Okay. The scenes in this story are from the unaired pilot. If you haven't seen it I order you to go watch it. Yes there is a site to watch it free, if you want a link check the bottom of this page.

Sherlock is not mine. I make no money off this. Don't sue you won't get anything. Blood from a turnip and all that…

John watched as Sherlock weaved his way over to the cab, the picture of drunkenness, with an odd feeling in his gut. Something isn't right…

He watched as the dark haired man tapped on the window, watched the cabbie shake his head, denying the man a ride. He watched Sherlock talk briefly on his phone, watched him grab the cabbie.

When Sherlock held his arm up, John saw the needle, even from that distance he knew what it was, knew his new flat mate had been drugged. John saw him stumble, he heard Sherlock call to him, his words slurring already, saw the taller man reach for him as he was tossed carelessly into the cab.

He was running out the door to Angelo's before he even realized he had moved. Can't follow, too slow…Where? He thought to himself, eyes following the cab as it took a corner. No… he wouldn't take him there, would he?

John raced through the streets, knowing he wouldn't be quick enough to beat them back to Baker Street. He only hoped he would be able to get there in time to keep Sherlock from taking the damn pill. He skidded to a halt in front of their flat, eyes scanning the windows, seeing the shadow of the cabbie. He saw Sherlock for a brief moment, saw him stumble, then he saw the cabbie lean over. After a moment the cabbie came back into view. John assumed the man had helped move Sherlock somewhere.

He started looking for a better place to see them from. Looking over his shoulder he saw the flats on the other side of the street, noticed that one in particular looked empty and ran, his legs already burning. He ran up the stairs as fast as he could, praying to any god that would listen to wait, just wait for him to get up to the window. Please, please… I just found you. Don't be stupid Sherlock. Wait for me…

He heard the police show up as he slid into the room directly in line with the window to his flat. He saw Sherlock stand up shakily, saw him pause, then slowly sit back down. He saw him pick something up, saw him tilt his head a bit, raising his hand.

John had fired his gun before he even realized he had drawn it. The last thing he saw from his flat was Sherlock stumbling back into the wall, the cabbie hunched over the table. He knew the man was dead; after all, he had been one of the best crack shots in his unit. He had yet to miss his target.

He hurried out of the room and carefully made his way outside. He calmly stood off to the side, watching Sherlock as he talked to Lestrade. He saw Sherlock focus on him and stop mid-sentence, saw the look of realization on his face.

"What did you do with the gun?" Sherlock asked him quietly.

"Oh, uh… bottom of the Thames." Thank god you're okay…

Sherlock nodded, glancing at Lestrade.

"You were going to take that damn pill weren't you?" John asked suddenly.

"Of course I wasn't," Sherlock replied like it was obvious. "Biding my time. Knew you'd turn up." He refused to meet John's eyes.

"No you didn't," John replied. "That's how you get your kicks isn't it? You risk your life to prove you're clever."

"Why would I do that?" Sherlock looked at him sideways.

"Because you're an idiot," John told him matter-of-factly. My idiot now I suppose.

Sherlock tried and failed to suppress a smile. "Dinner?" he asked.

"Starving," was the immediate reply.

John let his mind wander a bit while Sherlock rambled about a Chinese place a couple blocks away. He is brought out of his musing when Lestrade tries to get Sherlock to stay. He proceeded to tell the Inspector exactly why the taller man couldn't.

"And who the hell are you?" The man asked.

"I'm his doctor," he replied simply. For now…

"And only a fool argues with his doctor," Sherlock told him with a smirk on his lips, his eyes on John the whole time.

Lestrade looked between the two of them for a moment, frowning.

Sherlock turned and walked away, John on his heels. As they neared the Chinese place, Sherlock stopped, turning to face John, a serious expression on his handsome face. "John?"

John met his eyes and straightened his shoulders. "Yes?" Knew this was coming…

"I…" Sherlock frowned, looking down at his hands as he twisted the edge of his scarf in them. "Why…why did you follow so quickly?" It was pretty obvious that that wasn't was he had intended to ask.

John sighed. "I had a feeling."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Really?"

John hummed noncommittally.

Sherlock studied him for a moment, narrowing his blue-grey eyes. "You saw it didn't you?"

John looked at him, acting confused. "Saw what?"

"The needle," Sherlock said quietly.

John looked away and cleared his throat. "Don't know what you're talking about, Sherlock."

"You know exactly what I'm talking about John. You saw the needle in my arm. You saw me stop acting drunk and start being drugged. You followed the cab as far as you could on foot before you realized you wouldn't be able to keep up. You knew he was going to take me back to the flat. How did you know and see all that John?" Sherlock had taken a step closer during his little tirade, invading John's personal space like he belonged there.

John looked at him for a few seconds then sighed. I wish he would just let it go. This is going to be so awkward. "I just did, Sherlock. I have always been able to see further than everyone else. It was something I had forgotten about since I got back. Until tonight. It's like I have my own personal telescope built into my head. I can turn it on and off at will. You said the person that shot the cabbie was a crack shot. You were entirely correct. I have always been a crack shot. Hell the first time I fired a gun, I hit a moving target two football fields away. In the dark. A kill shot."

By now Sherlock was looking at him wide eyed and confused. "But… how did you know we were going to Baker Street?"

"Lucky guess," John replied casually. I will always follow you Sherlock…No matter where you go or how far away I am, I will always be able to find you.

"I don't believe you," Sherlock told him, eyes narrowed as he leaned forward, his pale face only inches from John's own. "I will find out John, so you might as well tell me."

John didn't hear him. He was staring at Sherlock's lips as they moved, the way the other man's tongue flicked out between sentences to wet his lips. He watched the way Sherlock's throat worked when he swallowed at John's lack of response. John moved without really thinking about it, pushing Sherlock into the alley beside them, the detective's back meeting the brick wall with a dull thud.

"John?" Sherlock asked a bit breathlessly, his hands clenched at his sides as he struggled to keep still. He had seen this kind of behavior before, this possessiveness. He slowed his breathing and tilted his head back to rest against the wall, his eyes sliding closed as he waited.

Sherlock jumped when a nose nuzzled into his hair right behind his ear, John's cheek rubbing his own slowly. John had his hands bunched in Sherlock's coat, holding himself as close as he could get, a soft growl escaping his throat.

John felt like he was drugged, his senses were sharpened beyond normal, his inhibitions gone. He growled as he took in Sherlock's scent, trailing his mouth down the man's neck slowly, his lips barely skimming the skin. Mine.

Sherlock's hands were clenched so hard he was sure his palms were bleeding. He slowly opened them, his short nails sticking in his skin for a moment. He brought his hands up John's back slowly, one stopping at the shorter man's shoulder, the other slipping into the hair at the base of his neck, the soft strands sliding easily through his fingers. He let a low moan escape his throat when John hummed into his skin.

Slowly John raised his head to look at Sherlock, the taller man's pupils blown wide with want, his breath coming in pants. Beautiful…so beautiful… John could feel Sherlock's erection against his stomach, just as he was sure the other man could feel John's against his thigh. The fingers in his hair clenched and released slowly, almost like a cat fluffing someone's leg.

John brought his hands up to Sherlock's face, framing those high cheekbones with his fingers, his thumbs smoothing over his soft lips. Lips that parted at the touch, Sherlock's tongue flickering out to taste John's skin. John tilted Sherlock's head down, pressing himself closer, his body fitting, perfect, into the lines of the other man's body.

Both men sighed as their lips met, Sherlock's arms dropping to wind around John's waist. Sherlock moaned out loud when John's tongue invaded his mouth, the thick muscle sliding against his own sinuously.

The kiss seemed to last forever as they slowly explored each other's mouths, only pulling back long enough to get a lungful of air, then slamming together again, each time more frantic that the previous. When Sherlock's hands started fumbling at his belt, John stilled them, his forehead resting against the detective's as they got their breath back.

"Not here," he whispered, his eyes closed as he concentrated on slowing his breathing.

Sherlock nodded quickly, understanding in his eyes, reading what he didn't say out loud. I want a bed when I fuck you.

John pushed away from him slowly, as if were painful to do so, taking a couple steps back so the taller man could move. He did so, carefully adjusting himself in his too-tight jeans, his eyes not leaving John as if he were afraid the other would disappear.

When they both had themselves under control, they slowly made their way back to the flat, the police having gone already. They barely make into their flat before John is on him again, mouth frenzied, hands everywhere. Sherlock starts leading him backward to the closest bedroom, tugging clothes off as they go.

Sherlock keeps moving until his knees hit the edge of his bed, and then he pulls away from John to crawl backward until he's in the middle of the mattress, resting on his elbows.

John just stares for a minute, taking in the beautiful man spread out on the bed for him. Sherlock is lying there, propped up on his elbows, one knee slightly bent. His shirt is unbuttoned and hanging loosely from his shoulders. The man's dark curls are mussed from John's fingers; his lips are swollen and red as he runs his tongue over them. The part that gets John though is the jeans. Those damn jeans. John had not managed to get Sherlock's belt all the way off so it was just unbuckled, the button undone, allowing glimpses of Sherlock's boxers, which had also managed to ride low enough that John caught tantalizing glimpses of line of dark hair leading to the taller man's groin.

"Well?" Sherlock prompted, a blush creeping over his cheeks as John stared. "Like what you see?"

John slowly crawled over him, not touching, not yet. "God, yes," he replied, voice husky. He slowly lowered his body to fit Sherlock, the other man all angles and jutting bones. Needs to eat more… his mouth found its way back to a pale neck, not bothering to be gentle this time. His teeth scraped skin as he trailed lower, his hands traveling the length of the man beneath him, learning all the curves, all the places that made him squirm, made him cry out, made him gasp and moan.

By the time John made it to Sherlock's stomach the man was a writhing mass on the bed, head thrown back as he arched into the sinful mouth at his navel. Sherlock's hands found their way into short hair and tugged impatiently. "John, please… I can't…"

John thrust his tongue into Sherlock's navel slowly as his hands finished opening the man's jeans, peeling the tight fabric off of pale legs, taking boxers with them. How he even fits in them I'll never know… John slowly kissed, licked, and nipped his way back up Sherlock's thigh, his nose bumping the smooth skin of the man's balls. The fingers in his hair tightened almost painfully as he nuzzled in, breathing in the musky scent that was Sherlock.

Sherlock's head was spinning. He had never done this before. The sensations were overwhelming him, he didn't know what to do with his hands, didn't know if he should let John keep going, or if he should just stop thinking altogether. When John's lips wrapped around the head of his cock the decision was made for him, his mind going completely blank. He thinks he might have screamed but he would never admit to it. His hands flailed for a moment before he brought them up over his head, fingers clenching around his headboard as he thrust helplessly into the hot mouth around him.

"John, John….Oh god…shit…" John was pretty sure that Sherlock did not curse that often and it was no wonder, that mouth was positively sinful with those words dripping off his tongue. He moaned and reached down to rub himself through his jean, trying to relieve some of the pressure.

John knew when Sherlock was getting close to the edge and he pulled away slowly, reluctantly, because good god the man tasted good. Sherlock was whimpering at the loss, hips thrusting into the air. John shushed him with a quick kiss and a murmured, "need to grab something."

Sherlock heard the rustling of clothes as John finished getting undressed, he heard the snap of a lip being opened, then closed, then he felt John's newly slickened fingers circling his entrance carefully, asking permission. "Please, please, please!" he begged, pushing down against the probing digits.

When John slid a finger into him, Sherlock practically mewled. "John.." he gasped, riding the finger thrusting in and out of him. "More…please…" he moaned as another finger was added, then another. John pumped his fingers rhythmically, loving the feeling of being inside this man. This proud man that he had reduced to gasps and mewls, this oh so articulate man that was whimpering and stuttering, this man that was usually so composed, flushed and wanton, riding his fingers like he was born to do it.

"Now John, please, please, in me now!" Sherlock gasped. So close. He keened when John hit his prostate, his whole body shuddering. "Fuck!"

John couldn't wait anymore, pulling his fingers out and coating himself with lube as he repositioned, guiding himself to Sherlock's entrance. He pushed in slowly, so very slowly. "Oh god…so tight…" his head fell back when he was fully sheathed, his fingers bruising pale hips.

Sherlock wrapped his long legs around John's waist and tilted his hips. "Move. Now," his words were staggered, John's involuntary thrust shooting sparks of need through him. John complied, his thrusts starting erratic then gaining rhythm, long, deep, every time hitting Sherlock's prostate, making him babble. Making him writhe and moan, gasp and shudder.

Soon he lost control, slamming his hips forward as Sherlock rose to meet him, both of them drenched in sweat. John leaned down and caught Sherlock's lips in a fierce kiss, swallowing the man's cry as he came, warmth flowing between them. Two more thrusts and John followed, his body shaking in the aftermath of his orgasm, as Sherlock panted beneath him.

John pulled out and slid to rest against the taller man's side. Sherlock wrapped his arms around John, nuzzling into the short hair. "Sleep, Sherlock. We'll talk tomorrow," he promised, pulling the duvet up over them.

They both drifted off to sleep, completely comfortable with each other, neither with regrets.

Alright. Finally. So what prompted this steamy session you ask? I watched the pilot for the first time today. It was the jeans I swear to god it was.

If you haven't seen the unaired pilot and don't want to go buy the dvd go to 'let me watch this . com' and look it up. (Without the spaces of course). Now. Im off to have an extremely cold shower.

Reviews are love.