John looked at the note in his hand for the fifteenth time since he had found it. Part of his brain noticed his hand wasn't shaking, the part of his brain which wasn't reeling from the words on the actual piece of paper. It wasn't a very large part. The words were shocking. He skimmed an eye over them, an eye which had seen bloodshed and anguish and pain but was too scared to let the other eye read the words on the page.

'John, I haven't known how to tell you this but I think I must, it's beginning to interfere with the job. In the interest of honesty and simplicity I think you should know that I find you very attractive, physically...' John didn't have to be an amateur detective to see that the author of the note had paused before he had written this word. 'I know you said all this was 'fine' but I am not sure if you really meant it. Rather than complicate things further I have decided to just tell you this and allow you the courtesy to decide upon your own actions until my own force you into something of which it would be fairer to give you warning.' What did that mean? Well, obviously not the finding me attractive ,physically, he added with a twist of his mouth. But the bit at the end, about forcing. God, what was going on? Even the word made his heart race, blood swishing loudly in his ears. Sherlock forcing, no, get a grip man.

John sipped the cup of tea in his hand and grimaced, cold. He'd been standing here for at least twenty minutes, since he had found the note in the jar where they kept the tea bags. He'd laughed when he found it, what on earth was Sherlock keeping in the tea jar? Some top secret code? But then he made his tea and read the note. Over and over.

For the very first time in his life John Watson felt confusion. Not the silly, everyday 'what?' confusion, the confusion which sits deep in your chest and makes the world uncertain. His rational mind, skimming like a butterfly over the profound statement of the note, was amused and maybe flattered. But there was that part, damn that part, he cursed as he swigged the cold tea before spilling it down the sink and automatically switching the kettle back on. The part which had noticed Sherlock. Physically. Well, it was hard not to. He was like a long, pale alien. Not entirely safe, not entirely human but utterly fascinating. His eyes which bored through you, that smile, predatory, like a shark. The fine features, the unruly hair, the boundless energy, those hands, oh god those hands, John gulped.

How can it be that a rational human being, talented in the art of science, of medicine, someone schooled in war and understanding his fellow man might be so completely, stupidly, buggeringly blind about his own feelings? John gripped the counter top for support against the tide of realisation which was washing through him and leaving him, shipwrecked, on a new shore. Suddenly he saw the last few months in a new light. His defence of Sherlock when people misunderstood him, his weird pride at finding he was Sherlock's only friend, the smugness when he realised that Sherlock was jealous of his female friends. Oh my god. Oh fucking buggery bollocks. John's new consciousness woke up and shook itself like a happy Labrador and all those feelings, those longings, that lust came rushing in.

Sherlock's hands caressing an envelope, the fingertips prising it open gently. The sensuous way he wrapped himself in his scarf, his dressing gown. The way he looked when he came out of the shower, his dark curled hair limp against his long neck, his t shirt clinging to his still damp body. (He never bothered to dry properly, he didn't see the point.) His nipples pointed through the thin cotton, his long toes curled in the rug, his full mouth pursed at the rim of a coffee cup. The kettle, steam pouring from its spout, switched itself off with a pop which sounded indecently loud considering what John was thinking about. He jumped and guiltily recognised that all that thinking had made him very hard. He was still registering that fact when the door opened and Sherlock burst through the room, the front door swinging shut behind him.

He didn't speak as he banged the two shopping bags down on the kitchen table. He began to unpack one bag. His swiftness was methodical and precise. Milk, cheese, yoghurt in the fridge. Biscuits, bread, jam in the cupboard. He stopped and stood up suddenly and fixed John with that gimlet gaze. John pulled the kitchen chair towards him, to hide the embarrassing conclusion to his daydreaming and to avoid Sherlock's eyes.

"What?" Sherlock's voice was inquisitive, it was rarely anything else but under this was a slight tone of what? Amusement? "Did I put them in the wrong place?" Sherlock sounded exasperated. "Look, John I tried to remember which cupboard is for which product but you can't honestly expect to domesticate me. I've too many other things going on in my brain right now. At least four experiments, two cases and a thing" He added as he reached past John to grab the kettle. His face, his beautiful, terrifying face was inches from John's cheek for a second. The same part of his brain which had colluded with his genitals to give him a raging hard on was screaming 'kiss him you idiot'. John was shocked. He didn't know he had it in him.

"Tea?" Sherlock advanced across the room waving a tea bag and the kettle like an avenging angel. Some androgynous tea alien, John's mind was not behaving. He cleared his throat and clutched the chair.

"Lovely, would love... some tea." He squeaked, a little too enthusiastically. Sherlock arched one elegant eyebrow and, leaning closer, dropped the bag in the cup John held in his hand. It wasn't the hand that usually shook, that was the other hand. John looked down, so why was it shaking now?

It was at that point that the universe as Dr John Watson had previously known it ripped itself at the seams and danced away with the fairies. Sherlock brushed past John, ostensibly to get the sugar bowl which was on the counter behind him. His long thigh, clad only in those thin, expensive trousers he liked to wear, brushed past John. There was a hot flash of electricity jolting though John's body as Sherlock's leg made contact, however fleetingly, with the erection John was trying so hard to hide. Pardon the pun.

There was no mistaking the fact that Sherlock felt it. Let's face it the man could deduce the colour of your mother's knickers from seeing her lottery ticket, there's was no way he was not going to notice that his flatmate seemed to be sporting an enormous, painful hard on while they were making cups of tea was he? He stopped dead still. Almost in slow motion he turned his face to John's, their mouths inches apart. He raised that eloquent eyebrow once again and flashed that carachadon smile.

Inside us all there is a predator and there is also prey. A little tiny animal which freezes at the sight of danger, it longs to run away, to hide from what scares it and to live another day. Years of army training had taught John Watson to grab that frightened bunny by the scruff of its neck and kick it to the kerb. In his blind panic, John did the only thing he could, the only thing he was trained to do. He fought back.

His hand came up behind Sherlock's head and he grabbed a handful of that soft dark hair. Both of Sherlock's eyebrows rose into his forehead and he made a noise which sounded remarkably like a moan. The noise registered another blast on the Richter scale of lust which was amping through John's body. It gave him time. He licked his lips and went for the kill. Sherlock's lips were smooth and surprisingly warm. They seemed to scorch where they touched so that John felt as though his mouth was on fire. Sherlock's long fingers came up and ran over John's shoulders and into his hair. They tugged at the short, dark blonde crop and tilted John's head so that Sherlock's tongue could explore his mouth. The ragged breathing of the two men belied the gentleness with which Sherlock licked and teased the sensitive edges of John's mouth. Each lick, each tentative caress shot tremors of flame through John, he felt as though he might combust. Anything seemed possible in the surreal bubble of lust he was caught up in.

Their bodies had been far apart as though, despite their passionate kisses, they were reluctant to commit to what they were doing. In for a penny, in for a pound thought John with what was left of his rational brain and he used his other hand to pull Sherlock's long, lean torso closer, until they were flush against each other. He felt the unmistakable bulge of Sherlock's erection against his leg. He opened his eyes in surprise, his head still held in Sherlock's iron grip and his mouth being tortured into submission by his mercilessly wonderful tongue. Sherlock's eyes were wide open. Their blue laser gleam was frightening this close up. They were intent, ruthless and, god help me, thought John, fucking sexy. Sherlock blinked a long slow blink. Part of John wanted to run away, to use that time to leg it, jump out of a window, catch a cab but then Sherlock bucked his hips forward slowly and, all the while that deadly stare held John captive, unmistakably rubbed his hard cock against John's own tortured member. John's breath hissed out though his teeth, Sherlock's mouth stopped its kissing and he moaned again. He moaned John's name.

"John." It was a languorous, sensual sound. The sort of sound which might send entire monasteries mad with desire, that might melt the polar caps, crumble the most resilient resolve. And John's resolve was not that resilient.

John snaked a hand down between their bodies, Sherlock had pushed him back against the counter top and the edge was painful in his back but he it didn't even register with him. His other hand relinquished its hold on Sherlock's head, face it, thought John, I was only clinging on for dear life, and played down the front of Sherlock's open shirt, smoothing across the black t shirt he wore beneath it. John scratched his finger nail over Sherlock's nipple just as, he now realised, he had always wanted to do. Sherlock made that noise again, John could feel his thrusts becoming erratic, unfocused. As he pinched with that hand his other hand rubbed lightly over Sherlock's confined erection. Sherlock's head fell back, his mouth open, his pale eyelids flickering. More confident at this reaction John stroked harder. He had no idea what he was doing until the thought came to him that this was just like wanking off. Experimentally he slid his thumb over the tip of Sherlock's trapped member and was rewarded with another exquisite moan. Just like wanking off, he confirmed, but better.

John turned Sherlock's body, limp with desire apart from one very obvious part, until he was propped against the work surface. Sherlock put his hands back to brace himself against the smooth granite. He looked more abandoned, more free than John had ever seen anyone look before. More than the touching, the obvious desire and lust, it was petrifyingly intimate. John's hand pulled at Sherlock's shirt and t shirt until he could run his hands up over the smooth, almost hairless chest and he rubbed his palm over the tiny points of Sherlock's nipples. Sherlock's hips bucked forward; his head lolled back, his breathing heavy. John brushed his hands lightly down the taller man's body, nervous to take the next step. Fact, Sherlock was the most sensual and amazing creature he had ever laid eyes on, let alone touched. Fact, he felt enormously turned on, not just because of the fabulous reaction he was getting from Sherlock but also because there was recipricality, Sherlock wanted him, wanted John Watson as much as he wanted Sherlock Holmes. The thought buzzed in his head like the sound of traffic. But the next step? John knew that if he did what he really wanted to do that it would change everything. Kissing and some drunken fumbling, they could forget it after some uncomfortable days, he'd seen it before between soldiers, everyone needed comfort sometimes. But what he was about to do thrilled him to the core with lust and with fear.

And that was the word that tipped him over the edge. Fear. He had spent his life doing things in the face of fear, despite fear. That old training, that honing and sharpening spurred him on. Without giving himself any more time to think he dropped to his knees.

Sherlock looked down, once. His eyes were wide and his expression stunned. His mouth opened to speak but John's fingers on the zip of his trousers silenced him. He didn't stop looking as John licked along the thin fabric of his shorts, teasing his engorged flesh. Sherlock's mouth was still open but now he was breathing hard, his fingers gripping the granite work surface like they might make indentations.

John tried to think of the blow jobs he'd had. And then he tried to think of the good ones. He pulled down Sherlock's shorts with both hands and there was no going back. John had never thought about male genitals, he vaguely considered them as an ugly but crucial part of anatomy but this was different. Sherlock was circumcised, beneath the velvet smooth skin John could see the blood pulsing, the movement was so energetic that it caused the whole member to twitch slightly, as though it had a life of its own. John wasn't sure what he was going to do but now, looking at the intimate, beautiful part of Sherlock he wanted to kiss it. So he did. Carefully and with moist lips he kissed along the length, down into the dark curly hair which tickled his nose. From above he was rewarded with another long, drawn out moan. John smiled.

This time he tried a lick, a long slow, wet lick which ended at the tip of Sherlock's cock. He tasted salt and realised that the viscous substance on his lips was just how turned on Sherlock was. He swirled his mouth over the tip, stretching up to suck and lick the warm, purple head like it was a lollipop. Sherlock moved and John looked up. The look on his flatmate's face almost sent him over the edge. The wide blue eyes, usually so open, drinking in the world and its mysteries were dark with lust. His mouth was slack and he panted as though he was trying to steady himself.

"John, please." The words were barely a whisper but they went through John like a fire. Any hesitancy he had felt about using his mouth to pleasure this man flew right out of the window of 221b Baker St. Kneeling up and bracing himself against Sherlock's legs he put his mouth over the tip and swallowed all he could. He had no idea how much he could take and, when Sherlock began to thrust and buck against him, John felt himself begin to gag. He slid one hand around the base of Sherlock's cock and used his mouth the cover the rest, saliva and precum lubricating his hand so that the movement of the fingers, gripping and squeezing and his mouth and lips, sucking and licking, became one movement. It didn't take long.

Sherlock's long fingers gripped John's hair tightly, if he hadn't been so intent on what he was doing it would have hurt, it probably would tomorrow. Sherlock's body was shuddering, erratic and close to the edge.

"John, oh god, John, no, no, John." John knew that Sherlock was going to come, he knew that Sherlock was worrying about coming in his mouth, bless him , it was too late for modesty now thought Watson, on his knees sucking his flatmate's dick until the man was half mad with desire. He renewed his efforts, hoping that Sherlock would take the hint. Whether he did or not, or whether the sensations of hand and mouth just became too much for him John did not know but Sherlock's body bucked wildly and he cried out in a long, feral voice and John's mouth flooded with a salty taste which wasn't as bad as he thought it might be.

Sherlock's fingers were stroking his hair; John's head was against his pale thigh. Sherlock crouched down, John kept his eyes closed. He didn't know what to do now and his brain refused to think.

"John," Sherlock's voice was hoarse and gentle. "Allow me to alleviate this uncomfortable moment." There was a chuckle in his voice, a more relaxed sound that John had ever heard from him. It made him open his eyes. Sherlock's face was near his own, the eyes bluer than before, somehow more full of life. The long limbs stretched out on the kitchen floor, feet kicking at the edge of the table until it moved aside and made room for them both.

John lay down on the kitchen floor as though it was the place he had always wanted to be. He surrendered, for the one time in his life, he gave it all up. Sherlock's wickedly clever brain was matched by his wickedly clever hands, his mouth, his tongue. John felt all the tensions of the past few months, the ache in his leg, the worry, the stress all bunch themselves up into a tight ball which Sherlock brushed away as though it was dust.

Sherlock's mouth was on his nipples, teasing and nipping. Sherlock's hands were on his cock, stroking and slicking until the intensity was such that he felt like he might implode. He came violently; the only sound in the room was the two men breathing. They lay together, side by side neither of them speaking, their clothes in disarray. The clock in the living room ticked loudly on the mantel piece next to the skull.

"What brought that on?" John could hear Sherlock's eyebrow arching. He smiled.

"The note."

"What note?" John frowned, was this a game?

"The note in the tea bag wrote a note... to me." his voice petered out.

"Oh. Oh! That note" John propped himself on an elbow to look Sherlock in the face. He was afraid of what he might see there but he had to know.

Sherlock was looking sideways at him, his arms splayed out to the sides, palms up.

"What do you mean that note? What other note could I be talking about? The note to the milkman? The one that says 'two pints of semi skimmed and John could you come and suck me off please?" John's voice was nearly squeaky with indignation now. Sherlock chuckled. John glowered.

"That note was part of an experiment I had completely forgotten about." John could tell Sherlock was lying. "There was a case where a note of that nature inflamed a situation to such a degree that one of the parties committed murder. Allegedly."

"Allegedly?" John sounded exasperated.

"Yes. I wanted to see if that kind of a note could have any effect on a normal, average person." John spluttered and flopped back down on the floor. The high he had been surfing was rapidly descending. Sherlock turned to face him. His long fingers grabbed John's jaw and turned him until their faces were nearly touching. John screwed up his face to show his annoyance. He was hurt. "Then I realised you weren't normal or average, that I actually meant what I had written and I decided against the experiment."

"It was in the tea jar. What was it doing in the tea jar Sherlock?" John's voice sounded thin and cold even to himself. Sherlock sighed and wriggled closer.

"Mrs. Hudson came in while I was just deciding what to do with it. I hadn't time to burn it, or eat it," he added thoughtfully, lost in the moment, John smiled in spite of himself. "So I put it in the tea jar. And forgot it." Sherlock's admission of fallibility was charming.

"Oh dear." John was laughing now, he couldn't help it. It was so ridiculous only Sherlock could have done it. Sherlock propped himself on an elbow to look at him, it was disconcertingly like being under a microscope.

"You're not angry? You can be angry if you like. "Sometimes Sherlock was just like a child. John reached out and hitched Sherlock's long leg over his hip, he stroked the knee absentmindedly.

"I'm not angry Sherlock, but is this something we're going to chalk up as an experiment?" His voice was cautious. In a moment Sherlock was sitting next to him cross legged and smiling like a lanky imp.

"Well I enjoyed myself!"He grinned, his eyes crinkled. He looked younger, more vulnerable. John nodded, still looking at the ceiling.

"Me too." Sherlock leaned over and kissed him on the mouth. There was a linger of his tongue, enough to send thrills of energy through John's body. John began to reach up, to hold that brilliant, maddening head in his hands and begin the whole thing again when Sherlock bounded to his feet.

"Do you want that cup of tea John?" he asked one eyebrow raised enquiringly, John laughed.

"Go on then." But Sherlock was already striding through to the bathroom.

"Pop the kettle on then, be a love eh? Oh and don't open the other shopping bag?" John sighed and got off the floor, less easily than he had got there in the first place. He looked into the bag.

"Not more love notes Sherlock?" he laughed. From the bathroom there was the sound of the shower being turned on, the thought of hot water sliding over that long body made John's mouth go dry.

"No. Just some spare ears from Bart's! "John dropped the bag in disgust. In the shower Sherlock laughed. "Forget the tea Watson I've found an interesting conundrum in here, there's just a particular spot I can't seem to scrub!" John smiled to himself and flicked the kettle off. There would be time for tea later.