John paused outside the door to the flat at 221B Baker Street. When he'd left Mary's, he had felt confident in his decision to come home right away and tell Sherlock how he felt. Now, faced with the prospect of having to confess his feelings to the brilliant and frankly intimidating man on the other side of the door, John Watson was at a total loss.

What on earth had he been thinking, deciding he could tell Sherlock something like that? Sherlock didn't do feelings, couldn't reciprocate them even if he wanted to (which he definitely didn't). He'd probably deduce that John was in love with him eventually anyway, and with luck he'd delete the information and never bring the matter up.

Still, John thought with a heavy sigh, John's love for Sherlock was nothing new. He may have just discovered it that morning, but once he did he realised that it was something that had been there from the beginning, from the first time a mysterious man in a long, black coat came to see him and deduced his life from a single glance, and John had slipped into the man's life without question. It was like going through life having never seen his own reflection, and then one day he found a mirror and of course he looked like that. Ignoring his discovery wasn't going to change his feelings any more than ignoring mirrors would change his appearance, and John wasn't sure how much longer he could fake ignorance before he exploded.

Yes, it would probably be best to just get it out of the way now. Walk into the room, tell Sherlock about the dreams, his talk with Mary, everything. And then be done with it. Sherlock might get angry or scoff at him or wave the information off as irrelevant, but it had to be done. Worrying about it would get John nowhere.

Squaring his shoulders and taking a deep breath, he opened the door and prepared for the worst.

What happened next, John had definitely not anticipated.

"Sherlock, there's something I need to—" was all he managed to say before being violently shoved against the door. He was just about to go into soldier-mode, using brute force to shove his attacker off of him, when he felt a pair of lips pressed against his own and all thoughts of resistance vanished from his mind.

The foreign lips were a little clumsy but soft and passionate, and John felt himself starting to close his eyes and reciprocate. He stopped himself, however, forcing his eyes open to glimpse the person who had kiss-attacked him. Even without breaking the kiss he was able to see the cream-colored skin, the graceful neck, the dark curls.

"Sherlock?" he said, pulling back in surprise and banging his head against the door.

"Whom else would it be?" Sherlock asked, quirking an eyebrow and clearly trying to appear calm. Then, taking in the sight of John rubbing the back of his head where it had collided with the door: "Are you alright?"

"Peachy," John said, more irritably than he had intended. He reached a hand tentatively to the back of his head; there was no sign of a bump forming, but it was sore. "Sherlock, what the hell was that?"

"A kiss. I was under the impression that it was customary behavior amongst people with a mutual affection for each other, especially when one is trying to communicate such feelings to the other." His words sounded as posh and condescending as ever, but John could see the apprehension in his face. "Was I mistaken?"

"No. No, you weren't mistaken, but…wait. Did you just say mutual affection?"

If it was possible for Sherlock Holmes to blush, John could have sworn he saw it then. "When I say 'affection,' I of course mean it in the romantic sense."

"Romantic?" John tilted his head to one side, trying to process the scene unfolding before him.

"Well I deduced…" Sherlock started. He paused, looking more uncertain than John had ever seen him before. "That is, I mean to say…you have been acting strangely over the last week…I'd taken note of excessive nervousness and pupil dilation…and then I could hear you standing outside the door as if trying to debate something, and once I'd eliminated the possibilities of your divulging the details of a terminal illness or a serious relationship with the woman you had dinner with last night…that only left…well…"

It was strange, John thought, seeing Sherlock so utterly at a loss for words. His vocabulary was as extensive as ever, but he was stumbling, trying in vain to string together a coherent thought from the scattered ramblings running wildly through his brilliant mind, and clearly becoming more frustrated by the second. John couldn't help but stare at his friend in awe, wondering what could cause someone usually so articulate to be reduced to an incoherent mess. It certainly wasn't like the Sherlock he knew.

And then it hit him.

It wasn't like the Sherlock he knew.

"Oh," John said softly, his mouth a perfect circle as realisation dawned on him once again. He was surprised it had taken him this long. "This again."

Sherlock's brow furrowed. "What again?"

"I don't know whether to take it as a sign or an omen," John said, having heard Sherlock's question but knowing that it would be pointless to answer a figment of his imagination. "Every time one of us makes a move it turns out to be a dream. Maybe that means the same thing would happen if I ever worked up the courage in real life, or maybe I just have to get used to the fact that this is the only way I'll ever have you." He shook his head. "Or maybe it doesn't mean anything at all, and I should just stop thinking so much and enjoy it while I can."

Still looking dazed and evidently deciding on the third option, he slowly reached out and cupped Sherlock's face in his hands, pulling him forward gently.

"John, wait." Sherlock pulled his head back slightly and wrapped his hands around John's own, though he didn't pull them away from his face. "I don't think you understand."

"Don't you want this?" asked John calmly, reminding himself that there was no reason to be nervous or embarrassed around dream-Sherlock.

"Of course," Sherlock said, sounding somewhat desperate. "Of course I do. But John…you are mistaken in thinking that this is a dream."

"Yeah?" John released his hands from Sherlock's face and scowled. "And why should I believe you? How do you know you aren't dreaming right now?"

"Well, for one, I only sleep when I plan to do so, and as I was in the middle of evaluating your recent behavior, my falling asleep anytime soon was unlikely. Two, I long ago developed the ability to dream lucidly. If I was dreaming I could make us both fly or make our clothes disappear just by thinking it, yet here we are fully clothed and standing. And three," he leaned closer, a predatory look suddenly entering his eyes and a sly grin tugging at the corners of his mouth, "I can smell your cologne."

At that moment, John wasn't sure whether or not he was dreaming. He wasn't sure whether he was gay, straight, or something in-between; he wasn't even sure that Sherlock's argument made sense. But what he was completely sure of was this: he didn't care. Sherlock Holmes, whether he was flesh and blood or merely an illusion, was looking at him, wanting him, and John would be damned if he let the opportunity slip through his fingers. Grabbing Sherlock's face (this time not-so-gently), he closed the distance between their lips.

Sherlock inhaled sharply, surprised at John's assertiveness. He didn't pull away though, instead deepening the kiss until his and John's tongues were dancing around each other in a sensual battle for dominance. Sherlock felt himself being spun around, and suddenly he was the one pressed against the door as John continued to ravage his mouth as if nothing had happened.

"Boys? Is everything okay up there?" Mrs. Hudson called from downstairs, apparently having heard the loud thump of Sherlock's body colliding with the wooden door.

"We're fine Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock called back, looking more impatient with every second that his lips weren't on John's. John seemed to notice his irritation and set about remedying the situation with soft, slow kisses to Sherlock's neck. The detective gasped just as John began to suck lightly on the area where his neck met his shoulder. It was also at this time that Mrs. Hudson yelled that they had best not expect her to clean up after them if they ended up breaking something (she was their landlady, not their housekeeper) but neither Sherlock nor John heard her.

"John," Sherlock panted as John began to undo the buttons of Sherlock's purple dress shirt, "perhaps we should take this elsewhere?" His eyes flicked toward his bedroom.

"Right," John said, removing his mouth from Sherlock's neck and straightening his stance. "My room?" he asked.

"What's wrong with my room?" Sherlock asked.

"Nothing except for the fact that in all the years I've known you you've only gone in there about twice. It's a little creepy. Besides, do you even have any…you know…supplies in there?"

"Supplies?" Sherlock said. John raised his eyebrows and realisation flashed into Sherlock's eyes. "Oh! Right! Supplies. No, no I don't suppose I do. Good point. Your room it is."

It was a bit of a struggle making it upstairs, lips once again finding each other and fingers pulling at buttons and hems. But they eventually found themselves standing in the middle of John's room, all articles of clothing but their undergarments shed on the trip up.

Then, with a turn and a push, they were on the bed, John straddling Sherlock's lean hips and Sherlock pressed into the mattress beneath him. Sherlock, who had been trying to show some restraint with the obscene noises he'd been tempted to make every time John touched him, let out soft moans as John's lips began to make their way down his body, lingering a little longer at the nipples, the stomach, the inner thighs.

If there had been any doubt in John's mind that he could be so thoroughly turned on by a man, it vanished as Sherlock's moans grew louder. The detective had barely even touched him, yet John felt himself grow fully hard just knowing that he was the one who caused those noises to come out of that perfect mouth. He suddenly found himself wanting very much to make Sherlock make more of those delicious sounds.

Without a second thought, he hooked his thumbs under Sherlock's black cotton pants and tugged them down, watching hungrily as Sherlock's erection sprang free. In his periphery, he noticed Sherlock lean his head forward to look at him questioningly, but before Sherlock could ask him what exactly he wanted to do next, John lowered his head and slipped his mouth around the tip of Sherlock's cock, taking the loud moan coming from the other end of the bed as his cue to go lower. In one fluid motion, his took as much as he could into his mouth, sweeping his tongue around experimentally before slowly pulling back up.

Sherlock was definitely losing his restraint at that point, tangling his hands in John's hair and occasionally bucking his hips upward when John would do something especially clever with his tongue. And all the while, he made those sounds that John so delighted in hearing until finally with one gasp escaped an urgent "John."

Quick as lightning, John removed his mouth, knowing that if they wanted to go any further, it would have to be soon. Sherlock looked rather disappointed at the loss of John's mouth, but his expression changed to curious interest when John said, "How do you want to do this?"

"I…" Sherlock started. "I, ahem…wasn't opposed to what you were doing before."

"I could keep doing that, if you want me to. Or…"

"Or?"

"Or we could try something else."

"What did you have in mind?"

"Well," said John, lowering his voice in an attempt to hide his nervousness, "usually, when I dream about this, I…well I'm…"

"On top?"

John felt his face heat up. "Is it that obvious?"

"It wasn't particularly difficult to deduce," Sherlock panted, lifting his head slightly to grin at John. Then he threw his head down on the pillows once again, spreading his legs a little wider as he did so. He closed his eyes, nodded once.

The next thing Sherlock knew, he found himself on his stomach, a smug-looking John smiling up at him.

"But," said Sherlock, finally losing any semblance of composure. "I thought—"

"Thought what?" said John, clearly pleased with himself at having fooled the great Sherlock Holmes. "That I wouldn't want to try something new?"

"It…" Sherlock gasped softly as John slid his feet back until his knees were bent and resting on either side of Sherlock's hips. "It didn't occur to me."

"I've spent so long dreaming about this Sherlock," John said softly. "This time, I want to know, really know, that this is happening." He chuckled. "Genius like you, I wouldn't have thought it would be particularly difficult to deduce."

Sherlock smirked. "Shut up," he said. And then, as if to ensure that John did as he said, he captured the doctor's lips once more.

As they continued to explore each other's mouths, John found Sherlock's hand. Taking it in his own, he guided both of their hands down his own body until they came to rest on his chest. He rubbed small circles into Sherlock's palm with his right hand as he reached for his dresser drawer with his left. Sherlock stopped kissing him to observe as John flipped open the cap on the lube with his thumb and poured a generous amount into Sherlock's open hand, massaging until the detective's fingers were slick. He guided their hands again, this time placing them between his own legs.

"You know what to do?" John asked, giving his hand a squeeze.

Sherlock nodded, and John released his hand.

Despite his own still-painful arousal, Sherlock made sure to go slowly. He began with just one of his long, slender fingers, making sure John was fully adjusted to its presence before moving on to two, then three. John, who before that day hadn't ever thought he might enjoy something like this, found himself aching to have Sherlock inside him, knotting his hands in the bed sheets and thrusting down onto Sherlock's fingers every time they pushed in.

"Sherlock," he panted.

Without further instruction, Sherlock removed his fingers and found the condoms in John's bedside drawer. He ripped open one of the foil packages with his teeth and rolled the condom over his erection. Coating the condom with lube, he willed his body not to react to the touch, as he had been close for quite some time. He glanced up at John, waiting for the other man's nod of approval before gripping John's bent knees, lining himself up, and pushing in.

If John had thought Sherlock's fingers felt good, it was nothing compared to the feeling of having the man himself inside of him. Sherlock remained still, letting John adjust to the fullness. And oh, how John felt full. A little stretched and a little strange, sure, but gloriously, marvelously full, and more importantly, full of Sherlock. He wondered vaguely why he had never thought to try this in his dreams.

"Alright?" Sherlock asked after a few moments.

"Just a sec," John said, snaking his hand up to find Sherlock's again. He intertwined their fingers before giving a small nod, and then he felt Sherlock begin to move.

Sherlock was still fighting diligently to maintain control over his body. He wanted so badly to release, but he also wanted to keep going, to be able to savor the feeling of being with John, inside of John, for as long as possible. So he commanded his transport to last, just for a little longer. He started with slow, controlled pumps, pulling out just a little and then pushing back in at a steady pace. But then he changed the angle, and John let out a moan so deliciously erotic that Sherlock couldn't help but want to hear it again and again and again.

And so he started going faster, harder, pulling out almost all the way before slamming back in again, aiming for John's prostate with every thrust. Both his and John's knuckles had turned white from the vice-grip they kept on each other's hands, but even Sherlock didn't notice. By then he was lost in the ecstasy.

And then, finally, Sherlock Holmes lost his control. With a few more violent, erratic thrusts, he started to spill, a desperate "John" falling from his lips.

Still riding the aftershocks, Sherlock placed the hand that wasn't holding John's around the doctor's throbbing cock, pumping hard and fast until John came, gasping and moaning.

Sherlock was the first to settle down, collapsing onto John's torso with an exhausted sigh.

"Oi!" said John, the breath having been knocked from his chest with the sudden weight of the tired detective. Sherlock looked at him guiltily and John felt his heart melt. Placing a hand under Sherlock's chin, he brought the other man down to meet his lips.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock mumbled against John's mouth.

"Well there's something I never thought I'd hear from you," John teased, but then he saw the worried look on his best friend's face and his smile faded. "Why are you sorry?"

"I was too rough," Sherlock said, eyes downcast. "I didn't mean to, I just…lost control. I'm sorry."

"Sherlock, look at me," John said sternly, and Sherlock did. "You didn't hurt me." He kissed Sherlock again, gently. "That's was fantastic, love."

John was somewhat surprised at his own use of a pet name so soon, but Sherlock seemed unfazed. He simply grinned back before lifting himself up and pulling out of John. John let his legs lie flat against the bed, and Sherlock rolled over them to lie beside him.

"I don't know about you," John said, glancing over at the window, the mid-morning sun shining brightly through the closed curtains, "but I'm beat. I could do with a nice, long nap."

Sherlock nodded, studying John's hand and playing with his fingers. "Would you like me to stay with you?"

John was silent for a moment. "What happens if I wake up and it was all another dream?"

"It won't be."

"But how can you be so sure?" John asked, eyelids drooping as exhaustion began to take over.

"Because I am very, very smart," Sherlock said, leaning over to give John a peck on the forehead. "Now rest."

...

The last rays of sun were just beginning to vanish from the sky when John awoke. Feeling a slight weight on his chest, he looked down to find a mass of dark curls lying there. Sherlock stirred slightly when he reached out to run his fingers through the soft hair, and John worried that he had woken him, but then the other man simply sighed and nuzzled deeper into his chest, his breathing slow and even.

John smiled and went back to sleep.

A/N: I'm so sorry I took so long to update! I have a confession to make: this was my first time writing smut. Well, my first without immediately deciding that it was shit and deleting it from both my computer and my mind. So it took me a bit longer to write (mostly because I spent two weeks stuck at the same spot; oops). I'm sorry if it was terrible. If it was, let me know what I can do to improve? Or don't, that's cool too.

Anywho, this story is done, and I hope you at least enjoyed parts of it. Perhaps you haven't seen the last of me; I may write more stories soon. Or maybe I won't. Kind of depends on when the muse strikes, you know? Regardless, thank you for sticking with this one till the end. I really, really appreciate it. :)

Much love,

Abs