A/N: Well... basically I wrote this at two in the morning and I've figured out that's the exact time of day where my humility just goes straight out the window. Meh. LET THE JOHNLOCK BEGIN!

"Good god, these cases have become so simple."

A very bored Sherlock threw himself on the couch, reaching for his nicotine patches and groaning when he couldn't find them. The house was a mess, an absolute mess. There were papers everywhere. Random bones and what appeared to be human teeth in little vials were strew around the room as well.

"Mrs. Hudson! Where have you put my patches?" Sherlock yelled to the apartment at large.

"I haven't touched them, dear!" Came the response, several rooms away.

Sherlock groaned softly, rubbing his face. How was he supposed to stay sane when everything around him was in chaos? The cases, however easy they may be, were starting to pile up. There were days where Sherlock needed to be in three places at once (though he was most likely at home) and there were days where answers seemed to be nonexistent.

At least I still have my riding crop.

The black leather, worn and slightly frayed, was Sherlocks go-to stress reliever. He could spend hours at the mortuary, beating the bodies and finding out the exact time of death. It was actually rather calming.

Sherlock stood up, stretched his legs, and went into the kitchen. He usually hung his riding crop on a hook on the wall, but alas, it, too, had disappeared.

Another groan. Maybe John knows where it is.

Sherlock heard a small noise from the bedroom. John, probably. He was blogging, most likely. Or reading. He did a lot of that. Making his way quietly to the bedroom Sherlock pushed the door open just enough to see inside.

John Watson was sitting on the end of the bed, riding crop in hand. He hadn't noticed Sherlock. He twirled the leather device between his fingers, touching the small knots in it. He examined where the cording twisted, bringing it closer to his face to get a better look.

Sherlock had always been fascinated by John. He wasn't like everyone else. He was… well, he was something. The way he examined things, observed them, it was so precise, almost an art. The way his fingers worked their way across the leather was so delicate. Like he was caressing a lover. Tender and sweet, slowly, softly.

Sherlock longed to feel a touch like that. He had only ever received hugs from Mrs. Hudson, but they were brief and never really made him feel better. John, on the other hand, would probably be different. He was probably just as lonely as Sherlock. They had spent months together, but had never gotten to know each other very well. Maybe now was a chance to do that.

"John?" Sherlock was embarrassed by how timid his voice was.

Johns head snapped up. He looked slightly flustered, rising to greet Sherlock.

"I was just uh… just looking at this. It's…" he trailed off as Sherlock drew nearer.

Sherlock got closer and closer to John, running his fingers across Johns wrist as he reached for the riding crop in his hand, but he stopped abruptly.

"Your pulse is up and your palms are sweaty. Are you ill, John? Shall I have Mrs. Hudson put the kettle on?"

John swallowed hard. Sherlock was much closer than he usually was. John could smell the distinct scent of cloves and cinnamon wafting from the man.

"I-I'm fine, thanks. No need to worry." John felt the heat prickling up his neck.

That heat became even more intense when Sherlocks hand came to rest cupping the good doctors face. His thumb traced the outline of Johns lips.

"I do worry sometimes…." Sherlock murmured. "Sometimes I just wonder…."

He leaned forward and captured Johns lips in a kiss, making them both adopt slightly flushed complexions.

Sherlock pulled away, licking his lips and gazing at Johns own.

"Don't stop." John whispered, blushing a deep shade of red.

He grabbed Sherlock by his shirt collar and pulled him into another kiss, this one slightly more desperate than the last.

Evidently Sherlock was right again. John needed this too. The way he pulled Sherlock closer suggested he…

Oh.

Maybe John wanted more than a kiss, judging by the way his hips brushed against Sherlocks. It didn't take a consulting detective to know that John was growing hard. Sherlock broke the kiss.

"John I—"

"I'm sorry. I got carried away." John looked anywhere but at his friend, willing his erection to disappear.

That's when he felt the soft touch of Sherlocks hand. It moved from his waist to his hip, his thumb running over the joint softly.

"It's okay. You were only doing what comes naturally. That's fine. Just this once."

John blinked at Sherlock, confused. Had Sherlock just given him permission to… to…

"I must warn you, though. I've never done this before so you're going to have to be patient." Sherlocks tone was almost jovial. Amused.

He was unbuttoning his shirt in the middle of the room. Sherlock Holmes, the worlds only consulting detective, was undressing before John Watsons very eyes. He almost couldn't believe it was happening, until he saw the shirt fall to the floor.

The detective wore an expectant expression, looking the doctor over. John realized he was still in his jumper. Within a matter of seconds he, too, was shirtless, standing slightly awkwardly, turning away from Sherlock.

Sherlock read Johns posture, knew he was embarrassed. He also knew why he was feeling that way. The scar on his shoulder…..

"From the war?" Sherlock touched the distorted skin.

John nodded, but just barely. He was ashamed. Sherlock was flawless. Tall, willowy, ethereal, perfect in every way. The man could enter a room and every eye would be on him. And then there was John. Scarred, flawed, boring, imperfect.

"You're a brave man, John Watson. This scar is a badge of honor." Sherlocks cool lips came to rest on Johns shoulder, his arms wrapping around the doctors waist from behind.

John grabbed one of Sherlocks hands and held it, needing to feel him, to know this was real. He felt the cool lips move from his shoulder, kiss their way across his skin, up his neck, then he felt Sherlock nuzzle his short hair.

For a guy who didn't know what he was doing, Sherlock really knew what he was doing.

"Is this okay?" John felt the soft caress of Sherlocks breath against his skin.

"Yes." John breathed, letting his head roll back, resting on Sherlocks shoulder.

He felt Sherlocks clothed erection press into the small of his back. It was almost comical. Sherlock was so serious all the time. He was so consumed with work. Yet here he was, struggling to perform a basic human task. It was a precious moment in Johns life, because now he knew his friend was more than just the worlds only consulting detective; he was human.

Sherlock pulled John to the bed, sat him down, and kneeled in front of him. He looked up at John, smirked, and began unbuttoning the doctors trousers. John lifted his hips and shut his eyes, feeling the cool air hit his skin.

"So now what? Where do we go from here?" Sherlocks brow furrowed as he over-thought the situation, as per usual.

"You really can't figure it out?" John was shocked.

"Oh I can. I'm just wondering if there's any special 'method' you like. Or we could do something else. You pick, John."

"Would you like a turn?" John sounded much too eager, fighting to keep himself from grinning.

He switched places with Sherlock, undoing his trousers with shaking fingers. This was much more nerve-wracking than he had expected. He wanted this to be perfect, as flawless as Sherlock.

"Don't be nervous, John. You're doing fine." John felt a hand ruffle his hair lightly.

"How did you…?"

"The muscles in your face. They're tense. Your movements are stiff, as well. You really needn't worry. I'm sure you'll do great." Sherlock smiled, patting Johns head awkwardly.

John felt more like a child in a school play, getting cheered on by his mother, at the moment. While his kisses and touches were sensational, Sherlocks bedroom banter was… well, lacking.

"I think you'll be—"

John shut his detective up with another kiss, grabbing Sherlocks erection through his underwear. The latter squeaked in surprise, then moaned softly into the kiss, melting into Johns touch.

John Watson had no idea what he was doing. All he knew was that Sherlock Holmes had just made a noise that was probably counted as illegal contraband in most places. And John wanted more. They both did.

Sherlock gasped and fell on his back as John straddled him. He had gotten ahold of the riding crop and was currently dragging it up Sherlocks leg while he ground their erections together.

"J-John!" Sherlock spluttered, unsure how to react.

"Shh. Just this once." John brought the riding crop up, ghosting it across the detectives lips.

He set the riding crop down and began peeling Sherlocks underwear off slowly. He couldn't stifle the small noise of appreciation that escaped his throat. Johns fingers trailed across Sherlocks member, feeling everything. He glanced up to see Sherlock gazing at him with a curious expression. John bent down and kissed Sherlocks skin, just below his navel. The detective made a small noise, wanting to be touched more.

"I think you should wait. You're being very impatient, Sherlock." John said, standing up and walking away.

Sherlock made a noise of annoyance, rolling onto his stomach and stretching out across the bed. Was he doing this on purpose? Teasing John? Presenting his rear end in such an innocent, but oh-so-dirty way. Sherlock had always been a tease.

"Sherlock? I found your— Oh!" Mrs. Hudson burst into the room, then, after seeing the position Sherlock was in, she left rather quickly. John thought he saw a small smile forming on her face as she exited the room.

John walked over to the bed, grabbing the riding crop.

"We should have locked the door." He mused.

"Yes. I suppose we should have." Sherlock agreed.

He looked over his shoulder and his eyes grew wide when he saw John standing there, riding crop in hand. John wore a smirk that was just a little too big.

"Surely you're not going to— AH!" Sherlock buried his face in the sheets as the leather made contact with his exposed skin.

"Did you just whip me?! John how dare— AH!" Sherlock groaned, balling his fists as his skin stung.

"You can't just—" Sherlock let out another noise of pain as the riding crop came down for a third time.

"I'm sorry, Sher. What were you saying?" John twirled the riding crop in his hand, looking at Sherlock expectantly.

The detective shook his head. He wanted to be offended that John was doing this. He wanted to be angry. But instead he was actually starting to enjoy himself. The way the leather bit into his skin felt wonderful. There was the sensation of pain, but underneath it there was also pleasure mixed in.

So that's why, after John whipped him again, Sherlock let out a low moan, rather than a cry of pain, taking John by surprise.

"You're enjoying this?"

Sherlock nodded, pushing his rear end up, silently begging for more.

John laughed and trailed the riding crop across the angry welts on Sherlocks red skin. There was something beautiful about watching Sherlock take the pain. The way his body tensed after each hit, the noises he made…. It made John realize just how lucky he was to have Sherlock.

"If we're going to keep doing this we should do it properly. Do you have any rope?" John asked, kissing the base of Sherlocks spine.

He didn't have to ask twice. Sherlock jumped up, wincing quietly, and produced a length of rope from his wardrobe. That would seem odd to most people, but things like this rarely surprised John anymore.

"Grab the headboard." John no longer asked politely. Who cares about being polite when the worlds only consulting detective is at your command?

Sherlock did as he was told, gripping the headboard tightly. John tied the detective down, pausing briefly to pull Sherlock into a passionate kiss.

"That's better…." John said, pulling on the rope around Sherlocks ankle.

He was tied in a way that gave John a large target area. Sherlock moved his hips on the bed, rubbing his forgotten erection against the sheets, trying to gain friction.

"None of that." John brought the riding crop down across Sherlocks skin once more.

But then he got an idea…

"Lift your hips, Sher." John murmured.

After a moments hesitation, Sherlock did as he was told, pushing his hips up. John grabbed Sherlocks member and began stroking it quickly, listening to Sherlock stifling his noises of pleasure. John bent down and licked the underside of Sherlocks erection, much to the detectives enjoyment.

"John I'm going to— You're going to make me— I'm— I—" Sherlock panted, twisting his hips.

John abruptly stopped his movements, pulling his hand away. Sherlock groaned in frustration, pushing his face into the sheets.

"It's not that simple, Sherlock." John rubbed the helpless detectives back, smiling as his fingers trailed across the raised welts, making Sherlock shudder.

"John, please…." Sherlock whispered.

"Did Sherlock Holmes just beg? Is that what I just heard?" John smiled wickedly. "Do it again."

"Please, John. Please I…. Just… please." Sherlock pulled at the bonds that restrained him.

"Please what?" John tapped Sherlock with the riding crop, making him flinch.

"Touch me. Please John. I need you to—" Sherlock was silenced by a soft kiss that ended far too soon.

"Not yet." John growled.

"John!" Sherlock groaned.

"I think I'll go make myself a nice, warm cuppa. Don't go anywhere." John pulled on his robe and left the room, riding crop in hand.

He put the kettle on and sat at the table. All he wanted to do was run back into the bedroom and take Sherlock then and there. He wanted to feel Sherlocks skin on his skin. Taste Sherlocks lips on his lips. To touch him and please him and make him cry out in pleasure. But first he would have his tea.

Sherlock heard John rummaging around in the kitchen. He tried to break his bonds but the rope only dug into his skin more. He needed John. And John knew this, but he was only prolonging Sherlocks torture, trying to drive him mad with desire. It was working rather well, because Sherlock was already getting frustrated. He could hear the kettle whistling and knew John wouldn't be back in here for at least another fifteen minutes.

In the kitchen, John Watson set to work steeping his tea. He watched the water turn a murky brown color and smelled the exotic scent of the tea leaves.

"Are you okay, Sherlock?" John called, looking out the window.

"No."

"Good." John smiled.

Sherlock had this coming, in all honesty. He had always been a bit of an ass and, quite frankly, John was surprised more people hadn't punched him. This was just one way to punish the detective for being so… ass-ish.

John chuckled at himself as he drank his tea. There was nothing better than a good cup of tea. Except maybe a good cup of tea then a nice shag. Speaking of which…

John looked into his almost empty cup. Time to tend to Sherlock.

"Did you miss me?" John smirked, entering the bedroom.

"Get these damn things off me, John." Sherlock groaned, tugging fiercely at the bonds that restrained him.

"No, I don't think I will. I will, however, do this." John bent down and kissed his way up Sherlocks spine, drawing a soft sigh from the latter.

"You did good, Sher, waiting patiently and all. Thank you." John straddled Sherlocks back, running his fingers through the dark mess of curls on Sherlocks head.

"John please. No more teasing." Sherlock mumbled into the sheets.

"Would you rather I just take you now? Skip the preparation?" John chuckled, amused.

Sherlock nodded, subtle, small, quick. He began grinding into the bed again, absolutely aching for release. John had climbed off of him and was now removing his robe and undergarments. He stroked himself to hardness and advanced upon the bound detective.

"Just in case." John whispered, setting the riding crop beside Sherlock.

Sherlock Holmes was a man to be respected. Anyone who didn't respect him wasn't worth his time. Those people were nothing but fools.

Right now, one of those fools was sucking a finger into his mouth, coating it in saliva. Before Sherlock had time to register what was going on, he felt a dull pressure in one of his more intimate spots. The pressure, it turns out, was Johns finger, pushing past the rings of muscle inside Sherlock.

"More… Need more, John." Sherlock whined, trying to draw his knees together, only to be stopped by the ropes.

John added another finger, then another, careful not to hurt Sherlock. Not too much, anyway.

"How's that?" John asked softly, moving his fingers inside the detective.

Sherlock buried his face in the sheets once more and groaned loudly.

"Just get on with it!" Sherlock very nearly shouted.

John chuckled, pulling his fingers out. He straddled Sherlocks hips and kissed his neck briefly. Then he entered Sherlock, inch by inch.

Sherlock hissed and grit his teeth. He thought the riding crop had stung, but this…..

"My god, I really have lost it." John murmured.

"How— ah— How do you mean?"

"Well I've only just tied down and whipped the worlds only consulting detective. And now I'm having gay sex with him. You tell me, Sherlock, how is that not mental?" John shook his head, laughing. "I'm not even supposed to be gay."

"Hmm." Sherlock smiled, though John couldn't see his face.

John Watson was mental alright. But that was part of the job description. Crazy makes solving crime a lot simpler.

John began moving, Slowly at first, then faster, faster, faster. He snapped his hips forward , tossing his head back and moaning quietly.

Sherlock, alternatively, was quite loud. He was panting and gasping, trying to form words, to urge John on, to communicate his pleasure.

"J-John I— so g— ah— damn." Sherlock managed to blurt, clutching the sheets and arching his back.

John reached for the rope that held Sherlocks wrist, loosening it. Sherlock, once his hand was freed, began tugging at the other ropes, desperate, frantic, needing to be free.

"Better?" John cooed, pulling the detectives hair out of his face.

Sherlock nodded. He scooted forward, detaching himself from John, then rolled over, lying on his back.

"One more time." He panted, spreading his legs, beckoning John closer.

He leaned on his elbows, looking John in the eye as he reentered him. Sherlocks eyes, a sparkling mix of blues and greens, held John in a trance. He couldn't breathe, he couldn't think. He wanted to fall into those beautiful orbs and surround himself with their colors.

"I think this is the part where you start moving…." Sherlock whispered, pulling John forward and kissing him passionately.

John pushed Sherlocks hips into the mattress, thrusting into him sharply. They synced up, moving in unison, gripping each other for support.

Sherlock reached between them and began stroking himself, bringing his orgasm to the forefront of his consciousness.

"Not yet, Sher. Wait." John grabbed the riding crop and grazed it across the dark-haired mans cheekbone.

"Please." Sherlock whispered, his voice shaking.

"Sorry, didn't catch that." John panted.

"Don't m-make me beg." the detective growled, wrapping his legs around his doctor, holding him tightly.

John slammed into Sherlock over and over, watching the detective slowly lose all self-control. He wanted to hear Sherlock scream, beg, plead for release. He wanted to drive Sherlock Holmes absolutely insane.

"John! John I can't. I need—"

"Me first." John pulled out of Sherlock, stroking himself.

He came within seconds, instinctively gripping whatever was near him, which happened to be Sherlock. John cried out, bucking and shaking, covered in a thin layer of sweat. He sighed deeply, coming down from his orgasm.

Sherlock, covered in the sticky result of Johns orgasm, looked absolutely pitiful. He was so exposed and needy, his fate now lying in Johns hands.

"Go on, Sher. I'll just watch." John smiled, watching the detective stroke himself.

He sat next to Sherlock, pulling the mans head into his lap, running his fingers through the curls. Sherlock shut his eyes, panting and arching into Johns touch. He needed more.

"J—ah—John." Sherlock opened his bright eyes, silently conveying his needs.

John grabbed Sherlocks face and kissed him deeply, bringing Sherlock to orgasm. It wasn't particularly poetic. There wasn't much art or tact to the way Sher came. But it was beautiful to witness and John didn't want it to end. He stroked Sherlocks face absentmindedly, watching the detectives chest rise and fall rapidly as his breathing returned to normal.

"How was that?" Sherlock asked, smiling a ridiculous smile.

"Absolutely fantastic." John chuckled.

Sherlock nodded, satisfied. His eyes slipped shut again and his fingers entangled with Johns own.

"I love you, Sherlock Holmes." John whispered.

"And I you, John. Just this once." Sherlock smirked, stifling a yawn.

John kissed Sherlocks forehead lightly, making himself comfortable among the sheets and pillows.

They would go to sleep together, but when John woke up he would be alone and Sherlock would be on a case. They would go back to being flatmates and everything would be back to normal. And that was okay for the time being.

John smiled to himself.

"Just this once."