EDIT: Aaaaand the corrected version is now up! Thank you sooo much Di, you are great!

I'm sure there are lots of stories out there about how should Sherlock end. This is my version about it. The first part of this fic (At the pool) is about the ending, because I had to close it down somehow for myself... But after i finished it i couldn't stop writing so i made the second and thirt part (The alley interlude, Safe and sound at home), which is really M, really smut (I hope...) and really detailed... So if you dont like man on man action than dont read it... Obvious. I didn't put it into 3 chapters so you can read all the 3 parts here, because... I'm lazy...xD

This is my first attempt in this fandom (after Supernatural, SG:A and Bones) so I really hope you will love this :)


The Great Game

Part one: At the pool

"That, er... thing that you... that you did, that, um...you offered to do, that was, um..." Sherlock stuttered anxiously waving the loaded gun, shifting it from his right hand to his left then back. For a split second he considered saying amazing, but at the last moment, he changed his mind and said, "good."

"I'm glad no one saw that..."

"Mm?" He looked at John questioningly, leaning a bit down.

"You, ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool... People might talk." The doctor pulled the sides of his pullover a bit closer.

"They do little else." Sherlock replied relaxing, even smiling. If they could joke then everything would be alright, he thought before he saw the little red light on his friend's chest.

"Oh..." he heard John's annoyed reaction. The doctor knew exactly what those red spots meant.

"Sorry boys, I'm so changeable!" Sherlock didn't have to turn over to know that Moriarty had come back. The irritating voice was engraved in his memory. "It is a weakness with me, but to be fair to myself, it is my only weakness." The psychopath said happily from across the room. "You can't be allowed to continue." John immediately glanced frightened at Sherlock, who was already looking down at him with the same expression. "You just can't. I would try to convince you, but everything I have to say has already crossed your mind." Sherlock, listening to the man, could think of only one possible action, which might leave him and John alive. When his eyes met with John's and the doctor realized what he was thinking of he nodded slightly.

Looking at John for one more second, he turned around, facing with his most dangerous fan.

"My answer has probably crossed yours." He said. Not caring about the three little red points over his back and John's chest, he pointed the gun at Moriarty's head at first, then he lowered it a bit. The smile over Moriarty's face froze when he saw Sherlock aiming at the bomb, which lay on the floor between them.

John's eyes were flashing from the bomb to Sherlock's face until he saw the detective looking at him. He knew from the grayish eyes that the clever man had something in his mind, and he was pretty sure what it was. At least he really hoped so. He closed his eyes and stood up slowly. Opening his eyes, he saw that a sharpshooter was aiming right at his heart, their hand steady, the red spot not even moving a bit. He counted to three in his head.

"NOW!" he shouted loudly, diving from the wall. He heard a thunderous gunshot right before he swept away Sherlock. The power of a huge explosion threw them right into the pool. Half deaf and half unconscious they sank to the bottom of the water, thanks to their heavy clothes. Under the water, he looked at Sherlock and grabbed his hand, trying to swim with him to the other, darker side of the pool. The detective had been more exposed to the explosion; it seemed he had lost consciousness under the water. Pain slashed through John's upper left arm, caused by a bullet, which was supposed to be in his heart. He shut the pain out of his mind and concentrated only on getting Sherlock and himself out of there.

He almost drowned from suffocation when Sherlock seized his hand and started swimming too. The detective grinned at him then let his coat slide off so that they could move faster.

Neither of them cared about the shooters around them, as they reached the other side they both jumped out of the pool and ran toward the green exit sign. Head by head they dashed through the building, hoping they wouldn't meet with a sniper. They didn't know where they were going, they just followed the signs.

Finally, they arrived at a wide door, they didn't stop instead running faster and practically bursting out from the building. Even when they were outside, far from the swimming pool, far from Moriarty and most likely the snipers too, they didn't dare slow down. They ran, the wet clothes stuck to them, the cold air made them almost freeze but they rushed until they saw an empty cab, waiting at the edge of the road. They slowed down, attempting to look like civilians but the drenched clothes weren't really helping them. Not bothered at all by the weird look the cabbie gave them, they sat in the warm cab.

John leaned back on the seat and let out an annoyed sigh while looking at Sherlock.

"Life is never boring with you, is it?"

Sherlock just gave him another cocky smile and then told the cabbie the address:

"221b, Baker Street."

Part two: The alley interlude

As the cabbie was driving through the winding streets Sherlock and John were talking in the backseat.

"I don't think we should go straight home. They may be following us." John suggested.

"Although I'm quite convinced they are not, I think we have had enough surprises during this night, so let's get out. Just to be sure. Stop the car, please." Sherlock said to the driver then jumped out from the car.

They were only a twenty minute walk from Baker Street. While they were in the car, rain had started pouring from the dark clouds, not that this mattered to them anyway; they were still soaked from the nice swim they had taken in order to survive the night.

They walked at a quick pace, close to each other, observing their environment. John didn't see anything spectacular, although his instincts were alert. Mycroft was right, he missed the war. No matter how dangerous a situation he got involved in with Sherlock, he enjoyed it. The adventures with the detective were full of surprises, actions; Holmes was always unpredictable. John never knew for sure what his partner would do, but he had to admit, there were times when they thought about the exact same thing, like in the swimming pool.

But when Sherlock grabbed his hand and pulled him into a dark alley he had no idea what the brilliant detective had in his mind.

"Sherlock! What the h-" John couldn't finish his sentence as Sherlock pushed him to the a hard brick wall, placing his long fingers to John's mouth. The detective ground him entirely to the wall.

Leaving his fingers on John's lips, he leaned into the doctor's ear.

"Somebody is coming after us…" he whispered almost inaudibly. "Don't talk, don't even breathe until I give you permission. Do you understand me?" He looked in the blue eyes and when he saw the doctor nodding slightly he slowly removed his hand, running his middle finger lightly over the soft lips.

John was surprised to see that Sherlock didn't step back but came a bit closer. His hand, which previously prevented John from breathing, now grasped onto his shirt. The damp, chequered cloth got crushed under Sherlock's firm and unconscious grip. The other hand was on his hip, a thumb caressing him, soothing gentle, as if the detective unintentionally wanted to calm him down.

John looked at Sherlock's face. He was staring at the lightened street, listening for the little noises their follower might make. Wet, dark curls stack to his face; raindrops trickled down on his pale skin. The skin tightened on his cheekbones as he concentrated on the danger. His lips partly apart, his breathing mute. A water drop streamed down his face and stopped on his lower lip. When Sherlock bit his lip and licked the drop off of it, John felt an unexpected twinge in his abdomen.

Frightened by his own reaction he shifted, trying to move away from Sherlock. Of course, the brick wall was still behind him so he couldn't move anywhere. But his stirring drew Sherlock's attention to him.

Sherlock looked down at his partner. The doctor's startled glance took him unawares. His grey eyes narrowed as he tried to figure out what was making John so anxious, that he would rather run into the hands of a murderer than stay in the pitch black, where no one could see them. He was close enough to John to see the dilated pupils even in the shadowy alley and to hear his ragged, fast panting.

He recognized the sound of the approaching footsteps too late. They didn't have time to move further in the alley so the detective tried to make them less imperceptible by hunching themselves up more. He stepped between John's legs and bent closer to him. Pressing even their chests together, he tilted his head to the doctor's neck. He noticed that John had stopped panting; he didn't hear him taking breath at all. He realized that his hand was still grabbing at John's shirt so he let it go, but left his palm where it was: over the doctor's thumping heart.

It was a really long time ago when he last stood as close to someone as he was now standing to the doctor. And not just metaphorically. As the air rushed through his nose, an interesting, fresh scent made him dizzy. The pleasant smell, coming from John's skin, made him lightheaded enough to think about closing the tiny distance between his lips and the doctor's skin. For a moment he really considered the option of kissing John's neck, he even began to move but then stopped. Maybe he was more interested in men then women but John clearly wasn't. And this might cause a little problem...

As John felt the hot breath tickling his neck, inappropriate thoughts formed in his mind. Sherlock's thigh between his legs, pressing against his cock, produced two entirely different feelings inside him. On one hand, he wanted to run, go as far from this man as he could, leaving him and this awkward and inexplicable situation behind. On the other hand, he wanted to stay. Stay between the protecting arms, pulling Sherlock as close as he could, kissing the raindrops off of his skin, his lips, making the detective lustily scream in the abandoned alley. He never wanted to do these things to a man before but with the warm body pressed to his, he couldn't think of anything but ripping off the wet clothes to finally touch the humid chest, leaving only red marks behind.

As their follower came closer, John felt Sherlock's touch tighten on his hip. His fingers dug into his flesh and he couldn't stop a little moan from escaping from between his slightly parted lips. Sherlock looked up suddenly as he heard the tiny gasp. John's eyes immediately locked with his. He didn't want the detective to recognize the kind of changes that were happening in his body, but he knew he couldn't deceive Sherlock.

"Here you are Billy! I was searching for you for over a half an hour now." They both knew the man, who they thought was following them, was shouting to somebody else. Sherlock looked aside as two men walked by the alley they were hiding in, but when he understood that the danger was over, moreover it never existed, his eyes went back to John. He looked from one eye to the other not able to watch anything else but the panicky wide blue eyes. When he shifted slightly he felt John's rigid cock pressing against his thigh. His hand, soothing, went from the doctor's chest up to his shoulder then started moving downward on his arm. Maybe this was just because tonight they almost died and people got sentimental after situations like that or his desires became much stronger then his common sense but he decided to follow what he was longing for.

Looking at the doctor, who hadn't moved, just stared back into the mesmerizing grey eyes, frowning like an animal in the spotlight, Sherlock realized, Moriarty was right about something. The psychopath could easily burn out his heart by taking away John's life. This man, this army doctor, Sherlock knew him for only just a couple of weeks but he had already changed him a bit, made him into a better person. He was already thinking of John as his friend and in this dark, abandoned alley he would maybe become something more.

He bent down a bit, closing his eyes, lips parted, his fingers clutched into John's arm when he heard the doctor's painful hiss. Opening his eyes, he saw John, clearly suffering in pain. The doctor swept his had away replacing it with his own. As Sherlock shook off his confusion, he sensed some warm wetness on his fingers. He looked down and found that the moisture was crimson red blood.

"John, you're bleeding! When did this happen?" he shouted.

"At the pool. One of the snipers made a great mistake."

"Great mistake? God John, you were shot in the arm. You call this a mistake?" Sherlock was already pulling John out from the alley. Luckily, Baker Street was only a ten minute walk away.

"They were aiming at my heart but shot my arm. I'd call it a blessed mistake..." John nodded almost running after Sherlock, who didn't let go of his hand. "Sherlock slow down, please."

"John, we have to hurry, we have to clean the wound and put some bandages on it. You're the doctor you should know better!"

"That's right Sherlock, I'm the doctor. Look, I'm alright, it's just when you..." He shut up suddenly, thinking about what happened in that allay. Judging by Sherlock's increased speed he didn't want to talk about that.

The best thing would be if we both forget what happened there.

Easy to say... hard to obey.

Part three: Safe and sound at home

Sitting on the green leather couch, John carefully rolled the white bandage around his upper arm. Sherlock insisted that first John should have a shower then dress up his wounds before he got some infection. His wound wasn't deep; the bullet just scratched the side of his arm a bit. It was painful but as a soldier he gotten used to worse, much worse. But the injury wasn't what was occupying his thoughts now. Instead, he was thinking about the tall man, who presumably was having a warm shower at that moment.

Thinking about Holmes under the running water wasn't really a good idea but he couldn't prevent his mind from forming images about the showering detective. Sherlock, standing naked in the shower-booth, goose bumps all over his skin as the almost burning hot water was streaming down on him; leaning against the cold tiles with both hands, turning his head towards the stream to let the clean water wash away the chloric stink of the pool. His long black hair would be straight while he was standing under the running water but as he stepped a bit back to lather his pale skin, it would curl again. His soapy left hand going to his shoulder then down on his arm, and then he repeated the movement with his right. He would guide his hands over his chest, the lascivious fingers sliding over the wet skin to his sides then down to his stomach and even further. His hand, no longer covered in suds, sliding around his cock, long fingers enclosing it, moving slowly. Thumb skimming the tip of the penis, which wasn't wet just from water this time. Caressing himself with lazy, deliberate strokes, seizing his manhood hard as his hand went up and down on the velvet skin. Every time the tip emerged from his firm grip erotic, loud moans escaped from his throat. Close to his orgasm, he would have to lean against the tiles again, but they weren't cold anymore. The heat radiating from his body warmed them up as it warmed up John's heart as well.

After Afghanistan, John felt lost, he wasn't feeling alive. He saw too much pain, too much suffering and now, after he came back to London, nightmares tortured him every night. Even though his therapist was wrong in a lot of thing, she was right about something. He had trust issues. He didn't believe in people, he didn't want to get close to them. He wanted to be alone, but every time no one was around him he went out to the streets to be among others.

Then he met Sherlock Holmes. This man turned his life upside down and he didn't even need a whole week to do it. He didn't feel alone anymore, he liked being around the detective, helping him. He was fascinated by his clever mind, how he could figure out everything about a complete stranger. Sherlock was the first man he had faith in since he came back from the war and even though the detective was a real idiot sometimes, John enjoyed every minute they spent together. No matter how much he insisted on calling Sherlock his colleague, he knew he meant much more then that. Maybe even much more then a friend, he considered, recalling his previous thoughts.

He wanted to forget what had happened in that damn alley, but his mind wouldn't let him. Every time he closed his eyes he remembered how good it felt when the warm body was pressed to his and he could feel every inch of the detective; how, when he had smelled Sherlock's unique scent, it had almost made him forget why they were standing in there; when the mesmerizing greyish eyes locked onto his and he couldn't move, couldn't blink anymore, just stood there, feeling lost in the cold glance which somehow still made him burn.

He leaned back on the settee, dropping his head back. He crossed his legs to cover his erection. If he got a hard-on every time he got close to Sherlock, his life would be a horror on Baker Street. He scratched his bare chest, thinking he should put a shirt on when he heard his name.

"John? Is everything alright?" Sherlock's concerned voice came from his left.

"Yes, of cour-" John looked up and saw Sherlock standing at the door, leaning against the frame. He was wearing only his black pants, his chest naked. With a white towel in his right hand he was drying his mussed up, wet curls. Barefoot he stepped closer to John. "-se." The doctor finished his sentence. He tried to sink more into the cosy sofa without any success. Despite his crossed legs, his erection could be seen clearly, he could only hope that Sherlock wouldn't notice it.

"Is your arm any better?" The detective asked, looking at the bandage.

"Yes, actually much better." Since when was his voice harsh and husky? He cleared his throat and tried to speak again. "I barely feel the pain now."

"That's great, really... great." Sherlock nodded. "You know, I was thinking..."

Yeah, me too...Recently I'm thinking a bit too much about you... John resisted the urge to say it aloud.

"...and I don't think Moriarty died. I called up Lestrade to tell him what happened back there. He said he would send a team to search for remains but I think they won't find anything."

"You think, or you hope?" John asked knowing Sherlock too well.

"Both..." Sherlock grinned evilly. "We have some issues we need to handle."

"Sherlock...back then... why didn't you just go away, when I gave you the chance?" John looked at the man in front of him. Even though he just wanted to win some time to calm his body down, when he saw Sherlock's face he knew he had said something bad. His eyes narrowed as he stepped over the little table and bent down to John, leaning against the sofa with both of his hands.

His expression was as dangerous as a wild wolf's. The greyness in his eyes darkened as he started talking.

"I don't know what you think of me, John, but I'd never leave behind a friend." He hissed, voice low, angry and hoarse.

"I'm sorry Sherlock, I didn't..."

"Mean it like that? Then tell me, how did you mean it?" His face was only inches away from John. From one of his curls a water drop started to stream down to his face then fell to John's chest. Sherlock followed its path with his eyes then his sight slid further, right to the doctor's lap.

When the grey eyes met again with the blue ones, John couldn't see anger in them anymore but surprise and... lust.


"Shut up." Sherlock broke him off, kissing him forcefully. One hand went straight into John's hair, gripping it, pulling John closer.

John wasn't idle either. Without hesitation his hands shot forward, one went to Sherlock's side, the other to the soft, wet hair. His fingers tangled in the dark curls, his teeth biting wildly into Sherlock's lower lip. When he felt the detective's silky tongue entering his mouth he groaned passionately into the kiss. Leaning back on the sofa he pulled Sherlock to him. It took only a minute and Sherlock was completely lying over him, one leg between his. He pushed all of the pillows down to the ground to make a bit more room for them. He clearly felt Sherlock's excitement pressing against his body. He pushed up his hips a bit, rubbing himself against Sherlock.

Sherlock stopped the kissing for a moment, he had to calm himself down a bit, or else he would tear apart John's pants. His effort was in vain as John's lips, now free, went to Holmes' neck, sucking on his flesh, leaving visible, red marks behind. He tilted his head a bit more, exposing more skin, his nails digging into John's arm while his fingers gripped the doctor's dark blonde hair. John, bit down on his neck, making him moan lustfully, then he engaged the swollen lips again, first with his teeth then his lips played madly with John's.

John's hand wandered over Sherlock's back, exploring its every inch, soothing it with fingertips then clawing with his nails. They didn't care if the scratches would be seen next day; they both enjoyed the raw passion coming from the other.

John tucked one of his legs, then grabbed onto Sherlock's ass. Lifting his lap and rubbing his erection against Sherlock again, he wanted to make clear to the detective what his needs were.

"Dear God, John..." Sherlock gasped heavily as he felt the rock-hard manhood pressing against his own lap. He didn't hesitate any longer, his hand slid right to John's belt, undoing it and the zipper.

"Sherlock!" John cried out when he felt the warm fingers enclose his pulsing penis.

The other man gave him a self-satisfied smirk and started stroking him slowly. Slowly because he wanted to make this last forever.

"Bloody hell, Sherlock, faster please!" John panted, throwing his head back, closing his eyes.

Sherlock leaned right over him, their eyes were at the same level and with his lower lip he leisurely caressed John's lips, teasing the doctor in the softest way, then he kissed him again. His movements weren't as wild as at the beginning; maybe for the first time in his life he wanted to pleasure someone else with his acts and he wanted to do it really slowly, engraving everything in his memory.

"Do you really want me to do it fast, John?" He asked only as a tease, he already knew the answer as the doctor's hips shot forward when he circled his thumb around the tip of his penis.

"God, yes!" John shouted first, then he understood the question. "No! Don't..."

"I almost kissed you in that alley..." Sherlock whispered into John's ear, his tongue and lips playing with his earlobe.

"God help me...I almost raped you..." John's voice came out as a harsh groan, barely understandable.

"John..." Sherlock moaned warningly.

"You were just too close...and... and all I wanted to do was tear apart your clothes... and make you scream in that darkness..."

"Let's see who screams..." Came a threatening reply as Sherlock kneeled up to get rid of John's pants and boxers.

When he looked down at the naked doctor, he felt his own erection get harder, although he hadn't thought that was humanly possible.

"Sherlock...what are you doi- Sherlock!" He heard John crying his name again, as his soft lips enclosed the wet cock.

"Ahh, god...! Dear god...!" John panted fervently, his back arched as Sherlock sucked in his penis.

Sherlock, grinning wickedly, moved back to John's face, their lips almost touching yet too far.

"Not God. Just me." He smiled, kissing John deeply.

The doctor groaned wildly when he felt the tongue, which a second ago was licking his own cock, playing teasingly in his mouth.

"Boys! Everything alright up there?"

Terrified, they broke the kiss and looked at each other.

"Mrs. Hudson?" The detective formed the words with his lips, not daring to make any noise. He looked down at the naked man under him then back to the open door from where the landlady's voice had come.

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson, everything is perfect here." He answered not even lying.

"I thought I heard shouting..." They both heard that the lady was coming up.

"I don't think you should come up, Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock shouted. "I made quite a mess up here, believe me, you don't want to see this..."

"Are you sure she doesn't want to see this?" John asked quietly, smiling.

"Definitely not..." Sherlock laughed.

"Oh Sherlock, you are such a bad boy..." Mrs. Hudson said, fortunately now going down on the stairs.

"I know, Mrs. Hudson..." Sherlock whispered relaxing, kissing his way back down to John's cock. "And you John, doesn't matter how much I enjoy your lusty moans, please keep your voice just a little lower because I don't think I can scare away Mrs. Hudson again. And I don't want to stop this..." Sherlock said licking John's cock, "...because we caused the lady a heart attack and now have to bring her to the hospital..."

"I'll... try...my best..." John gasped, "but until your mouth... is off my cock... I can't promise anything..."

The detective grabbed John's hip, his fingers gripping onto his skin while the long fingers of his other hand encased the thick manhood. He caressed the tip with his tongue, then he sucked it into his mouth. His lips were moving around John, tongue pressing against the warm, silky flesh, teeth grazing over it gently. When he heard only blunt moans, he looked up and saw John biting his own fist. He wished the old lady would go away, he wanted to hear those moans, he wanted to hear again John, while he's screaming his name passionately.

"Sherlock..." John whined. "Sherlock...stop..."

"No way." He said, stroking John with a hand, licking his balls.

John made an annoyed noise then pulled Sherlock up, gripping him firmly by his long hair. "I'm not goin' to come alone..." He groaned, kissing Sherlock fiercely, intensely.

While kissing the detective, both of his hands went to Sherlock's pants, unbuttoning them, almost tearing them apart, freeing his erection. When he folded his fingers around Sherlock's hard as steel cock, the man bit into his lip so hard he made it bleed.

"God, YES!" An animalistic groan rushed up from the detective's throat.

"Sherlock...why aren't you wearing any underwear...?" John asked, almost afraid of the answer.

"Oh...I never do..." Sherlock smirked.

"I want to feel you inside me. Now." John moaned hoarsely into Sherlock's ear.

The detective straightened up, pulling John up too, his lips never leaving the others.

He pushed down his pants and sat on his knees. John kneeled over his lap, their erections rubbing to each other, projecting forward, yet unsatisfied.

Kissing John, Sherlock glided one finger into him, slowly at first, moving it in and out until he felt only the doctor's erotic moans in his ear. He slid in one more finger and did the same, stretching him out enough.

John was too impatient, he didn't mind the pain, he was shot today, why would he care about this kind of pain which only takes a few minutes then becomes something sweeter, pleasurable. Holding Sherlock's penis, he looked into his eyes as he glided the long, hard manhood inside him. He felt the long fingers dig into his skin at his hips and saw the grey eyes dilate as the sensitive skin went deeply into him. When Sherlock was in with his whole length, John stopped for a moment. Holmes wrapped an arm around him; with the other he clasped his face and kissed him gently.

"Are you all right?" The detective asked him, his voice concerned and eager at the same time.

"Yeah, I'm fine..." John said, as he started moving. "I'm fine..." he groaned again grasping onto Sherlock's shoulders.

Sherlock's fingers were caressing his side, his back, until his right hand went to his cock, and started stroking it like before except this time his moves were faster, as fast and hard as John's. They both knew they wouldn't hold on for long, although they slowed down their movements.

As John was riding him Sherlock kissed the man from his ear downwards then over his neck, nipping his heated flesh with his teeth.

"Sh-sherlock..." A faint moan was the only thing John could force out, the feeling of his lover inside him, thrusting into him made his mind blank. "Sherlock!" He cried louder when Sherlock moved a bit, finding a very sensitive spot.

Holmes had to bite harder onto John's neck or else he would cry out so loud that the landlady might come up. The chance that someone would maybe see them, put him way over the edge. Then he heard that Mrs. Hudson was at door again, he kissed John to lower the sound of his groan. When she finally left the house and the door closed behind him, he sped up, thrusting into John more furiously.

"Oh fuck, John..." he screamed pushing up.

"F...Sherlock, I can't...too long..."

John's hand went from his shoulders to his hair; ten fingers were tangling into his hair, making him shiver and moan. John leaned his head against Sherlock's forehead and looked him in the eye.

Sherlock seized his cock a bit harder, sliding his fingers roughly over it, his thumb circling around the tip.

"Ahhh...yes...there...harder, Sherlock please..." John begged and this time, Sherlock obeyed.

"Sh-SHERLOCK!" John screamed as he heard his lover cry his name, loud enough that the neighbours could hear it and felt Holmes come inside of him while he came into Sherlock's hand. As Sherlock pulled out of John, they leaned back, gasping, arms wrapped around each other, inhaling the inebriating scent of sex.

Sherlock lightly caressed John's side with a finger, placing tiny kisses on his shoulder while the doctor was playing with the black curls, brushing over Holmes' hair with his fingertips. They were sat like that, not saying anything, until their heartbeats returned to normal and they didn't feel the world spinning anymore.

Sherlock lay down on the couch, covering himself with John. He really hoped Mrs. Hudson wouldn't come back for a really long time.

"I thought you considered yourself married to your work..." John said, smiling.

"I do. But it doesn't mean I can't have a lover." Sherlock smiled back, kissing John. "Looks like we won't need that other bedroom after all...Mrs. Hudson will be happy..."


Lot of people says that "it was so fun to write this" and things like this. Well, writing THIS wasn't FUN AT ALL! Do you know why? Because when I write, specially when I write in English, I have to imagine every single detail about what I'm writing. Of course I cant write everything down the way I'd like to, but still it's in my head. Imagining Benedict under the shower? Holy hell, I had an orgasm every damn five minutes! The guy looks so gorgeous under the running water... (in my head) x3

Nah, my dears, cheer me up with your lovely comments

And also cure me because I feel sick...

pleeeeeeeease :)