Chapter Five. Well done you for making it this far. Glad you're still here.

This could get to be a problem.

Sherlock is semi-aware of his position and how he managed to get there, but has yet to figure a way out of it. Logistically, it is simple. Shift weight, place palms on floor, lift and support with arms, bend knees, move backwards. Physically it gets a bit tougher; he is still trembling slightly, his muscles weakened, his sense of balance is likely to be off. And emotionally; well, he ain't goin' nowhere.

He hears John's slurred reassurance and wants to laugh. Good, yes it was very good. Apart from (or perhaps especially) the bit where he came, in his pants, at the mere taste of the ejaculate of the man he is now lying prone upon on the living room floor. Oh, good lord.

The taste is still humming in his mouth, if he twists his tongue it gives him a whole new burst of pleasure. John shifts below him, searching for comfort in the hard floorboards. It is time to move.

He doesn't bother to stop himself, the odds of success are swiftly calculated and decidedly against him, from leaning in as he moves away and taking one last swiping taste. The bitter tang of flavour explodes on his tongue and shudders through him. The hypersensitivity of his senses has never been so appreciated. Apart from his awareness of the irritating cooling stickiness in his underwear that clings and chafes in annoying places as he unfolds himself.

From a standing, slightly swaying, position he looks down on John, who is raised up on his elbows to look up at him. And damn, if he doesn't just look like the most tempting thing in existence, sheened with sweat, with the warm flush of blood under his skin... There is just so much more of him to explore.

"Please stop looking at me like that."

Well, he'd like to say that is unexpected, only it isn't. He had known John would be uncomfortable with this. The very chemistry of their relationship has depended on this never happening. And now, well, where exactly are they going to go from here? Sherlock has never felt quite so uneasy, unknowing, uncertain. In a split second he can see numerous negative outcomes of this experience. John hating him and leaving. John staying, and still hating him. He forces himself to stop as the possibilities become worse. The shifting and twisting of this partnership, straying into delicious yet dangerous waters could be the very end of both of them.

"Like what?" He forces the words out, surprised at the low cracking of his voice. He needs an answer that distracts his mind from the direction it is heading. And, to be honest, he has lost track of his face and has no idea what it is saying.

"Like you have only just had the starter, but you're not sure if the main is a good idea."

Apparently his face is an even better communication tool than he gave it credit for. Usually it is utilised alongside words and pre-planned body language for greater effect, but right now it seems to be doing a fine job on its own.

John is pushing himself up to stand, stepping closer, crossing the boundaries of Sherlock's personal space. He takes a second to adjust his wayward underwear, using the opportunity to find the words he needs. He is often a surprise to Sherlock, a refreshing perspective on things, and he usually enjoys the unexpected from him. But now he wishes he knew what was going on in that oddly wise head, because he would like a clue on how he's going to have to react. It takes an effort not to move, though he is unsure whether the movement would be towards or away.

"Sherlock..."

A soft voice. Gentle. Reassuring? Or a gentle let-down? Nice while it lasted, but I'm slightly regretting it now. Sorry this was a total mistake, I had no idea where it was headed. Oh my God, how many times do I have to tell you I'm not gay? Did you just cream yourself like a pubescent teenager while you gave me a blowjob?

There is a reason he never puts himself in situations like this. He feels his hackles begin to rise, a quick fire retort forming, just waiting for the inevitable insult to reach his ears before it snaps out of his vocal chords and echoes through his mouth. He doesn't want to cut John, he never wantsto, but he's not taking this lying down. He presses his tongue to the back of his teeth, determined despite his certainty of what is coming, not to be the first one to snap.

"Stop thinking horrible things."

From the corner of his eye, flicked quickly in John's direction, he can see the little knowing smile on those thin firm lips. Lips that he has tasted, lips that he wants again. Now. Forever.

"I think we both need a shower. And then probably to go to bed."

"No cup of restorative tea?" Sherlock quips, trying so hard not to think of John in bed, with all that divine flesh dampened from the shower, flavour coiling into the air with warm moisture, accompanied by crumpled sheets scented with sleep. And... he is getting hard again, twitching and filling into the damp glutinous mess in his too-tight boxers. Is that even possible? Previous studies have proved his refractory period ranges– Ah, but then again, previous studies never involved John Watson.

He wants to be there with him. There must be a way. Would it be wrong to steal into his room after he falls asleep? To slip beneath the duvet and press himself against John, tangle their legs together and nuzzle his nose into the crease between neck and shoulder? A 'bit not good' as John would so inanely say? Hmm, perhaps it would cross one ofthose lines somewhat.

"I can make tea if you like," John shrugs.

Tea would be nice. The fresh soothing wash of the hot liquid would ease his throat, clean his mouth, would wash away– "No!"

John's hand is warm on Sherlock's arm. He senses the need for comfort. "You are making no sense, which is nothing unusual, but still... Come and have a shower with me."

He couldn't possibly mean... Sherlock can't fight the visions of clear rivulets racing down over a smooth back, rough scars, finding paths through the hair on John's arms. He would follow them with his tongue. He would suck pink marks into the sensitised heated flesh of John's buttocks, his teeth... Oh god, what he would do with his teeth!

"Stop thinking and start doing."

John is tugging his arm now, pulling him towards the bathroom. And Sherlock is following, shedding his clothes as he goes. He can see the shift of muscles in John's back as he walks, the bumps of his spine under their thin layer of skin as he reaches to switch on the shower.

"You do want this?" John turns to check, apparently completely ignorant of the tangle Sherlock is getting into trying to remove his trousers and boxers and socks and shoes in one go at great speed.

"Don't be moronic," he gets one ankle free and wobbles precariously as he goes for the other, "I can't think of anything I want more than you naked, in that shower, letting me taste you all over as you're sliding your wet skin against me, curling your tongue in my mouth, squeezing your fingers into–"

"Jesus!" John bashes his knee as he clambers ungracefully into the bathtub. "Get the fuck in here now, or I'm going to get the soap out."

He knows that John knows. Even he couldn't be that dense. It could only be a tease. But the yelled protest is out of his mouth before he can stop it. "No! You'll ruin the flavour!"

John's grin around the shower curtain is incandescently indecent. This could become a problem...

The End. For now. There may be a sequel one day. It's very tempting. I'm always happy to hear your ideas...