Summary: After finding out Sherlock knew how to diffuse the bomb all along, a very different reaction is pulled from John in this one-shot, AU. NSFW, because sex. Also warnings for SPOILERS.

A/N: I don't pretend to be of the same Koala-Tea of some of the literature I've seen in this fandom, but I try.Also, I actually don't feel bad doing this to Mary because she seems like she'd just get aroused by it, quite honestly.

John can see it, plain as day, even in the horrible fluorescent lighting of that tender box of a train car. He would know it anywhere, after all- that smirk. That horrible, god-awful, self-satisfied, shit-eating smirk.

Sherlock has worn it so often and so proudly, better –to him, perhaps- than any medal of honor he could have been offered for his accomplishments. He's always one step ahead after all, one leg up from his companion in every possible way and he seems just so goddamn fucking proud of the fact.

And John hates it. God, he hates it.

It's for this reason that John doesn't need to rationalize or even remotely consider the wisdom of his following actions. The bastard deserves whatever is coming to him.

He's flying at him now, and he knows he's either going to really kill him this time or-

John grabs a fistful of Sherlock's coat, his shirt, any fabric he can reach in a millisecond, and their lips are crashing together. He can taste blood between them and he hopes it is the other's, but it doesn't particularly matter. It can't have been any less painful for either of them.

Sherlock has the fucking audacity to sort of squeak and then moan, as if he had been wanting this as badly- as if he had been waiting for John to do it. But John knows the surprise between them is genuine from the way Sherlock scrambles on to him for purchase.

And it's fucking glorious to, for once, catch Sherlock off guard, even in this small way.

John realizes he hasn't thought of Mary, continues not to really think of Mary in the way he should, as his hands slide underneath Sherlock's coat and over the broad plane of his chest, ripping buttons open. Somehow he knows that Mary has already guessed this. Not that it makes this anymore excusable.

But that doesn't stop him. Nothing could, at this point.

Truthfully, John has a lot he wants to say, but Sherlock being Sherlock, never listens. Not to words. Sherlock listens to actions and that's exactly what John favors.

You were gone! Two years, Sherlock! He pulls Sherlock's coat from his shoulders. I grieved! I learned to live around the gaping hole of your absence! His shirt comes off next, followed by their tongues battling some raging fight of passion against one another. His hand is in Sherlock's hair as he presses him harder against the metal wall. Nothing will ever make this right and yet you still have the gall to look at me as if you won some game of cricket. That's all this has been, really, hasn't? One big game- I, the fool, as always. John thrusts his hand down the front of Sherlock's trousers, gripping him tightly through his briefs and noting to his own satisfaction that he's already quite hard for him. Perhaps I won't even let you come, you fucking cock.

Sherlock is moaning and whining and purring out his name now – "Oh, John…oh, John…"- in a way that sounds like slurred apologies. John appreciates it, but it's not nearly enough. Nothing ever will be enough, not rescuing him from a funeral pyre, not bucking wantonly into his hand and saying his name- though…it's a good place to start, he supposes.

"Is this what you want?" John hisses through his teeth as he begins to stroke him through the cotton, as he sucks and bites sensually on Sherlock's neck. He's leaving behind dark blooms of violet on the pearl white skin. These are marks that denote his ownership of both the man beneath him and the situation at hand. "Is this what you want?"

"Oh, John, yes…god yes, don't stop…don't ever stop…"

That Sherlock could think himself to be in any sort of position to demand that John do anything is another direct insult. He therefore does stop, removing his hands to instead undo the fastenings of Sherlock's trousers and send them falling, forgotten, to the untold filth of the train car floor.

John notes with satisfaction that Sherlock is now completely bare, save for the white undershirt that remains clinging to his perspiring skin. It leaves little to the imagination, so he makes no effort to remove it. The humiliation and submission of the situation has already been well established in any case, considering that he now has The Great Sherlock Holmes standing with erection at full attention, pants around his ankles in a dirty train car, flustered and flushed.

John spins him around, pushing and bending so that Sherlock's bottom is presented outward for him. Sherlock is more than cooperative; he's very nearly putty in John's hands at this point.

He whines some more as John does him the small service of getting on his knees to tease his entrance with his tongue. He hadn't planned on kneeling at any point in this encounter, not for his sack of shit friend, but Sherlock is bent over and keening so prettily for him that John just really can't help it.

To be sure, John's only done this sort of thing with a man twice –despite his insisted claims of not being gay, though seeing Sherlock the way he is now makes him really wonder- and never to the point of full…access, as it were. He's not completely fumbling in the dark though. He's going to at least not give Sherlock any reason to believe he's even the slightest bit amateurish.

Though Sherlock's probably already deduced all of it. The fucking bastard.

That thought propels him back upward. He's about done doing favors tonight for the one man he both cannot stand and cannot live without.

Lubricant and fingers are used in any case, John doesn't aim to be cruel. But he does make sure to finger Sherlock so hard and so thoroughly that he becomes a strung-out mess, his dark curls askew as his hand runs desperately through them, his mouth agape with guttural moans, his pretty, full lips parted, cheeks red.

It becomes more a matter of John not being able to contain his desire any more than it is for granting Sherlock's repeated pleas any heed, though he'd be lying if he said they didn't play a crucial role.

In a fluid movement, he pushes his own trousers down, rolls on a condom, and presses deep into his bastard friend.

The sound that comes from John's mouth when he is fully seated is not something he would have ever thought himself capable of. He moans it primarily into Sherlock's neck, tasting the bittersweet salt of sweat and skin as he does so and feeling his heart swell, much to his dismay. Even so, the sound is one of completion, of utter contentment, of being whole again after a lifetime of walking around empty.

It has only been two years, but Sherlock has made it feel like eons. It had been less than two years since the time of their first meeting to when he died, but something had always made it feel as if they'd known each other forever and their sudden acquaintance was merely them resuming some story that had ended abruptly.

And ever true to their rapport, here they found themselves again, resuming a story- a story of danger, of passion…of fucking in train car turned recently diffused bomb, with every potential of blowing up or, worse, being spotted. Anything else would've seemed ill-fitting somehow, like making love in a bed. No, no, that wouldn't do.

John's not really sure where his body ends and Sherlock's begins as they start to move together, a rough, stuttering wave of heat and skin. John's also not sure who is saying what, even, though between them are scattered moans, yelps, pleas for "more", praises of "oh god, yes!", muttered curse words and such like.

John squeezes bruises onto Sherlock's hips as he comes to realize and accept just how much he missed him, how long he had wanted to do this and how he had allowed himself to believe he never would be able to. And it's funny, how often this fantasy changed. When things were good between them, when John was feeling almost affectionate towards Sherlock, he would imagine something much more romantic, like making love in a field outside London or on the floor of their flat.

But when he was angry, the images favored more something like this- fucking Sherlock hard into some cold, metal surface. He was angry now, god was he livid, but his heart continued to love and to swell for his detective despite all of this and it was for this reason that the hard fuck began to turn into something much more akin to those former fantasies John let play out in his head when he was alone.

Sherlock turned his head somewhere near their climax. He pressed his lips sloppily to John's and they just breathed together, hot breath against hot breath. His hand carded through John's short hair, lovingly, and somewhere in between the hushed whines of, "Oh, John, please…please…", he whispered that he was sorry, so, so, so sorry, that he missed him, oh god, he missed him.

"It's always been you, John, please…it's always ever been you…"

For some reason, that's all John needs- just some acknowledgement to the fact that in Sherlock's life, he takes the highest precedent. He can then find his way to believing that what Sherlock did, what he made him live with for two years, was an act of love…albeit stupid and misplaced.

John comes then in a loud wail and Sherlock follows, spilling into his hand. John realizes then he must have, at some point, began stroking him. He doesn't lament doing this quite as much as he would have when this whole thing started.

They take a moment to recover, pressed against one another and the metal of the car, made warm by breath or skin or something and John supposes that's not unlike a metaphor for their situation. John was cold, lonely, rigid, before he met Sherlock, before life was breathed into him.

There is the sound of many feet running down the track and the both of them only have a split second to re-clothe and clean up as best they can before they are not alone with the police. No one seems to notice anything amiss and if they do, they don't make it evident- at least not to John.

Perhaps it's because this development comes to the surprise of absolutely no one.

Later, the scene from the train car (post-bomb diffusal) happens all over again in their flat and it is only when they have been lying on the floor, post-coital and tangled in one another's limbs that they bother to say anything.

"You're a fucking bastard…" John mutters, staring up at the water and mold stained ceiling as he does so, wondering if there's any chance of it caving in someday.

"Certainly, but you would not feel the way you do about me otherwise…." Sherlock's grin is back, that same one that had propelled John into a frenzy to begin with. He tells himself he's only forgiving it this time because that mouth had only just been on his cock.

Before he can argue the point further, Sherlock's wrapped him up in his sinewy grip, allowing John to wonder, once again, where such a dickhead finds all this disposable affection.

He hates that he loves him, hates that he can't live without him.