Author's Note: Back with another fic! I'm officially addicted. I could be tempted to call this porn without plot, but there is kind of some plot, and it does lead up to the relationship… so let's just call it thoughtful smut. This is also the longest one-shot I've ever written, so bully for me.

Prompt: My first 5-and-1 fic! Allow me to present: The five times Sherlock was in a box, and the one time John crawled in after him.

Warning: Two men are going to shag each other senseless, and you are going to like it.

…

…

- 1 -

When John returned home after a long day of working at the clinic, he found a large cardboard box waiting for him in the centre of 221B Baker Street's living room.

He eyed it curiously as he moved about the space, tossing his jacket over his chair, setting his wallet on an end table and unwinding the brown knit scarf around his neck. The dreary December sky was clearly visible through the windows, as murky and gray as the Thames at dusk. It was endlessly comforting to be out of the biting cold and in his warm, familiar flat.

"Maybe Sherlock ordered a new microwave," he muttered under his breath. The last one had met an untimely death when the consulting detective had somehow got it into his funny brain that metal forks could be heated until they were malleable enough to mold into lock picking devices. While sound enough in theory, his hypothesis had failed to hold up in practice. John had come home to a smoldering kitchen, legions of firefighters swarming about and one very put out Sherlock Holmes yelling "Idiots!" at the top of his lungs. The sad thing was this scenario was practically familiar to him at this point.

But no, the box in front of him was too large to house a kitchen appliance, unless there was an abundance of packing material inside. John bent down, reaching for one of the flaps, but hesitated inches from it. This did not belong to him, and Sherlock wouldn't appreciate him pawing through his things. He was still stroppy with him over the incident with his sock index, and that had been ages ago.

On the other hand, Sherlock routinely went into John's room, riffled through his possessions, and "confiscated" his laptop, and John—good man that he was—loved a smidgen of petty vengeance every now and again. What harm could it do to take one small peek?

He flipped the two largest rectangular flaps open and nearly jumped out of his skin.

There was a human body inside the box.

"Christ," he shouted, rocking back on his heels. "I swear to God, if Sherlock ordered a whole cadaver and planned to stash it here…."

He pulled the other two small flaps open, revealing the face attached to the body.

With a mixture of relief and bewilderment, he recognised Sherlock curled inside the box, his long limbs drawn up so he was in the foetal position. His flatmate's eyes were open, staring straight forward at the left side of the box, but he didn't appear to notice John at all. He was wearing, of all things, a rather posh pair of trousers with no shirt and his dressing gown thrown over his bare shoulders.

"Erm, the doctor began, hesitating, "are you… all right?"

Sherlock didn't respond.

He was perfectly still—his pale eyes open but unseeing—and John couldn't tell if he was breathing or not.

Cold, biting panic began to prickle along his skin.

Cautiously, he lifted a hand and reached down into the box. If he could just get to Sherlock's wrist, he could feel for a pulse. Something had to be amiss or else the detective would have responded by now. Had he been drugged?

John moved slowly, almost fearfully, not knowing what he would find when his fingers reached their destination. His heart was hammering in his chest with a mixture of alarm and anticipation. Inch by inch he lowered himself, now hovering just above the tender flesh where he would hopefully find a steady beat. His fingers lowered further still, ready to curl around one thin, porcelain wrist and—

The world exploded into movement.

John lurched back so quickly he knocked into an end table and went flying head over heels. He landed hard but scrambled to his feet as soon as his limbs could manage; he was a soldier, after all. Sherlock was standing straight up within the confines of the box, having unfurled himself in an instant like a sinewy flag. How he'd untangled himself and slithered up so quickly without bursting the sides of the container was a mystery to John, but right now he was too irritated to care.

"What," he began, "the bloody hell are you doing?" His heart was still hammering in his chest.

Sherlock actually had the nerve to glare at him like he was the annoying one. "Having my experiment ruined, thanks to you."

"Experiment," John repeated incredulously. "How is lying perfectly still in a box and scaring the wits out of me an experiment?"

"I severely doubt you had any wits for me to frighten away in the first place." Sherlock gave him a look—not the look that said we both know what's really going on here, but rather the one that said it must be so boring inside your average brain. "It's not about the box, John. It's about sensory deprivation. It's been theorized that if one can eliminate all outside stimuli that is received and interpreted by the five senses, true connection with abstract thought can be achieved. I was attempting to open channels with the intuitive part of my brain in the hopes of accelerating my deductive processes."

John sighed and reached a hand down to rub his sore bum. He hadn't landed lightly or gracefully, and he would probably have a proper set of bruises to show for it. "You planned to do all that by putting yourself in a box?"

"You know how I abhor repetition, John. I've already said it's not about the box."

"Why not shut yourself in a darkened closet or something?"

"Please stop being so horribly pedestrian. Closets are notorious for having pungent odours—particularly those produced by cloth preservatives—and therefore cannot be used to eliminate sensory distractions."

The doctor drew a deep, calming breath and counted to ten. When he was finished, Sherlock was studying him with his usual expression of cool indifference.

"Right then." John set the table he'd fallen over right and began limping towards the kitchen. "You have fun playing stray kitten. Maybe we'll get lucky and someone will decide to give you a good home."

"I already have a good home. It's right here with you."

Had there been another table nearby, John might have fallen all over himself again.

He started to turn back round and stare at his mad flatmate, but he was stopped by the strange warmth that bloomed in the pit of his stomach.

The doctor shook his head and continued into the kitchen, muttering to himself about an "inconsiderate sod".

Ten minutes later, John was sat in his chair with a freshly brewed cup of tea in his hand, and Sherlock was back inside his box.

Just another typical day at 221B Baker Street.

...

...

- 2 -

"How can you not like David Tennant?"

"I have outlined my reasoning to you on several occasions and refuse to expound needlessly."

"But it's David bloody Tennant! He could probably start a small country out of his rabid fanbase."

"Yes, and it's always a wise decision to like someone because everybody else does."

The doctor and the detective were standing on the set of none other than the critically acclaimed science fiction television programme Doctor Who, and John was absolutely giddy. None of the actors were present—this was just a preliminary lighting test and set up—but nevertheless some of his favourite performers of all time had tread this very ground.

Crew members were buzzing about like bees in an upturned hive. PAs were fetching coffee, writers were scribbling on copies of scripts, and several men in posh-looking suits were arguing loudly about budgeting conflicts.

Sherlock, of course, cared not a lick about it. "We're here for a case, doctor. Do try to keep that in mind."

"It was worth going to medical school just to have someone address me as 'doctor' whilst on this set. I think I may swoon like a Byronic heroine."

Sherlock rolled his pale eyes and swept off with a swish of his coat. Their client was waiting for them next to a large soundboard, fiddling with a series of switches that made no sense whatsoever to John. He was a portly, middle-aged man with a ruddy face and big cheeks that lent themselves to large, jolly smiles. It was quickly confirmed that his appearance and personality coincided readily when instead of greeting Sherlock with a handshake, he swept the man easily off his feet and into a bone-crushing hug. John only barely managed to restrain his laughter at the sight of the thin detective looking like a long black toothpick in the arms of a bear.

"Sherlock!" the man—Mr Fitzpatrick, as Sherlock had informed him earlier—bellowed, giving him one last prodigious squeeze before setting him back down on his feet. "Pleasure to see you again, mate. And this must be your doctor friend that you're always going on about." He turned to John and grabbed his hand, shaking it so firmly several of his knuckles cracked. "Pleasure to meet you too, Dr Watson. You know, Sherlock here saved me from a rather nasty prison sentence a few years back. Figured out I couldn't have robbed a convenience store from a stain on my right hand, he did. It was a proper work of genius."

Sherlock brushed himself off with a huff. "I merely observed what should have been obvious to everyone."

"Really, Sherlock, there's no need to be so modest all the time."

At that, John actually did burst out laughing, earning him a scathing glare from his flatmate.

"If you'd be so kind as to show us where the murder took place, I shall begin my investigation."

Mr Fitzpatrick began to lead them towards the set, speaking over his shoulder as he walked, "Murder, you said? So you don't think it was a suicide then?"

"Obviously."

"Well, begging your pardon, but it's not obvious to me."

John cut in, "It never is. A thousand times Sherlock has explained his methods to me, yet every time we're at a new crime scene he manages to see everything where I see nothing. He's truly remarkable."

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sherlock give him an odd look, but it was gone before he could work out what it meant.

John craned his neck to peer around Mr Fitzpatrick's bulk and nearly had a heart attack when he realised where they were headed. The famous blue police box—the TARDIS—was tucked into a corner amongst some smaller props. It had been roped off with yellow caution tape, which meant it had to be their crime scene. They were going to get to examine one of the most iconic symbols in all of television history. John only barely managed to restrain himself from jumping up and whooping like a schoolboy at a rugby match.

"John." The doctor turned his head and caught the full force of Sherlock's icy eyes. "Do attempt to restrain yourself. A man was killed inside that box."

"Since when have you and I ever maintained propriety at crime scenes?"

A ghost of a smile flashed across Sherlock's lips. "Touché."

When they arrived at the TARDIS, Mr Fitzpatrick explained to them that one of their sound technicians had been found dead inside it early that morning, hanging by the neck from an electrical cord. None of his friends or family had seemed particularly surprised by the news, claiming that the man had been depressed for months due to a nasty break up. His choice of location was also easily explained: he'd been a rabid fan of Doctor Who from boyhood and had presumably sought solace in his obsession in his final moments. The police had already photographed the crime scene and removed the body, leaving Sherlock with very little from which to draw his deductions. Nevertheless, he attacked the challenge with his trademark vigour, falling onto his hands and knees and scuttling about the moment their client had finished explaining the situation.

Sherlock drew a measuring tape from inside one of his coat pockets and began to measure the base of the police box.

John couldn't restrain himself from asking, "Are you going to see if it's bigger on the inside than it is on the outside?" which earned him a two-finger salute from the detective.

After quite a bit more muttering under his breath, Sherlock rose to his feet and announced, "This is most certainly a murder. There is a fresh set of male footprints leading up to the box, but they do not match the size or style of the shoes the victim was wearing in the forensic photographs. Additionally, these same footprints also walk away from the scene in the direction of the exit, which for obvious reasons eliminate them as the victim's. The most important point, however, is that both sets of footprints have heels that point toward the box."

He paused, watching his two spectators like he expected light bulbs to pop on above their heads any moment now. John and Mr Fitzpatrick both stared blankly at him, and he sighed dramatically. "If the heels point towards it, then that means the man who approached it was initially walking backwards. Otherwise his toes would point towards it. There are also obvious signs that he was dragging something heavy with him, which I can only assume was the victim's body. He dragged it in front of him as he walked backwards, set it up inside the police box to look like a suicide and then exited in a different direction."

"Brilliant!" John said with genuine enthusiasm, and he was favoured with one of the soft looks Sherlock sometimes gave him when complimented.

Mr Fitzpatrick still looked somewhat confused, but he waved Sherlock on, apparently willing to take his word on good faith.

Sherlock then opened the door to the TARDIS and stepped inside, pulling out his pocket magnifier.

The electrical cord from which the victim had hanged had been left inside, and the detective examined it first. After a moment, he announced, "Our murderer is not a clever man."

John perked up. "How can you know that from one glance?"

"This cord was secured to the ceiling with a clove hitch, one of the six basic knots every good sailor knows but that very few ordinary people do. The victim certainly didn't know it and therefore could not have secured his own noose. That's a rather glaring mistake to make. I'm surprised even our useless police force didn't pick up on it."

John rolled his eyes but wisely let Sherlock prattle on.

"He was clever in choosing hanging as the mode of suicide—since the cause of death was in fact asphyxiation—but judging from the photos, the marks on the victim's neck are clearly those of human fingers. If the murderer were even moderately intelligent he would have strangled the man with a cord in the first place, thus ensuring that the marks matched the autopsy report."

"No offense, Sherlock, but that doesn't necessarily make him stupid. I'm certain I wouldn't have thought of that."

"Of course you would have, John. You're a doctor with extensive knowledge of bruising and human blood coagulation. If given the chance to premeditate a murder—which was certainly the case here, judging from the choice of location and unsuspicious family members—you are certainly intelligent and methodical enough to consider what the body would look like to a medical professional such as yourself. I'm confident you would cover your tracks convincingly enough to avoid ever going to trial."

John couldn't stop himself from swelling with pride at the praise, though a moment later he realised why that should concern him. He really needed to spend more time away from crime scenes.

Sherlock suddenly shut the door to the police box forcefully and appeared to be examining its hinges. He shouted through the fake glass to John, "These hinges show signs of having been placed under extreme stress recently! The killer must have hoisted the victim's body against the door while he fumbled with the handle and then stupidly tried to pull it open with the dead weight of a grown man against it! We're definitely looking for an uneducated laborer, likely a construction worker, with a history of freelance sailing!"

The detective moved to open the door and froze. At first, John assumed he'd spotted some other clue, but when Sherlock met his questioning gaze with a sheepish one of his own, the doctor realised the magnificent truth.

"There's no handle on the inside of that prop, is there, Sherlock?"

"Please let me out of here."

"You can't just push it open?"

"Would I not have done so by now if that were a viable option?"

Mr Fitzpatrick started to step forward and open the door, but John stopped him, his dark blue eyes glittering wickedly.

"How about this, Sherlock: I'll let you out of there if you promise not to put a single human body part in our fridge for an entire month."

"Don't be ridiculous, John; you can't keep me trapped in here."

"Oh, I think I can, and as added incentive…" John pulled out his mobile, pressed the button to activate the camera, and began snapping pictures at will, "if you don't agree, I'll send these photos to every member of Scotland Yard with the caption 'Genius Detective Defeated By the Intricacies of Doors.'"

Sherlock's glare was formidable indeed. "You wouldn't dare!"

"I was a soldier, Sherlock. If I can shoot someone, I can certainly resort to blackmail."

There was a moment of tense silence not unlike an Old West standoff, and Mr Fitzpatrick glanced nervously back and forth between them.

After much indignant muttering, Sherlock finally jerked his head in acquiescence. With a cocksure grin, John trotted over and opened the door.

Sherlock skulked out, looking for all intents and purposes like a five-year-old who'd just been released from Time Out. He only barely managed to gather enough social decorum to turn to Mr Fitzpatrick and say, "Thank you for your cooperation. I can assure you this matter will be resolved shortly."

He stalked away, and John followed automatically behind him. "John, text my conclusions to Lestrade and inform him that he would be wise to seek his murderer at a local pub called the Wooden Door. He'll be tan with several visible tattoos and wearing some form of sport regalia, mostly likely red or white."

John pulled his mobile out and had just begun to type the message when Sherlock stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. He had a curiously grave expression on his face. For a moment, the doctor began to feel genuinely concerned, but then Sherlock said, "What will it take for you to agree to delete those photos?"

John burst out laughing. Of course that was what he was concerned about. "Why don't we negotiate over dinner? Your treat, naturally."

"You should really be concerned about this sadistic streak you seem to have developed."

"Actually, you should be flattered, Sherlock. It seems to only extend to you."

For a moment, John imagined he saw a smile twitch at the corner of Sherlock's lips.

…

…

- 3 -

John was really beginning to wonder if he would ever stop being surprised by his mad flatmate.

He'd left 221B Baker street half an hour ago in pursuit of a bag of the loose-leaf tea he'd recently developed a taste for. He was just heading back when he'd noticed a small crowd gathered near the kerb of the adjacent street. They'd seemed like the typical throng of people who gather around street performers, but John hadn't been able to see past them to say for certain. Curious, he'd trotted across the street and craned his neck to give him a view of what lay beyond the ring of people.

Then his jaw dropped so hard it may very well have unhinged.

Sherlock Holmes—consulting detective—was standing in the middle of the circle in one of the most bizarre costumes John had ever seen him in, and in Sherlock's case that was quite the statement. He was wearing a black, long-sleeved jumper and black trousers, and his entire face had been painted white with what John guessed was grease paint. The only break in the whiteness was two small black diamonds right beneath his eyes. He was also wearing white gloves, and as John watched with what he could only assume was a gobsmacked expression on his face, Sherlock spotted him, smiled and waved cheerfully.

There was no denying it.

Sherlock Holmes was a mime.

When he'd last seen Sherlock, he'd been lounging on their sofa in his dressing gown, plucking absently at the violin in his hands. There was nothing to suggest their evening together was going to involve anything more complicated than hot beverages and crap telly.

John sincerely needed to give up on the idea of a "normal" life with Sherlock.

"Sherlo—," John attempted to say, but his voice cracked. He cleared his throat and tried again, yelling over the cheering crowd, "Sherlock, what are you doing?"

The detective—or mime, as the situation currently suggested— gave him another wide grin but otherwise failed to respond. He appeared to be halfway through a routine where he pretended to lasso a member of the crowd, but when he attempted to pull them closer he himself was dragged towards them. More and more people were gathering to watch the act, and John looked on with a sense of helpless astonishment. Naturally, Sherlock was as brilliant at this as he was at most things. He rode an invisible bike and rolled invisible balls and got attacked by invisible insects with such stunning accuracy, they really seemed to exist.

Then Sherlock decided it was time for the audience participation portion of the programme.

He suddenly lunged forward, grabbed John by the wrist and hauled him into the centre of the circle with him. The spectators immediately stepped back, giving them plenty of room. Sherlock placed him at the far end of the ring and then walked to the opposite side to face him.

For a moment, nothing significant happened. Sherlock bowed extravagantly to the crowd, they cheered and John just stood there like an idiot. Just as he was considering edging away, the real show started. Sherlock the Mime began to walk in a swaggering manner towards him. Before he'd made it more than a few steps, he appeared to smack face-first into some sort of invisible barrier. He staggered back with an exaggerated wobble, looking dazed. Tentatively, he reached a gloved finger forward and pressed the tip of it against whatever was preventing him from advancing. John watched dumbly as his friend's expression morphed to one of shock. Sherlock tried to move to the left only to run into yet another obstruction. He felt around the edges of his invisible prison with the palms of his hands, clearly mapping out the corners and planes of four distinct walls. Finally, with a guarded expression, he raised a hand slowly above himself and groped for a ceiling. He found one, sure enough, and the terrible truth was confirmed: he was trapped inside an invisible box. His face reflected a mixture of horror and grim acceptance.

John stared at Sherlock like he hadn't the faintest idea what manner of creature he was.

He looked at the crowd. They all turned their heads to stare at him expectantly. His cheeks flamed as he glanced back at Sherlock, praying for some kind of clue as to how he was supposed to proceed. Sherlock simply gave him a doleful look, his palms still pressed against the walls of his cage.

John decided he might as well use his words.

"What do you want me to…?" he started to ask, but then he changed his mind. "Why are you…?" He swallowed and made one final futile attempt, "Is there some sort of purpose behind…?" John snapped his mouth shut with an audible click. It would really be best for him to just accept it. Sherlock Holmes was the most unfathomable, unpredictable, and utterly unique individual he would ever have the bewildered, uncomfortable pleasure of knowing.

"Break him out!" someone in the crowd shouted helpfully.

"Yeah!" another voice chimed in. "He's waiting for you to help him!"

John's cheeks turned even redder as he realised that was of course what he was supposed to do.

He was expected to break his flatmate out of an imaginary box.

Oh goody.

He took a hesitant step forward, feeling utterly ridiculous, and the crowd erupted into cheers. If the shouting was supposed to egg him on, it was demonstrably ineffective. John only felt increasingly more absurd as he approached the spot where Sherlock's hands indicated the wall began. The mime was practically vibrating with excitement, sensing freedom within his grasp. He smiled hopefully at John, and his bright eyes were very clearly saying, "My hero!" in true maudlin fashion. It was enough to make a Victorian romance novel seem subtle.

"You're going to pay for this," John muttered, but Sherlock's grin only grew.

With a sigh, the doctor examined the situation. What was he supposed to do? Pretend to break the walls? Discover a hidden doorknob on the outside? Just reach forward and pull Sherlock to him? That last idea made a strange heat flood into him that he pointedly ignored in favour of focusing on the situation at hand.

Finally, after much consideration, John simply stretched up on his tip toes, reached high above Sherlock's head, and pretended to pull flaps open like he'd done when he'd discovered him in the cardboard box in their flat.

The mime took off with his idea from there, pantomiming grabbing the edges only to discover he wasn't strong enough to haul himself up and then ramming the sides of the box until he and it both tumbled over. He then crawled to freedom and to explosive applause from the audience. Sherlock threw his arms into the air and bowed with a dramatic flourish, grinning from ear to ear.

John studied him from the sidelines with his arms folded over his chest. There was a strange stirring deep within him that he didn't entirely understand. It swelled in his ribcage as he watched his flatmate bask in the glowing praise with which he was currently being showered. The audience adored him, that much was certain. He'd delighted them, as he often delighted John when he made one of his brilliant deductions. It was strange to think, but the doctor found himself wondering what the point behind it was. Why did Sherlock exert so much effort to amaze others? Did he just want to be told he was special, to relish the cheers and admiration, or was he actually eager to make the faces around him light up with wonder? Did he need to dazzle others as much as they needed to be dazzled?

The doctor was beginning to think that as much as Sherlock was the most difficult person he'd ever known, there was something earnest in him that was impossible not to love.

…

…

- 4 -

Sherlock was inside their fridge.

Just sitting there.

Inside.

The fridge.

Wearing a Storm Trooper helmet.

John stared at him, one hand still poised on the door while the other held a dish of risotto that Mrs Hudson had brought up for them.

Sherlock did not appear to see him, but then again it was impossible to tell while he had the helmet on. His thin arms were folded over his chest in a manner reminiscent of a vampire in its coffin, and his knees were drawn up to his chest. He'd made himself into a compact little ball of what John could only assume was utter insanity. He was wearing his dressing gown, and it was somewhat like seeing what a Storm Trooper might look like in the spare time they had away from fighting the rebel alliance.

The entire contents of their fridge—from the food to the shelves—had been gutted out and placed on the counter. It was a wonder John hadn't noticed as he approached, but their kitchen was always so covered in science equipment, the clutter hadn't registered. He was now immensely grateful that he'd blackmailed Sherlock with those TARDIS photos, or there might have been human body parts defrosting in his kitchen.

Questions raced through his mind.

He didn't ask them.

Wordlessly, John handed the dish of risotto to Sherlock.

Sherlock took it from him and balanced it on his knees.

John closed the refrigerator door.

He then returned to the living room, picked up a book and spent the evening reading quietly.

Sherlock did not emerge from the ice box for several hours, but when he did, he joined John on the sofa, flipped on the telly and began methodically shouting at Oprah.

He was still wearing the Storm Trooper helmet.

John never did find out why.

…

…

- 5 -

John's date was going badly.

The woman—Charlotte? Sharon? Shirley?—had been blithering on about her last relationship and its tragic dissolution for a staggering hour and a half. John's initial carefully-cultivated look of concerned interest had rapidly deteriorated into bored frustration as she showed no signs of letting up on the topic. Her ex-boyfriend was apparently perfect in every way—the "one that got away" she'd sobbed with a tone of embellished suffering—and she was convinced she would never truly love again. These are all, of course, wonderful things to tell the prospective romantic partner who is currently sat across from you.

About half an hour into the monologue, John dropped all pretenses and pulled out his phone to check the comments on his blog. Amazingly, the woman continued her vacuous diatribe even though she had obviously lost her audience.

And the night was only halfway over.

If it weren't for the fact that he'd already told Shelby/Sheila/Sherise that he'd bought tickets to a magic show for them later that evening, he would have said goodnight the moment dinner was over. He made a mental note to never again reveal later plans until he knew whether or not the woman was insufferable. He supposed it could be worse. At least during the show she'd have to shut her gob.

Hopefully.

His phone vibrated, and he glanced at it. It was a text from Sherlock.

I require your assistance at 232 Montague St. – SH

John shook his head. For once, he wouldn't mind if Sherlock interrupted him.

I can't. I'm on a date. – JW

An unpleasant date with a woman whom you never intend to see again. – SH

How could you possibly know that? – JW

Really, John, don't be daft. – SH

John pointedly failed to reply, taking some of his frustration out on the detective. If he had to be miserable, he could at least drag someone else down with him.

When the bill came, John naturally had every intention of paying it—just as his parents had taught him—even if it had been a miserable experience. He noted, however, that Shaniqua/Shantal/Sheba failed to even pretend to reach for it or offer to pay her half, a gesture that he honestly appreciated from anyone he took to dinner, regardless of their gender. He proceeded to tune her out as he signed his receipt and mechanically gathered his things. She chattered incessantly the whole cab ride over to the theatre where the magic show was taking place, but John couldn't have repeated a single thing she'd said.

He held the door open for her as they entered a large auditorium filled with people seated in plush red seats. An usher checked their tickets and led them to the appropriate section. The lights began to dim not two minutes later, and the heavy, velvet curtain rose.

Sharla/Sharlene/Chanel fell mercifully silent.

A disembodied voice announced the appearance of the Great Zambino, a tall, silver-haired man who bounded onto the stage with the energy of a much younger person. He straightened his top hat, brushed imaginary dust from his jet-black tuxedo, and swirled his cape around him dramatically. John had to admit, it was an exciting entrance.

He watched with genuine interest as the man performed a series of small tricks, such as blowing soap bubbles only to pluck them—now magically solid—from the air and changing playing cards from one suit to another. He was clearly building up to something larger, however, and John found himself leaning forward in anticipation. The Great Zambino had just finished pulling a variety of small white animals from his hat, sleeves, and even a sock when the announcer spoke again.

"And now, the Great Zambino will select a volunteer from the audience to participate in his death-defying Guillotine Illusion!"

Cher/Shakira/Shania leaned over to him and whispered, "This is stupid. The person they pick is always someone who's been planted in the audience."

John didn't reply in the hopes that she wouldn't decide that the act wasn't a deterrent to conversation after all.

The Great Zambino had wandered close to their section, a giant spotlight trained on him. John craned his neck to watch as the magician seemed to pick through the audience, discarding person after person as if they had failed to meet the rigorous specifications to which he held his volunteers.

He passed by John's row, and for a moment the doctor was blinded by the glare of the spotlight. When the light failed to subside, he shielded his eyes with one hand. To his utter surprise, he saw the Great Zambino standing right at the end of his aisle, pointing at him triumphantly. He foolishly looked to both sides of him, as if the magician could possibly be indicating anyone else, and then did the traditional point-at-self-and-mouth-"Me?" to which he received a vigourous nod.

The announcer's voice echoed in the large auditorium, "A volunteer has been selected!" There was scattered applause that he was only vaguely aware of.

Shimmer/Shadow/Shingles was tugging at his sleeve, leaning eagerly into the half-moon of spotlight that was on him. "Go, John! He wants you to go on stage with him! Oh, this is so exciting!"

In a daze, the doctor clambered awkwardly to his feet and stumbled forward, following uncertainly behind the magician as he whisked up the side stairs. A large guillotine with a wickedly-gleaming blade had been wheeled onto the stage and now sat in the very centre. John eyed it warily. It looked plenty real to him, but he knew that was rather the point.

The Great Zambino took his place in front of it and spread his arms wide, as if he wanted to hug the entire audience at once. "Ladies and gentlemen, with the help of my brave assistant, I will now perform the famous Guillotine Illusion! The contraption you see before you is in fact a genuine tool for execution with a very real blade. Through the powers of prestidigitation, I will remove my assistant's head and reattach it so quickly, the blade will seem to pass right through his neck!"

John swallowed thickly. It was ridiculous to be frightened of a magic trick, but no amount of rationalisation could calm the fluttering in his stomach.

With much hand-wringing and step-fumbling, he allowed himself to be steered towards the guillotine and his head inserted in the hole at its base. There was enough room around his neck that he wasn't uncomfortable, but the position was oddly constraining. This limited his vision to a couple of feet of wooden floor. He could hear the Great Zambino moving around, showing the audience that the guillotine was indeed solid and the blade sharp, though John had absolutely no idea how he was going about it. His heart was hammering in his chest, and he prayed to God that he didn't look as anxious as he felt.

With what sounded like one final cape flourish, the Great Zambino took his place next to the lever that would drop the blade when pulled.

John sucked in a breath and held it.

There was a sudden, loud banging noise from the left, like a door slamming open.

"John! Karachi, Pakistan!"

The doctor yanked his head out of the guillotine hole just as the Great Zambino pulled the lever. Seconds later a very real, very heavy blade swooshed in front of his face, passing through the place where his neck had been moments before, and sank heavily into the stage's wood floor.

John couldn't be certain, but that did not appear to be part of the trick.

He was faintly aware of a cacophony of gasps and shrieks coming from the audience.

He looked up, and what he saw was surreal: Sherlock was standing on the stage in a highly-wrinkled suit and was grappling with the magician. It took John's brain a few moments to reboot, but when it did he jumped to his feet and with a few swift movements put the Great Zambino in a headlock. Security rushed onto the stage moments later and subdued them all, clearly uncertain as to whom they should be detaining. When it was revealed that the guillotine blade was in fact real and that there was no mechanism for preventing it from beheading John, the audience was evacuated, the police were called and the Great Zambino experienced a sudden decrease in job prospects.

Lestrade arrived on the scene minutes later and was clearly surprised to see them. "What the blazes are you two doing here?"

Sherlock answered coolly, "John is suffering through a horrible date, and I'm doing your job for you."

Lestrade visibly bristled but reined in his temper. "As far as I knew, there was no job. We had no reason to believe the Great Zambino was going to commit a crime, and so you shouldn't have known either."

Sherlock, with his usual civility and tact, was more than happy to correct him.

It seemed that the detective had been busy that evening, unbeknownst to John. He had, through his usual deductive processes, uncovered an insidious plot by an aging magician to gain immortality by "accidentally" murdering someone on stage. The incident would have made the Great Zambino a household name, one that would live on forever in infamy. Sherlock had discovered his plan but could do very little about it. It was impossible to convict a man for a murder that hadn't happened yet, and without decisive evidence he couldn't get the police to open an investigation in time to stop it. He had to catch the man on stage with the incriminating death trap in place in order to make the attempted murder charge stick.

And so, Sherlock had sequestered himself inside the large magician's box that was intended for sawing volunteers in half, was wheeled onto stage with the other props and then waited patiently for the right moment to spring out and apprehend the would-be murderer. He hadn't accounted for the idea that the magician might still pull the lever once it was obvious that his plot had been discovered. It was a sheer stroke of luck that John had been selected as the volunteer and that their code term for "You're about to be beheaded" had registered in time. Any other audience member likely would have been killed.

Several police reports, shock blankets, and screaming matches between Sherlock and Anderson later, the men of 221B Baker Street were free to leave.

John was unsurprised to find that his date—Chandelier/Shoe Polish/Shawshank Redemption—was not waiting for him out front, and he didn't care in the slightest.

The two flatmates stood on the kerb, silently waiting to hail a cab, and that was when it happened.

John looked at Sherlock, and Sherlock looked at John.

"You saved my life, you know."

"Of course. I'd be lost without my blogger."

Something intangible passed between them. John felt that familiar swelling-warm feeling in his chest that happened when his flatmate did something brilliant. Sherlock looked angular in the light from the streetlamps but also strangely soft, like a child. His eyes were unreadable as they studied John's face, deducing everything from the lines and freckles.

John stepped forward, took Sherlock's face carefully in his hands, and kissed him.

It wasn't a long kiss, or a deep one, but it carried all the force of a bolt of lightning.

In the years to come, John would never be able to explain what had made him do it. There was no rising suspense, no subtle exchanges between them that had gradually built up over time. There had been no questioning his feelings as he lay in bed at night or discussions concerning the nature of relationships.

Something had simply changed, and in the whirlwind that was their life together, neither of them had noticed it until the very moment it was upon them. Between the chases through the streets of London and the near-death experiences, all the lines they'd carefully placed in the sand had blown away when they weren't looking.

A taxi appeared just as they were pulling apart, and they climbed wordlessly into it. The ride back to their flat was uneventful. It was late, and they were both tired.

They stumbled through the front door and up the stairs, and there was a long moment when they paused in the living room. They both knew what they were thinking: wondering what they should say, if they should say anything at all.

After a minute of silence that was surprisingly devoid of tension, they both went off to their separate rooms, closed the doors, and did not sleep at all.

…

…

+ 1

It was several days before anything significant happened. John was really beginning to think they were just never going to talk about it.

Then Sherlock cornered him against the fridge, and the proverbial floodgates opened.

It started almost painfully, with the taller man crushing their mouths together and getting all teeth as John gasped with surprise. The teacup the doctor had been holding shattered on the floor, but neither of them seemed to notice. John hesitated for one fraction of a beffudled second before he was kissing Sherlock back, digging his fingers into the tight shirt he was wearing and surrendering himself completely.

It was sloppy and uncoordinated and the hottest thing that had ever happened to either of them.

Sherlock's stubble raked John's skin as he leant down to kiss his neck, and he would have sworn that he'd never felt anything so good before in his life. He grabbed his flatmate's narrow hips and hitched them closer, groaning at the unexpected pleasure that jolted through him. Sherlock shuddered against him, which only served to rub every inch of them together. Their voices mingled in the air together in a husky chorus of sensation.

Friction was rapidly becoming their favourite force of relative motion.

John was beginning to think he might very well faint from the sensory overload. He was excruciatingly aware of every detail: Sherlock's skin was amazingly supple at his neck but rough at the palms of his hands. He had calluses on his fingers that made John keen when his shirt was finally removed and he dragged them roughly over his nipples. There was a little patch of fine, white hairs on Sherlock's Adam's apple that John blew on just to watch him shiver. The insistent press of his erection against John's stomach—Sherlock was so infuriatingly tall—was hot and full against his skin, and the urge to get his lips around it was so powerful it ached.

He wondered if this is what it felt like inside Sherlock's hyper-aware brain.

Colours were vivid and bright when he opened his eyes, panting for breath. The sound of his heart thundering in his ears was deafening. His skin felt like sparks were dancing along it, tickling across every hair and making them stand on end. The desire pulsing through him was akin to small currents of electricity running through the circuitry that his veins had become.

Sherlock was looking at him with a dazed expression, his full lips kiss-bruised and dark red like blood. "Why have we never done this before?"

John laughed, his voice coming out in deep, ragged breaths. "Technically, we have. Just not with this much fervour."

"That is an irredeemable mistake."

"Dunno, Sherlock. You're doing a decent job of redeeming yourself in my book."

They studied each other for a moment, their hands still clutching each other for dear life. John was shirtless with his trouser button popped open and his pants peeking out. Sherlock's shirt was unbuttoned and half hanging from his shoulders, and his belt was undone and his zip pulled down. They were both flushed, mussed, and obviously, painfully hard.

John grinned cheekily. "I think we can safely say our friendship is ruined."

"I prefer to think it has simply made the natural evolutionary leap that was inevitable from its conception."

"Shut up and kiss me."

With their tongues firmly tangled together, then two men began to edge towards the closest bedroom, making stops at the kitchen table (Sherlock thrown over it in a sprawl of ivory limbs), the doorway (John's hands firmly pinned against it while Sherlock ground their hips together), and the sofa (which they very nearly never made it past, except that John was paranoid about Mrs Hudson checking in on them). John barely had time to be grateful that they didn't have to navigate up any stairs before they were in Sherlock's room, and he was throwing the man down on his bed. He crawled after him an instant later only to hit his knees hard on something that should have been soft.

"Sherlock, is this a box spring?"

"Yes."

"…Where is your mattress?"

"Soiled."

"…By?"

"Sheep's blood, Vaseline, and turpentine."

"…"

"…"

"… Why … Why was there … I mean, how did you… oh, fuck it."

John kissed the mad detective feverishly, his hands already working on divesting them of the rest of their pesky clothing. They writhed together, a thrashing pile of tongues, teeth, sweat, and skin. John shoved a hand between them, and when his fist closed around Sherlock's erection, the other man threw his head back and moaned. John could come just from feeling the vibrations of the other man's voice deep in his chest. Sherlock was a stunning baritone on normal days, but when aroused his voice became more sensation than sound. It was vibrating cello strings that were dripping with warm chocolate.

John's knees were aching from the wood beneath them, but when Sherlock began rutting their hips together at just the right angle, he forgot all about it. He practically forgot how to think, he was so focused on the pleasure thrumming through his body. It had been years since someone had managed to turn him on this thoroughly, and he never wanted it to stop.

Through an enormous exercise in restraint, John managed to grit out, "How do you want to do this?"

Sherlock didn't even hesitate. "I want you to fuck me, John. So hard that I feel your name burning on my skin."

John swore and had to push himself up and off of Sherlock in order to keep himself from coming right then and there. He took a shuddering breath and bit his lip.

When he once again had himself under control, he asked, "Do you have any lube? Or condoms, for that matter?"

"Lube's in the top drawer of my nightstand, and condoms are unnecessary. I tested you for STDs a week ago. We're both clean."

"Sher—what the, is that why I woke up with that bloody pinprick on my arm?"

"It was for a good cause."

John rolled his eyes but decided to trade throttling Sherlock for fucking him in such a manner that sitting became implausible. He fetched the lube, applied generous portions to both himself and his fingers, and then prepared his soon-to-be lover with all the care that could be expected from a doctor, albeit a slightly irritated one. Three fingers and the same number of minutes later, Sherlock was stretched, and John was beginning to burn with the need to be inside him. He grabbed a pillow to put under the other man's hips both to help the angle and to keep the wood from hurting him and then grabbed another one for his knees. He hitched one of Sherlock's legs around his waist and pressed his cock against his entrance. Watching the other man quiver from that small action alone was pure erotica, better than any porn he'd ever seen, and it made desire jolt into him like lightning.

John forced himself to move slowly—this was a first for him, and he knew from the Irene Adler incident that it was for Sherlock, too—but damn if he didn't just want to bury himself in the other man. He was warm and pliant and open beneath him, just begging him to sink in. The first few inches were white-hot perfection. Sherlock was gripping his shoulders tightly and moaning with that sin of a voice, and John was splitting apart at the seams. When he'd finally pushed himself in as far as he could go, he let out a shuddering breath and groaned. The feeling was unlike anything he'd ever expected, pulsing at the epicentre between his legs and flowing outward into the tips of every finger and toe. He cracked an eye open and saw a vision beneath him: Sherlock—porcelain, alabaster, ivory—coated with a glistening sheen of sweat, blushing coral in the most sensitive areas of his body—cheeks, armpits, groin—and with his beautiful face distorted by an expression of ecstasy that bordered on agony.

It took John several seconds to regain the ability to speak, "Sherlock, are you all right?"

The detective's eyes opened, and his pupils were so dilated, his irises were like the silver glow around the edges of a lunar eclipse. "John, please, move."

The doctor needed no more encouragement than that. He dragged every burning-tingling inch of himself out of the other man's body and then slammed back in, wrenching moans from both their lips. He set a rhythm that was deep and long, focusing more on sensation than speed. Sherlock awkwardly tried to move with him, but John held his hips down with both hands. In the end, the detective surrendered to it, lying back and letting John plunder his body for every drop of pleasure it could produce. A continuous stream of moans, John's name, and expletives poured from his lips, and the doctor's voice quickly joined his as the pleasure built between them.

When Sherlock grabbed at him with bone-crushing strength, John knew it was time. He changed the rhythm of his thrusts to short, quick movements that rubbed all the right places inside him and reached a hand between them for Sherlock's erection. It only took three strokes for the other man to come, his voice ringing out even as his back arched and hot semen spurted between them. His clenching muscles sent John right over the edge after him, and for a long moment all the world was white.

When John regained sentience, he only barely managed to stop himself from rolling over and falling immediately asleep, uncomfortable box spring be damned. Instead, he eased himself slowly out of Sherlock and crawled off their makeshift bed. His knees wobbled, but he managed to keep himself upright, and he was rewarded with the sight of Sherlock sprawled in front of him, looking gorgeous and utterly debauched.

John shook his head slightly, hardly daring to believe this was his life. "Come on, Sherlock. Get up , and we'll go climb into my bed."

"I'm fairly certainly I have permanently lost all sensation in my extremities."

"Sherlock Holmes: the world's only consulting cry baby."

John reached down, grabbed both of Sherlock's arms, and hauled him limply to his feet. The detective was uncharacteristically docile as he allowed himself to be led up the stairs, into John's room, and subsequently into his bed.

Once they were settled, John turned on his side to face Sherlock, propping his head up with one hand. "Are we going to talk about this or just leave it be?"

"What's there to talk about?" Sherlock gave him the look, and this time it actually was the one that says we both know what's really going on here.

And for once, John really did know. He settled back with a content sigh and the knowledge that he was precisely where he was supposed to be.

Sherlock smiled—really smiled, like a beacon in darkness—and leaned over to kiss him. "I would like to express my sincere hope that tonight's activities will be repeated with alarming frequency."

John chuckled and stroked his cheek with one finger. "You're going to be the death of me, aren't you?"

"I'd think quite the opposite judging from the Great Zambino incident."

"I've already thought of a title for that one for my blog."

"Oh?"

"Mmhm. I'm going to call it 'Thinking Outside the Magician's Box.'"

"That is truly atrocious."

"Yes, and there's nothing you can do about it."

…

The end.

…

Closing Note:

Ladies and Gentlemen, we have fan art!

Extremely selfish child illustrated all five of the box scenes:

Box 1: extremlyselfishchild dot deviantart dot com/art/A-Box-Full-of-Johnlock-Box-One-309062794

Box 2: extremlyselfishchild dot deviantart dot com/art/A-Box-Full-of-Johnlock-Box-Two-309063559

Box 3: extremlyselfishchild dot deviantart dot com/art/A-Box-Full-of-Johnlock-Box-Three-309064283

Box 4: extremlyselfishchild dot deviantart dot com/art/A-Box-Full-of-Johnlock-Box-Four-309064767

Box 5: extremlyselfishchild dot deviantart dot com/art/A-Box-Full-of-Johnlock-Box-Five-309065228