The tension builds a bit more in this chapter. Thank you for the reviews, and please keep giving me feedback, enjoy!

John was excited about his date with June. She was nice, pretty and he thought intelligent, no matter Sherlock 'deduced' about her. Sherlock seemed to be trying to deduce as many awful things about her as he could since he had found out John was going on a date with her.

"You know I can tell from her right forearm that she has never had chicken pox John. A bit of a liability if you ask me."

At first John had almost been hopeful that Sherlock might have become slightly jealous. Especially after that encounter he had had with Sherlock in the hallway. It had left John in an almost higher state of dizziness than ever encountered during air-strikes in Afghanistan.

But Sherlock acted as if none of it had ever happened and John had to remind himself that Sherlock made these harsh observations and intrusions about almost every woman John was ever interested in. John's hopes it might be a sign of affection were soon dashed, it seemed more likely that it was just Sherlock's way of emphasising the stupidity of John's base human needs for the companionship of women.

Regardless, as John knew, Sherlock was 'married' to his work. John could spend his life with this man but not in the way he most longed for. Why shouldn't he enjoy a nice night out with June? It was a bloody miracle she was still interested after Sherlock's treatment of her, and any woman who wasn't deterred from John by the trepidation's of his flatmate was worth pursuing.

John nodded to himself in mental reassurance; tonight would be a good night, enjoyable and not fogged by thoughts of a certain encounter in a hallway, of Sherlock's dark eyes holding him down, his warm breath coming faster and faster…

John shook his head again. He had to stop thinking about it. Every time he did he could swear Sherlock knew, catching his eye with a knowing look. No, enough was enough. He needed a proper relationship, not just the one in his head with his sociopathic flatmate. June seemed like a nice woman and he would do her the courtesy of giving her his full attention. He just wanted a simple relationship with someone who was reliable and liked tea. Intelligence wasn't everything, and besides Sherlock had enough of that for everyone. No, stop. He wouldn't make her compete with Sherlock.

And with that thought John walked into the living room, grabbed his coat and said a quick goodbye to Sherlock before he could attempt to put him off his date by diagnosing some latent sexual problems from June's childhood just from the colour of her watch strap and the way she had sat when she had come with a case.

"Goodbye Sherlock, I will be back late". That was all John had said before he all but flew down the stairs.

Sherlock had been sitting in the living room listening intently to the sounds of John getting ready for his date in his room. The anxious footfalls indicated apprehension, pacing up and down. However, the reason for John's apprehension was hard to determine without actually seeing his face. Sherlock was hoping to deter John from his date by suggesting he was feeling low tonight, perhaps he would go on a relapse. But the selfish man had rushed out of the room before Sherlock could attempt to worry him.

Sherlock huffed and jumped up as he heard the front door close, pausing for a moment, then headed straight for John's bedroom.

Sherlock went straight to John's wardrobe, what was missing? He was hoping for a good look at John's clothing before he had left, but the swiftness of his exit hadn't given Sherlock as much time as he would have liked for deductions. John's best shoes were gone as Sherlock had thought, so, he was trying to impress her. He had also worn an expensive shirt, but not his most expensive. Sherlock grappled with this for a few moments. John could either not be wearing his most expensive shirt because he didn't thing the dull June was worth the effort, or perhaps he didn't want to appear overly flashy. Although the latter seemed more plausible Sherlock preferred his initial deduction. John was probably looking for a short flirtation, nothing serious. Sherlock smiled at this thought and moved on; even though he knew John was not the sort for that kind of behavior it comforted him somewhat.

Next he went to John's underwear draw. From what Sherlock knew John had not worn his favorite pair, nor the pair he had worn on the last date he had a weeks before with… he could never remember their names. They were not important, only John was.

Sherlock smiled, John had neither worn the red pair he always seemed to on Monday's, of which Sherlock was sure John wore just because he knew the way it brought on those animalistic thoughts in Sherlock. He had, however, worn his dark navy ones. These indicated John was hopeful about this date and his intentions with the woman were perhaps for more than a kiss on the stairs. Sherlock slammed the drawer shut and stormed into the kitchen. This wasn't looking hopeful.

He checked John's tea mug. From the level of staining on the mug since its last washing he could tell John had had three cups of tea while preparing for this date. From previous dating information Sherlock knew the higher the number of cups the more apprehensive John was, indicating how much he liked the woman. Three was relatively high, not the highest, but not the lowest either.

Sherlock darted from room to room making a series of quick deductions – how much cologne John had used, which shampoo, how much money he had taken. Finally he collapsed onto the sofa,his hands coming together under his chin. Final analysis indicated John liked this woman and was hopeful for the repercussions of the date; even perhaps leading to some form of bodily sexual contact with this woman. However, from what Sherlock knew of human mating rituals John was not going to have intercourse with her tonight. The study of some popular culture indicated to Sherlock that this meant John was a 'gentlemen'.

Sherlock's mind was going at an incredible speed. Lines of thought darted this way and that, like hundreds of ants pouring from the nest. Never stopping, insistent.

Images of John and the woman flashed across all of these trains of thought, all of the possible conversations and outcomes of the night flashing through Sherlock's brain. These images of them became increasingly prevalent until they had staunched the flow of all other thoughts. Bold, fast and maddening they came, stopping all coherence. Those animal instincts raged with the increasing rapidity and intimacy of the images of John and the woman in his mind.

Sherlock jumped up grabbing his head and yelling. He paced up and down, he was manic. He needed to think and stop thinking simultaneously. How was he supposed to focus with these ridiculous images blocking everything?

He grabbed his violin but it shook in his hands. He threw it down. He turned on the television to one of those ridiculous shows John liked. His brain couldn't even focus on that, the meanings of the images flashing across the screen were lost to him underneath the weight of other thoughts. He stabbed the numbers on the controller until a music channel came one. He turned it up, hoping if it was loud enough it would drown out his thoughts. Instead the music merged with the images in his mind, John and the woman moving together to the rhythm of the music, pulsing and turning, moving faster and faster. Sherlock turned it off in a rage.

No drugs, no cigarettes. He had to numb his brain. During his pacing he bumped a cabinet; bottles clinked against one another.

Sherlock stopped. Ah, he thought, his mind slowing as he saw the path to his salvation. If it had worked with John perhaps it would work with him. Whiskey.

John returned at 1am. He walked with some fatigue up the stairs. It had been a nice evening but the constant repression of thoughts about Sherlock had tired him.

June had been pleasant company. Everything had gone well, John had been charming and kind, June rewarding him with a few quick, embarrassed kisses.

The living room was dark, lit only by a small lamp in the corner. John walked to the kitchen and filled the kettle and sighed as he leaned back against the kitchen counter, stretching out his back and enjoying he silence the darkness of the room created.

"How was your evening?"

John jumped; he assumed Sherlock was in his room. But there he was curled in the armchair in the corner in his dressing gown staring at John from the dark. His voice had been heavy and laboured.

John gathered himself; the deep rumble of that voice sent a train of uncivilised thoughts crashing through his brain.

"Fine, yes, fine thank you."

He paused, deciding to use a joke he had wanted to for some months on Sherlock. "We had dinner, but we weren't hungry."

Before John was able to even let out a short chuckle at his own hilarity a dark shape was moving at an alarming speed towards him.

John felt himself slammed against the kitchen cabinet, pinned there by Sherlock's body; the same look was there in Sherlock's eyes as had been the other day in the hallway. John was hardly able to register this, or the alcohol on Sherlock's breath, before his head was wrenched to the side by long fingers in his hair.

John tried to move but Sherlock's other hand came up to his shoulder holding him still and pulling his shirt down over his shoulder, his body still flush against Sherlock's. John felt hot, thick breath on his neck, his shiver causing his whole body to grind against Sherlock's, eliciting a deep growl from Sherlock's throat against his neck.

The growl was followed by a sharp movement and a cry of shock from John as Sherlock came down on his neck, biting and sucking hard.

John was breathless, unaware of how long he was held like this. The pressure was insistent, hungry, never waning. He couldn't grasp any thought, only one word.

"Sherlock?" It escaped as a gasped question from John's lips.

The pressure on his neck receded and stopped and John almost regretted his calling out. He was surprised by the gentleness of soft lips brushing lightly back and forth over the delicate attacked area of his neck. Their chests were pressed against one another, rising and falling in unison, sharp, shallow breaths.

Those lips crept softly and slowly up John's neck, his head still held in place by Sherlock's hand, but in a gentler grip. Lips brushed by his ear and held there just as those thick, soft curls caressed his face.

It felt as if hours passed, and then a deep, almost incoherent growl broke through the mounting tension of pressed bodies.

"So people know…" There were dark, emphasised pauses between the words.

"… you… are… mine."

The last word was the deepest of all and it shocked through all that John was.

Before John was able to register any coherent thought he was released and sank to the floor against the cabinet.

The body which had been holding his weak legs up detangled itself from him and was gone. Leaving John alone, his head and heart pounding, the intense pulse concentrated on the burning area of his neck. All thoughts fled to that burning point and he was left panting and disjointed for an even longer time than he had been just a few days before.