Rating: NC-17
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock/John
Warnings: Sex. Adult situations.

.Attached.

The wall was hard and cold. Sherlock's back slammed into it with a force that pulled the moan out of him like a splinter. His back arched and wet lips found the familiar place where jaw meets neck, teeth scraping and tongue soothing. Hands were firm against him. One was tight around his waist and the other was palm-up and pushing, pushing, against his straining cock. Sherlock's hips pressed into the pressure, that gorgeous pressure he could never give up. The heat was delicious, but the clothes were becoming a hamper now.

Sherlock removed one of his hands from the tight, blond hair, letting it travel down a tanned neck and wounded shoulder. Still holding his grip, Sherlock tugged impatiently at the soft wool of the jumper. The mouth, (so bloody wet), against him curled like ribbons into a smile, pulling Sherlock's skin with it. Sherlock couldn't see, neck arched up and eyes shut with want and desperation, but he knew that smile well and could trace the curve of it against his skin a thousand times over. Suddenly, his cock was grabbed in a tortuously light grip. Sherlock groaned and all hands fell away from the bare pleasure of it.

'Sherlock.'

The grip tightened slightly and Sherlock thrusted into it roughly. The sensation was evocative and electrifying as the skin brushed against fabric.

'John.'

It wasn't enough.

Hands moved and made quick work of his shirt. Careful work. Always careful. In the beginning, they had been sloppy. Buttons had been lost. Lestrade had noticed when Sherlock showed up for the Work with a ridiculously loose collar and Mycroft had raised a curious eyebrow upon meeting Sherlock in town purchasing a new shirt. Sherlock was always so careful with his clothing. And Mycroft would know. They couldn't afford mistakes like that anymore. So much at stake now. (For John, not for Sherlock). So now his shirt was being treated with a reluctant respect. But John soon had the replacement purple silk pooled on the floor. Sherlock shivered from the cold.

John pulled the jumper over his head as Sherlock starting unbuttoning the shirt under it with care. He fell to his knees, kissing John's now exposed stomach and then chest as the shirt fell abandoned to the floor. Sherlock moaned into familiar skin when a rough hand knotted it's way into his curls. With one quick tug, Sherlock was back on his feet and pressed against the wall once more. John took the last few inches between them and Sherlock could feel how hard he was and oh, God, he could never give this up.

John was hard and long against him and so incredibly hot. The heat was just overwhelming. Sherlock arched, grinding into John and the man moaned so rawly Sherlock felt the noise shock through him, straight down to certain places.

They didn't have long.

Fingers fumbled briefly with his belt-buckle. Sherlock ran impatient hands up and down the smooth expanse of John's back. Teeth bit into Sherlock's shoulder and it was going to leave a mark but that didn't matter. (Marks didn't matter on Sherlock). Nothing they did was ever enough. Not like it had been before. Everything was complicated now. Everything was split, almost evenly. (But Sherlock could never share well). He stole extra minutes, sometimes hours. Once, he had even been granted a whole weekend. But that was a rarity. And unlikely to occur again any time soon.

Sherlock hated the sharing.

Within minutes, they had moved. Tumbling through the doorway of the hall into the once shared kitchen, Sherlock looped his slender fingers in John's belt-rings, pulling him down the hall hurriedly. Who knew when they could be interrupted? And Sherlock needed him now. He had just solved the case. The buzz was electric inside him. It needed to be now. The door of his bedroom banged loudly off the wall in their haste, and in a tangle of limbs and discarded trousers, (shirts long gone and left in the hall-way), they collapsed with each-other onto the bed. John quickly over-powered Sherlock and he straddled him tightly. The friction of their crotches sliding together made them both sigh contently.

John's skin was burning and beautiful under Sherlock's skilled fingers as he reached up and around the so adored shoulders. John ran eager hands up and down Sherlock's waist and hips as the slimmer man leaned up, back curved up from the bed into the touch of a soldier. There was something volatile and dangerous shifting between them and each time they let themselves do this, it came closer and closer to breaking. They couldn't keep it going, but they couldn't stop either. John suddenly leaned down on Sherlock and kissed him, hard.

A tongue slid through Sherlock's lips, wet and ready and needing. Sherlock opened his lips in welcome and moaned into the intimate touch. John knew everything and everywhere. Sherlock closed his eyes as John lowered his naked weight down onto him. Sherlock twisted into John's stiffness, eliciting the most delicious groan from his guilty lover. Keeping his arms wrapped around John's neck and shoulders, Sherlock slowly started to move. Slow, deliberate strokes of flesh and John was sighing so wonderfully into Sherlock's eager mouth. Hands wandered roughly, leaving marks. Bruises. Notes.

This is mine. You are mine.

Sherlock felt the chilled bite of metal and immediately moved to rectify it. He would not take her touch. Not now. Not like this. Not ever. In one, swift movement, Sherlock retrieved John's hand and worked quickly. The ring was thrown somewhere soon forgotten. Perhaps to the left. Possibly the right, by the window.

'She has no place here.' Sherlock always explained, although John never asked. Didn't have to. He knew. Sherlock knew that. Yet-

When John first ghosted his finger over the tender flesh, Sherlock merely gasped because it has been so ruddy long. Then, John pushed past the perineum and everything went black with the pleasure of it. It was too dry, and stung like a burn, but still Sherlock twisted down, trying to take more of the man he so wastefully adored. But John was being careful, and slow, and perhaps loving. He pulled out, then pushed back in, working Sherlock like only he knew how. Sherlock mewled pathetically from the sharp pressure that was building. Then, John curved his finger-

'F-f... John.'

Oh, his clever doctor. Knew all the right places. It wasn't long before a second finger was added and Sherlock cried out from the stretch. Pain, pleasure. It all mingled in the haze of adrenaline. He had solved the case. This was his reward. He deserved it. He wanted this to last forever, but his brain was counting for him and they didn't have long.

As always, John seemed to read what he needed from Sherlock. He withdrew his fingers and Sherlock groaned with regret at the loss. John leant forward and gave Sherlock another breath-robbing kiss before leaving. Sherlock almost whimpered from being without him. But it didn't last long. Sherlock lay on his back and counted the heartbeats it took for the drawer to open and close. He listened to the tell-tale click of the lid that sent something tight and heavy straight to his aching cock. It twitched in anticipation. Sherlock twisted his now free hands in the sheet, keeping his eyes closed because despite all the logic in the world, he could open them and John could be gone.

(He never feared this in his normal state of mind. Only like this.)

He needn't have worried.

Fingers wound their way into Sherlock's curls and tied themselves up in knots, the bond tight and almost painful on Sherlock's scalp. Sherlock moaned, eyes closed to everything but the dull red of eyelids, his mouth parting as the noise left him like a balloon. Something cold and damp pressed against his inner thigh before sliding up. Sherlock moaned from the promise, his hips arching up to meet John without the man even asking. He never had to ask for this particular comfort.

Sherlock opened his eyes and met John's- blue. So strangely blue.

John pressed into him and the lubricant was freezing on the tender, stretched flesh. Sherlock let out a dull groan as John pushed further, stretching Sherlock and filling him so completely. The pressure was just delicious. Sherlock felt like his mind was crumbling like sand at the connection, building itself up again and then tearing walls down like paper. Everything was dark with some sinister kind of relish because what they were doing couldn't possibly be anything but a bit not good.

John reached an arm down and around Sherlock's leg, the other still lost in a mess of black string that clung to his fingers like the rest of Sherlock's being did when they were like this. (Sherlock suspected that was what John enjoyed the most from these activities). Tilting the leg up, John reached his hilt and they both hissed from the unbelievable feeling (emotion?) that encompassed them.

Sherlock moved his hips, using his leg hooked over John's elbow for support. John's chest tore as a moan was pulled from him at the movement and when he removed his hand from Sherlock's hair to steady himself against the pillow, Sherlock knew he had heard the words in the action. They didn't have long.

Leaning down on his arm, John hovered over Sherlock, (his eyes, blue and rusting at the edges with a brown, watching him with something heavy and dark and Sherlock really couldn't think about that right now), and pushed further. The strain at the back of Sherlock's thigh at the position was dull from practice, but Sherlock knew he wouldn't have to remain that way for long. Sherlock adored these moments. This post-case rush. And John, dear John, always so willing.

Who could ever give this up? Who cared if it was only half of something?

It was better than nothing.

Suddenly, the world cracked like wood as John gave one, sharp thrust forward.

Sherlock cried out, a desperate, keening sound. John was set alight from the noise like a flame and he started to move. A slow, rolling motion that stretched and clenched Sherlock simultaneously. Sherlock moaned and John's name fell from his lips in a tumble of syllables. John's grinding slowly started to become more erratic, developing into more determined thrusts. He pulled out, rubbing Sherlock with skin and sweat, before pushing back in with a sigh and closed eyes.

Sherlock could watch him forever. Or at least, he always felt he could when they were like this.

(When they did this, Sherlock did not like to think about the after.)

John's thrusts became heavier and faster. Sherlock felt the pressure relieve and constrict itself inside him and he knew he was so close from the feeling alone. But John would never neglect him, not John- good, kind, wonderful John. Moving his arm out from under Sherlock's leg, John reached between their moving bodies and wrapped his coarse fingers around Sherlock's weeping member. Sherlock closed his eyes and let the sensations envelope him. Their movements stuttered for a moment as Sherlock readjusted from the loss of support, hitching his legs as high up around John's waist as he could manage.

He tied his ankles together in a bow on the back. Just how John liked it.

With John's grip tightening, Sherlock felt himself begin to unravel at the seams. John's thrusts were hard and blunt now, his control quickly wavering. His was arm was quivering under his weight, (the left, the wound playing up), and he was starting to sink down onto Sherlock now. His hand was moving quickly, pulling at the foreskin and swiping the head with a trained thumb. Sherlock could feel his eyes sting with tears from the pure pleasure of everything.

John was moaning now, properly and incoherently. Sherlock couldn't hear him, his head was buzzing with sex and skin and John. John fucked him mercilessly hard, but Sherlock forgave him because he needed it just as much and it had been so long for them now. And John always forgave him for this. (That's what friends do, yes?) Their speed increased and Sherlock's back was beginning to twinge at the odd angle. But none of it mattered. Not if it meant this, now, John.

John, John, John.

'I'm here,' John breathed loudly, the words heavy with sex and that other thing Sherlock didn't bother to think about. Sherlock didn't have time to scold himself for thinking aloud as John suddenly snapped his hips, hitting Sherlock quite brusquely in the right spot.

'Ah!' Sherlock cried, eyes blowing open and his back arching into the heavy body on top of him.

The whole world snapped like a finely strung bow. Sherlock came incredibly hard, his whole body spasming as he spilled himself all over John's fingers and his own stomach. Sherlock caught the flash of teeth as John smiled, his hand still steadily pumping Sherlock's now withering cock as his whole body shuddered under the weight and force of their sex.

Sherlock couldn't breathe, his breath getting lost between his lungs and his throat. Instead he moaned helplessly as the post-orgasm haze was repeatedly drowned out by John's exquisite fucking. But there wasn't much left now, John followed Sherlock everywhere, in everything-

John came with a low bellow, erupting out of his chest like a lion's roar. Sherlock moaned with a sick, beautiful kind of delight that could only come from being completed like this. From having someone so necessary give themselves so entirely while asking for so remarkably little in return. Sherlock's legs began to waiver and finally he granted them the relief to fall back to the bed. John collapsed onto Sherlock's chest, and Sherlock wasn't really aware of what he was saying until he registered the breath on his skin.

'I love you. I love you. I love you.'

That was what he had screamed. Not Sherlock's name, like he normally did. But a declaration. Something Sherlock simply could not tolerate. But still, Sherlock allowed himself the small taste of victory. He wondered how many times she had heard John coming undone like that.

Sherlock spoke softly, and not exactly unkindly; 'I know.'

John sighed with a strange weight.

Something terrible and cold broke his chest in half and Sherlock wondered idly if this is what it felt like to realise what you craved for so long had come to an end.

For a few moments, Sherlock permitted John the intimacy of just lying with him. It was something John always wanted, but rarely received from Sherlock. They could shag senselessly and endlessly if they wanted, but certain rules had to be followed. Commitment and comfort- those where what John asked for from her. And Sherlock would not let himself be cast in with that one. Sherlock needed John. He needed their sex- to work, to live, to be. But Sherlock was always very clear in where their bonds severed. They could never have more than this.

(But sometimes he found himself wondering- do I even want more than this?)

But today- today was special.

Sherlock allowed John the spare moments because John had just unwittingly ended their affair. It was the least Sherlock could give him. A thank-you gift, of sorts. Certainly the only one Sherlock would ever think of offering. Sherlock felt a blunt twist in his chest at the thought of never having this again. It was an oddly terrible thought. But inevitable, Sherlock reminded himself sternly. John finally stopped whispering the words, suddenly, as if he had just caught what he was saying. Sherlock decided he had indulged John enough and made to move.

With a few awkward pulls and pushes, Sherlock was free of John's body and he sat up, still shaky from the hit of his orgasm. His brain swelled and swayed with chemicals and- that other thing. But that was hardly important. Running a hand through his damp hair, Sherlock rose from the bed and crossed the bedroom to retrieve a packet of wipes from the dresser. He cleaned himself up silently, fully aware of John's gaze on him.

Sherlock gathered his trousers up from the floor and exited the room to the en-suite bathroom, closing the panelled door behind him with a snap.

When Sherlock re-entered the bedroom, clad in his trousers and freshly showered, John was already dressed, the packet of wipes on the bed next to him with considerably less of them there. John was standing in the centre of the room, looking around with a mild expression on his face. Sherlock watched him silently for a few moments, tracing the curve of his waist, the lines of his shoulders and the way the light from the afternoon cast his face into relief from the window. His pants were impeccable, but his jumper was slightly stretched at the neck where Sherlock had been careless.

There was always something.

Something twisted in Sherlock's stomach and he felt he should recognise it, but didn't.

After what felt like an age, Sherlock finally tore his gaze from the man before him. His friend, (Lover? Partner in crime? Biggest mistake? Greatest achievement?), sighed heavily before kneeling down on the floor, his back to Sherlock as he began to reach under the bed, looking for something. Sherlock did not offer to help. Instead, he moved over towards the wall by the window where the gold glinted like a bullet.

Stupid, insignificant thing.

Sherlock gathered the marriage up in his hands and he twirled it absently between his fingers. Such a small thing. And Sherlock had such a strong hold over it.

That feeling was back. Along with that twisted, yet electric, sense of victory. Sherlock decided to reflect on them later.

Turning to John, Sherlock coughed softly. John looked up from his position of the floor and some strained emotion passed over his face. It was gone before Sherlock could recognise, analyse and reference it. But he guessed it wasn't too important. Otherwise, John would've said it.

John would never keep things from Sherlock.

(He was not his wife.)

John rose from the ground with practised grace and stepped over to Sherlock. His dark eyes moved across Sherlock's bare chest, moving along the skin and bent arms of Sherlock as he finally met Sherlock's gaze. Sherlock counted the colours in his eyes. The ring still dancing between his hands, Sherlock decided to wait for John to retrieve it. He didn't want to hand it over and have John misinterpreting it as an acceptance of those silly little vows.

A tanned hand rose and covered the ring and the alabaster fingers that held it. Sherlock looked down at where their skin touched, the ghosts of all that happened between them heavy in the air. John squeezed him tightly and Sherlock wasn't sure if he approved of the liberty John took with the action. John was his- but only some of the time. Shared. It was important John remembered his place when those times ended. With a few quick movements, the ring changed hands. John looked down at the golden circle in his palm.

When he looked up, Sherlock felt his breath catch for no reason other than John.

John seemed like he was going to cry. Sherlock could see the tears, noticed the muscles, the twitch of the eyelid, the quiver of a nose. John breathed in deeply, before letting it out with words that shook like wind-chimes.

'It should've been you.'

Sherlock felt his eyes widen at the statement. What a baffling, bizarre thing to say. His mouth fell open, and he was about to reply when suddenly a noise tore itself through the flat, pulling them both apart.

At first, he tried to ignore it. Truly he did. But Sherlock had his own engagement, his own vows to keep. Eventually, the temptation grew too great and Sherlock decided Johns statement was not worth investigating now when the Work was calling. John had come and they had had their time. It was over now. Time for the real world. Sherlock turned away from John and darted down the hall, towards where his coat lay in a crumpled heap in the hallway by the kitchen. He retrieved his phone from the pocket and answered it quickly. Lestrade. Excellent- new case, new murder. And he was just after recharging, too.

Oh, this was brilliant.

Ecstatic at the promise of a new chase, Sherlock gathered the coat up in his arms, throwing it over the kitchen table while he picked up his shirt and re-buttoned it. John entered the kitchen as Sherlock pulled his coat closed over his now dressed form. Sherlock turned to look at him, a smile wide and prepared on his face. He almost dropped it when he met John's gaze.

John looked small in his jumper and ruffled hair. Like a baby bird that had fallen from its nest. Sherlock looked him over and counted fifty-four pieces of evidence that proved his presence in this flat, and most certainly told whoever was looking exactly what he had been doing there. His eyes were heavy with something and his mouth was turned down in a horribly sad way. Sherlock tilted his head, trying to pick the emotions from the man before him like he took everything else. But this was a tricky one. Maybe later.

For now-

'Thank you, John,' Sherlock said, reaching down to the floor to pick up his discarded scarf. 'I would suggest you clean yourself up before you get home. You can use the shower, if you like.'

Sherlock tied the scarf around his neck and swirled out the door of the flat.

When Sherlock returned from New Scotland Yard around seven forty-three, he felt a strange loss of being in the flat on his own. It was ridiculous. Sherlock had been living alone for nearly eighteen months now. But the feeling was pregnant around him. Wondering idly if this feeling had anything to do with John and their earlier activities, Sherlock hung up his coat on the back of the door. He turned and regarded the empty living-room, the spectre of life before sitting in the faded arm-chair across from him.

In no company for ghosts and their dull musings, Sherlock stalked down to his bedroom and slammed the door in the phantom's face.

He noticed it immediately. How could he not?

John had made the bed before he had left earlier. On the bed was a small note, obviously taken from the notebook kept in the kitchen for Sherlock to record his results. Sherlock pushed away the slight annoyance at John for taking his possessions like that, (they were not like that anymore, John needed to remember his place), and instead settled on the apprehensive curiosity that filled him at the sight of it. Why would John leave a note? He could text Sherlock if he needed to.

Sherlock picked the note up and read the words.

Never again, Sherlock. This ends today.
Don't call me again. Please.

Four sentences. Sherlock wondered mildly at why the "please" was so important that it received a whole wall of punctuation just for itself. He guessed it was because John wanted to stress the importance of it. Sherlock did not understand. John didn't need to plead- Sherlock would obey the wishes expressed by the tragically short note. Sherlock would do anything John asked of him. Had he not proved that countless times?

(Why the note was tragic, Sherlock could not entirely pin-point).

Feeling a dull ache beginning to form like frost in his chest, Sherlock sat down on his clean bed slowly, looking around the room but taking nothing in. He was not exactly surprised by the result, as he had intended on ending the engagement himself. Especially after what had happened this afternoon. It was only fair to assume John had reached the same conclusion. But John's complete removal seemed more final. Sherlock had intended on keeping John as an assistant, for the Work.

Something felt deep in his stomach when Sherlock thought of not seeing John again. Something like the fear he only ever experienced when in bed with John.

He did not like it.

The weight of everything that had passed between them suddenly seemed too much to bear. Sherlock fell backwards and lay on his back, thinking. Everything to do with John was so loud. Sherlock could hear his laugh, his moans and sighs, his swears and grunts. He could smell his shampoo, his deodorant, his fabric conditioner. And he could feel. Sherlock could feel everything. He could feel wool, hair and skin. Every touch tattooed.

Sherlock wondered if this ache, this pull and strangely acute hurt was heartbreak.

He wondered if he loved John. The thought was oddly heavy, but didn't seem to quite fit either.

Sherlock wasn't surprised, however.

They were married, but not to each-other. The Work was a fickle partner, and in the end she would always come first, but she could tolerate an affair. Sherlock's had a string of them, stepping out with cocaine and men alike. Kept things interesting. But her.

Wives did not tolerate affairs. And in the end, it appeared, neither did husbands.

Wives wanted fidelity and comfort. John wanted those things, it was just unfortunate he wanted Sherlock, too. For so long, John had been happy to bounce between the two worlds and engage, (enjoy?), both equally. Then she had come along and shifted the balance. It was harder to navigate once the partner became more than a "one-night-stand". Who knew she'd prove such a hindrance? Though Sherlock had always suspected John had preferred his time with Sherlock more. John never misplaced the spy-glass Sherlock had gifted to him in passing. He lost his wedding ring all the time.

Sherlock folded the note and thought idly on the last words John had ever said to him;

It should've been you.

If it had, would John have been as faithful as he was now?

After all, given the evidence, Sherlock was only half of John seemed to want. And obviously, not the right half.

Fin.