Title: Fancy

Genre: Angst, slash

Spoilers: Not entirely sure but I'd say after the first two episodes

Pairing: John/Sherlock I suppose

Warnings: NC-17 because of the mega-smut

Summary: "Love... is a fickle thing is it not? It's so hard to categorise and understand because of its nature. What is love? Can I love? Can you love? What do you do when you love someone you know and trust?"

A/N: Okay... I don't know what this really is but I guess it's a sort of reflection of what's happening in my life right now, though not the smut scene; only the dilemma scene :P

Anyway, I hope people like it and such... and if you can offer advice to a very confused and concerned girl (i.e. me) then I'll love you for life.

Anyway, onto the actual story I think!

And on another note: I finally managed to write some smut after so long! :D Happy dance! Ah-hem...



It's dark; which is to be expected since the sun set several hours ago. But there's a thin sliver of artificial light peaking through the dusty and partially covered windows bathing the room in an orange glow. It turns the usual colours of the carpet, chairs and the numerous books into more dark and skewed tones as though the world is trying to reflect his thoughts. He sits silent and still, like a statue of Socrates contemplating the world and al its infinite questions. Silver shivers of his distant eyes are fixed on the mantelpiece across the room but he doesn't see it, he doesn't see anything right now except his minds thoughts. Passing and flittering by at such astonishing speed that the speed of light would have had a hard time keeping up. There's so much he needs to think about, to reconsider, to re-evaluate and he can't do that with stupid, mindless people around him. So the darkness, the strange and comforting darkness is of great assistance at this present moment in time.

His clothes are ruffled slightly, the only sign that he'd ran the whole way back at break-neck speed just to escape everyone. The pale grey shirt he'd adorned this morning has come loose of his belt and now hangs off him slightly but he doesn't care about that; he doesn't care about anything at all. Only that's not entirely true. He does care; he just doesn't want to.

The coat he'd been wearing all day, his fine and expensive coat, is strewn out on the floor between the door and the sofa; evidence that he'd unceremoniously shed it because of the sheer dampness of it. The brief drizzle that the BBC weather had predicted had ended up being a sort of miniature flash flood; not that he'd been concerned with the rain of course.

His dark rings of hair are damp and look darker and about as conflicted as he feels; there is the occasional lock sticking up at an awkward angle like spikes of his emotion showing through to the world. Both of his long, pale hands were freezing cold but he didn't concern himself with the bodily need of changing his clothes and warming up; he didn't bother with anything but his thoughts because they were what mattered.

Memories, snippets of information flow through his mind like wildfire as he tries to piece it all together and make sense of it; but sense and reason is of little substance when confronting the emotional state. As he replays the entire time of their acquaintance over and over, taking note of the subtle give-aways, the signs and signals they both displayed he can't help but wonder how he didn't see it earlier. He wonders why it took a direct confrontation from a third-party just to get his brain to finally reach the one deduction it seemed rather intent on completely ignoring.

"It was the butler that did it. He had ample time and opportunity, as well as the grinding bowl in his room has traces of the poison," he said abruptly as he swept into the room with John following closely behind him, but not close enough to bump into him when he came to a dead stop just two steps into the room, "I assume you're going to arrest him now?"

Slowly straightening from where he'd been leaning over the table in the conference room of Scotland Yard Lestrade cast Donovan a warning glare before speaking, "units are on their way over as we speak. You didn't have to come in person to tell me Sherlock."

Sherlock gave Lestrade his usual unintelligible look but Lestrade had known the young man long enough to be able to tell the difference between his 'I'm-not-even-going-dignify-your-mindless-stupidity-with-an-answer' and 'I'm-not-entirely-sure-but-I'm-not-going-to-tell-you-that'. From what he could gather the look on Sherlock's face was leaning towards the latter of the looks.

"When will he be brought in?" John interjects into the conversation, though it's not so much a conversation when Sherlock doesn't answer you. He looks at Lestrade pointedly, avoiding Donovan and Sherlock completely in favour for giving Lestrade as much of his attention as he can.

"As soon as possible, why?" Lestrade answered, frowning slightly as he saw John visibly tense up, "Is that a problem?" He swore that if either of them answered with a 'no' he was going to arrest them for some sort of crime that he was sure Sherlock had committed at some point in his life; and he doubted John was as innocent as he acted.

Sherlock opened his mouth to answer but John cut across him and said darkly, "Not for us; will be for him though," the dark glare that John shot the vacant space next to Lestrade made the police detective suddenly weary of having the ex-army doctor in the same building as the suspect.

"It's not any of your concern anymore John; getting justice is our job not yours," Lestrade says, gently but firmly and John looks at him with a glare so strong and powerful that it's all that Lestrade can do not to flinch; it's the sort of glare that he's sure the doctor used when ordering someone about or dealing with a temperamental subordinate. But Lestrade was the superior here, he was the police detective and John was the civilian so the glare wasn't going to work; but that didn't stop John from trying.

John looked, glared really, at Lestrade for a good moment before his features became cold and shut-off; emotionless Lestrade thought as the doctor turned around abruptly and strode, marched, from the room. Donovan, after being shot a pointed glare by Lestrade, followed after John and that left Lestrade and Sherlock alone in the conference room.

"What's up with John, Sherlock?" Lestrade asked, getting straight to the point; no sense in wasting time being tactful with Sherlock Holmes, "He looks like he wants to do the butler harm..."

"He does," Sherlock said sharply, his tone of voice sounding deliberately put on, like he was hiding something within his words, "A useless emotional response that serves no other purpose but to distract him and annoy me," Sherlock sniffed as he turned away and made to walk out the door but Lestrade's words made him pause.

"What's he so emotional about Sherlock? What happened?" Lestrade asked, curiosity peaked as he observes Sherlock freeze in mid-stride and it made Lestrade even more curious; it was rare for Sherlock to react like this. Normally the man would continue walking off as he threw some random comment over his shoulder, or he'd spin around suddenly and start on a rant about this or that, "It's not to do with the case is it?" he hazarded a guess and was rewarded by the tensing of Sherlock's entire body. Not what he was expecting.

"Why would you think such a thing Lestrade?" Sherlock's voice dripped with sarcasm but it didn't phase Lestrade, and he watched in silence as Sherlock slowly turned around and pierced Lestrade with a glare so strong that he briefly wondered if John had been teaching Sherlock how to reduce a man to ashes with a single look.

Lestrade didn't answer, he just raised an eyebrow and held Sherlock's glare until the younger man couldn't take the silence anymore; no-one who was as animated as Sherlock could handle the silence for long. And Sherlock was an impatient bastard at times so that worked in Lestrade's favour as Sherlock sighed and a look of weary resignation flashed across his face. That was all the answer Lestrade needed really to know that something had happened to make John behave like this, but he wanted to hear Sherlock say it out-loud; the man could do with accepting something to do with other people and feelings every once in a while.

"He's merely over-reacting," Sherlock muttered looking at anything other than Lestrade, almost as though he was embarrassed by John's behaviour; but this was Sherlock and Lestrade doubted anything the doctor could do would embarrass Sherlock, except maybe profess his love or something along those lines at least. Oh...

"Yeah, kinda noticed that Sherlock. But I want to know is why he's 'over-reacting'?" Lestrade pressed as he moved over to Sherlock and swiftly shut the door; now Sherlock had nowhere to run unless he wanted to get through Lestrade himself and he knew that the younger man wouldn't dare. At least he hoped he wouldn't; he didn't want to arrest the man for assaulting a police officer. He was his friend damnit!

Sherlock stared at the floor as though it held within it the answers to life, the universe and everything; he didn't want to talk about it because it was... private. To have his personal life dragged out and dissected by someone else was less than appealing; he wondered if the people he dissected felt like this, like they were slowly being taken apart and had no power, no control. It was... not good. He would have loved to leave the room but the door was now shut with Lestrade blocking his way so that escape route was no longer an option; which left talking to Lestrade. Sighing he began to speak, his voice low and quiet as though he was hoping it was fade away in the confines of the room, "We've been working on another case for- for my brother," the bitter tinge with which he said 'my brother' told Lestrade that there was some animosity between the pair but he didn't press, he just listened, "I didn't inform him of the fact that the suspect was present at the empty flat we were in so when I was attacked he didn't have any warning."

Lestrade frowned and a little light-bulb went off above his head as he added the pieces together; pieces that had been present since the day he'd first met the doctor.

"I was perfectly fine at the end of it all but he was, is, not amused by the entire episode.," Sherlock finished as he swallowed and looked up at Lestrade; his face was blank, his eyes hard and his voice when he spoke had its same arrogance, "Now, since you've satisfied your little bout of curiosity do you think you could step aside? Some of us have things to attend to."

As Sherlock moved forward towards the door Lestrade finally decided to speak on impulse, because thinking before he spoke was a bad idea with Sherlock sometimes; the man could tell what you were thinking with just one look. He raised his head up slightly, in a gesture of stubbornness, and said clearly but not too loudly because the walls of the conference room were clear and not that thick, "He wasn't amused you obnoxious pratt because he cares about you!"

Sherlock froze for a second time and looked at Lestrade as though he were a deer caught in the headlights of a car hurtling down an empty back-road in the country.

Lestrade felt a momentary sense of satisfaction at having been able to catch the great Sherlock Holmes out but he tempered the feeling as he spoke, enunciating each word so as to make sure they got through that thick emotional shield the younger man surrounded himself with, "He likes you Sherlock. He fancies you. He was angry because you were in danger and he hadn't reacted quickly enough; he's angry at himself because you nearly got hurt today."

The memory is still fresh in his mind as he recalls how he'd fled the room within minutes of Lestrade's revelation as his mind threw up bits and pieces that justified Lestrade's reasoning. He remembers how he'd ran from Scotland Yard, from John, all the way back to Baker Street, to somewhere safe and that is how John finds him as the doctor comes pounding up the stairs; taking them two at a time in his haste to see Sherlock.

As the door to the sitting room flies open Sherlock flinches at the resounding bang. John careens to a halt two steps into the room and stares at Sherlock breathing heavily; out of breath from having searched for him at Scotland Yard and then hurrying back to Baker Street. Sherlock doesn't want to look at the doctor, not now that his mind has connected the dots with red marker-pen, but John isn't happy and if Sherlock doesn't look at him soon then John will start shouting and who knows what'll happen then?

Slowly he turns his head, still resting on his fisted hand, and glances at John briefly before looking down at his coat just in front of John. John stares at him and pants out, "What the hell Sherlock! Why'd you just run off without telling me?" He sounds angry, angry and upset; which ties in with what Lestrade's already pointed out and with what his mind is unhelpfully reinforcing. Damn emotions. Damn them to hell.

Sherlock refuses to answer as he stares at the coat on the floor, he doesn't want to talk, doesn't want to explain it all because by explaining it he's making it real; real is not what he can handle right now. Emotions are not what he wants right now but they're there inside of him, swirling about and growing more and more; they're going to come to the fore soon, the limits going to be reached and he's going to explode. He knows it but he can't stop it.

A few months ago, when he'd first met John bloody Watson; the unassuming, normal, predictable John Watson recently back in the UK after being shot and suffering from PTSD, Sherlock never guessed that anything would develop. He'd never even considered the notion that the unassuming doctor would shoot a man to save him, challenge his brother out of loyalty, try and protect him when he's tied up and can't actually help; he'd have never guessed any of that would have happened with John Watson in his life. But they did. And this is happening. Emotional attachment; inadvisable for him, to become so close and so dependent on another person was stupid, foolish, and so utterly human that he wanted to turn the emotions off. He's not normal, can't feel like everyone else, doesn't react like everyone else; but he can feel and he can react, no matter how much he doesn't want to.

The conversation in Angelo's during their first case together had been a surprise to him:

"Don't have a girlfriend then?"

"Girlfriend? No. Not really my area."

"Oh right... Do you have a boyfriend? Which is fine by the way."

"I know it's fine."

"So... you've got a boyfriend?"


"Right, okay... not attached... just like me..."

He'd originally dismissed the idea that John had been fishing but now... now it was almost obvious that he had been. 'Just like me' he'd said, 'not attached' he'd been suggesting, implying and he'd panicked and avoided the topic. Shut John down there and then, stopped the feelings from being reciprocated. He's missed it! Missed the sign there and then! So early into their partnership and he hadn't even noticed something that Lestrade had... heaven knows even Mycroft had probably noticed already!

Never, not once, in his life had he met anyone who he could behave with like he could John; no-one had ever made him laugh, no-one had ever made him want to joke and giggle with them... but John had, John does:

"That was ridiculous. That was the most ridiculous thing I've ever done."

"You invaded Afghanistan!"

He's never had anyone who he would turn to for assistance in social situations; no-one who understood that he just wasn't like everyone else. He needed help when it came to social interaction and John helped him, John gives him pointers, clues, hints, guidance:

"That was ages ago! Why would she still be upset?"


"Not good?"

"Bit not good yeah."

The concept of caring for others is foreign and alien to him; he doesn't do that 'caring lark'. It's not him. But he shows care for John in his own way, he cares about John; he's protective of John, proud of John, in love with John:

"Are you alright?"

"Yes... course I'm alright."

"Well, you've just killed a man."

"Yes... that's true. But he wasn't a very nice man."

"No. No, he wasn't really was he?"

"And frankly a bloody awful cabbie!"

And he's never known anyone to blatantly call him an idiot like John has done, does do. He's not used to it and it surprises him because he's always been called a freak, a psychopath though technically he's a sociopath. But John comes along and suddenly he's not a freak, a psychopath or sociopath anymore; he's an idiot:

"That's how you get your kicks isn't it? You risk your life to prove you're clever."

"Why would I do that?"

"Because you're an idiot."




John's not malicious with his words; he doesn't intentionally try to hurt him like others do. John is kind and caring and so very, very human that Sherlock doesn't feel like he has the right to love him; doesn't have the right to take such a humanised man from humanity itself. But he loves John, in a way he never knew he could love.

It's so very strange and new to him that he doesn't know what to do. What would someone do in such a situation as this? Would they confront? Would they avoid? Would they wait for the other to act? Would they take the incentive? What does he do!

"Sherlock!" John explodes, there's no patience now only annoyance and... worry, in his voice as John crouches in front of Sherlock and peers at him intently, "Sherlock, are you alright?" His voice softens as he places a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. His hands so hot, burning and boiling, that Sherlock wants to flinch and shrug it off but he can't because he's frozen as his eyes lock with sparkling blue/green ones.

What does he do? What should he say? Where does he go from here?

"I..." Sherlock flounders for an answer because he doesn't know what to say. He's not alright; not by a long shot. But what can he say now? What can he say that could convey all these mixed up feelings that are bubbling up inside of him like one of those famous volcanoes that keep on erupting daily? "No..."

"Sherlock, what's wrong?" John's brow creases as his concern becomes ever more pronounced and the doctor in him begins to assess Sherlock for any signs of injury or illness, "Sherlock. Tell me; what's wrong?"

Sherlock detects a hint of desperation in John's words and he feels a gut-wrenching feeling that takes him a moment to identify; guilt. Why does he feel guilt about this? What is there to feel guilty about? Why does John's concern, desperation make him feel guilty? He doesn't understand it. He doesn't understand any of it.

He shakes his head because he doesn't want to talk about it but John's going to press and press until he talks, until he says every single thought that's burning through his brain! John's hand on his shoulder tightens slightly and Sherlock knows that John's concern and worry is increasing every second that he doesn't speak, but he just can't... it could ruin everything...

"Sherlock... tell me what is wrong," John pleads, his voice is low and deeper than usual; a sign of the duress he's under just because of Sherlock's silence. Sherlock doesn't want to answer, he won't answer he won't... well he wasn't going to up until the point when John begs him, in a voice so low and desperately soft, "please Sherlock... please..."

They say a picture speaks a thousand words and that might be true; Sherlock doesn't really know because art isn't something he appreciates unless it's something to do with violins, but everyone seems to underestimate the power of a single word in this day-and-age. One word; one single, simple and mundane word is all it takes to get Sherlock to talk. He can't ignore the pleading in John's voice, the quiet desperation for Sherlock to trust him, to tell him what's wrong and so he doesn't. He listens and he gives in.

"L-Lestrade has recently brought s-something to my attention," Sherlock mutters softly, quietly, his words winding around the room deftly and seemingly caressing John who doesn't look away from Sherlock's emotional gaze, "something that I myself missed completely," he expects John to make a lame joke about how preposterous the notion of Sherlock missing something is, but John doesn't; another bout of unpredictable behaviour from John Watson it seems, "I... am not entirely sure whether or not it is true... or reciprocated..."

John stares at Sherlock, his gaze searching and Sherlock feels like John is looking inside of him, deep deep down to where everything is hidden and veiled; somewhere in his mind Sherlock wonders if this is what the people he deduces feel when he's laying their lives out in front of them. It's not entirely a nice feeling, but it's even less so because John's looking for more; a half-answer won't appease John this time so it's all the way. Right to the end of the cliff to stand on the precipice between falling and flying.

"Whether what's true Sherlock?" John murmurs, confusion tinting his words slightly mixing with the concern and worry. His hand on Sherlock's shoulder is still hot, painfully burning hot even through the material of Sherlock's shirt and Sherlock notices that it's not shaking at all. It's another little piece of information that filed away in his mind, in the file that's labelled 'John Watson' and contains all sorts of pieces of data; snapshots of their time together. Like a scrapbook.

"Whether someone... I think Lestrade used the term 'fancies' me," Sherlock manages to whisper and his eyes are still locked with John's so he sees it! The briefest flash accompanied with the tightening of John's hand on his shoulder. It's there, it's true... oh God it's true... Lestrade wasn't lying... Jealously...

"Oh?" John's voice is quieter now, feigning politeness as a quiet rage simmers in his gut. Sherlock sees it and John sees a burst of clarity in Sherlock's eyes and he feels like he's reading a play backwards. Sherlock's head lifts up off of his fisted hand as he pierces John with a new, powerful look; calculating and observational, "Did he say who it was?"

Amusement flickers in Sherlock's eyes as jealously flashes through John's and Sherlock smiles slightly; a soft, gentle and shy smile that John's never seen on the detective's face before, "yes... he did infact..."

John felt a tightening in his gut as he fought against the rage and jealously that was making him want to find out who it was and happily inform them that Sherlock was not up for the taking; but that wasn't strictly true because he and Sherlock weren't together in that way so anyone had a right to claim the detective. They'd just have to get through John to do it first, "Is it anyone we know?"

Sherlock pauses before answering, he could be truthful and see what happened or he could tease John a little longer to see what happens, "Well... he did hint at it being Sergeant Anderson..." Sherlock fought the urge to laugh as John's features turned dangerously dark and the level of jealously John was already feeling spiked dangerously high.

John blinks suddenly as he finally realises that Sherlock's joking and he glares at the detective darkly. Sherlock smirks again and a small chuckle escaped his lips as John opens his mouth to call him so many unkind names, "You-"

"He meant you; Lestrade meant you," Sherlock says suddenly, diving headlong into the abyss that he can't navigate using reason and logic. He knows that he can't fight this one, can't argue and can't win against emotions this time around so he thinks, why bother? So he takes, for all intents and purposes, a leap of faith and was really hoping it paid off.

Silence falls in the room as Sherlock stares at John and John stares at Sherlock. Absolute silence that stretches and stretches on and on like the universe stretches out from its beginnings reaching to the place where it finally ends. It's so tense and the air's so heavy that Sherlock feels like he's breathing poisoned air; it was such a bad idea to tell him, he sees that now. Sherlock shouldn't have said anything, he should've lied. John's going to run now, run away like most people do when confronted with something different, something dangerous, something that could make them vulnerable. He's ruined it all, John's going to go and he's going to be alone again all because he needed to know that what he felt was reciprocated.

He should never have said anything at all; it was foolish, it was stupid, it was a human error. And now they were both going to pay for it because really, who could ever love someone like Sherlock? He's a freak, a sociopathic madman who finds murders fun and shopping boring. Everyday life is mundane and predictable, having a relationship is mundane and predictable so he can't have one because he hates and detests the dull and boring. All the pieces in his head, snapshots of memories and echoes of words are torturous but he can't delete them; there's no switch, no button for him to hit and be rid of them. They're here to stay because he doesn't want to forget them, not really, but he feels like it would be better for him to forget this entire thing; it's doing more harm than good. He should leave, let John go, let go, stop feeling, stop...

But just because Sherlock wants to take it all back doesn't mean John does; not by a long shot in fact. John's hand on Sherlock's shoulder slides along his collar and cups the back of his neck, leaving a trail of blazing receptor cells to send billions of shocking impulses to tell his brain that John's hand feels good. John's other hand is brushing lightly along Sherlock's jaw, along his porcelain skin so softly that it's like John's afraid of breaking him, like Sherlock's made of some divine fragile substance that can't be manhandled. Sherlock's eyes are wide and his breaths are coming in short rasping breaths as his heart beat increases dramatically; John shifts slightly so he's sort of kneeling in front of Sherlock and he pushes his head towards Sherlock's own slowly and deliberately.

Their lips come into contact and its all Sherlock can do to not moan as the soft texture of John's lips on his own set every nerve alight with bright, passionate flame. It's heavenly as the thin layer of coloured flesh melds and burns white hot and when John leans in closer Sherlock's hands move of their accord and settle themselves around John's body, drawing him closer and he presses back into the kiss. He moans as John's teeth brush over the sensitised flesh of his lips and it feels like there's a trail of passion being left behind in their wake. It's so powerful, so intoxicating and so utterly beautiful that somewhere inside of Sherlock a sort of dam breaks and passion from every corner of his mind, body and soul is poured into the kiss of a lifetime. John's hand runs along his jaw and down the length of his neck making Sherlock shiver at the electric touch, down along his collar and down his chest, and down and down and- Oh...

He almost bucks off the sofa as John's hand presses against his straining erection because Jesus Christ does that feel good! It's almost too much for him to handle, as he growls deep in his throat and pushes against John harder; hard enough to make John topple backwards onto the floor with Sherlock strewn across him. And they still have broken apart even though they need to breathe, but Sherlock's never been a fan of breathing since it's so boring and right now it's a minor annoyance.

His hands are running along John's body as he rubs his lithe and lean body along John's solid and strong body with enough force to elicit a moan from the pair of them. It feels so good, so right and he doesn't want to stop, but that annoying need to breath is actually getting the best of him; stupid necessity for air. He finally pulls back from the kiss but their bodies are still pressed against one another and he's aware that John's hands are on his body; on his buttocks and his lower back and he loves it.

They're both panting in desperation and are staring at one another with wide, bright but impassioned eyes; they're both enjoying this, they both need this and neither wants it to end. Swooping back down without a moment of hesitation he chooses to stop analysing, to stop thinking and deducing everything, just for a little while; just for this. This is something he wants to feel his way through, not think, because this is John and he deserves that much. When their lips meet its like a supernova occurring between them as their bodies slide against each other with slow deliberation; every heart beat is accompanied by a feather-light touch on their bodies as their hands are everywhere all at once.

Sherlock feels as John's hands move towards the front of his chest and begin to fumble with the buttons in order to reach more of the pale porcelain skin he desires so much. There's a voice in Sherlock's head, the one that never shuts up and deduces things all the time, and it's telling him that he should be helping John out of his clothes as well; the best deduction its ever came up with in Sherlock's opinion as he runs a slender hand along John's torso eliciting a moan from the man beneath him. They unbutton each other's shirts and Sherlock shrugs his own shirt off as John manages to wriggle out of his own; all the while not breaking their kiss.

Now they're no longer hindered by their shirts they have the freedom to touch and to feel and to electrify one another. One of John's hands trails along Sherlock's chest, grazing lightly over one of Sherlock's nipples making him arch slightly and groan into the kiss; his mouth opening up and John seized the opportunity to finally deepen their kiss. His hand continued to play with Sherlock's nipple, alternating between rubbing and tweaking it in order to get a response from Sherlock, as his tongue darted about Sherlock's mouth; running along the molars and incisors as though they were to be revered and were permitted to only be lightly touched.

Sherlock decides that he should even the score a little as John tweaked his nipple again and made him moan; oh yes, the score definitely needed to be evened out. Sherlock grasps John's hand and pulls it down so it's pinned down on the floor beside the doctor's head; he does the same to John's other hand and he pulls back out of the kiss whilst he grinds his hips down against John making the man keen loudly. He grins evilly as John glares at him with lust-glazed eyes and Sherlock leans down and licks John's neck as he shifts his hips and grinds into John making the shorter man moan and arch his body up in search of friction.

"Sherlock!" he gasps as Sherlock grins into his neck and begins to suck on the hollow between his neck and collar. He thrashes about and tries to break free of Sherlock's grip but Sherlock doesn't let him go as he continues to suck and nibble John's exposed neck; all the while he's rotating his hips and John's arching up beneath him and moaning in desperation.

John moans again as Sherlock nips John's neck and his body arches up so much that their chest meet and John turns his head towards Sherlock's as he begins to nibble on Sherlock's own exposed neck drawing a shudder and groan from the detective. He decides to bite down on Sherlock flesh, but not hard enough to leave a mark because Sherlock's skin is too beautiful to mar, and he feels particularly satisfied when Sherlock growls out a response and bites John's neck harder. Sherlock abandons the notion of pinning John's wrists in favour of shedding his trousers and assisting John in removing his as well.

Soon enough they're both naked and rubbing against each other, kissing and nipping, growling and moaning as they work each other up to their climax. It's short and doesn't last but it's so powerful for them, so much feeling and passion in their actions; every flick of a wrist, every bruising kiss, every bite and lick that they can't help but shout out as they come together. Sherlock collapses on top of John panting and slick with sweat which is starting to cool because of the ambient temperature of the room.

John reaches out blindly and grasps the edge of Sherlock's coat which he pulls over to them and throws over Sherlock, covering them as best as the coat can. They both lie there for a long time, panting and gripping each other as their hearts slow and their breathing regularises; they don't want to let go of one another, they don't want to get up and move because letting go and getting up from where they are now would allow the world to come rushing in and then they'd be awkward and weary of each other. And neither of them wants that so they remain where they are for as long as they can before they both realise that a shower would be a smart move before they're permanently glued to each other.

And maybe the world can naff off long enough for them to have a shower and clean themselves up; the shower's big enough for two isn't it?