Hi! Wow...I am remiss in my writing duties. I haven't updated or posted anything in far too long, and I have excuses, but screw those and let's get to the Johnlock! This piece is post-Reichenbach and details both John and Sherlock's reunion, their time apart, and their growth. Slash is abundant so don't like don't read applies. I highly recommend you listen to the music I wrote the parts to. First part written to "Follow You Down to the Red Oak Tree" by James Vincent McMorrow (From Third Star and if you haven't seen that movie...just watch). Second part written to "Break In" by Halestorm. Third Part written to "Insatiable" by Darren Hayes. Note that I own neither the show nor the songs, and may Moffat have mercy on our souls. But who are we kidding? It's Moffat. He's a cruel, cruel master that we stupidly, willingly follow. :)

Shivers stole tremulously through the thin body. He'd lost weight he could ill afford to lose, but then, he hadn't had anyone on the road with him to make him eat regularly. Or sometimes. Or at all.

Soon. The promise to himself was well-worn, frayed at the edges with grief and the wonder if it would ever be over. If the moment of finality would ever be solid enough to go back home. "Home," he breathed the word had a simple string of letters sounded so pristine, so eloquent to Sherlock. It was not easily defined, because home could be any number of things. A place, a memory, a feeling…

A person.

It would—if his sources were correct—end tonight. The last strand of a once magnificent and deadly web would blow away in the wind to be forgotten like the wisps of old nightmares. The spider king was dead, long gone, and his scattered children picked off one by one. Then, each string of sticky silk was meticulously cut, with the respect and careful hand of one who had been long entangled and survived un-drained of his life-blood.

I will burn your heart out. Sherlock smirked smugly, walking towards the overpass to await news from his associates. He'd feared those words, for all that time; he'd thought it a testament to the disadvantage of sentiment. Really, it had been obvious how Moriarty wished to turn his heart to ashes. But what the consulting criminal hadn't realized, hadn't factored in, was that Sherlock wasn't in possession of his heart. He hadn't had it for a long time. It had stayed behind in the safest place he could have chosen to keep it.

In John's hands.

Moriarty lost because of sentiment's disadvantage. Feelings had once disgusted him. Now they gave him the tools needed to bring an entire underground empire to its knees. The paradoxical 'advantageous disadvantage' lay in the fact that emotion bred irrationality. Moriarty was the last person Sherlock would associate with the word rational. And thus the idea to play a rational game irrationally had bloomed. Moriarty had cheat cards in his deck, and so Sherlock nonchalantly created some cards of his own. Not a single one made any sense, but they worked, because Jim was like everyone by sentiment. Boring.

You are me. And if Sherlock was Moriarty, then he supposed he was too.

The idea that he was boring didn't bother him nearly as much as it once had. If it meant that he would be able to walk into 221B again and glut himself on the vision of John completely focused on him, even if for only a short while before the calm would disappear, it was worth it. So entirely, completely, unrepentantly worth it.

The news came quicker than he had expected. He allowed a brief swell of pride for his network's success. Let Lestrade say what he wanted about the homeless; they were indispensable. His last target was settled comfortably in the apartment building across from the view of John's bedroom window. He didn't quite know what to think of that; the idea that Moran had watched as John fell asleep each night, while he was pushed farther and farther across the world, away from his heart. Pity he probably didn't observe John beyond seeing if he and I had contact. He might have known happiness before he died. Biased, perhaps, to think that John embodied life and joy. Probably incorrect as well, if Molly had been truthful. John was wasting away, steadily starving himself of contact until he hadn't smiled in over eight months. Sherlock knew what was coming: the bitter sting of a right-hook to the cheekbone, cursing and violent words that would no doubt lodge in his skin and tear, flaying him alive, but always worth it. It was a calculated risk, because John could always turn him out. And Sherlock would deserve it, no matter his intentions. He knew that. Sociopathy didn't mean unawareness of wrong doings, it meant not caring about the effects.

But Sherlock cared. He cared beyond rationality and if John rejected him because Sherlock had torn out his beating heart to keep John safe, then Sherlock would walk away and let him be. The inevitable fall would be real. And John would never have to suffer his presence again. That was what people did, wasn't it? Died for the valor of love and all that? He scoffed, looking out the window of the cab to the passing streets and their pedestrians. He wouldn't die for the valor of love. He'd die because of the absence of it. It was the air and water—far more natural than a drug—that he'd never known he needed. A weakness he never thought he'd have.

But oh, if John released his rage and then let him in…

Sherlock let the fantasy, a thousand scenarios skittering by, take his mind until the cab stopped, and the end was nigh. Work was always easiest when he had something to motivate him—The Woman had proven that, despite the fact he sometimes regretted ever noticing her in the first place. The Woman was intriguing, but she ended up as boring as the rest of them. He saved her, not because he hoped she would retain feelings, but because she was useful for future endeavors. She was his nonsensical trump card when the weariness was overwhelming. Her biting words and occasional slaps helped ground him, as did her soft hugs when he craved his John. When the tears threatened to fall, she would give him a quick hug and tell him that she would do anything to give him his life back, as he had hers. Sherlock knew she was both thanking him and promising to deliver him back to John. And she had proven useful in pushing his relationship with John to the forefront of his brain.

"Look at us both." He hoped, he hoped, he hoped. She once saw what I did not. Perhaps she saw this in John as well. He watched each and every encounter in his mind's eye, watching as John shot a man for him after knowing him for half a day, as John tackled Moriarty to give Sherlock a chance at escape, when John stopped protesting so vehemently that he and Sherlock weren't a couple, when he brought him tea or food, or rubbed his shoulders if he was overly tense (he never said 'no') or the time when John had dusted his skull like it belonged there, or sassed at Mycroft to make Sherlock laugh, or praised him like he was a human being worth talking to and admiring, or—

Bang!

Motivation was everything.

xXx

John's head rose slowly, hearing the sound of a gunshot from nearby.

Strange, that so much can change with a small piece of metal. It was a thought he'd had frequently, especially now, on the cusp of changing seasons that brought cold to the air. His leg ached and his heart was too shredded to ache. It didn't bother him anymore that he didn't run out the door to aid whomever was being shot at. He felt guilty, of course he did, his doctor's instinct wanted to save the world. But were he to chase a killer with a gun, he would find the quickest way into the path of the bullet. He'd been wounded one too many times when Lestrade took him off the team. He couldn't let Sherlock down like that. Even if Sherlock had never given him his miracle. He couldn't fault a dead man for staying dead.

The name was no longer a poisoned dart meant to stop his heart. Now, it was all he had to keep his heart beating. His sanity was…well, waning was probably a nice word. The numbness should have faded long ago, but it was his constant companion now. He had occasional bouts of feeling—sentiment—but not a single one was pleasant. If his insides ripped any further, John wondered if they would find him bled out on the carpet the next day. The numbness was his medication. His drug of choice, because though it would kill him in the end, at least the pain was spread out.

It had been a non-descript day; just a cloudy, drizzling London morning that had turned into a storming night. The gunshot echoed for a moment before being drowned out by the rain pattering to the ground, and John turned back to his blog. Nothing happens to me. The words typed in black Arial font sat heavily in the posting box. He wouldn't post it, of course, he hadn't typed a word he actually posted in two years. The unsent messages filled his draft box.

Reading over them again was stupid, he was an idiot to do this, but Sherlock always called him as much, and Sherlock had never been wrong. Incorrect, yes, sometimes more often than John could get him to admit. But never, ever wrong. The wrong was his absence. If he could right that wrong...but that wasn't in his power to do. That choice had always rested with Sherlock. Sherlock had chosen to jump. And Sherlock was always right.

The sound of footsteps pounding up the stairs should have alarmed him, but he didn't much care who burst through the door, the hinges protesting loudly. Lestrade had probably heard about his row with Donavon—actually, he'd sat there and she'd shouted abuse at him—and come to make sure he was 'fine'. That term was used so loosely in his life now.

The thud that echoed after the long silence when Lestrade didn't speak was different though. He swiveled his head around listlessly to look at the Chief Inspector and ask without caring what was going on. And then…

John burst out laughing. Until tears streamed down his face. Goddammit I've finally lost my mind.

Sherlock Bloody Holmes stared at him, eyes riveted to his shaking shoulders from his position on his knees against the floor. That explained the thud. It was Sherlock, or rather, John's barmy brain-conjured Sherlock sinking to his knees. Why? He wondered. Ah, doesn't matter. Don't ask questions when you've gone 'round the bend, Watson.

His laughter began to take on a hysterical edge, and Ghost Sherlock (he laughed harder at the bad pun—InSpectre Sherlock!) looked as helpless as he'd ever seen him. "John?" he whispered softly.

His laughter subsided, until he could smile at the features he missed so badly it felt like acid, not tears, dripping from his eyes. "Hey, Sherlock," he said gently. "Thanks for stopping by." Not-Sherlock's brows furrowed, trying to deduce what John was thinking. He could almost see recognition.

"John…you don't believe I'm real, do you." It wasn't a question, and John didn't answer.

"Still deducing in death, then? I miss you, you know. Every day. Did you hear that I almost married Mary?" He grinned at the second bad pun of the evening, watching as Sherlock frowned. "Not that you know who that is. Or maybe you do? She was great. I thought I was doing fine, at least, that's what everyone said. And then I woke up during a thunderstorm like this and I thought 'Sherlock hates the rain'. I never talked to her again and moved back here."

"John…" the words were ragged, breathing seemed to be challenging the ghost, or the vision, or whatever it was in front of him. Breathing. Breathing's boring.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock, that I didn't do better. You would have told me that sentiment is for idiots. It is, it really is. I've never been so miserable in my life, and it's your fault and still I can't help but love having you here, even though I'm mad, and it's all in my head," John shook his head with a fondly exasperated smile.

The vision staggered to his feet, reaching into the air between them, clenching his hand like he didn't know what to do. John reached his hand up as well, their fingers a little over a foot apart. The silence was marred by cracks of thunder. "I'm sorry you aren't here for real, though," he murmured, unsure if he'd been heard. "Christ, I'd do…anything." He chuckled weakly.

"Would you?"

The doctor nodded and stretched his hand out a little further.

"Would you kiss me?" Sherlock's words were rushed. So beautiful, that voice.

John looked over at not-Sherlock and blinked twice before he laughed. "Oh God, yes. And ravage you into the floor, or the bed, or the chair or couch or wherever you felt like it. Although actually, I wouldn't, since Sherlock would have told me to piss off because he was 'married to his work'. And then called me an idiot, the git." Not-Sherlock's lips twitched in a semblance of a sad smile.

"I suppose the Sherlock you remember would have." John tilted his head, confused at the puzzling ghost. "But he changed. Beyond recognition to himself, actually. A bit disconcerting, that. To wake up one morning and realize you've altered so completely without realizing it. It's your fault, you know."

John frowned. Apparition or not, Sherlock wasn't allowed to say any of this was his fault. He opened his mouth, but was cut off. "John, I'm real. I'm here. Even your stubborn mind can't deny the evidence."

"Evidence?"

Sherlock smiled for a moment before the floodgates opened. "You've been spending the last six days here in the front room, judging by the imprint of the pillow you've gotten up only to make tea on five occasions and eat two slices of toast in that time (rather hypocritical to bother me about eating don't you think?) based on the number of cups in the sink plus the one sitting near you chair. You've also gotten up to shower, but they've been quick, not the long ones you usually take, because you had something else on your mind, something that continued to bring you in this room; this particular room. You've hardly slept in months, though two years would be more precise if the circles under your eyes and rapidly constricting and widening pupils are indicates—and they are—so the chair and couch are not the reasons you are here, otherwise you would have gone to your room to sleep. So it stands to reason that it is your computer, which you have not taken from the room and has maintained one permanent tab to your blog. I have been following it, and nothing has been posted for some time, so why would you keep that tab open? Perhaps because you're eager for a chance to find something to write about? No, of course not, you've hardly taken any cases and you think the readership has disappeared with me. I can assure you our 'fans' are actually growing rather rabid, if the ones I've met while traveling are any prelude but either way, the reason you keep that tab open is to write unsent letters. About what? I have my suspicions, but I couldn't break into your account on the chance it would be traced, so I am not certain as to the content. But if my suspicions are true, John, then you have been writing letters about me, for me, to me, ones that you never sent because they are of a private nature. A romantic nature. Your words earlier in response to my question were that you would ravish me where I wished it, loudly advertising feelings for me, though you are probably regretting them at the moment as you realize I am not a ghost or vision. In fact, I think you may feel compelled to hit me when I finish speaking, and if you feel the need to do so, I will allow it, because I deserve it. I can also say with some certainty that you think I do not return the sentiment, as you said I would call you an idiot should you have done those things. Well, John Watson, you most definitely are an idiot, because you have failed to notice one very, very crucial detail in our relationship."

The unbroken silence rung with the intensity of a hall of bells, and John suddenly realized how close they were, scant inches from each other's faces. He reached up and braced a hand against Sherlock's chest, feeling the rapid heartbeat, unsure if he was going to push Sherlock away. Had they been at this distance a few years ago, before the mess of their lives came to fruition as John watched—or thought he watched—Sherlock fall to the pavement…

He would have moved away from the warm body, the twitching fingers, the wildly blown pupils, the heartbeat that was so very alive and beating wildly under his hand—

Oh.

His gaze came up to Sherlock's eyes. Oh. He'd never before understood how anyone thought they could see into someone's soul through their eyes. It was just so cliché? Cheesy? Pick a word, but he hadn't thought it possible. Then Sherlock proved him wrong as he read everyone's life story using their eyes. John had hardly seen anyone read Sherlock and he himself didn't have that talent to use on people. But right now, it was…

"What?" his whisper was half fearful, and half reverent. That the detective was allowing him to see was too unfathomable, too improbable—

"When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth," Sherlock murmured, brushing against John's ear and sending a vibrant shiver down John's spine. "John. You are an idiot. It's been obvious, hasn't it? That you are my heart?"

"Sherlock." The words subsisted on nothing but the lightest of breath, shallow and hitching, but it was every promise and confirmation they could have spoken. "Sherlock," he sobbed, the floodgates finally opened and allowed to drain its murky waters. He clung to his partner, friend, love, his everything like he would vanish with one misplaced word. Soft sounds of shushing and the choking grip around his waist; the hand clutching his head to Sherlock's neck reassured him that disappearances would not happen tonight. "Sherlock…"

At least not tonight.

"Not ever John. Not ever again." Ah, he'd spoken aloud then.

"Don't." It was far too close to pleading for his comfort. "You can't promise that."

A pause, and he felt Sherlock nod hesitantly. "You're right." The words hurt less than they might have when Sherlock leaned back and gave a half-smile. "But I won't be going alone next time. I'll explain everything, whenever you want. But I need you to understand that all of it was so you would be safe. So that I could come home to you, and you could punch me for scaring you, and then you could 'ravish me into the floor, or the bed, or the chair or couch or wherever you felt like it'." Sherlock smiled fuller now, the want warring with the desire to explain and make things right.

For all his deducing, he clearly couldn't see that—for the moment—it already was.

Callused hands, rough from the war and 'civilian' life with Sherlock reached up to frame the high cheekbones and trace the world weary eyes. "Maybe the table, then. You've gotten thinner."

"I haven't had you to pester me."

John hummed, nodding. "Have to fix that." Their lips met in a tentative brush. New, so new. They had time now. Please, let us have time. It was all John could have asked of a miracle. Their mouths gained new intimacy, the press and ebb and flow different, new so very very new, and Sherlock's mind stuttered to a stop when John's tongue met his. Heat want yes more want more—

It was an altogether different dance than he was used to, and one he had barely learned before proceeding to delete most of it. He wasn't lying when he said relationships weren't his area. Obvious. Fortunate then, that he was a quick study. Their tongues dueled and breathing sped until one or the other would break away for mere seconds before returning to drink. Sherlock felt the couch at his legs and wondered if he could take the step to let himself fall. A much better fall than his last.

He had his answer when John surged up again to claim his lips and press against him, arousal apparent and oh Sherlock didn't need to deduce a damn thing. "John." He barely suppressed a gasp, the sheer need that had been left unfulfilled for longer than he wanted to recall. Pride be damned (at least for now). His mind kept a steady chant of John, John, John beneath all the other thoughts and observations. All of the things he wanted to imprint in his memory to keep them from ever being deleted.

"Sherlock, I don't think—"

"John, please," he begged. He wouldn't be surprised if he begged far more than twice tonight. It would be worth it.

"Fuck, Sherlock." John moved his lips to the pale column of Sherlock's neck, the scarf slithering to the floor in rivulets. "I can't—I can't forgive you so quickly. Don't make me forgive you yet." He felt the detective pull back and press his hand against John's chest, closing his eyes to listen. Soft hitches of breath were the only indicator that Sherlock was losing it.

"Ours. Our heart," Sherlock whispered, opening glassy eyes filled with unwanted moisture. "Yours. And mine. I'll explain whatever part you want to hear. You don't have to forgive me John, not ever, I'll never ask you to. Just let me stay here." He pressed harder against the thump of a living heart, clutching the material of John's favorite jumper. Sherlock had warred with himself so many times in the past years, the first trial after the Fall being whether to take something of John's with him. A jumper would have been the logical choice, but by the time he had convinced himself that John wouldn't notice, Molly had come to collect him. She watched, a sad twist to her mouth, as Sherlock gripped the soft material—washed the day before—and let a few tears escape into its threads. They were the first tears he'd let escape since boyhood, and they were the last for a long while, until they were in France, and met Moran for the first time. It was as if his eyes had longed to cry for so long that any crack in the stone dam would crumble the walls he'd built. Only to realize they rested on nothing but shifting sand. "One shot, Holmes. It only takes one shot, bullet or chemical, to put down a dog. And yours has strayed." Mary Morstan. His next two months of breathing felt like shrapnel in his chest and throat.

Had Sherlock been a lesser man, he would have let himself wallow indefinitely. But he stifled and pushed it all away so he could function, until the evenings (or early mornings) came, and he could grip Irene with his bloodstained hands and sob for the want of his John. It was a strange thought that a Dominatrix of the highest caliber might someday be an excellent mother. She certainly had the makings as she fussed over him while simultaneously running her 'business' as they moved constantly, and holding up a more long-term relationship with a woman from Belgium they'd encountered. "Really, I have no idea how I could have ever had even a notion of attraction for you, Sherlock. Is this how you treated John's girlfriends? Goodness, I think he brought so many around just to spite you! I certainly would, and slap your cheek for your cheek at that!"

Never the right heart he was pressed against. If not Irene, then men and women whom he seduced to their death, unwitting children of the spider he'd continued to squish further into the pavement. He prided himself on having little more than meager kisses stolen in that time—an odd thing to be proud of, but he was so far beyond thinking anything rational about John that he would claim his relative inexperience with relish so long as John knew that he was the reason why—whereas before sex had seemed merely tedious and unnecessary, now he anticipated, he wanted to know what it could be when it was more than an experiment. But only with John. Only ever did he want to discover these things with John.

He hadn't realized the tears had made another appearance until John brushed them away with his thumb, making soft sounds and still unable to part his lips from whatever part of Sherlock's skin he could find under the many layers. His neck, his face, his wrists, the backs and palms of his hands. "Shh, shh, Sherlock, it's fine, yeah? It's fine, don't cry because then I will. We're English, we don't do that," John laugh-sobbed slightly and Sherlock suddenly found himself seated on the sofa, arms full of warmth that was uniquely John. "Sherlock, thank you…"

No sense. He's making no sense. "For what?"

His eyes were closed, mostly to prevent any more tears from distressing John, but he wanted to see John's face. He'd gone far too long without it. John's expression was—

"For being an idiot." Love, that is his expression. He loves me. John loves me. John loves me. John loves me. And that made any nonsensical words have all the clarity he requires.

"You're welcome."

xXx

He lifted his head, nudging at John's cheek until their lips meet, and now he could taste again. Tea and jam and toast, eaten early in the morning—he hasn't eaten anything else all day—all embellished with a taste that could never have a category but John. Just like his scent, and the feel of his hands running over Sherlock's face before moving to the buttons of his coat, or the thud of a rapid heartbeat under his fingers. All of it was John.

John's hands were restrained, wanting to rip and tear at any clothing standing in his way, but he didn't have to hold back. Give or take, it didn't matter. All that mattered was the need, the physical and emotional ache that, had he experienced this at any other time, with any other person, would have been written off as transport and deleted immediately. But with John…"John, don't be careful. Take what you want, I want it too, please John." The second time had come and gone, and Sherlock was certain there would be more pleas to the night.

"No."

His whimper was evidence enough to prove his last theory. He wondered if he would generally be this compliant on this subject or if his stubborn nature would drive him to try reversing the situation at a later date. Don't much care either way.

"No, Sherlock. I don't, well I do want to tear everything off and fuck you into the sofa," John's voice grew dark with a delicious promise of later, and Sherlock had to fight the urge to melt into the pillows, but then it changed again. Sherlock had issues with emotion mostly because they give him whiplash. "But not now. I…you were broken on the pavement, Sherlock. No matter if it was real or not, I can't—I don't want to feel like I'm breaking you. Maybe when you've had some decent meals and we've both had more than a kip on the sofa, and I've gotten the image of that out of my head, then we can try anything else we want. But right now, I just want to feel you alive and I want you to feel." He ended the sentence there, and Sherlock wanted to tell him that John brought him to feeling more than he could often bear. Instead, he nodded and sighed when he was kissed again, this one slow and building. Each of John's kisses has a different flavor, Sherlock noted, giving depth to emotions he wanted to both run far away from and wrap himself up in. Like a shock blanket.

The kisses were moving along his face, taking in detail and giving rise to stuttered heartbeats that Sherlock would swear could be heard by all of Baker Street. They were so distracting, Sherlock was momentarily startled at being pressed down to a mattress. His mattress, and when had they moved? Still don't care. When John's mouth moved back to his neck, it took all his willpower to not keen outright. The sensation was good, pleasurable, and wrought its own kind of havoc on his mind. But it was the worship, the adoration and devotion that he could feel with each feather-light brush that gave him the mad desire to scream to the world that it couldn't have John anymore. That John was his, his forever, John was his heart, and at the end of the day, it was mutual. He was as much John's as the opposite was true. This time, the half-sob was audible.

"Shh, it's fine. It's all fine. I love you, Sherlock. Love you so goddamn much," John murmured against the hollow of his collar bone, laughing in slight disbelief at his own words. "Never thought I'd get to say that. Love you, Sherlock." Hands made for giving care divested the detective of his coat and shirt, the tremor completely appeased though there was no reason for it to have stilled once more. That's Sherlock for you. John pulled back to trace over the alabaster skin, noting every line of muscle and scar and blemish. He's so beautiful. He might have said it out loud.

The slow pace of clothing removal nearly drove Sherlock mad. Eventually, his insistent tugging yielded results, and oh! He had never understood the appeal of having another's skin touch his. Handshakes were usually enough to make him want to wash his hands of humanity, but feeling every plane of John's upper body pressed flush to his was an exquisite torture—a tactile overload that threatened to tear his concentration from the hand wandering lower, to slide his trousers and pants down and pause at his hip, thumb stroking over the prominent bone as if idly making a note to force food down his throat at the first chance he got. Sherlock breathed heavily, trying not to look at John looking at him, because the heat there…his cock twitched in ready anticipation at the rapid dart of John's eyes across his body, unable to decide where to look first. "John, please." Nothing more than a breath, but John could hear him. And all at once he knew that he could not have chosen a better partner, friend, and lover than John if he had been looking in the first place.

John's hands played him as a maestro would the strings, and his voice rasped with love and affection when he moaned Sherlock's name. His words and his body sang harmony to his heart, and Sherlock felt grateful (and perhaps a bit smug) that every sound and cry drawn from John's lips was his. A private concert, his disjointed mind provided, voice hitching on a low whine when the undulations of their hands and bodies slowed to a teasing pace. "Sherlock," John said in the strange awe Sherlock had heard when they first met. His name was said in the same way John had said "Fantastic!" and he wondered if it had all been leading to this, even then. "Fuck, do you know how you look right now?" His question went unanswered in favor of reaching to the bedside table in search of something to prepare Sherlock with. "Do you—oh. Yes you do. Christ, but this is strange. Didn't think you even cared about sex in general, much less with…" He faltered. Sherlock frowned at the mistaken assumption.

"Much less with you? Hardly John. Only you. The rest is transport," he explained, distracted by the idle uncapping and recapping of the bottle John did subconsciously. John smiled his thousand watt grin and raised a brow.

"That's a lot of pressure, you know. Better bring my best."

"You always do."

"Even though I'm an idiot."

"It's part of your appeal."

John laughed again, until he fed Sherlock the pleasant sound when their lips sought each other out. When he pulled away, the unbridled adoration and fondness in the doctor's eyes made him squirm. "John, I realize you are having 'a moment', but I really must insist you leave the teary sniffling until tomorrow when I am properly rested for sentiment."

"Shut up, Sherlock," John said, rolling his eyes, but leaning down to kiss his way across Sherlock's chest to his arms and meandering down to his fingertips. "I can think of things I'd rather do than become a blubbering mess anyways."

"If you—" Sherlock's mouth suddenly fell slack in a rumbling moan when he felt slick fingers pressing at his entrance. "John." He could feel the doctor smile against his side, where he licked and kissed with such…Sherlock could think of no words to describe the intensity behind such simple acts. It didn't matter. His eyes squeezed shut, breath leaving him in gasps and pants when John slipped a finger into him. Oh. This is different. No experiments of the past could begin to reach the level of feeling he was experiencing. Good. Good pleasurable painful new different perfect John, John, John! "John, more." His request was almost immediately fulfilled, as more were added and the pleasure-pain intensified. "Oh, fuck!" John didn't have time to comprehend the expletive before his body reacted to the absolute seduction of that dark chocolate voice dripping with debauchery and sex. By the time he realized exactly what kind of effect Sherlock swearing had on him, the detective was already braced on all fours under him writhing back against John's fingers, trying to urge him further.

And before John could even realize his instant reaction, Sherlock shattered his thoughts again. "John, John, please, fuck me. Oh god, please John!" And if the sight of the greatest mind and man in existence pleading with him to drive him into the mattress wasn't enough to strip John Watson of his self-control, the cry Sherlock made when his prostate was suddenly assaulted would have been.

"Sherlock," John said, removing his fingers and draping himself over his lover's back, trying not to thrust into the detective without warning. "Sherlock, fuck, you are so beautiful. I love you," he whispered into Sherlock's hair before he slowly pushed his hips forward. Sherlock fisted his hands in the sheets, keening softly until John stopped. "Okay?" John panted from the effort to keep still. "Oh fuck, so tight." He moaned when Sherlock shifted experimentally.

"Yes, yes, just—just move, John—oh!" Sherlock's head snapped back as his spine arched when John pulled out only to thrust back in. The pace he set was fast, angling every few thrusts to brush Sherlock's prostate, and his detective was nearly screaming with the sensation overload and desperation to come.

He slowed, kissing Sherlock's neck and biting until they both moaned with their need. He took his lover's dripping cock, stroking in time with his thrusts, each one purposeful, until Sherlock was shaking with effort to remain upright. "So beautiful, so perfect and amazing."

"John!" Sherlock rocked back against him, his climax held off by his unwillingness to relinquish control. John smiled and kissed his back.

"Sherlock," he murmured. "Let go. Come for me, my love."

Sherlock went nearly still, his spine arching at an almost impossible angle as he spilled into John's hand, mouth open in a silent scream and a gasp of John's name. John followed two thrusts later as Sherlock's body wrung his own orgasm out of him. "Sherlock!" he cried, filling his detective and barely managing to avoid collapsing on him. He shakily withdrew and reached over to draw Sherlock down with him onto the soft mattress. "Sherlock, Sherlock, you're home. Really home," he sighed against the pale neck that bore marks they'd probably have to cover. When he opened his eyes, they were to stare into his friend's sleepy gaze.

"I love you, John," he murmured. "I missed you. Remind me to tell you that every day until I become disgustingly sentimental."

"Nah, you'll be back to body parts in the fridge and burning down the flat by morning. You'll be saying it often enough to get out of trouble anyways."

Sherlock smirked. "Obvious." They both grinned and John draped an arm over Sherlock's side.

"Is this okay? I know you don't—"

"Move and my pillow will be introduced to your face."

"Okay." Eyes closed and breathing slowed, they lay twined on the bed, resting. They settled into sleep, drifting into dreams of pink phones, shock blankets, and a grave that crumbled with the force of an unconventional miracle.

Home.

Finis

Read and Review Sherlockians! We must believe in the power of Johnlock love! :D