This is my first trip into the slashier slash of this fandom, so there are some sexytimes in here. This fic is inspired by 1 Corinthians 13:4-8. The verses are interspersed through the fic so you can read them. If it bothers you that I used biblical passages and then wrote some gay sexy time... then just stop here and don't read it.

Warnings: m/m kissing and sex; demisexual!Sherlock; virginal!Sherlock; top!John

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock. Sherlock belongs to Mofftiss. I sincerely doubt it will ever be mine... except for some DVDs.

Love is Patient

You stroke his face tenderly, whispering, "In your own time," as if Sherlock Holmes ever did anything in anyone's time but his own. He sits beside you on the couch, his usually pale cheeks a vivid red, all because of a kiss. Well, a desire to kiss that he wasn't sure what to do with. He professed his love to you (in his own way), said he wanted to kiss you. You said you wanted to kiss him back. You leaned in and touched your lips to his, but he jerked back as if electrocuted.

"I'm sorry, John," he jabbered, "I-I've never done this before, and I want to do it right, but I have no idea what I'm doing. I… I don't… what do I do?"

"You just have to do what feels right."

"I don't know what that is."

So you sit on the couch, hand on his face, whispering to him, until he leans in slowly and covers your mouth with his own. You give this beautiful man his first kiss.

He figures out what to do quick enough.

Love is Kind

"Are you sure, Sherlock? You don't have to just 'cause I asked. You can say no."

"I know. I trust you. I trust you to stop if I decide I can't," he whispers.

You are both very naked and in Sherlock's bed. After nearly two months of kissing and cuddling and sleeping wrapped in each other, he has realized you have certain needs, shown in your occasional morning erection. He asked if you wanted to have sex with him.

"Yes, I do, but I don't want to persuade you into anything you don't want to do. I know you're sort of… I guess asexual is proper, yeah?"

"I'm not sure anymore. There are some people who don't feel… attraction until they've developed a strong emotional bond with someone. We have that, I think. I want you to be happy, John," he stepped closer, lowered his voice, "I trust you."

And here you are, straddling a naked Sherlock, one hand stroking him to hardness, his lips lavishing attention on the scar at your shoulder. He gasps at your touch every so often, and you wonder if he's ever touched himself. His hips rock up into your hand, his hard length rubbing against yours and creating delicious friction. Your own hips rut against his. He makes small, choked noises beneath you.

"It's okay," you pant, "Let go, Sherlock. Go on. I want to hear you."

"Please, Jo-ngh! John, more, please!" he gasps, "Plea-ah!"

He comes with your name on his lips in a strangled half-shout, his back arching off the bed. You are not far behind, your orgasm coming with soft moans and heavy breaths. You curl up next to each other, covered in sweat and other bodily fluids.

"We should clean up," you whisper.

"No…" he murmurs, stroking his hand over your bicep, "happy like this."

You capture his lips in a lazy kiss, and you're both asleep not long after.

It Does Not Envy

Sometimes, you see couples in public, kissing or hugging or holding hands. Sometimes, you wish you could be that way with Sherlock, but he doesn't want to. Says he dislikes public displays of affection. Says he is still becoming accustomed to being affectionate behind closed doors, still adjusting to his newly realized demisexuality. Sometimes, it truly frustrates you.

Of course, when that does happen, you just think about the fact that he comes home to you, warms your bed, calls you his lover. Then you see everyone else's envy, their desire for the man who loves only you.

You always kiss him once you're in the safety of 221B.

It is Not Self-Seeking

You are tired. You haven't slept in two days, sitting at Sherlock's bedside in the hospital. You've barely eaten anything, just what Lestrade has brought for you. He tries to get you to go home for some sleep. It doesn't work. You will be here when he wakes up. You have to be here for him. He hates hospitals. He'll want to see your face… if he remembers you. It was a nasty knock to the head, and he'll have a concussion for sure.

When his lovely, pale eyes finally open, they are glassy but joyful. You grin at him. He says, "You look awful," in a raspy voice. You chuckle.

"You aren't much better."

"John?"

"Hmm?"

"Thank you. For being here."

You squeeze his hand.

"I wouldn't dream of leaving."

"I know, Now go to sleep. For me."

You rest your head on one of your folded arms, your free hand still clutching his.

It is Not Easily Angered

He is glaring at you. You want to shout at him, throw something, but you don't. He's in one of his black moods. This too shall pass, and you will be here when it does. You could never stay angry with him for long. It's the same way with him, as he apologizes and asks you to come to bed. You follow him almost immediately.

It Keeps No Record of Wrongs

Donovan still calls him 'freak' and tells you to get out while you still can. Anderson reminds you of all the bad things he's let happen to you. Even Lestrade questions your sanity when you're hurt on a case and Sherlock keeps running ahead. He's gotten you kidnapped, shot at, rigged to explode, shot at again, drugged you, shattered your heart right in your chest.

He's also saved your life over and over, from the first time you met, tended your wounds, mended your heart, put you back together so completely that you don't know how you survived without him. It makes the other things seem inconsequential.

Love Does Not Delight in Evil

You wake with a start, your heart thumping in your chest. Sherlock rolls over, embraces you, kisses your forehead, whispers, "Is it another nightmare, John?"

"Please… just kiss me."

As you wrap your arms around him and kiss back feverishly, you don't have to see them in your mind's eye.. all the men you've killed or wounded to keep him alive, with you.

He simply holds you when you break the kiss and cry into his shoulder, pressing his lips into your hair.

But Rejoices in the Truth

It is actually a rather long time before Sherlock finally utters the words, "I love you," and it is only after you are severely wounded. He is at your bedside when you wake up in the hospital. He looks as though he hasn't slept in a week, and he's jittery from caffeine. He simply clutches your hand and whispers, "I thought I'd lost you."

"Can't get rid of me that easy."

"I'm so glad you're safe, John. You have no idea."

"Liar. I've got a better idea than you."

A small smile graces his lips. He stands kisses your forehead, temple, eyelids, nose, lips. It is then that he murmurs, "I love you, John Hamish Watson," and kisses you tenderly on the mouth. Combined with the painkillers, the kiss makes you lightheaded and woozy. You manage to slur, "I luh you, too," before falling asleep again.

Love Bears all Things, Believes all Things,

Hopes all Things, Endures all Things

Your heart nearly bursts with joy when Sherlock walks out of the building unharmed, all in one piece, not blown to smithereens. You actually run to him and embrace him in front of everyone at the scene. It doesn't matter. Not when Sherlock is alive. You don't kiss him until you're back in the safety of Baker Street, where you practically shove him against the wall, kissing him fiercely, nipping at his lip. You lead him to the bedroom, where you both quickly shed your clothing. You push him onto the bed and straddle him.

"Please, John, please. I… I need to feel yo-oh! Yes!"

You've got two fingers carefully pressed into him, preparing him, your other hand slicking up your almost painfully hard erection. He pleads again, wraps his legs around your waist, urging you quietly to fill him. You press in with deliberate slowness.

"I didn't hear from you for hours, Sherlock. It was torture, knowing I wouldn't be there to save you."

He whimpers beneath you, but you continue, "I'm so glad to have you back here, that you're alive. I want this to last. I love you, Sherlock. I love you so much."

You lean down to capture his lips as you push into him fully, finally rocking your hips agonizingly slow. However, you hit his prostate every time, leaving him a whimpering, panting, writhing mess.

"More, John! Please! Faster!" he gasps, "John! Ngh! Ah!"

You speed up your thrusts but never miss that sweet spot. His nails scrabble at your back, his leg muscles twitching, his body tightening around you. He is close, and so are you. You come at the same time, he with a long cry of your name, you with shuddered gasps and a moan that resembles his name. You pull out slowly, kissing him again.

"Don't ever do that again, Sherlock. Don't go where I can't follow you," you murmur.

He doesn't respond except to kiss you again. He can't make that promise.

Of course, neither of you knows that about forty years from now, the farm girl who keeps the house for you at Sherlock's bee farm will find you both dead in each other's arms, having passed together sometime in the night, that you will be buried side-by-side in the cemetery you once haunted when you believed him dead, that you will be mourned by so many.

For now, it's enough to have him in your arms for one more night. You curl into each other, and you kiss his face like he so often does to you before you both drift off to sleep.

Love Never Fails

I hope you enjoyed it! Reviews are appreciated!