These characters do not belong to me, but I promise they're not doing anything they won't thoroughly enjoy ;)

"So what happened there?" John barely dared to breathe.

"Someone changed his mind. The question is who?"

Sherlock's thoughts were already racing off in all directions. John could see it. He was almost surprised when the tall detective even held out a hand to help him to his feet.

John was shaking.

He could barely stand upright.

His heart was still on overdrive. His entire body was ringing. They'd almost died. Almost been blown to bits. The army training is designed to make you hold it together in a moment of crisis. But when the danger has passed, well, stronger men than John Watson had broken down into tears.

John could feel reality starting to set in hard all around him. It was like the world was spinning. He wanted to go. To have a cup of tea and crawl into a warm bed.

But Sherlock was just standing there, seemingly lost in thought.

John opened his mouth to say something to the effect of… not to be a bother, but can we please get out of here before that lunatic comes back with a squad of snipers again? But the words never made it to his lips.

Because two things happened.

First Sherlock's eyes refocused from the vague distance, down to John's face.

Second, John felt a pair of lanky arms wrapping around him, and pulling him into a hug.

Somehow it was more shocking than wearing a bomb, or having a gun pointed at his chest. At least those were familiar types of fear. This was a strange sort of intoxicating claustrophobia. John almost pulled away. But he couldn't quite do it.

The heat of Sherlock's body radiated right through him. He suddenly let out the breath he didn't even know he'd been holding. Perhaps John was equal parts confused and terrified, as he'd never seen Sherlock hug anybody before. But he unconsciously relaxed into the physical contact. There was something undeniably comforting about being in someone's arms after a near-death experience. The why of it mattered less with each passing second.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock said flatly.

"For what?"

"Letting him kidnap you."

The situation was quickly becoming much too surreal for John. In fact, it already had been ever since he'd stepped out the door that evening.

"It's all right." John cleared his throat. "These things happen, I suppose."

"You're not shaking anymore, shall I let go?"

"Um, yes. Probably."

Of course, John thought. Sherlock had seen how frightened he'd been. This was… logical, or something. The quickest way to get John calm so they could get out of there. Why else would Sherlock ever hug anybody?

Sherlock's grip loosened, but he didn't exactly let go. Instead he placed his hands on John's shoulders, and pulled back to study his face. John tried not to look like too much of a mess, even though he felt like a raw bundle of nerves.

It didn't help that one of Sherlock's hands had moved to the back of John's neck and was tracing along the top of his spine. It was sending strange electric pulses throughout the doctor's body.

Wait, what? Why was Sherlock doing that?

It was the last coherent thought John had before he blinked, and Sherlock's lips were pressed against his.

John was almost certain he'd suddenly melted. Or possibly fainted and this was all a hallucination.

Because Sherlock Holmes was kissing him gently, barely brushing their lips together. And John had stopped breathing.

It felt like he was drowning, and somehow he was holding onto the front lapels of Sherlock's coat like it was a lead life vest. He couldn't let go.

Or maybe it was that Sherlock wouldn't let him go. Long fingers were entangled in John's hair, and an arm was wrapped around his waist. John parted his lips without thinking about it and then he tasted mint and cigarettes. It was the best taste in the world.

When their tongues touched, the electric signals coursing through John's body cumulated into a jolt of something painfully wonderful. His heart was racing into overdriving again. The residual adrenaline surged through his veins with a new vengeance.

Sherlock bit down on John's lower lip ever so slightly, dragging his teeth along it, and the poor army doctor lost all notions of self-control. The kiss became rather savage. They were biting and sucking at each other's lips, swirling their tongues together, vying for control one second, and falling into complete submission the next.

John grabbed Sherlock's hips and pulled him closer. Sherlock tugged on John's hair just the right amount.

And John's blood was quite possibly on fire, rushing to all the wrong places.

Dear god, he had an erection.

Sherlock's hands were on his arse, squeezing. Sherlock's teeth were grazing the skin on his neck, and he couldn't help but let out a small moan. They were moving backwards. Or rather, John was moving backwards. He found himself pinned up against the wall and the tall detective was diving in for another devouring kiss.

John slumped back against the concrete, unsure of his ability to remain standing. Sherlock held him up, pressing his entire body against him. John felt Sherlock's hardness rubbing against his hip. Was he delirious? Or was Sherlock's dick really that large?

Sherlock's lips shifted back to John's neck. His teeth dug in, nowhere near as gently as before. John wanted to swear, but all that came out was a sort of strangled whimper. It was the most exquisite pain he'd ever felt. Hot and tingling, and messy…

And then, Sherlock pulled back abruptly.

John opened his eyes, quite startled.

It was too much. Staring up at that tall detective, with flushed cheeks and wet lips. John felt as if he was about to break in half. But this was madness. Wasn't it?

"Um… well…" John stammered.

Before he could even piece a thought together, Sherlock turned on his heel and began to walk towards the exit. John stared after him.

"Are you coming?" Sherlock's voice echoed around the tiles of the room. And he was out the door.

John mentally shook himself and proceeded to follow.

His head still felt like it was spinning as he climbed into the cab Sherlock had flagged down. They didn't look at each other. Neither of them said a single word.

By the time they got back to the flat, John had nearly made up his mind that he'd imagined the whole thing. He paid the cab driver as Sherlock unlocked the door and swept inside. When John got in and closed the door behind him, there was no sign of the detective whatsoever.

John sighed and climbed the stairs, his leg shaking slightly.

Tea.

Tea would make everything alright. If nothing else, it might restore some notion of normalcy to John's existence. He reached the top of the stairs. His body still seemed to be vibrating.

He passed the bathroom on the way to the kitchen and couldn't resist a quick glance in the mirror. His hair was disheveled, lips swollen, cheeks still slightly pink. And there was a rapidly forming bruise on the left side of his neck.

"Bugger," John barely whispered.

He pulled himself away from the mirror and stormed off to put the kettle on. Unable to decide between angry bewilderment and elation, John simply poured himself a glass of the fine Irish Whiskey he kept at the back of the cupboard.

Tea and Whiskey. Nothing in the world such a combination couldn't set right.

But one glass of Whiskey quickly turned to a few more. And a few more turned into a few too many. It wasn't much help. It only intensified the urge to march down into Sherlock's room and punch him in the face. Or possibly kiss him again.

No. What? There was nothing right about that. Both of those were horrible ideas.

In the end, John managed to stumble to his own bed and strip down to his pants before passing out on top of the covers.

He fell into sweet unconsciousness without realizing he'd left the door to his bedroom wide open.

Sherlock's brain was a finely tuned machine. All information was mapped out and easily accessible. Useless things were deleted regularly.

But in the past few months, something rather disturbing had happened.

There was a new archive in his mind, and he hadn't purposefully created it. One day it had just appeared, and the harder Sherlock tried to get rid of it, the deeper it's roots seemed to take hold.

The folder was called: How John Reacts When I Touch Him.

It started with small things. Like how John would lean into him ever so slightly when they were standing in a cramped elevator, or riding on the Tube.

Then it was how John's hand would linger for a moment whenever he was passing Sherlock papers or a cup of tea. Sometimes their fingers would touch. In fact, there was contact more often than not.

As it began to develop into a theory of sorts—Sherlock upped the ante with a few small experiments. Purposefully brushing against John in hallways, or 'accidentally' knocking into him in the close quarters of their flat.

John never jerked away, like most people would when you unconsciously make physical contact. He would just smile and continue with whatever he'd been doing.

The next step revolved around studies in personal space. In open areas, Sherlock would stand different distances away from John. Sometimes with quite a distance between them, other times, much closer than one would ever normally stand next to a friend. He would violate John's personal space. He would stand next to John with mere centimeters between then, and John showed no signs of distress.

In fact, John showed more signs of anxiety the further away Sherlock stood from him. When there was more than two meters separating them, John's eyes would constantly flick sideways, looking at Sherlock, trying to make eye contact.

And it wasn't that John didn't have any sense of personal boundaries.

He never stood so close to anyone else. Not even his ever-rotating cycle of female acquaintances. When John bumped into strangers on the street, he recoiled as a person normally would.

Sherlock noticed all these things—but he was also fairly certain John wasn't aware of them.

It wasn't like he was going to ask. Despite what people seemed to think, Sherlock Holmes was capable of a great deal of tact if he felt inclined towards it. He knew exactly what was acceptable to say and what wasn't. It was just that most of the time he didn't care if he said something inappropriate or jarring.

John was different though.

Upsetting him would mean a difficult living situation, for one thing. And also… if you only have one friend, it's advisable not to do anything to make them hate you. At least, that had been the original idea.

Sherlock sighed, staring up at his ceiling.

The sun was high in the sky and John Watson was still snoring away. The sound carried quite well out of his open bedroom door. Sherlock had been quite surprised to see him sleeping on top of the sheets with nothing but his boxers on. He'd debated closing the door and pretending he hadn't looked. After all, John would never know.

But somehow, it seemed more honest to leave to door open.

Didn't they say honesty was the best policy in these types of situations?

He'd been rehearsing what he would say when John woke up for most of the morning. Nothing sounded right.

After all, how could Sherlock explain things in a reasonable manner if there was no reason behind any of it?

He'd simply looked down at John, terrified, shaking, helpless, on the verge of tears, and he'd reacted on an impulse. He'd gathered John into his arms before there was even a second to think about it.

And oh, the response had been rather exhilarating. The way John completely relaxed into the embrace, letting go of all those invisible burdens he was constantly carrying around. He'd leaned into Sherlock and sighed, and it all felt oddly correct.

But in retrospect, Sherlock also realized that it might not have been the best time for physical contact. John had obviously been in shock from Moriarty's threat to blow them all sky high. And the contact at a moment of distress triggered an emotional reaction. Sherlock had realized this he'd felt John stop shaking. When he'd pulled back to look into his face, and seen it all.

All the things John couldn't or wouldn't ever see on his own.

The lines of pain, and confusion, and desperation. Dilated pupils. Elevated heart rate. How he began breathing faster when Sherlock licked his own lips. How John tilted his head upward, and shivered when Sherlock traced his fingers along the back of his neck.

It was not a rational decision, to close the gap between their lips. It was reckless.

But Sherlock's body was still human. It had desires that he wasn't often consulted about. Sometimes they were strong enough to override all brain function. If he hadn't pulled away from John when he did, they might have ended up shagging right there on the floor, next to the pool, and the jacket full of explosives.

John deserved better than that.

He heard John stirring. Groaning. No doubt coming to terms with a rather nasty hangover. The bottle of whiskey was still sitting on the counter and it was considerably more empty than the last time Sherlock had seen it. John only ever got it out when he was upset or excessively happy.

Sherlock very much doubted it had been a joyful drinking session. Not with all the under-the-breath swearing, and the number of times the teakettle had boiled. One cup of tea calmed John down. But five cups of tea meant he was trying to drown his emotions.

The floorboards creaked.

Sherlock watched out of the corner of his eye as John stumbled into the daylight wearing nothing but his tartan dressing gown.

"Good afternoon," Sherlock offered, somewhat curtly.

John mumbled something unintelligible and slammed the bathroom door shut. Sherlock simply listened as the shower turned on.

Sherlock figured he had about ten minutes left to think. Twenty if John went straight for the kitchen to make breakfast without acknowledging him.

There was more than enough data to draw a conclusion. He and John were sexually compatible. More than compatible. Explosive. That was the problem. Things would undoubtedly get quite out of hand very quickly.

The detective chewed on his lip slightly as he recalled the numerous disasters of his college years. All the things people guessed wrong about him. It was certainly safer if everyone thought he was asexual. But Sherlock was by no means any sort of virgin. Quite the opposite—he was a sexual deviant by most standards.

No. It was best not to involve John in any of that. He wouldn't even tell him. Because they always started out thinking they wanted it. They would crave his dominance and manipulation. But they all ended up hating him when it was over. He didn't want John to hate him. It was far better not to travel any further down that road.

It was decided.

The bathroom door swung open. John walked out with wet hair, and fresh pink skin. Still wrapped in nothing but his dressing gown, he made his way to the kitchen and put the kettle on. Sherlock waited patiently as he heard eggs sizzle into a pan. The toaster popped. He tried to calm himself and mentally prepare for whatever John might feel like throwing at him.

Ruffled indignation and outright denial seemed like they would be the most likely options.

But when John sat down in the armchair across from him and bit into his toast, Sherlock couldn't do much but stare at the lovely bruise on his neck.

It might have been the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

"What are you staring at?" John bristled.

"Do you actually need me to tell you, or are you just saying that so I'll stop?" A vague hint of a smile twitched across the detective's face.

"Very funny. Before you say anything else cheeky, I think we should have a chat about your smoking."

Sherlock said nothing. Simply raised his eyebrows expectantly.

"Well, you tasted like cigarettes," John mumbled. "I thought you'd quit."

No response. Just those frighteningly large blue eyes.

"Right, then." John nodded, and took another bite of toast.

It was all a bit odd. Of course, John was used to eating breakfast by himself. Sherlock hardly ever ate anything. But usually he was lost in his own thoughts. Staring at the ceiling, or into space… somewhere innocuous and non-threatening. But now he was watching John eat so intently, the doctor almost got up and moved to the dining room.

He wanted to. Quite badly. But he felt he'd already chosen the battlefield, and retreating would mean admitting defeat. So he tried to eat his breakfast as normally as possible, though he couldn't escape the feeling of being trapped in a fishbowl.

"So, what's on the schedule for today?" John spoke to the great silence.

"Nothing." Sherlock's reply was quick and almost harsh.

"Should we um… call down and see if there are any new cases?"

"Already did. All boring."

"Ok. Then I suppose I'll be going out for a—"

"No."

"Sorry?" John felt a twinge of anxiety clench in his chest. Also, his face felt like it was getting hotter. He'd really never liked confrontation. He usually went out of his way to avoid it. But there was no avoiding it here, unless he wanted to move out. And that didn't really seem like a good option.

"You won't be going out anywhere for a while. We need to talk."

"All right," John took a deep breath, but the anxious feeling only inflated, "talk."

Of course they went right back to looking at each other silently across the coffee table. Whether this would be the deciding skirmish or just a part of the greater war, John wasn't sure. But he already felt his heartbeat in his ears.

"Fine then. I'll start. I think we should just forget about—whatever that was—last night, and just continue on as normal," John sighed. He didn't like saying it. But really, it was the best option. Sherlock was more a force of nature than a human being. It was a bad idea to put fragile emotions in his hands like it's a bad idea to fling yourself into the path of an oncoming tornado.

"I thought you'd say that."

"Of course you did," John rolled his eyes. "You've probably already had this conversation without me even being here. So it's decided, then?"

"It was."

"Good… what do you mean was?" John felt suddenly apprehensive.

Sherlock seemed to be eying him the way John imagined a hungry wolf might examine a frightened rabbit before snapping it up in one gulp.

The silence was more dangerous than any words could possibly be. But John's brain had fizzled out. He couldn't think of a single thing to say. So he just sat there, fidgeting, ready to bolt downstairs if necessary.

"You really need to stop doing that," Sherlock said oh so slowly and quietly.

"What?"

"Licking your lips. It's wearing on my self control considerably."

John was slightly taken aback. Had he been? Certainly not on purpose. When he was nervous and couldn't think of anything to say, sometimes his tongue would flick out of its own accord and run along his bottom lip.

Oh dear.

"Sorry."

"No need to apologize." Sherlock shifted on the couch slightly, "I was quite enjoying it."

"Sherlock, this is insane. You must realize that? I mean, it was just a kiss. You don't actually want me. You're asexual."

"No."

"But you said—"

"That I was married to my work? Yes. Circumstances change."

"Well then, surely they're other people that you could—"

"There would be plenty of offers if I chose to look into it. But none of them are placed so conveniently, right across the coffee table from me."

John's eyes widened slightly.

This was not good.

"I'm not gay, Sherlock."

"I'm not sure I care, one way or the other, John." Sherlock smiled and somehow that was much scarier than the deadpan stare.

"What the bloody hell does that mean?"

Sherlock shrugged.

"Excellent. This is really great. Fantastic stuff. But I'm going to be done now. I have a headache and this is just a bit too much lunacy to cope with." The doctor began to stand up.

"Sit down!" Sherlock barked.

John sat.

"See?" Sherlock raised his eyebrows slightly, "That's the problem. You're quite submissive."

"I'm not," John huffed. "I've just woken up, I have a dreadful hangover, and you shouted at me."

"Perhaps. But there's not many other people that would fetch me a pen out of my own front pocket. You'll do almost anything I say if I use the right tone."

"Now hold on a minute—"

"Quiet," Sherlock snapped. "You're done talking for now."

"But—"

"Quiet."

John pursed his lips. He was starting to get a bit angry. Though he was used to Sherlock bossing him around and making ridiculous demands, this was a new level. Not Sherlock being rude because he was too busy for common decency. Now, this was a different threshold of power play altogether.

Somehow, John felt that if he allowed it to continue something strange and irrevocable would happen.

But he had no idea how to stop it. If he opened his mouth again, he was afraid Sherlock would silence him in other ways. Ways he didn't need to think about.

Bugger.

His thoughts were already sprinting off to be by that wretched pool again. Shoved up against the concrete wall, being utterly ravaged by Sherlock's violent kisses.

John tried to blink the images away, but it didn't really help.

"Now then, let me explain how this is going to work." Sherlock's tone was in more familiar territory again. Condescending as it was, John vastly preferred it to whatever had been happening a few moments ago. "I'm not going to touch you."

John felt himself relax slightly.

"I'm going to make you want it, but I won't lay a finger on you. And you are not to move from that chair until I stand up and leave the room. Nod to show you understand."

John nodded, wondering exactly what the hell was going on.

"First of all, I'd grab you by the front of your robe, and set you on your feet. Then, of course, the robe would be on the floor, with the belt of it in my hands."

John felt a deep flush creeping up his neck, but fought the urge to say anything.

"Next, I'd tie the belt around your wrists. Tight. It would leave marks. Lovely red ones that would slowly turn purple."

John bit his lip.

God, what was wrong with him?

"Regrettably, those dishes would be swept to the floor, and most likely broken. Because you'd be swiftly lying down on that coffee table, on your back, and I'd fasten your hands to one of the table legs. So you could squirm, but not move much in any particular direction."

John realized his mouth was open, and promptly closed it.

"And then..." Sherlock took a pointed pause, "I'd just leave you there. I'd go about my normal business. Only returning to stroke your cock and make sure you were still hard."

John gulped slightly.

"I don't know how long you'd stay on that table. But I can tell you one thing. When I was ready to untie you, you'd go straight down to your knees, and I'd shove my cock in your mouth. If you resisted in any way, I'd slap you across the face. And I bet you'd like it. So much you might put up a bit of a struggle, just so I'd hit you again."

John was breathing quite heavily. He knew it was twisted. But he had a blatant erection. He was certain Sherlock could see it, as he was wearing such a loose, piece of clothing. And Sherlock was staring at him so intensely.

Bugger.

"But eventually, you'd submit, and I'd come in your mouth, and you would swallow all of it. Then I would walk away, leaving you to satisfy yourself. Feeling humiliated, confused, and still inexplicably aroused. But that's only the beginning of what I could do to you."

The only two thoughts that crossed John's mind were, clearly he's imagined this before, and dear lord why isn't it happening right now?

"I'd love to fuck you on the kitchen table. Or handcuff you to my bed and not let you get out of it for days. And oh, you'd like it. I could make you scream, John Watson. I could make you feel things you didn't even know existed. But I won't."

It was like the pit of John's stomach was falling out.

"Though I'm sure you'd let me, you'd have a nervous breakdown afterwards. And we can't have that." Sherlock stood, and took long strides towards the doorway at the top of the stairs. He turned around just at the threshold.

"I'm going for a walk, so you can stay here and touch yourself. I highly recommend you cum on top of the coffee table. Don't feel obligated to clean up afterwards either. I'll notice, but Mrs. Hudson won't."

And with that, he was gone. Down the stairs and out the door. John blinked, feeling a bit dizzy. What had just happened?

He stared down at his own erection. Something had to be done about it.

Dear lord.

No. He couldn't. He wouldn't jerk off to thoughts of Sherlock Holmes tying him to a table. That would be too much.

John stood quickly and grabbed his laptop off the far side of the sofa. He bolted into his room, and locked the door behind him. It was mere seconds before he had some proper pornography pulled up on the computer screen. A blonde woman with big breasts, getting railed by some burly young man inexplicably wearing a construction hat.

It would do.

Despite all his efforts to focus on the sighs and moans of the blonde woman with perky tits—when John came he was reliving the moment when Sherlock had bitten into his neck, almost hard enough to draw blood.

Fuck.

This was going to be quite a problem.

Special thanks to wholockian729 for giving this a nice beta-ing. Chapter two is in the works. With sexy sex.