. "Right. No, Sherlock I'm not just having a laugh at you. I'm trying to give you something to do."

"But you know I don't like alcohol, John. My brain does not need dulling. It needs stimulation."

"I know that, Sherlock. But I..." John shifted. Sherlock watched him. The detective's mind was going into overdrive. He was glad for something to concentrate on, something to analyze. John was certainly interesting at the moment. His body language told him everything. It told him that John wanted Sherlock, that he was currently thinking about their two brief sexual encounters. In the last week, since Sherlock had pleasured John, Sherlock had avoided physical contact with John as much as possible. Sometimes, though, he had grabbed John's hand instinctively when passing him in the kitchen, or when leaning down to talk to him while he was on his computer. Those momentary indiscretions ended quickly, though, and they always left them both blushing. Sherlock tended to feel pleased with himself that he could make John blush like this, but that never lasted long. He got too quickly distracted by the sucking void in his mind or a useless phone call for a case that never led anywhere. Now, the tension that had been building in John over this time period was bubbled to his surface, ready to overflow. "Sherlock, I'd like to not ignore what happened between us last week. I know you need stimulation for your mind, Sherlock, but there are ways to distract yourself from that." A long pause. Sherlock squinted. "Physical... ways."

Sherlock sat back, and lowered his legs so his feet touched the floor again. He placed his fingertips together and gazed at John thoughtfully. "Oh," he said.

"Now I know that you don't like your mind dulled, but I'm a bit nervous about discussing this sort of thing with you, so I'm getting a couple of glasses, and if you want to join me in a drink, you're welcome to."

John retrieved two glasses from the kitchen, and returned to his armchair with a sigh. There was a steady blush creeping up his neck that Sherlock couldn't help but notice with relish. Sherlock's slow grin could not be contained. The front of his trousers was becoming uncomfortably tight, for he understood what John wanted, and to be honest, it didn't sound like a bad idea. He thought back to their first encounter- the way John's lips had wrapped around him and how he'd swooned at the sensation of it. Oh, how his heart had swelled, and his brain function seemed to cease at last. His mouth now watered for that feeling again. He licked his lips as he watched John unscrew the bottle and let the whiskey tinker out into the glass set before him. John then gave him a delightfully questioning look as he paused over the second glass. Sherlock thought for a second, then nodded.

Sherlock leaned forward as his companion slid the glass towards him. "Tell me, John," he said, and the army doctor looked up. "How long have you had these feelings for me?"

John's blush lost all subtlety. He was beet red. "Er..." Sherlock's eyes twinkled at the discomfort John held. He loved it. He wanted John to be as uncomfortable as he had been feeling all week. He wanted them to be on the same level of awkwardness. "I, er... well... a long time, I suppose."

"And you kept it hidden."

"Yes." John cleared his throat, sat back, and swallowed a large swig of the whiskey. "Until... well, until..."

"Until last week."

"Yes."

A moment of silence fell between them, Sherlock staring intently and John desperately avoiding Sherlock's eyes as he drank deeply to soothe his nerves. This was certainly an entertaining way to fill up Sherlock's boredom. Thank goodness for John. He imagined exploring that body would be immense fun, and at that thought he felt an uncontrollable stirring in his groin. He licked his lips again. "I am so glad you came clean," Sherlock said. "This could have so many benefits."

John shrugged. "I never would have. Thank the whiskey." He held up his glass.

"Yes." Sherlock lifted his own glass from the table between them and looked at it curiously. "Whiskey." He raised it to John with a nod of his head, and took a sip. The burn down his throat was not all that unpleasant, and a sweet warmth spread instantly from his mouth into his limbs. He smiled. "I am so glad," he said again. "It is... such a relief, and such an amazing discovery for myself. I have never..." He took another sip. "I have never felt physically needy towards anyone before. Anyone. I always assumed I couldn't..."

"Good to be proved wrong now and again, hm?"

Sherlock glared. "I wasn't wrong, I..."

"No, no, you thought you were asexual! You really thought!"

"Sexuality is fluid." Sherlock snapped irritably. "People make new discoveries about their needs and desires late in life all the time."

John raised his eyebrows. "Been reading up?"

"Oh, shut up." Sherlock downed the rest of his glass, and John chuckled quietly. When Sherlock placed his glass delicately on the table again, John refilled its contents for him. Sherlock sighed, glaring at his friend. "This is very weird for me," he said."

"I understand, Sherlock. You've said that before."

"I very much liked pleasing you when you were injured, however." Sherlock smirked at the reaction this caused in John. He was shifting awkwardly, and his face was twisted in embarrassment. Sherlock loved it. Yes, squirm, he thought. God, I'd love to see you squirm like that beneath me.

John cleared his throat. "You, er..." He took a deep swig. "I'm glad you enjoyed yourself. You're very, er..."

Sherlock laughed. "Look at you. So uncomfortable. I'm the inexperienced one here. Shouldn't you be more confident than I?"

Scratching a spot behind his ear, John smiled sweetly. "Ah, but I've never felt for a man, before, y'know. It's only ever been women for me."

"It's new for both of us, then. A world of firsts." Sherlock's pleased smile was growing.

"I suppose so." Silence fell again, and they both drank heartily. "God, Sherlock," John sighed. "You're really..."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, observing every tiny movement of John's face. "What?"

"You're really gorgeous."

You are sexy when you order me around like that. The words from that first night crept up Sherlock's spine and settled in the front of his mind. The desire to test John's comfort levels was enflamed. Sherlock was excited, and grinning fiercely. "Would you like to know what you told me that first evening when you came home wasted out of your mind and admitted your feelings to me?"

John cleared his throat. "Er... alright. Go on, then. How did I embarrass myself?"

"You told me that you find me sexy when I order you around."

The look on John's face was priceless. Not only did his blush grow deeper, but his jaw dropped and his pupils dilated impressively. Ah, Sherlock loved it. He wanted to push John further. This was too much fun, and his own desire for his friend was raging. His cock was pulsing. His stomach was fluttering. He had never felt such a strong physical pull for anything in his life. Was this the effect of the whiskey? He remembered how much he'd wanted John in the hospital. It wasn't all the whiskey, he knew. He knew alcohol lowered inhibitions, and he supposed it was merely breaking down a wall which protected him from the urges that he was so good at suppressing. Ah, he didn't mind, though. He downed the rest of the glass in his hand, and set it down again.

John followed suit, looking mortified. "Oh dear," he mumbled as he pulled the glass from his lips. His lips were wet with whiskey. A droplet lingered on his top lip. He didn't seem to notice. Sherlock wanted nothing more than to lick it off, and oh, at this point, what did it matter if he did? He wanted it, and what a waste of time and effort it would be to hold back anymore. He stood, and made his way to stand right over John.

They were in the same position they had been when John had grabbed him that first night to kiss him. This time, however, Sherlock took control. John's expression was wary and nervous. Sherlock took John's glass from the trembling tan fingers and placed it on the table behind him, never once taking his eyes off John's. Their gazes were locked. Sherlock was close to John's mouth. Too close. Oh, the space between them vibrated tangibly. Yes, yes yes yes, Sherlock's mind screamed of the closeness.

He could feel no breath coming from John's open mouth as he sat frozen. Sherlock grinned. He flicked his tongue out to taste the whiskey from John's lips, and that did it.

John exhaled dramatically, and closed the space between them. Sherlock's head spun. This was beautiful. This was perfect. This was better than any food or any drug, and was the greatest stimulant to his needy mind that he could ever imagine. This was what he needed. This was all he needed. Why had he bothered to wait so long to do this again? How stupid of him. "John," he groaned against the man's thin lips. "John... you're perfect." John pulled back for a second, his eyes rather wet. "Don't look like that. You are a perfect idiot and you are perfect for my body's needs." John snorted, but Sherlock quieted him with a quick lunge of his mouth. He pushed him back into the chair so John felt he was sinking into the cushions, being totally consumed by Sherlock's eager mouth. It was pure bliss. It was everything they needed, everything they'd been holding back all week now being poured into this interaction. John's lips were hot and delicious and wanting, and Sherlock was light-headed with the passion of it.

"Oh, god, Sherlock," John groaned into Sherlock's lips. Sherlock enjoyed the sound rumbling through him, and in response he delved his tongue deeply into the warm cavern of John's mouth. The army doctor moaned and melted under him. Sherlock wanted to claim him completely; to devour him; to own his body; to absorb John into him and keep him in there, warm and safe. The need was intense. Overwhelming.

Sherlock broke away as his desire reached it boiling point. "Stand," he demanded. His lips were swollen and wet, and he was breathing heavily, but he looked perfectly serious. When John did not obey, but simply sat there looking drunk and bewildered, Sherlock lowered his voice. "Do as I say, John." He sounded positively dangerous.

A shudder passed through John, and he stood quickly. His eyelids were heavy with lust. Sherlock loved seeing John like this. He wished he could have him this way, at his disposal, always.

"Go to your bedroom." At that, John's breath hitched. He looked weak. Sherlock lightly placed his fingers under John's chin, tilting his head up so his lovely roughed-up lips were more accessible to him. He allowed John the most delicate of kisses, and purred sensually into his mouth. "Go," he said. "Take off your clothes. Be prepared for me to explore you."

John's shiver made Sherlock's cock twitch. "Am I to be your distraction, Sherlock? Is that what I'll become to you if we let this happen?"

Sherlock grinned. "You will be mine to play with at my boredom. Yes."

"And what... what if I bore you, eventually?"

Sherlock was taken aback. "Impossible, John." He stroked the army doctor's cheeks. "I never feel this kind of desire, John. You must understand that. I do not feel it for anyone, and never could... except for you. Since last week... I feel it all the time. And I would appreciate it if... after tonight... you stop that incessant dating you seem so attached to."

The expression that played on John's face was a gentle one. He was clearly working something out. It seemed that he was recognizing this was as close as Sherlock could get to saying that they were 'together' now. After a moment of this contemplation, John's expression turned into one warmed by flattery. "Deal." John then leaned up for a kiss. But Sherlock denied him.

"Ah, ah, ah," he said, putting a finger to John's lips. "What did I say?"

John cleared his throat and looked a little bewildered. "Er... you said... to... go to my bedroom."

"That's right. And?"

"Take off my clothes." His voice cracked. Sherlock smirked,

"Excellent. Now go. I'll follow in a minute."

He went, on shaking legs, leaving Sherlock behind him looking pleased. The genius's arms were crossed. His expression was one of excited anticipation and firm authority. He could barely believe his fortune at having John in his life; John, who obeyed him completely and was willing to strip for him and become his. Sherlock's groin was throbbing uncontrollably, aching to touch John's nakedness.

In John's absence, Sherlock took a few long, slow breaths. He imagined John removing each article of clothing and thought to himself how lovely it would be, next time, to disrobe John himself. He closed his eyes, feeling bizarrely aware of his body.

A minute passed, then he made his way up the steps to John's bedroom with a bounce in his step that was so out of character that he was almost ashamed of himself.

"Ah." John looked positively stunning. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, his naked form inviting to Sherlock's gaze. Sherlock wanted to lick every part of him. His body was well shaped. He looked delicious. Sherlock made a sound at the back of his throat that was practically obscene. He could not help himself. He lunged, crossing the room in three strides with his long legs, and not wasting any time. He took his doctor into his arms, loving the feel of his bare flesh in his grasp. John's body was warm, so warm. He wanted to taste that warmth; to devour it. He pressed his mouth to John's neck and suctioned deeply as though he could really inhale the man and feel him in his lungs.

John's moan sent a tremor of intense desire through Sherlock's body. It was causing him to ache painfully. The two men moaned together, incessantly, greedily. John's fingers clawed at Sherlock's hair, and Sherlock's teeth imprinted into the flesh at the nape of John's neck. It was a total frenzy. "Uhn... Sherlock..." John moaned.

"Hmm?" It was hard to listen well when he was so intent on dizzying his naked friend into submission.

"Get... out... of those clothes..."

Sherlock laughed lowly, and pulled his mouth away. "No," he said. "I rather like it this way." John trembled. "You, bare and vulnerable to me? A perfect specimen for my curiosities? Glorious."

But John's hands were working hard. They slipped beneath Sherlock's blazer, trying hard to push it off of him. Sherlock chuckled, and pushed them away. He grasped John'x wrists in his strong hands, and John moaned again at this. His mouth was lolling open. His pupils were dominating his light irises. He looked completely enraptured. Completely submissive. Completely gorgeous.

Sherlock tightened this grip, and pushed John all the way onto his back on the bed, pressing John's arms over his head into the pillow. Both men were smiling deviously. "Oh, John," he sighed. "Do be patient." Sherlock transfered both of John's wrists into the grip of one hand while the other trailed down John's side. The naked doctor's back arched under Sherlock's overpowering figure so that his cock pressed angrily into Sherlock's inner thigh. The pressure made Sherlock's own loins enflame with need. Yes, thought Sherlock. He slid his free hand down John's torso and lingered on his hips for a second before pressing between them, and allowing for that first touch.

Both men swooned, heads thrown back and mouths agape in a lustful gasp. "Yes, John, yes," Sherlock breathed through his teeth.

"Sherl- Oh... god..." Sherlock's smirk was a dirty one. The pleading he could incite from John was interesting. Magnificent. Beautiful. His hand moved unskillfully across John's cock, figuring him out. Learning. And oh, how quickly he was able to learn. He knew a little already, from when he'd enjoyed John in his mouth, and now he was figuring out all John's pressure points- the spots he liked, the spots that made him lurch with pleasure. Before long, he had John in a violent sweat, panting like mad and reduced to a babbling mess beneath him. Sherlock loved it.

When it looked like John would not be able to stand it any more- when he was struggling wildly against Sherlock's tight grip on his wrists and he was red in the face- Sherlock let go of his cock. John cried out. "No!" he said. "No, please, Sherlock. Please."

"Mm," Sherlock said, nuzzling the purple mark he'd left on John's neck. "I like that. Say it again."

"Please? Please. Please. Please." John's begging was not only the product of Sherlock's command. It was one of the most genuine things Sherlock could ever remember hearing on another man's lips. And Sherlock found suddenly that he wanted to oblige those pleas more than anything else. He scooted backward a little, leaving John's body to the air, and John (to Sherlock's great pleasure), left his hands above his head where Sherlock had pinned them. The sight of John being this deeply under his control had Sherlock's cock hard and aching.

"Oh, John, yes." Sherlock began to work his tongue down John's stomach, trailing to the apex of his thighs where that delicious cock was straining towards his face. He avoided it deliberately, however. He allowed wet kisses around the base, but never touched it. He made his way around the tops of John's thighs until the army doctor was writhing and pleading further. His begging had become near-crying, and his cries all seemed to be wrapped around Sherlock's name in an insuppressible strangled tone. John clearly enjoyed the teasing. That was good. Sherlock catalogued this information into a quickly growing file in his organized mind.

Sherlock placed his lips lightly against John's balls. "Mm," he said, making sure the vibration shocked through his naked friend. "John." John moaned.

"Please," he choked. "Please, Sherlock, please."

He could barely help himself a moment longer. Sherlock delved his fingers into his own mouth for moisture, spit a little onto them, and with his wet middle finger, teased John's opening. "Again," he demanded.

"Please."

That was enough. Sherlock's senses were in overdrive from this new experience, observing every tiny flinch and twitch of John's body and expression, deducing what motions were causing which reactions. Oh, this was fascinating! Truly! This was enough to keep him occupied forever. He curled his fingers deep inside John's body, pressing a swollen spot near the front which sent John spiraling. His pleading became incoherent.

"Use your words, John," Sherlock said. He, himself, was so breathless, it was amazing he managed to sound so cool-headed. "Go on, John. What do you want?"

John was biting his lip, his eyes shut tight. He seemed to be holding his breath.

"Come on, John. Come on. I know you want something. Tell me what it is. You said you'd lead me. Help me."

"Uhhn... Sherlock... I... hn... please..."

"Please what, John?" His voice dropped to a whisper. "Please what, John?"

"Please, please, I need to have you inside me, Sherlock, I need it, I need it, please, please fuck me Sherlock, please...there's... lubricant in the... side table..."

Sherlock really didn't need a second telling. His trousers were undone quickly, and as they bunched around his knees, his long cock sprung free. He barely remembered gaining the self-control to retrieve the lube from the drawer to his right. The liquid was cold on his cock, but he ignored it. It was easy to ignore, of course. He was skilled at that.

The desperation in him was uncomfortable as hell, but it also felt incredible. The pleasure of need, however, was no where near as delightful as that which racked him as he pressed the head of his cock against John. He was teasing him into total submission, and that was beautiful. John's expression was the most incredible thing he'd ever seen. He took a mental snapshot.

"Sherlock," John cried. "Please, Sherlock, yes, yes, please. Oh, please. I can't. Please. Please fuck me, you bastard. I'm yours." John was bucking into him, trying to force Sherlock inside. But Sherlock would not have it. He wanted this on his own terms. Sherlock held him down at the hips, forcing him still for a moment, before he thrust all the way in.

The shouts and cries which burst from them both were louder than expected. Neither had half a mind to remember that Mrs. Hudson was probably hearing them, for each was too caught up in their own pleasure that it barely mattered. Nothing mattered anymore, not when Sherlock had himself sheathed in his friend and was holding him down like his life depended on it. His hand had found John's wrists again. He pinned them there (not that he needed to, for John kept his arms properly still). John was moaning at Sherlock's additional exertion of power. He lifted his hips, greedily forcing Sherlock deeper.

Sherlock moaned, buried inside of John, whose legs he had thrown over his shoulders as he fucked him. The bliss rolled over both of them in delicious waves. This was heavenly. This was better than either of them expected. So this- this intense shower of ecstasy, this, Sherlock acknowledged... this was sex. How could he have ever considered himself asexual? But then, he really was only sexual for this one person, and never for anyone else. There was only ever John. And oh, how his body reacted to John. John John John John John. His brain seemed stuck on a loop. A pleasurably thoughtless loop. Oh, this... this, was glorious. This was sex. They should do this always, Sherlock considered as he moaned heartily into John's mouth.

The fire with which Sherlock fucked him only intensified as the minutes passed. On and on they went. John came first. He soiled his own stomach, and barely missed the front of Sherlock's shirt. Sherlock wanted desperately to release, but he held off. He continued his relentless pounding for what felt like forever. He was reveling in the pleasure, allowing himself to be completely absorbed by it.

It wasn't long before John was fucked through another orgasm, and it was this second round of violent clenching around his cock that sent Sherlock over the edge as well.

Ah, the sensation of orgasm through intercourse. He could never explain such a phenomenon. Never. It was something beyond his cognitive processes. He would very much like to never experience a feeling like this again unless it was against John's naked body, for it was John (oh, John, yes, fuck, more, John, John John, oh god, John) who did this to him. John who sent him writhing and grunting like a feral animal in heat. He was all teeth and claws- biting, scratching, sucking, and licking every part of John he could reach. He was on a plane of his mind he'd never reached before- a high that not even the cocaine had ever brought him to. He wanted to live up here in this headspace forever.

Then, almost as suddenly as such ecstasy hit him, he was coming down. The high, so similar to his old cocaine highs, ended too fast. As he collapsed beside his friend, Sherlock actually whined. "No," he said. "More."

John let out a breathless deep giggle, and stroked Sherlock's hair. "Can't have more immediately, Sherlock," he said quietly.

Sherlock let out a groan. "But it's over. It shouldn't ever be over." He thought of the last case they worked on. The idea that anyone would force this... that anyone would destroy something so wonderful in someone's life... that sickened him. He shook the thought from his mind. "It's too amazing for people to take advantage of. Too amazing to end."

John stared at him. Sherlock stared back. Both of them were panting and deeply flushed from orgasm and the lingering effects of the whiskey. "Sherlock, this is the way it is. It's brilliant for a short while, but then there's this part." John took Sherlock into his arms and held him close to his chest. "It sucks that it's over, but this part's not so bad, either." Sherlock's heart experienced an unusual palpation, and he jumped a little at this feeling.

"What..."

"Cuddling, Sherlock," John said. "You liked it in the hospital. Of course, you were a lot drunker in the hospital..."

"No, no," Sherlock said quickly, realizing that John thought he was unhappy with the state of things. Clumsily but confidently, Sherlock took John's arm and pulled it tighter around his shoulders. "This is good. I'm just... sad it's over. I want that high to come back."

John laughed. "Oh, Sherlock. I know that feeling. Once you start, you never want to stop. Damn, maybe it was a bad idea to get you started on sex, knowing how obsessive you can get with your damned addictive personality."

"No, but this is brilliant, John!" Sherlock exclaimed. His whole body was buzzing with excitement. "Don't you see? Now..." He actually laughed. "From now on, our sofa will never be upturned again! Our wall will not become victim, either! Now, when there are no cases or experiments to be heard of... I will have your body to play with!"

John shuddered. Sherlock could feel it through his cheek which he had pressed to John's sticky chest. "Oh, Sherlock, when you put it that way..."

"What way?"

"'Have my body to play with,' you say. That's...sexy."

"Is that so?" Sherlock smirked. He shifted, and pressed a kiss on John's old scar. It was white. The crinkled flesh was soft on Sherlock's lips. The new one, close to its brother, was still very pink. He kissed that one, too, and John flinched. Sherlock gazed at the healing wound. "I imagine putting your arms over your head the way you had them... I imagine that hurt."

"A bit," John said noncommittally. "Not bad, though. I was alright."

"I tried to be gentle."

"Ha!" John's face lit up. "If that was you being gentle, I'd love to see what you're like when you aren't."

Sherlock felt himself stirring again at these words. "Really? Would you, now?" His eyelids drooped.

John's eyes widened. "Uh oh," he said, pulling a mockingly hesitant face. "I can see you are going to become insatiable."

"A fairly sound hypothesis," Sherlock growled. At that, he pounced. He paid no mind to the fact that John's whole front was sticky with semen, nor that he was still fully clothed and would now have to do an additional laundry after this. He just wanted to be close to John again. He kicked his trousers from his legs, and this time he allowed John to shove his blazer from his shoulders. It was damp with his sweat, anyway, and Sherlock was glad to have it off. Their mouths, warm and wet, melded in a deep kiss. Moans lit up the room again as John used all the strength he had to burst the buttons of Sherlock's shirt in a single swipe.

Hours later, the colleagues had put themselves through three more gorgeous rounds of hard fucking, and one session of a softer nature (initiated by John, of course). John had his arms wrapped around Sherlock's naked torso in their post-orgasm state, and Sherlock was shaking like a leaf. John, too was trembling around his friend. "God, Sherlock, sometimes..."

"What?" Sherlock placed a kiss on John's damp neck.

A moment's pause.

"Sometimes I feel like I really love you."

Sherlock said nothing, but clamped his lips tight, closed his eyes, and breathed deep the smell of sex from John's aromatic skin. John stroked Sherlock's hair. He was learning that Sherlock really liked that. About time, too, because Sherlock had already learned most of the things John liked with his impressive powers of deduction. Physically, they really seemed to fit together perfectly, like two sides to a coin, or a blade and its sheath.

"Sherlock?"

The detective took a deep breath. "Yes," he said quietly. "I understand."

John smiled. He figured that was the best he was going to get from his friend and, for now, he was alright with that. "Hmm." He kissed the top of Sherlock's head, and the detective shuddered. "Things aren't going to change between us, are they?"

"Only in that we're going to screw senselessly during these fits of boredom, John."

"Ha. Yes, of course. Only in that small way. No big deal or anything." John laughed. He shook his head. "I can't believe this was all brought about by a single stupid drunken night."

Sherlock grinned. "Yes. It's all the fault of the whiskey."

"Hm. Whiskey." John nuzzled into Sherlock's mussed, sweaty mane. "Yes."

John was kissing him again. Sherlock's head felt light and dizzy. He had never been so relaxed in his life. His mind felt like it was taking a short vacation. Of course, the minute Lestrade called (a few hours later), he was quickly jerked back into his usual state of nearly-inhuman logic with an insatiable need for stimulation.

Sherlock threw fewer tantrums, now. From that night on, as soon as aching boredom began to creep up on Sherlock's needy mind, he would ravage John until neither of them could breathe properly.

The bottle of whiskey John had bought that first night they slept together was never finished, and the morning after, Sherlock hid it. John seemed to have forgotten about it, but Sherlock refused to. Perhaps he'd never understand what caused him to do this, but he knew what John would say if he told him he'd stashed the thing away for safe keeping:

Sentiment.

That's the end of that, dear readers! Let me know what you thought, so I can make note of it for future stories.