A/N: Set after the first move. I own nothing but the plot of this fic. Rated for adult language/situations.

The Inherent Complications which Arise from Knowing Sherlock Holmes

He should have known.

He should have known that it wouldn't be easy. Dealing with that man in even the smoothest, most controlled situations was not easy. Something, somehow, in some unforeseeable way, would always go wrong. Or at the very least, get extremely, hopelessly, needlessly complicated.

Often such troubles were a result of Holmes' thoughtless, brusque way of speaking. More frequently, however, it was due to pure, ill luck. Watson was of the belief that trouble was a rather close companion of Holmes' and followed him about wherever he went, like a puppy that has mistaken a human for his mother.

Once, during a simple stroll from the market, trouble came in the form of a stone lying innocently on the street. Holmes had explained to him afterward that had the stone not been there, it would have not been kicked by his boot as they walked past. Had the stone not been kicked, it would not have skittered its way across the street to land in front of a passing stranger. Had it not landed in front of the stranger, said stranger would not have tripped upon it and landed against another man, who just so happened to have an unresolved quarrel with the aforementioned stranger. Had the two not been thrust together, the biggest bar fight that O'Reily's pub had ever seen, would not have occurred.

All Watson could remember from the event was an enraged roar, the thick sound of a fist hitting a face and the chorus of several drunken voices. He had grabbed Sherlock by the coat sleeve and rushed away, not sparing a single look over his shoulder.

That time they had just been on a walk. A simple walk. So why had Watson expected that a three day trip to Chesham would go as planned? Some urgent matter had come up which required Holmes to visit his brother Mycroft, who was currently residing in his country estate for the summer.

"It'll be a vacation for you," Holmes had begun "You can have one last good time, of which, from now on, I'm sure you'll have very few, since you seem so committed to marrying that woman. Why you would ever willingly limit your life in such a way is beyond me. I truly thought better of you..." Holmes had gone on to list the many ways in which Mary was a completely unsuitable wife for him and why, in his professional opinion, Watson was making a horrible decision with his life.

John had tuned out after the first of the slanders against Mary, at the time being much too tired and far more curious as to why Holmes was suddenly so keen on the idea of taking a vacation. John had been suggesting the very same thing to him for weeks prior, to no avail. He was sure that the visit to his brother was a pretext for some other cause. His suspicions were confirmed when Sherlock neatly avoided explaining exactly what was so pressing to require his presence at Mycroft's estate, talking instead of the details of the trip: how the weather was fully and completely accounted for, each stop carefully planned out and that the carriage was due to arrive tomorrow at noon.

Tomorrow at noon.

It was already six in the evening at the time of the conversation. John resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "He wants me to get ready for a three day trip in less than twelve hours." Twelve hours, however, was a luxury considering the many spur-of-the-moment trips that he and Holmes had needed to take in order to solve their various cases.

Time-limits aside, while knowing full well that this trip was a ruse, John Watson agreed to it none the less. He hoped that the time alone would allow for an opportunity to discuss with Holmes the event of his wedding. With a proper discussion on the matter (which he had so far neglected to have) he was sure that Holmes would adjust to the idea. Or, at the very least, accept the fact that 'yes, yes it is going to happen' and 'no' you can't convince me otherwise' and 'would you kindly stop maligning the name of my future wife'?

The next day, they departed from 221B Baker Street.

That morning Watson learned never to trust weather predictions from Sherlock Holmes. London's (or quite likely, the world's) most brilliant detective he might be, meteorologist he was not.

"'Weather completely accounted for.' Isn't that what you said, Holmes?" Watson asked, casting in Holmes' direction a look which was equal parts smug and teasing.

"A little rain never hurt anyone," was Holmes' straight-faced reply.

"A little? No. Certainly not," Watson agreed. "Torrential rain on the other hand is quite an entirely different matter."

"Torrential," Holmes scoffed, "What a description for what can only be described as a little rainstorm, at best. With descriptive abilities like that, you should really consider a profession in writing," he remarked, pushing past him into the carriage.

The first hour or so of the ride was uneventful. Watson spent the time trying to come up with a manner of introducing the topic of his wedding. Holmes spent the time commenting on the businesses and their respective businessmen, as they passed by. It seemed as though Sherlock Holmes had as many friends in low places, as he did in high ones. All the time spent in the underground boxing rings apparently made him the friend of many men, each less honourable than the last.

It would explain where he got his steady supply of cocaine and opiates from.

"I was hoping that you would be my best man," Watson said finally. Holmes stopped midsentence, frozen into place, eyes fixed out the window of the carriage.

"So you're still intent on going on with this wedding," was the reply that came a lengthy five minutes later.

"Yes, of course I am," Watson replied, the words a growl of exasperation. "And I thought that you were adjusting to the idea, what with the engagement ring you bought for Mary,"

"Adapted," Holmes corrected, under his breath,

"Pardon?"

"Nothing." Holmes figured that now would not be a good time to mention that the diamond from Mary's ring had come from Irene Adler's necklace, which she had, in turn, stolen from the unfortunate Sultan of Brunei. What Watson did not know would not hurt him.

"Regardless," Watson continued, "This wedding is happening with or without your approval," he said, firmly, "And," he softened his tone, "I would much prefer it if you, my friend, were there beside me as I say my vows."

Holmes looked as though he were struggling very hard with something within himself, his throat and jaw working as he, quite literally, seemed to chew on the matter.

His mouth opened to speak.

The carriage came to a stuttering halt.

"I'd best check on the driver," Holmes said quickly, stepping out into the pouring rain.

Watson closed his eyes, a hand rising to pinch the bridge of his nose. "It's a start," he told himself. Progress was progress, regardless how slow.

Holmes climbed back in a moment later, damp, dark hair sticking to his forehead. "It seems as though we can't go any further," he announced. "Flooding," he added, in means of explanation. "Mud-flooding to be exact. The horses can't get through."

"Fantastic," Watson intoned dully.

"It is," Holmes continued, "The driver tells me that there is a quaint little inn not too far from here. A short walk, really,"

"A short walk in torrential rain," Watson corrected.

"There you are again with the descriptors, Watson. Truly, the penny-dreadfuls wouldn't be able to get enough of you." He took his hat from the seat next to him and fixed it firmly onto his head. "Coming?"

"Have I any choice?"

"You could, of course, remain here. I doubt, however, that would be very comfortable."

Watson grunted, grabbed his valise and stepped out of the carriage. His boots were instantly swallowed by ankle deep mud. For a fraction of a second he contemplated staying in the carriage. Probable discomfort or no, staying put would likely be easier than the voyage through muck and mire that was ahead of them.

"From the looks of things we wouldn't have been able to go forward even if we had wanted," Watson murmured to himself. The carriage wheel was fixed firmly, sucked in as if the substrate was quicksand as opposed to mere mud. It was amazing that the horses had managed to bring them as far as they did. He felt sympathy for the animals. One false step on the slippery road and they could have broken a leg. He looked up to see Holmes picking his way to the shoulder of the road. It was less worn down by travel and thus fractionally more solid than the road's center. At least there he would not be in fear of losing his footwear each time he took a step.

That day, Watson also learned that trusting Holmes' sense of distance was a poor decision at best. Their 'short walk' turned into a two hour trek through slick mud with the rain battering them the entire while. Watson was soaked within the first five minutes.

He had never thought that the sight of a squat, gray little building plopped seemingly in the middle of nowhere, would have made him so happy. Yet, he was instantly warmed by the image of the inn with its attached barn and its promise of a hot shower.

The inside of the building was far cozier than its nondescript, borderline decrepit exterior had suggested. Plush red and gold carpets covered the floors, their colouring and patterns giving the space a decidedly oriental feel. A faded tapestry hung on a far wall, across from a seating area composed of two wingback chairs and a table in front of a roaring fire. Watson hesitated to take a step further into the place, disliking the thought of tracking mud into an area that was so clearly, carefully, maintained. It exuded an air that suggested that the owners of the establishment were trying very hard to make an impression with the inside of the place, as they clearly seemed to be unable to maintain the exterior.

Holmes, on the other hand, seemed to share none of Watson's inhibitions. He stomped heartily at the threshold then calmly to the area which seemed to be the front desk, leaving muddy footprints in his wake. After shaking as much sludge from his boots as he could, Watson followed.

Apparently they were not the only two travellers to have taken refuge here from the storm. The aging innkeeper was only able to offer them a single room, to share. Watson quickly cut off what would have been a stream of questions and comments from Holmes. "Is there access to a shower here?" John asked, breathlessly.

There was, and so, he accepted on behalf of both of them. After informing the innkeeper that the driver of their carriage was a few minutes behind them, (delayed due to the fact that he was leading his horses) and thus, would likely need a room himself if he chose not to stay in the stable with the animals, they were led up a short set of steps to their assigned room.

Their room was as cozy as the entrance to the inn, if a little more threadbare in comparison. It was as though the aged couple which ran the establishment spent more money on creating an appealing first impression than on the rooms themselves. Though, what with that first impression being what it was, Watson was willing to let slide the difference.

The room was composed of a single bed, flanked on either side by two narrow, square-shaped tables. Across from the bed was a worn looking dresser topped by a wide mirror. The window directly across from the entrance gave a view to un-abating deluge outside.

Watson had never been so grateful to be indoors.

"The rest room is just down the hall," the elderly woman pointed the way.

"Thank you," Watson replied.

"You know, Holmes," Watson began as he returned to the room after his shower, all the while vigorously drying his hair with the towel he had in his hands. "The fact that they have indoor plumbing, this far out in the country, is rather remarkable. It's probably why they don't have the finances to spruce up the outside of the place. They probably used all their money to..." he trailed off.

"Their money to...?" Holmes prompted, from his position on the bed. He had kicked off his shoes and muddy, wet clothing and was sitting in a leisurely pose with nothing but a newspaper (how on Earth had he managed to keep that dry?) and a pair of bloomers.

"To make the bathroom," Watson finished. "There's only one bed," he stated.

"Excellent observation, Watson. You'll make a detective yet one day."

"Where am I supposed to sleep?"

A raised eyebrow. "Here? Where else?"

"No, I mean..." the rest of his sentence was obscured by a sigh. Watson made his way over to the linen chest at the foot of the bed. "There are enough blankets here," he said, tossing one at his friend, "You stay where you are, I'll take the floor."

He thought he saw the faintest of pouts grace Sherlock's lips.

No, he must have been mistaken.

The unconscious mind has a wonderful way of taking sounds and incorporating them into a man's dreams. For instance, a clap of thunder can easily be converted into the sound of a gunshot. The sound of rain beating against a tin roof can become the steady beat of a war drum. The sound of water rushing out of a drainage pipe can be transformed into the roars of men on a battlefield.

The unconscious mind, clever as it is, usually takes inspiration from such auditory clues and creates stunning visuals to match: a muddied battlefield, strewn broken bodies, bloodied uniforms, soldiers taking cover. It quickly begins to employ all five of a man's senses.

Watson could smell the acrid scent of gunpowder, feel his fingers on the trigger of his rifle along with the aching heaviness of his limbs from too many days at war. He could feel pain shooting up his leg, pain as fresh and sharp as though the bullet had just pierced through his flesh, lodging itself within him. He could feel the heat of the enteric fever he had subsequently suffered from.

Hurt.

Hot.

Burning.

Sweat.

Fear.

Blood.

Fire.

He awoke with a jolt, sweat-soaked, breathing heavily. His eyes scanned his surroundings, trying to assure himself that this was not a hospital room in Maiwand. He had not experienced this particular dream in years.

The bleary-eyed, tousle-haired face of Sherlock Holmes swam into focus in the corner of his vision, peeking at him from over the edge of the bed. John broke their gaze, embarrassed, instead curling into a ball, further tangling himself into the damp sheets of his makeshift bed. The Battle of Maiwand was too many years ago. He had no reason to be weak, not anymore.

His eyes snapped open at the feel of a hand clamped around his wrist.

A tug.

Watson did not budge.

A second pull, this one harder.

Watson grumbled softly, trying to detach himself from his grip.

At the third insistent tug, Watson relented, allowing himself to pulled and guided onto the bed beside Holmes. A warm blanket was tossed over him. Not fever-warm like his sheets were but comfort-warm, heated by the body of a companion. A friend.

He was gently pushed onto his side to face away from Holmes. A second later he felt an arm snake about his waist and a body press against his back. A puff of air from a sigh ruffled the hair at his neck. A sigh that sounded almost satisfied.

He must have misheard.

Watson felt himself flush from head to foot, his heart still hammering away in his chest. No doubt after-effects of the phantom war and fever.

"Holmes?"

No response.

Slowly, slowly, he drifted to sleep once more.

It was the feel of lips against his neck which pulled him from his sleep, enticingly soft lips which were making their way up his neck to the shell of his ear, kiss by kiss. He was instantly awake, stiffening defensively. "Holmes?" The lips, content that they had lavished enough attention on his ear, began to kiss their way back down while a hand made its opposite way up his bare chest. "Holmes." It was no longer a question. It was a warning. What the hell was he doing?

"H-" he was cut off by a finger against his lips.

"Shh."

"Don't tell me to 'shh'! What the hell are you doing?" Watson hissed, pushing away the hand on his chest and trying to wriggle away from Holmes' all-too friendly grasp.

"Why, my dear Watson, I'm helping,"

"Helping? You call this helping?"

"You seemed to be enjoying it."

John was shocked to silence. "I am not a sodomite," he said finally, in the most resolute voice he could manage.

Holmes snorted. "Holding onto your good Christian values, are you?"

"Yes. Just as you should be."

"Hn," Holmes crawled over to him. "Then why haven't you left already?" he asked. "Why haven't you indignantly stomped your way out of the room, hm?" He dragged a single finger up the center of John's chest, leaving goose-bumps in its wake. The finger stopped under his chin, lifting it. "Why stay to argue with me? Why don't you just take your high-and-mighty moral virtues and leave?" Holmes cocked his head slightly, studying John's face. "Look at me."

John refused, eyes roving about the room, focusing on anything except the man in front of him. They landed on their reflection in the mirror which was situated across from the bed. He saw himself, his pale, tight-lipped face, saw Sherlock move forward to put his lips a hair's breadth away from his ear. "John," his voice was low, almost a purr. "Look at me."

He obeyed the request. The image he was presented with sent a jolt of warmth straight to his groin. Dark, hungry eyes stared back at him, taking in his every detail, drinking him in. His lips were twisted in an almost smug smile.

This was wrong. This was sin. His Christian moral teachings warred against his rising passion. He tried to move away but it seemed as though he was glued to the bed. "This is wrong," he thought. But, why? Why was it wrong? Was it because he had been taught it was wrong? Was that a good enough reason?

His eyes scanned the face of the man in front of him. Endearingly tousled hair, molten eyes, and that smile. That smug, God be-damned smile. That smile should not be there. That smile needed to go. So John did what seemed only logical to his lust addled brain. He lunged forward, his lips crashing against Sherlock's in a heated, angry kiss. "Forgive me God, for I have sinned," he 's fingers tangled into Sherlock's hair, mussing it further. He decided that yes, it was as soft as he thought it would be.

He felt himself forced backward, the back of his head making painful contact with the wall. He gasped in pain. Sherlock took advantage of his open mouth, his tongue sliding in to rub against John's own. The intimate caress sent another bolt of arousal straight to his groin. He thrust his body upward, trying to gain some kind of friction against his growing erection. He growled in frustration as Holmes shifted his body to hover just out of contact range. "You," John's hands went for Sherlock's hips, wanting nothing more than to crush the other man's body against his own and to rock against him.

His hands never made it. Instead, he found them a moment later pinned to the wall above his head in one firm grip. He had forgotten how strong Sherlock was.

"Sherl-aaahhh," the rest of his sentence was forgotten as Sherlock's mouth attacked his neck. His teeth sunk into John's neck then withdrew, his tongue lapping at the abused flesh to soothe the love bite. He worked his way further down, lips clamping around a nipple and swirling his tongue around it. His body felt hypersensitive. Every kiss, every nip was a source of fire which spread through his body, pulsing along his veins along with his blood. Above his head, John continued to struggle against Holmes' iron grip, his fists alternately clenching and unclenching. "Please," he whispered. He could barely recognize his own voice, so heavy with desire.

"Please what?" Sherlock asked, pausing his oral assault just long enough to voice the question.

"Release me," John tried to sound demanding but it came out as a desperate plea.

"Why?" he asked, all-too innocently. His voice was level and even, with the faintest hint of an amused undertone. His control infuriated John. How could he be so cool, so in charge when John's own body felt as though it would melt and his mind was so foggy with desire that he could barely think? "What do you want to do?" he was asked.

John turned his head to the side, face flushed in shame. "John, what do you want to do?" the question was repeated in the same, even-toned voice. Still no answer. He heard Sherlock sigh dramatically. "Well if you won't answer..." John felt him pull away.

"No!" he gasped out. "No, no, nonono. Don't," John arched against him, trying once again to feel the heat of Holmes' skin against his own. "Please,"

Sherlock raised a bemused eyebrow at him. "Then...?"

"I," John took a breath and closed his eyes. He could not make himself say such lustful things, not with his eyes open. "I want to touch you," he began, his voice wavering. "I want to feel you against me. I want to make you feel like I feel now: I want to make you burn. I want to shatter that God be-damned control of yours. I want you to lose that control and lose mine along with you." His confidence grew as he spoke. Hearing a sharp intake of breath he opened his eyes, finding Sherlock's face mere inches away from his own. His eyes wide, his pupils so dilated that John could see no longer see a trace of those blue-grey irises. John felt his own lips twist into a smirk. His dirty talk was having a greater effect than he expected. More importantly, it was having a greater effect than even Sherlock himself had expected. "But you know what I want right now?" John asked, trying to feign Sherlock's earlier innocent tone.

Holmes swallowed. John watched the slight rise and fall of his Adam's apple. "What?" he asked, his voice a broken wisp. John was filled with smug satisfaction at the sound.

"I want your mouth on my dick."

Sherlock went weak at the order. Feeling his grip on his wrists loosen, John freed his hands with an almighty twist, grabbing Holmes by the shoulders and pushing him down until his head was level with the tent in his pants. He felt skilled hands free his erection from its cotton confines, all too happy to obey his request. John sighed at the feeling of cool air against his heated flesh and then gasped out loud when Sherlock sucked the tip into his mouth, his tongue swirling around the head of John's erection. He bobbed upwards slightly in order to swipe his tongue against the slit at the top. The fingers of John's hand threaded through Sherlock's hair, trying to force him down, to take more of him in. The other man obstinately refused, taking his time lavishing his attention on only the first inch of his manhood. John growled, bucking upward into his mouth, succeeding in sliding in just a precious inch further. A satisfied moan escaped him. Sherlock's hands gripped his hips, forcing him back down onto the bed. Once again John found himself struggling vainly against Holmes' strong grasp. "Sherlock," he whined and then made a noise that was not quite a gasp, not quite a yell, but somewhere in between the two.

Sherlock had, in one swift motion, taken him in his mouth, lips tight around the base of his erection. John could not keep the string of curses, of pleas, of entreaties to God to himself as Sherlock began to suck, rapidly bobbing his head up and down. He lost track of what he was saying, his words a constant stream, a near prayer to the man currently giving him the greatest physical pleasure he had ever felt. He felt his body tighten as he felt his body pulled further and further to his release. "Sherlock, I—" he bit his lip, trying to keep his noises to himself.

Sherlock replaced his mouth with his fist long enough to croak out: "No,"

"Hnn?"

"Don't stop it, I want to hear..."

And so he did. So did everyone else in the inn, really. John felt his orgasm rocket through him at the same time as a loud cry of pleasure tore through him. He opened his eyes, looking down, wanting to drag Sherlock up to his mouth. He wanted to first taste himself on Sherlock's tongue, then repay the favour he had just been given.

He was disappointed to find, however, that his friend-turned-lover was no longer there. He was nuzzled at his back, arm still wrapped around his waist, drawing in long, even breaths signature of deep sleep. John himself was not on his back, pressed up against the cool cement wall. He was lying on his side, thankfully facing away from the man who had just given him the blowjob of his dreams.

Of his dreams.

John swore softly, trying to put some distance between himself and the other man. His mind, it seemed, was intent on betraying him tonight.

As if he did not have enough problems, and now?

Now he wanted to fuck his best friend.

Fin