Author note: Last chapter here. Special thanks to the magnificent Skyfullofstars, who beta'd and guided and cajoled and reassured me through all of this. Any mistakes remaining are my own. Thank you so much to everyone who read and reviewed, both here on FF and over on AO3 and tumblr, including Mirith Griffin, Ms. Brightside, Nattie Finn, Rairakku1234, power0girl, Aquata, , indianagirl77, Mel, Raye Black, Birdette, ladypredator, MoiDracula18, Lorean, huggu, Elfenwesen, lee82, nefariosity, tiffy190706, Tomsmum, StarryEyed41, paola, sandy, roseandheather, caring-is-not-an-advantage, sandsofpatience, katiekat, Becky, Leelee, and emma de los nardos. If I missed anyone, I'm sorry! :)

Warnings: Sherlock/John. Slash, slash, slash! Men getting it on. If guy-on-guy is not your cup of tea, then for heaven's sake, go ahead and avert your eyes now. References to previous abusive relationship and dub-con.

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Chapter 7

My head is drenched with dew,

my hair with the dampness of the night.

I have taken off my robe — must I put it on again?

I have washed my feet — must I soil them again?

4 My beloved thrust his hand through the latch-opening;

my heart began to pound for him.

I arose to open for my beloved, and my hands dripped with myrrh,

my fingers with flowing myrrh, on the handles of the bolt.

– Song of Solomon

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Fortunately, lasagna keeps warm quite nicely, so Sherlock and I sit down to a delicious meal in our sparkling clean kitchen. I look around in admiration.

"Who knew our kitchen cleaned up this nice? We should really try to keep it like this all of the time. It's nice to sit at the table like civilised people, instead of having to work around chemistry experiments and body parts."

Sherlock snorts at me. "You'd probably eat off a tray, watching crap telly, even if the kitchen was always this pristine, and you know it."

I kick him under the table. "At least I eat."

Sherlock takes a gargantuan bite of his lasagna and chews exaggeratedly. "So do I."

"Not nearly often enough."

"I've told you a thousand times, John – it's just transport."

"And I've told you a thousand times, you have to maintain any form of transport. Cars, aeroplanes, trains…and bodies. Besides," and I lean back to leer deliberately at him, "I quite like the 'vehicle' you're riding around in, and want to keep it in top condition."

Sherlock is blushing again, and I find myself remembering the all-over blush from earlier. Heat pools in my groin as I think about it happening again, right now, under that blue dressing gown.

I put down my fork, lick my lips, and add, "Speaking of the vehicle, after dinner…maybe you could give me a ride."

Sherlock's mouth falls open, and he's gaping at me, stunned.

"John, I…I'm not…not really sure I'm ready for…for you to do…that…to me." He's practically scarlet now, and the bloody fear is back in his eyes.

"No! Sherlock, I didn't mean… I was teasing…I only meant… Oh, hell, this shouldn't feel so bloody awkward. We should feel comfortable talking about all of this." I sigh, reaching for his hand.

"Sherlock, the reason that you found sex painful is that you had no preparation, no lube, nothing to make it easier. There are certain steps that should be taken before penetration takes place, and plenty of lube should be used."

I stroke the back of his hand softly, and continue, "I don't want to do anything that you aren't ready to do. Ever. Ever, Sherlock. All I meant was, maybe this time, we could try…well, I find myself wondering…wanting to know what…you'd feel like inside of me." Now I'm the one who's blushing furiously.

Sherlock's eyes are wide, and his pupils have dilated to the point that I can hardly see any grey at all. He swallows hard, and whispers, "I've…never done that."

"I know – neither have I," I grin at him. "But, two blokes who enjoy chasing serial killers across London can surely try something new?"

There's that little half-smile again, the one that looks so awkward and charming.

"I'm always up for a new adventure with you, John."

oOoOo

After we eat, we do the washing-up, Sherlock issuing his usual complaint about drying the dishes. ("It's busywork, John! They'll dry on the draining board!") I pour us both another glass of wine, and Sherlock reaches for me, pulling me against him for a deep, searching kiss.

"John, about earlier…" Sherlock pauses, obviously searching for words. It's fascinating to watch – Sherlock always, always has a witty, often acerbic, remark on the tip of his tongue. Seeing him struggle to phrase things is as rare as rocking-horse shite.

"…I had no idea, John. I never knew that sex could be like that. Now I understand why everyone is so obsessed with it, and people spend so much time going out of their way to obtain it. I want to thank you. It has been…most enlightening."

"You're welcome." I smile at him, then start to giggle a bit.

"Of course, that was my whole plan, Sherlock, leading you to enlightenment," I laugh up at him. "That was the driving force behind the whole scheme. I think I'll write it up for my next blog entry. What should I title it? 'Broadening the Horizons of Sherlock Holmes: A Blogger's Self-Sacrifice?' 'The Road to Enlightenment: The Sexual Awakening of a Consulting Detective?' What do you think?"

Sherlock lets go of me, picks up the discarded tea towel, and snaps it sharply to pop me on my bicep. "Wanker."

"Don't start something you can't finish," I warn him, snatching up another tea towel and giving him a reciprocating snap.

Being in a rugby league at university, with years of dressing out in changing rooms with other players, you learn to snap a towel like a bullwhip. Grinning, I use this long-held skill now, popping Sherlock sharply on his arse.

"Ow! John!"

"Oh, you can dish it, but you can't take it, eh, Sherlock? Only you should have thought of that before you started popping a former rugby hooker." I give him another pop, this time on the thigh.

Suddenly, tea towels are flying everywhere, punctuated by cries of "Ow!", "Bastard!" and "Wanker!" as well as gales of maniacal laughter. We rampage through the sitting room, back into the kitchen, and then out onto the stairs. As I make a tactical retreat down the stairs, then whirl and attack Sherlock in the entryway when he catches up to me, we are shouting with laughter.

"Boys! Boys!"

We turn to find Mrs. Hudson standing in her doorway, hands on her hips. She's wearing her dressing gown, and looks decidedly cross.

"I am so glad – absolutely delighted, in fact – that the two of you are together at last. And I'm certainly willing to play my radio at night, as my bedroom is directly below yours, dears. However," she draws herself up taller, folding her arms as she glares at us, "I rather draw the line at stampeding like elephants up and down the stairs after midnight, shouting like a pair of hooligans."

Sherlock and I both hang our heads, feeling sheepish.

"Sorry, Mrs. Hudson," we chorus, like two truant schoolboys.

She looks mollified – and then we make the mistake of glancing at each other.

Sherlock's hair is standing out wildly around his head like dandelion fluff, his shoulders are slightly slumped, with a faintly mutinous pout on his face. I can just see Sherlock at 10 years old, as clearly as if he'd just stepped out of a Tardis from a quarter-century earlier.

I can't help it. I start to giggle. Sherlock's expression is priceless, a guilty smile creeping across his face, and then he's laughing, too. That's it – we both lose it, and we're roaring with laughter, clinging onto each other to keep from falling down.

Mrs. Hudson stands over us, shaking her head, trying to keep an exasperated look on her face – and failing. She joins in, laughing fondly, then reaches out suddenly to pull us both in for a fierce combined hug.

"You're so good for each other," she says, and she pats us both with a fond smile. "It took entirely too long, but I'm so happy that you finally caught up to what the rest of us have known for quite some time. Now, why don't you go back upstairs and find something quiet to do?"

Sherlock and I are still giggling a bit.

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson."

"We're sorry, Mrs. Hudson."

She turns to head back to her flat, then looks back over her shoulder with a wink.

"I'll go ahead and turn my bedroom radio on straightaway, dears. Have a good night."

Blushing a bit, Sherlock and I smile at each other, and chorus, "Goodnight, Mrs. Hudson."

oOoOo

Sherlock and I are back in our bedroom, back in our bed (our bed!). We have now had a somewhat embarrassing talk about preparation methods and positions, and we've gone through the supplies I bought at the chemist. It took a while to get past the nervous giggling and shyness that this conversation brought on, but eventually lust took over.

Now we're tangled in each other's arms and legs, breathless and gasping, enjoying the friction and slide of skin against skin, and it's amazing. The idea that I ever struggled with accepting this seems so ridiculous now. I've never felt so right with another person. It's never even been close.

Sherlock's hand slips down to lazily cup and caress my bollocks. My hips buck up against him. His fingers graze my perineum, then slip further back to ghost across my anus. I'm startled at the jolt that shoots through my groin. I flex my knee to give him better access, and bite my lip as he lightly circles his finger around my opening, then softly applies a bit of pressure.

Kissing me once more, he pulls away and sits up. Reaching for the supplies we placed on the bedside table, he picks up a small bottle of lube and a condom. He lies back down beside me.

"I hope I can do this right."

"You'll be fine." I smile at him, willing him to see the love and trust that I feel for him. "And we'll be amazing, remember?"

His just-for-John smile lights up the room. "Yes, we will."

I pull him in for a serious, heavy-duty snog, with plenty of tongue. Then he gently pushes me onto my back, coats his slim, elegant fingers with a liberal amount of lube, and strokes my cock twice, from root to tip. I groan and clench my fists in the sheets, and I feel his slick fingers slide into my cleft and stroke softly around my entrance. He circles, teases, and I find myself pressing up against his hand, seeking more pressure. Sherlock slips the tip of one finger inside.

I feel my body clench around his finger, and try to force it to relax. Sherlock kisses me deeply, and begins to gently move the finger in and out, careful to take it slowly.

I'm startled at how erotic this is starting to feel. I had no idea that this part of my body was so sensitive. How have I made it to almost 40 without knowing this about myself?

Sherlock slips a second finger inside, and it's uncomfortable for a moment, but it feels good, too, somehow more satisfying. He's pushing them a bit further in now, working them back and forth in a gentle, scissoring motion, slowly stretching me, as he occasionally strokes my cock with his free hand.

Suddenly his fingertip barely brushes a spot inside that sends a thrilling sensation through me, and I cry out from the shocking pleasure of it. He has found my prostate. The effect is extraordinary, almost as though he has somehow managed to find a way to massage inside my cock, behind my frenulum. He slips in a third finger, ghosting a finger across my prostate again, and I am gasping and writhing and good God this is amazing. My erection has suddenly gone rock-hard, harder than I've ever been in my life. How did I not know about this?

Then Sherlock gently slips his fingers out of me, and I groan from the sudden sensation of loss.

"Sherlock, please!"

He fumbles with the condom, and I assist him with rolling it on, desperate to feel more, needing that sensation inside of me again. I apply lube to my fingers, and stroke it over his sheathed shaft, causing him to gasp and jerk up into my hand.

Sherlock kneels above me, and rather awkwardly hitches my left leg up over his right hip, lining his cock up with my opening. And then he gently, carefully pushes against me, the slightly soft tip pushing in, then the much harder girth of him stretching me out. I let out a guttural moan, and he freezes for a moment, starts to withdraw. I grab at his arse, holding him still.

"Don't…don't go, just give me a second," I gasp. He nods wordlessly, and waits for me to speak. After a moment, I whisper, "Okay."

Slowly, slowly, Sherlock eases forward, sliding deeper, until finally, he is as deep as he can go.

Ohhhhhhhhhh. That's…different.

Sherlock's wide eyes meet mine, and we are frozen for a moment. The significance of this moment has hit us both, and we are silent, gazing into each other's eyes, each checking to make sure the other is all right. Finally, I nod to him, and tighten my grip on his arse.

Sherlock begins to rock, slowly at first, and an obscenely loud moan escapes my lips. The sensation is overwhelming. I feel so vulnerable, so naked – and yet at the same time, I've never felt so hot before, so primal. Every thrust makes me groan, or moan, or shout, and I have no control over it at all.

Sherlock leans down to kiss me, to nip at my neck, and tries to slip a hand between us, trying to stroke my cock, but the angle is too difficult. I hook my leg through his and shift my weight to roll us over, managing to do it without disengaging, and then I'm straddling his lap. I sit back a bit, he brings his knees up behind me to gain leverage, and begins slowly thrusting up into me, wrapping his hand about my erection to stroke it firmly.

Christ, this angle is incredible. His cock is grazing across my prostate with every stroke, and he is stroking me, and I'm not going to last….

With a hoarse shout, I'm undone, unspooling in ribbons of white across Sherlock's belly and chest and oh dear God, his cheek and it's the most amazing sensation of my life I love you I love you I love you so much Sherlock I love you…

Sherlock is snapping his hips hard now, driving deeply upward into me, and then he cries out, "John! Jooohhhnnn!" and throws his head back, shuddering as he comes inside of me.

I collapse onto him and we lie still for a moment, the only sound the softly playing Vivaldi on the ipod dock, punctuated by our harsh breathing. At last I shift, rolling off of him, and he slips out of me.

Sherlock rolls away for a moment, fumbling with the condom, then he is back, pressing up against me, and I gather him up in my arms, holding him tightly. We kiss softly, reverently, savoring this new intimacy. Then Sherlock shifts, pressing in more closely still, pillowing his curly head on my right shoulder. I wrap my arms around him and card my fingers through his tousled locks, pressing kisses to his forehead.

"I love you."

"I love you, too."

oOoOo

After a few minutes of lying wrapped in each other's arms, not talking, just savoring the afterglow and breathing each other in, Sherlock pulls back, cupping my face in his hands. Those astonishing, silvery sloe eyes gaze deeply into my own, and I feel as though he can see into my soul.

"I don't do this very well, but you need to know something," he whispers.

"John Watson, you are the most amazing, beautiful man I've ever known. I don't know what I did to deserve you…actually, I really don't deserve you…but, I'm grateful to whatever fates are responsible that you survived being shot. I'm grateful that you trained at St. Bart's with Mike Stamford. I'm grateful that I was feeling tolerant of his idiocy that morning, and let him blather on at me about the cost of living and the advantage of flatsharing in London. I'm grateful that you agreed to live with me in Baker Street. I'm grateful for your friendship, your loyalty, your willingness to follow me into danger. And I'm so deeply, incredibly grateful that you were willing to take a leap of faith and let our friendship develop into something more. I love you so much, John."

Wow. I'm speechless. Who knew Sherlock Holmes, of all people, could say something like that?

I reach up and curl my fingers into his silky hair, pulling him closer, and kiss him deeply.

"Sherlock Holmes, you are incredible. A miracle. My miracle."

And we drift off to sleep, wrapped in each other's arms.

oOoOo

Epilogue:

The bed is shaking. I open my eyes, blinking in the bright morning sunlight, to discover Sherlock sitting propped against the headboard, wrapped in his blue dressing gown, shaking the entire mattress with his silent laughter. Beside him are two cups of hot tea, and in his lap is a large food storage container of muffins, along with a note. I scoot up against the headboard to sit beside him, and reach over to pluck the note from his slender fingers.

Boys,
I thought you might need a nice breakfast after all of the energy you expended last night. (Sherlock, I expect you to eat, too – these aren't all for John.) I'd love it if you'd join me in my flat this afternoon for a cup of tea. Have a pleasant morning.
Love,
Mrs. Hudson

PS. I've run out to the shop for a bit to buy some earplugs.

Sherlock's twinkling grey eyes meet mine, and we burst out laughing. His warm, rich laugh makes my heart leap with joy, and I lunge over to pounce on my lover, looking forward to a long, lovely morning.

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FIN.
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