NB: Larzoid requested Lestrade and Mycroft reactions so I have attempted to deliver… ;)

It is suddenly possible to live and breathe Sherlock. Living Sherlock is inescapable. One minute in his presence and you are drawn into his ridiculous reality. John has lived Sherlock since moving into 221B Baker Street. He allowed himself to be picked up and shook around until all that he is or ever could be is him.

Now, sitting on the step behind John, Sherlock's legs encase his own, his body is pushed against John's back and his arms wrap around John's chest, cradling his hands. With Sherlock's head burrowing into his neck from behind, John can feel the softness of lips as they nip along his skin. With every breath he takes, John can taste Sherlock on his tongue and feel him rush down his throat. And it's a small miracle knowing that he can now live and breathe Sherlock.

Realistically, it's too cold for them to shed any clothes, but John is enjoying the ecstasy of those minute patches of skin that are now allowed to be together. Hands, cheeks, lips, noses, were these things ever so important before?

"What do you think to this?" Sherlock murmurs through the darkness.

"Heaven," John replies.

"I imagined heaven as being considerablywarmer, lighter and more comfortable."

John smiles and squeezes Sherlock's fingers. "I'd take a basement if it included a Sherlock Holmes."

Silence falls between them once more. John wonders if the aching in his stomach is happiness or hunger.

"Look, John," Sherlock says in a more serious voice, "you know that this whole situation isn't exactly my field of expertise."

"Yes," John agrees, "but you're doing alright so far."

"Well, my success rate at getting you to recognise my intentions had been low up until now."

"What attempts did you make?"

"Plenty," Sherlock grumbles.

John has a tiny realisation and starts to laugh. "The underwear? Please tell me that wasn't your idea of seduction."

Sherlock doesn't respond which makes John laugh even more.

"You're right. This is definitely not your field of expertise."

"The fact is," Sherlock growls into John's ear, "that I am unavoidably going to make a mistake. This is something I've never attempted before."

"An experiment?"

"I don't want it to go wrong." There's something sad and gentle in his voice that is so unlike Sherlock.

"Well, that is pretty normal," John says, "for the start of a relationship."

"Normal?" Sherlock says dismissively.

"Being in love with a man isn't exactly my area either," John mutters. "This is going to be a learning curve for both of us."

"I just want you to know now that I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"For whatever I do to fuck this up."

John turns to face up to the beautiful man straddling him the darkness. "Sherlock, what do you possibly think you could do that is worse than what you've already done to me?" He reaches up to find those lips and kisses them. The kiss, he thinks, proves another point. It proves that it is worth it. It's worth the dismembered bodies, the violin at ungodly hours, the mood swings, the experiments, the danger, the insults. It's all worth it.

"Jesus Christ!"

John's body jerks awake and his senses are immediately burned by the bright light. Sherlock must have been sleeping too because he feels the weight of the detectives head lift from his shoulder.

John winces through the harsh glare up to the top of the stairs. The door is open. Lestrade is staring at them with a look of abject disbelief on his face, shouldered by two policemen.

"Well," Sherlock says, getting to his feet, "you took your time."

"Were you two cuddling?" Lestrade demands, letting his mouth hanging open.

"Is that really the most pertinent question pertaining to this case?" Sherlock asks.

"Yes."

John buries his head in his hands.

"When did Mycroft contact you?"

"Half an hour ago. He's waiting outside."

"Mr Jones?"

"In custody."
Sherlock is already up the steps and out of the door.

"John?" Lestrade says, his voice sounding bewildered.

John gets to his feet slowly. His whole body is aching. He looks up momentarily as he walks past Lestrade and makes an explanation. "I was cold."

Outside has never felt quite so outside before. It is morning and though it's not sunny, to John it feels light and the air feels so fresh. The police are buzzing all around the house. As he leaves, a paramedic greets him and guides John over to an ambulance where a blanket is placed over his shoulders. He actually feels quite grateful for this.

He spots the Holmes brothers nearby. They are arguing and Mycroft keeps looking in John's direction and smirking. This leads John to the uncomfortable conclusion that they're arguing about him. The strange thing is Mycroft never seems particularly angry. He just gains this look of superiority that is no doubt the main cause of Sherlock's childish pout.

Eventually, Sherlock storms away from Mycroft and makes a beeline towards Lestrade who is now talking to Sargent Donovan by one of the police cars.

Mycroft looks after his little brother and then turns and walks with alarming purpose towards where John is sitting.

"So, Dr Watson," he says, in greeting, "you are embarking on a sexual relationship with my brother."

John can't help snorting with laughter.

"My presumption is incorrect?"

"No, it's just, good to see you too!"

Mycroft smiles a way that is designed to make you feel about five inches tall.

"Out of interest," John says, "did he tell you?"

"He didn't need to."

John shakes his head with a strained smile. "No, of course not."

"I am not going to pretend," Mycroft continues with a pompous air of condescension, "that you know nothing of Sherlock and his temperament, Dr Watson, however, I feel it is my duty to warn you -"

"That this isn't exactly his area? We've had that discussion already."

"No," Mycroft smiles patiently. "As usual it is my brother's wellbeing that I am concerned with. You have shown yourself to be an uncommonly loyal companion. Nonetheless, I am aware that sexual relations do have a way of complicating matters. Simply put, if you were ever to be less than loyal in your actions towards Sherlock, be assured that I would be aware of this and that it would be more than moral discomfort that you would endure."

John swallows and then clears his throat. "Right, well, I think you've made yourself clear there." He feels, not for the first time, genuine anger towards the elder Mr Holmes.

"I can tell from your annoyance that you feel this an unnecessary warning, but the human heart is nothing if not fickle."

"My parents have been married for half a century."

"How enriching for you," Mycroft sneers.

"Yes, well, thank you for that. Pleasure as always. I'll let you know how it goes." John gets up and takes off the blanket. He can see Sherlock looking in his direction and is well and truly ready to be going. "Though I don't suppose I'll need to."

Mycroft smiles in response.

John walks quicker than his legs desire him to, towards Sherlock. It has been the most uncomfortable, painful, unpleasant, wonderful and delicious night of his life. He longs for it to end but would do it all over again for eternity.

Sherlock gives him a small smile. "Home?" he asks.

"Oh god, yes."

John had thought that he was too tired and sore for anything but, as usual, Sherlock proved him wrong. Their sex is frantic, swift and euphoric.

Afterwards, John stares up at Sherlock's bedroom ceiling and wonders how it had taken them so long. The moment Sherlock began to kiss him it felt so instinctive. The things he had pictured were played out, except perfect in ways he could never have imagined. Now John realises that he will never be able to get enough of Sherlock.

"It's a proven way of improving blood flow and therefore decreasing cell repair time," Sherlock says, the words muffled and punctuated by kisses on the sensitive skin at the very top of John's thighs.

"Bullshit."

"We could prove it," Sherlock pops his head up from under the covers. "I'll make the calculations."

"Maybe next time."

Sherlock nods and continues his occupation.

"Come here, I want to kiss you," John demands.

"I'm busy."

"Finish that later."

Sherlock sighs and shimmies up the bed. He props his head up with an elbow on the pillow. John smiles and runs a finger down Sherlock's cheekbone.

"You know, for two amateurs - " John says.

"Yes."

"I think we did pretty well back there."

"Yes."

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The End.

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