John Watson was returning to 221B Baker Street with a bag of groceries in hand. He had an admittedly eclectic selection of groceries, but then again he did live with a madman whose grocery requests had consisted today of more nicotine patches, a cat brush (any colour but red), diabetic socks, laxatives, a watch battery, chewing gum, and exactly seven containers of waxed dental floss. He unlocked the door to find the living room empty.

"Sherlock. It's me."

There was no reply. The violin stared at him from the desk. John began to take off his jacket.

"They didn't have a cat brush, they only had dog brushes, so I picked one of those up. And they don't sell watch batteries at the grocery store, like I said, but I stopped at the jewellers... Sherlock?"

Apparently he was not home. Perhaps there had been a new case? Must have been a good one too, for him to leave so suddenly. And without texting. John took out his mobile phone and checked it for missed text messages. As he scrolled through his messages, something large and fierce hurled itself at him from behind the door.

"Jesus!" John raised his arms in defense.

Sherlock Holmes, brandishing a pair of metal handcuffs, knocked him into the table roughly.

"Sherlock, what the hell are you doing?" John struggled under Sherlock's weight as he snapped one cuff closed around John's left wrist.

"Apprehending... you." He struggled to pin John to the desk.

"...WHY?" John asked.

He heard the clink of keys behind him.

"Oh, no you don't..." John bucked backwards and wrested his body free, elbowing Sherlock back and hurling him against the wall, toppling their lamp in the process. Sherlock steadied himself as John freed his wrist and tackled Sherlock's willowy frame back into the wall.

"I'm practicing " Sherlock explained, coughing with effort. "In case I need to apprehend someone... It may be more difficult than I previously assumed." Sherlock winced, grappling to force John back with his outstretched arms.

"Well, why don't you leave that part to me?" John flipped Sherlock around in one well-practiced movement, twisting his attacking arm behind him, and pressed him face first into the wall, forcing the key from his balled hand.

"This looked easier on television." Sherlock struggled hard against the submission hold, to no avail.

"I bet it did." John forced Sherlock's other arm backwards, though it took considerable effort.

"Ghhh.. John..." Sherlock's face flushed, pressed into the wall.

John closed the cuffs tightly around Sherlock's wrists, forcefully, and locked them snug behind his back. He tucked the key into the inner pocket of his jacket, grunting with the effort of holding Sherlock there.

"How do you like that, Sherlock?" he asked, vehemently.

"Not really what I planned," the momentarily subdued detective admitted, the veins of his elegant neck bulging. "What you lack in height, John, you more than make up for in... anger." John pulled him back by the wrists and pushed him forward again, slamming his forehead into the wall. The pent-up frustration of living with Sherlock Holmes had left him surprisingly open to retaliatory violence. In fact, he thought fleetingly, maybe he was enjoying this a little too much.

"There you go, how's that?"

"John I-"

"I'm not boring you, am I?" He twisted Sherlock's shackled arm back, his thigh pinning him.

"John."

He did not relent.

"John, goddamnit. John. Christ." Sherlock's voice was oddly high and urgent, a desperation present in it that John found both aggravating and strangely appealing.

"Stay still," John hissed.

"Oh, for God's sake. John!" He leaned his knee in deeper.

"Promise me this is the last time you will ever try something like this."

"Mmm, ah, John - you're. Hurting. Me..." John looked up over the sharp edge of Sherlock's familiar shoulder and found his widened eyes were glancing back, pleading with him. Glassy. Uncertain. "John, please." His voice was soft now, spent, though still persuasive.

John caught sight of genuine panic and that rarely seen pained expression in Sherlock's face, and it cut right through him. He unpinned Sherlock, who, breathing heavily, turned and faced him, his back against the wall of the flat, hands still cuffed behind him.

"Sorry, Sherlock," he said softly, though not without continued annoyance. He could feel the adrenaline still coursing through him.

Sherlock looked down at John's face and swallowed visibly, his breathing ragged. John's face listed closer. His brow creased with concern: there was a pinkish lump forming near his hairline where John had knocked his head into the wall.

A pang of guilt.

Sherlock, panting slightly from his previous efforts, watched him, intently, suspiciously even, eyes on alert. John straightened Sherlock's collar for him and looked up. Sherlock's lower lip trembled. John, though feeling an instant kind of mutual embarrassment for that quivering lip, pretended not to see it, and surveyed him with a physician's eyes, making sure there was no more damage.

Then, in a moment of pure instinct, he reached out the fingers of his right hand and brushed them across Sherlock's lips, gently.

Sherlock said nothing, only breathed, and watched.

He could feel the warm bulge between Sherlock's legs growing as he pressed himself closely against the long lean body looming over him. It felt so natural that he didn't question it. Sherlock's downcast eyes fluttered closed, resistance melting, and they both leaned into one another tentatively. John kissed him, carefully and tenderly, his hands entwined in the dark curls of his hair, cupping his head gently.

John was surprised at the sudden urgency of his desire, the spreading rapture. He could never have imagined it would be this overwhelming.

Sherlock made a soft moan, deep in his throat.

This, perhaps more than anything, ignited John's desire. He wanted to hear another one. As soon as possible, please. As he kissed him with growing passion, Sherlock's muted sounds of pleasure caught deep in his throat and he produced a low, sudden, vibratory sound.

"You're purring," John teased.

"Am I?" His voice was bewildered, breathy. Unlike John had ever heard it before. "I thought that was the refrigerator..."

He kissed John back, harder, more insistent, then pulled his head away abruptly, his brow creased with wonder.

"Does it always feel like this?" he asked, earnestly, as though he had never understood why anyone would kiss anyone else, and deriving pleasure from the action had never occurred to him. "Is it always this... good?"

John shook his head. Sherlock looked pleased.

"Well, perhaps I possess a natural aptitude, then."

John could not suppress his laughter. He chuckled into the man's delicate shoulder, then pulled his head back to survey the damage. Sherlock looked deeply affronted.

"You don't have a clue what you're doing," said John. Sherlock bristled.

"I have some... notion of it. Of... how..."

"You don't have a clue, and that frightens you. You're not in control anymore, and that frightens you. But you like it. That really frightens you." Sherlock cocked an eyebrow thoughtfully.

"That is at least.. somewhat accurate," he conceded.

"It's completely accurate." Sherlock's pale, harried eyes scanned John momentarily. His breathing was shaky. He looked as though he was trying to suppress an aneurysm.

"John, it's just, I feel... I feel? Christ Almighty, did you drug me, John?" He stared at him accusingly.

"No! I'm not you, remember? I am perfectly capable of wrestling you into a pair of handcuffs without you being drugged. Surprisingly easy, actually. And surprisingly, well, other things, too." He licked his lips, nervously. He was suddenly worried. Suddenly embarrassed, wondering if Sherlock really wanted this. They couldn't take this back. Sherlock's eyes darted downwards momentarily.

Still. Both. Hard.

"Well," said Sherlock, "I suppose when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable... is turning me on."

"Mhmm," said John, watching him with an uncertain sense of power that Sherlock had never made him feel before. Something about stomping out that condescension was entirely thrilling.

"Yes, alright," said Sherlock acidly, still pinned against the wall. "Fine. What do you want me to say: you win?"

"Just once, it would be nice."

"That you've out... muscled me?" His eyes were alight with feverish thought. He kept looking at John, and then looking away, and exhaling with effort, and looking back, as though slowly losing the ability to breathe.

"Sherlock."

"What!"

"You don't have to be nervous. It's alright."

"What is?"

"It's okay. This."

"No it isn't." Sherlock's chest rose and fell quickly.

"I'm not going to hurt you." Sherlock blinked.

"I-I wasn't... worried." Sherlock glanced sideways. John was hardly convinced.

"Your pulse is racing."

"Well, so is yours!" Sherlock spat, defensively. John gave him his best long-suffering sigh, and Sherlock looked away for a moment, blinking slowly, and turned back to John with a tremulous intensity in his expression. "John," he said, softly, deeply, "Despite my better judgment, I want-no, I need you. Right now. Without question."

John felt himself swelling, both literally and figuratively with shameless desire.

"You do mean, uh, sexually... just, to be clear?" He cleared his throat.

"Sexually. Yes. Very much. Please. If you wouldn't mind. Don't waste time, John. Kiss me again."

"With pleasure," said John, and obliged, taking hold of Sherlock's jaw firmly and locking their mouths together with a kind of clumsy assurance, while his other hand wandered downwards. Sherlock grunted and pulled his head away again.

"Wait. I'm still handcuffed."

John kissed him again, holding him in place.

"I know." Sherlock half bit his lip, pulling his mouth away.

"Take them off." Their lips were a millimetre apart.

"You really want me to?" John asked darkly.

"This is... emasculating."

"Oddly enough, I think that's why I'm enjoying this so much."

Sherlock pressed his chest firmly up against John and said, quite fiercely: "My virginity: my terms."

John was compelled by competing urges both to burst out laughing at what was an oddly dramatic and girlish declaration and to simply find the quickest way to give this man exactly what he wanted, right now, over and over.

He took the key from his pocket and unlocked the cuffs.

"Did you steal these from Lestrade?"

"Obviously."

They sat down on the sofa. Sherlock rubbed his reddened wrists, until John took over, and brought the long, pale fingers to his mouth and ran his lips over each knuckle.

Now that Sherlock's hands were free, John was actually glad, as he had not realized fully how much he liked these hands. How often he had caught himself looking at them, wondering in some compartment of his mind what it might be like to have these hands run diligently over his skin.

He held one warm palm to his cheek, and closed his eyes. Sherlock eyed him.

"I said don't waste time, John."

John took Sherlock's limp hands and placed them over his own bulging erection, guiding them. Sherlock got the idea and with sudden efficiency unzipped John's trousers and did away with his underwear, pressing him back against the sofa with considerable enthusiasm.

John reached for Sherlock's thighs, but was met with an insistent kiss and a firm, alarming grasp of his own throbbing phallus.

"Ha-ah, oh, Sherlock... maybe you should let me, first, to you-or, or-oh, God-don't stop. Don't stop. Yes." Sherlock's mouth closed over John's head and slid up and down the shaft. Electricity. John grasped at the man's neck and shoulders firmly, his eyes rolling back with the sort of unexpected, satisfying pleasure that arrives directly on time.

"Mm," Sherlock hummed, sucking deeply and slowly. "You are very hard."

"I don't know where you learned to do that." Another hot, wet pump inside Sherlock's mouth, the tongue firmly probing. Deep, this time. So deep. And back out.

"I am a genius, John. Honestly, what did you expect?"

"I don't know-just not-" Again, deeper. "Oh, oh. Sherlock." And out.

"Yes?" They met one another's eyes. Sherlock looked maddeningly amused.

"Keep going," said John, his voice breaking. "Ah..."

Sherlock did, and John held his lovely head in place firmly, embedding his manhood deep into his throat. Sherlock's tongue convulsed, eliciting a slight gag, at taking the full length of him in. This only served to enhance John's arousal. John held Sherlock's head in place and thrust out and in, back to that deep place again. He wanted to be deeper, closer, further. There was not enough of Sherlock for him to fill.

His fingers gripped dark curls as he levered his weight over the man, pressing in, and Sherlock's head tipped backwards dutifully as John fucked his mouth in sweet ecstasy. Sherlock's hands firmly pushed against John's thighs and after a moment's struggle, John released him, on the verge of orgasm.

It occurred to him that he could be gentler. This was his first time, John reminded himself. But, Sherlock was provoking a kind of unbridled, selfish need in him that had already taken over. He pulled his sweater over his head and began feverishly unbuttoning Sherlock's shirt.

"John. Oh, John." There was a tigerish excitement in Sherlock's eyes.

They kissed, bumping teeth. A bit of frenzied nipping at one another, and Sherlock was out of his trousers and the two of them were entwined in one another's hot skin, caught in a kind of push-and-pull power struggle on the cushions.

Sherlock ran his fingers gently over John's shoulder, over the scar tissue of his bullet wound with a kind of specific intimacy. John leaned forward and dragged his teeth and tongue along the slope of Sherlock's neck and shoulder.

He caressed Sherlock's shaft, moistened already with pre-ejaculate, and felt Sherlock's body tense against his, and then, soon, his struggling subsided as he gave himself over to the firm, well-timed strokes of John's hand.

John guided Sherlock to his feet and pulled himself into a sitting position on the sofa in front of him. He wanted to see Sherlock's face; read the nuances of pleasure on it as he took him closer and closer to climax.

Sherlock's legs trembled and tensed.

"John. God. John. Please. Your mouth." John took the long, thick shape of him between his lips. Sherlock uttered a handful of incoherent syllables, and displayed an array of open-mouthed expressions, each etched with more surprise and pleasure and perhaps, somehow, academic fascination, than the last.

"Mmmfjohn I can't-I'm-"

A hot spurt of semen emptied into John's mouth and he kept sucking, gripping Sherlock's buckling legs and buttock firmly, reliably, swallowing it all down. His eyes were jammed shut, his throat receiving every splash of it with an eagerness he couldn't deny. Sherlock shook, leaf-like in his ecstasy and cradled John's skull, collapsing, finally to his knees and curling his body against John's chest in complete, sweet, satisfaction.

John allowed Sherlock a few moment's reprieve, stroking his damp hair from his forehead, before bending the man's long body over the arm of the sofa and running his hands over the muscles of Sherlock's back, and down to his pleasingly tight buttocks, which John, on a whim, smacked firmly, eliciting a small sound of surprise.

"Mm."

He penetrated Sherlock with one saliva-covered finger. Sherlock turned, apparently not expecting that particular sensation either, and closed his eyes.

As John fingered him, he bent back, arching with the sensation of it, and John continued to probe, smack, and rub while Sherlock's legs spread, perhaps involuntarily, and he moaned deeply, still buzzing from the recent ejaculation.

Two fingers now. Deeper.

"John," came the whisper. Soft, nearly heartbreaking. Needy. He loved the way Sherlock said his name.

John spread Sherlock's legs further apart and levered himself inward, pressing gradually harder, with a kind of rigid self-control he did not know he could still summon. As his tip slipped inside, Sherlock's whole body tensed beneath him. He let out a hiss like a boiling kettle, his entrance tightening. John ran his hands over that long smooth back reassuringly, feeling Sherlock's body slowly, slowly relax as he pressed in farther, gradually, with firm gentle pressure until he was all the way inside.

It felt so fucking good, he thought he might come right then.

He held himself there: the front of his thighs flush against Sherlock's buttocks, his balls mashed up against him, the weight of his body forcing his cock to stick there inside, and Sherlock, under him, slicked in sweat and his face visible only in profile now, as he lay his cheek across the sofa cushion and panted desperately.

"It's... large, John." His voice was half-muffled, exhausted, tight.

"Well, it's all relative, but thanks."

"It wasn't a compliment," Sherlock whispered raggedly at the sofa. "Merely an observation."

"Ah," said John.

"I'm getting hard again," said Sherlock, breathing heavily through his nostrils. "Already."

"You're just full of observations, aren't you?"

Sherlock nodded, sweat beading on his brow.

"Does talking during sex arouse you, John?" He seemed genuinely curious.

"Having sex with you arouses me."

"Do you want to ejaculate, John?" John felt his body throbbing, buried tightly.

"Oh God, yes, I do." He leaned back to thrust again, wildly.

"You aren't planning to blog about this, are you?" John leaned forward in exasperation.

"Will you stop. Talking. Sherlock. I am trying to get off."

"Oh yes of course. Please continue." He paused. "Also feel free to slap me again. I enjoyed that."

John obliged, smacking his palm down a few times against Sherlock's flushing skin. Any sense of measured care that John had been taking was pretty much dead now and he held Sherlock firmly down, to ensure his full cooperation, and grinded his hips against him hard. He grunted, forcing himself in and out, finding a rhythm quickly and feeling his balls slap against Sherlock's firm arse repeatedly.

With a kind of elevated glee, he watched Sherlock give in once more to pleasures thus far unknown as John's organ thumped against his sensitive prostate. He rode him hard. Sherlock gripped the cushions with both hands, knuckles white. The furniture was shaking with such force that if Mrs Hudson had been home she might have inquired about the noise.

It was as though Sherlock's pleasure was infinitely multiplied by the sheer novelty of the experience, and John's own response to this was one of overwhelming, head-exploding desire.

"Yes. John. There. Ah. John. Good. Yes. Ah. Ah."

Just the sound of that voice: raised in helpless short gasps.

"Sherlock-fuck, Sherlock, yes." The incredible release of his long awaited orgasm rushed through John's body, powerful and sweet and all-consuming. He pulled out mid-come and spilled all over Sherlock's backside, and all but collapsed onto him, grunting out a low sound that turned, inexplicably into a soft mewing sigh.

Sherlock, after a long moment, snaked himself upwards and guided John back onto the sofa cushions, where John lay back, tender and still. Sherlock was nestled on top of him, quite comfortably light, and John closed his eyes, breathing out heavily. Sherlock pulled John close and pressed his smooth cheekbone against John's face, in what could only be described as a nuzzle.

"I'm not-I mean-I didn't think-I was... gay. It's just-it's you, Sherlock. There's something." His eyes were still closed. "I didn't know...that was what I wanted. And I didn't know you could maintain... sexual tension, while actually having sex. I mean it was... it was... I'm not making sense. I shouldn't even try... talking yet." He sighed.

"You should try not talking more often, John," Sherlock said, his voice low and soothing and gloriously close. John smiled. Sherlock looked at him quite seriously. "Now, was I really purring?"

"It was a kind of Sherlock-purr," John said.

"Definitely do not put that in your blog." He looked deadly serious for a moment, then smiled: a smooth, humouring grin.

"No," said John.

"I'll need my handcuffs back," said Sherlock, matter-of-factly. "I intend to win next time."