Two things:
a) This story is not betaed, so bear with me here.
b) I'm from the US, so please excuse any inconsistencies with British vs American word usage.

I've been dancing around posting this for a while and finally decided to just do it. The title was taken from the song "Glass" by Thompson Square (it's pretty good, look it up).

I don't own anything. That honor goes to ACD and Moftiss.

Okay, I'll shut up now. :)

It was late, the case was over, John was tired. Sherlock should be exhausted.

Of course, he wasn't.

John mentally groaned. Sherlock drifting off the high of a case was never pleasant. Usually (if John was lucky), Sherlock would walk into the flat, straight to the nearest available surface (sometimes his own bed, sometimes the sofa, sometimes the floor, and once, the damned coffee table) and fall face-first into a deep sleep. This wasn't one of those blessed times. This was one of the rare John, I have too much pent-up energy, please can I blow up the flat times.

John was collapsed on the sofa in front of the telly, head propped in his hand, staring at whatever show was playing on the glowing screen. Sherlock was in the kitchen, clangs, rattles, and thumps echoing throughout the flat. John hoped it wasn't going to be another frozen-tongues-in-the-homemade-potato-gun kind of night. That was the only time John had truly worried about Mrs. Hudson kicking them both out on their pathetic arses. John wouldn't interfere, though. The last—and only—time he did that, Sherlock had yelled until he thought his voice would go hoarse and had continued to throw half a brain straight at the doctor's head. Not the most pleasant shower he'd ever taken in his life.

Presently, John realized his eyes had drifted closed and the noises from kitchen had stopped. Jerking back to attention, ready to dodge flying body parts if need be, he stared right into two impossible eyes.

"Sherlock!"

The detective was on his knees in front of the doctor, hand on John's thigh, looking up into his much darker eyes. "John, I'm bored."

A little disconcerted by where Sherlock had placed his hand, John shifted slightly. "What do you bloody well want me to do about it?"

Sherlock blinked at him owlishly. "I—" He stopped. Blinked again. "Would you make love to me?"

John was pretty sure he choked on his own spit, or coughed up his own lungs, or something equally humiliating.

"Sorry, what?"

The detective's eyes got impossibly wider, pupils slightly dilated. He looked...innocent. And completely out of his comfort zone. John had no idea what to do with that information.

"I trust you. I need..." John watched as the other man's throat bobbed. He gulped himself. That throat. "I need to know, John. I need to know what it's like."

John could hear the gears grinding in his own head. "Is...is this some kind of experiment?"

Sherlock looked almost revolted. "No."

"But you want to know what...it's...like?"

A little more determination leaked into Sherlock's face. His hand moved a little further up John's thigh, creeping slowly to dangerous territory. "I need to know what it's like with you."

John caught the wrist of the invading hand and gave him a warning look. "Sherlock..."

"John." He scooted closer until his chest brushed John's knees. "Please."

John caught himself leaning closer and pulled himself away and off the couch, spinning abruptly from the detective.

"No, Sherlock. No." He stalked to the telly and shut it off. "I'm not going to take you to bed just because you're still wound up from a case and want to know what it's like to be fucked by me."

Sherlock shifted so he was now sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the sofa. "That's not it, John."

A tiny thought flickered through John's brain, questioning whether this was just the only way Sherlock knew how to express his feelings... His desire. He shook himself. No. That wasn't it. It couldn't be.

John wouldn't try to deny the feelings boiling inside himself, sentiments that Sherlock would spit at if he knew.

"Then for god's sake, Sherlock, what is it?"

The detective stared for a long moment. "This is me asking. This is me asking for you to take."

John shuddered slightly at the insinuations behind that statement. Slowly, keeping himself in check, he moved forward and knelt in front of Sherlock, his knees brushing the detective's legs. He cautiously raised a hand as if to touch Sherlock's cheek, but paused. "Have you even..." He cleared his throat. "Have you ever..."

Sherlock leaned down until their foreheads almost touched, his dark curls tickling John's brow. "No."

John reflexively grasped onto Sherlock's upper arms with both hands, eyes cast downward, breathing rapidly, forcing himself to think.

This was trust. This was complete, utter trust. This was a man mostly adverse to physical contact asking him to take something he could never give back. Sherlock wanted to learn from him.

John took a deep breath.

Sherlock's heart pounded insistently. He could feel John's gentle breath against his face, could feel the doctor thinking.

This was what he wanted, what he'd been wanting, for the longest time. How could he convince John that he wanted to do this because this was John and he...cared for him? That didn't feel like the right word usage. He highly doubted there was a word in the dictionary of all languages that could define Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.

He wasn't really nervous. The doctor was kind. He would never do anything to hurt Sherlock. But in this area, he was incredibly naïve. Of course, he knew the chemistry of it. It was all quite simple. Hormones and libido and such. Lust's affects on the human body. Dilated pupils, racing pulse, flushed skin.

Speaking of which, he felt he was probably exhibiting all of those in the face of Doctor John Watson. It was okay. He could allow himself to be vulnerable in front of the doctor if it would convince him of Sherlock's sincerity.

This was so much more than lust, however. So much more, in fact, that Sherlock had battled and repressed for months before reaching this point.

He'd watched John carefully at first, searching for any signs that the feelings were mutual. They were there, but the doctor was remarkably talented at hiding his feelings when he wanted to. Somehow, he had mastered any touch of arousal he felt around Sherlock. He always seemed so blasé about accidental brushes of skin on skin. For Sherlock, it caused his body to shake and tremble for minutes afterwards.

He was well aware that his hand was incredibly unsteady as he reached up to press John's hovering hand to his own cheek. Letting his eyes slide shut, he felt the callused palm of his doctor graze the smooth skin on his face. He held back a shudder as John's thumb brushed lightly over his cheekbone.

Nobody had ever touched him like this. Nobody had put up with him this long. Nobody was as sweet and gentle as John was.

Nobody was John except John.

He could feel the soldier's eyes on him under hooded lids. John was assessing, balancing the pros and the cons, making a rational decision.

Sherlock almost chuckled at the role reversal.

John had been tense, and the moment his muscles relaxed, Sherlock knew. He knew.

He wouldn't move first, though. No, this was John and he would take care of him. John always took care of him.

The doctor's other steady hand came to rest on his other cheek, cupping his face, and he tilted his head up. "Sherlock," he breathed.

He opened his eyes.

What he saw on that beloved face crippled him. Wonder, relief, hope, innocence. It was all there. Every last drop of emotion Sherlock kept from the outside world was bleeding into every pore of his skin in front of John, rapidly letting the walls fall away until he was just a man, until they were two men sitting in their living room floor about to do something that would shatter the walls of friendship.

John knew this wasn't just an experiment.

He was beautiful. Pale skin, pupils blown wide, cheeks flushed, dark hair lightly mussed from his own fingers tearing at it in frustration. He looked so young.

John shifted so he sat cross-legged as well, mirroring Sherlock's pose. He dropped his hands to the detective's hips and lightly tugged. "Come here," he said gently.

The taller man let out a tiny noise as he climbed into the doctor's lap, all long limbs and awkwardness. He was like a newborn foal. John smiled and guided Sherlock's legs so they wrapped around his own waist. Sherlock's hands were resting on his shoulders and he was trembling.

For one terrifying moment, John thought he was going to be sick. A kaleidoscope of feelings slammed into his chest, making it difficult to breathe. This man. This gorgeous, arrogant, brilliant man was sitting in his lap, looking at him with a gaze so heartbreakingly pure that he was forced to face how blatantly sullied he was himself. He didn't deserve this. He wasn't the man that should take this so easily from a man that really didn't know what he was asking for.

But as Sherlock gently nudged at his face, their noses bumping together, John realized that he was the only one privileged enough to look into those opaline eyes and see all that trust and emotion shining back.

This was Sherlock Holmes allowing someone to see him.

And this was John Watson taking what he wanted.

Sherlock wasn't sure what he had expected. He'd never really kissed someone before. Not the way he knew John was going to kiss him. Pecks on the lips, cheeks; that, he was used to. He'd never wanted anything more. But as John's lips brushed his, he wanted so much more.

A small whimper whispered its way out of his throat before he could stifle it. John tilted his head and came at his mouth from a different angle, this time barely parting his lips. Sherlock mirrored the movements the best he could, trying to get his mind to think and retain everything that was happening, but he couldn't. Everything was offline.

John's hand slipped to his nape and tangled into the curls at the back of his head, and then his mouth was opening wider, gently wrapping Sherlock's upper lip with his two, then the bottom lip, and then there was a warm tongue gliding across the seam of those bow lips and Sherlock opened abruptly, wanting to welcome his doctor. His fingers fisted into the jumper at John's shoulders, holding on for dear life as John's tongue slipped softly into his mouth, and this was more. So much more than anything he'd ever experienced. Invasive, warm, tinged with desperation and tightly concealed hunger.

The hand in his hair pulled quickly, dislodging their lips and tilting Sherlock's head back, exposing his long throat. The detective whimpered at the loss of contact and absolutely shuddered when John's lips caressed the base of his neck. The doctor made his way up with open-mouthed kisses that left heat searing through Sherlock's body, through his mind. He gasped and writhed and it wasn't enough and John had barely begun.

John wasn't sure Sherlock realized how much noise he was making. Gasps and whimpers and cries and little kitten-like mewls that made John more protective than anything.

His legs were falling asleep. Gripping Sherlock's behind, he pulled up enough to allow himself to straighten his legs so Sherlock was now sitting on the floor, legs still sprawled wide around John. This brought parts of their body John had been desperately trying to ignore abruptly together and he bit back a noise.

Sherlock didn't.

It was part gasp, more sob, like he was choking on air. "John," he breathed, open mouth barely touching the doctor's. It was a plea, plaintive and small. His entire body was shaking violently.

John was forced to take an assessment of their current situation. Was he really going to take Sherlock here, on the floor?

"Sherlock," he forced out, kissing the detective's shoulder through his dressing gown. "Sherlock we need to get to the bed."

Sherlock shook his head abruptly. "No. No, John, just...here. Do it here." He had an almost painful grip on the doctor's arms now as he sucked air into his lungs.

John froze, trying to decide what would be best. "Sherlock, I don't have—"

Sherlock's hips bucked and he cried out. John tried to calm him down long enough to talk to him. He ran his hands over his arms and kept his lower half completely still.

"Listen to me. I don't have everything we need."

"Left pocket," Sherlock forced out. He was coming apart and John hadn't done anything.

John reached into the dressing gown's pocket and found everything he needed. Sherlock had come prepared. As the man in his arms tried desperately to pull him closer, John put his needs on the back burner and reassessed again.

"Maybe we should just—"

"No!" Sherlock objected loudly. "I need you inside me, John. I need you. Now."

Their eyes met for a brief moment.

And then John's own arousal was abruptly there and refusing to be ignored. He pushed the dressing gown off of boney shoulders and started at the dress shirt's buttons. Sherlock tried tugging at the hem of his jumper, but at this point he was pretty much useless for the undressing bit and John worked quickly and gently to get them both out of unnecessary amounts of cloth. When they were both down to just their pants, John softly brushed Sherlock's blatant arousal through the material.

Sherlock jolted and cried out, letting out several shuddering sobs. "JohnJohnJohn please."

The detective was jerking his hips in little wanton movements at this point, brushing against John and forcing the doctor to control himself.

He wasn't going to hurt Sherlock, and if he lost control, he feared he wouldn't be able to stop.

Sherlock was keening his name over and over again, sometimes nothing but a whisper, sometimes an insistent plea.

In several quick movements, John had them both completely naked and pressed against each other.

And Sherlock wailed.

The sound twitched through his body to his nearly painful erection.

He knew Sherlock (or himself for that matter) wouldn't last much longer. Pulling cushions from the sofa, he twisted and turned until he could lay Sherlock down on the cold floor. The detective wouldn't let go of his neck, and he had to reach up and pull his hands away. He touched a pale hip. "Up."

Sherlock moved so quickly, John had to jolt back to avoid a face full of Sherlock. He positioned the cushions beneath the lithe body and eased Sherlock back down.

Grappling for the condom and lube, John slowly moved back to position. Sherlock's legs immediately wrapped back around him. The detective was reaching for him with long fingers and John allowed himself to be pulled to Sherlock, who planted sweet, delicate, desperate kisses all along his mouth, face, and shoulders.

John caught his eyes starting to roll back in his head and forced them instead on the huge blueish eyes staring up at him.

"Are you okay?"

Sherlock nodded jerkily.

It amazed him again how so little could completely unravel the man in front of him.

John fumbled with the condom and lube so that he was ready and then gently, slowly, keeping his eyes locked on Sherlock, eased a finger in.

He caught Sherlock's head before it could slam into the wooden floor as the detective let out a sound that made John glad Mrs. Hudson wasn't at home. Sherlock's brow was furrowed, forming a distressed little wrinkle above his nose.

He pushed in a little further, looking for the one spot...

He knew when he'd found it. Sherlock's legs clenched so tightly he thought he might break his back for a moment. The detective's sounds were now explicit and needy and John thought desperately for a moment that he was going to come right then and there.

Collecting himself recklessly, he pushed in another finger.

Sherlock was obviously inexperienced in this area. He was unbelievably tight.

John continually brushed against the tall man's prostate, other hand on a slender hip as Sherlock thrust continually against his fingers.

Sherlock's hand flailed wide and John caught it and brought it to his chest. Sherlock began rubbing his hands experimentally all over the rough scars of John's sternum. It distracted him enough for John to finish preparing him and then he was there, ready. He really didn't want to break Sherlock but he was afraid he would. And it was too late.

He pushed forward.

Sherlock was sure he was breaking in half. He opened his mouth to tell John, but all that came out was a choking sob.

"Oh god, Sherlock are you okay?" John. Dear, sweet John. Ever worrying.

It hurt. It hurt so badly. But then it didn't, and it wasn't enough. He bucked his hips against John.

"Fuck." John slapped a hand onto his hip forcefully, holding him in place. "Don't do that."

Oh, but he wanted to. He wanted to so. Very. Badly. He struggled for a moment before John leaned forward and captured his mouth in a searing, deep kiss that took what little air he had left right out of his lungs. And when he pulled away, he pushed further in, easing against the detective's prostate, and Sherlock fell apart.

"John, please. Oh god, John please." He became aware that his eyes were starting to burn, but then John shoved violently into that sweet spot and everything vacated his brain.

He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. John was buffeting into him over and over and over and he couldn't make one sound.

He realized right then that he was going to come without John laying a hand on his cock.

"John, John I—"

John kissed him briefly. "It's okay. It's okay, baby. Let go."

Sherlock let go.

Sherlock shuddered violently as his body spent itself, and the clenching and movement had John following quickly after him.

John caught himself from falling onto the slim frame below him. They stayed still for a moment, then John pulled away and Sherlock made a tiny sound. Drying tears left tracks down his emaciated cheeks, brow furrowed, chest still heaving. He looked broken.

John quickly went and got a damp cloth and cleaned them both up, then pulled Sherlock upright until they were in their previous position, long legs wrapped languidly around his waist. Sherlock leaned forward and pushed his nose into John's neck. John had an arm wrapped around the bony frame, holding his...lover?...upright, and a hand in the luxurious curls.

Then he was afraid.

John Watson, who had invaded Afghanistan, who had been shot and almost died, who had been strapped to a bomb beside a pool by a madman, who had watched his best friend fall to his death, was terrified in the middle of his own living room, because he thought he truly had broken Sherlock Holmes.

But then the sinewy body in his arms shifted, and Sherlock placed a tiny kiss right on his scar. "John?"

"Yes?" the doctor choked out.

Lean arms gripped him tighter and he felt those gorgeous lips stretch into a smile. "Can we go to bed now?"

John laughed.