John was straight. Always had been.

Many had expected him to sway in the same direction as his sister, but he had stood firm in his sexuality, boldly stating that he would never 'play for the other team'. He had remained friendless, thanks to the abomination that was Harry Watson. No guy wanted to hang out with another guy who would stare at their cock in the changing room.

Not that John ever did that. He was accused of it, constantly. After a while, he began to think that maybe he was. Maybe he was born gay and because his denial was so strong, it had been forced from his system? He spent five confusing years in school, not falling in love with anyone. Neither girl nor boy.

His therapist told him he hadn't met the right person. John had already labelled himself.


He'd never love. It was that simple. Never lust, love, or even like. He had told his therapist. She said 'trust issues'.

He was a lost cause.

That was, until he met Sherlock.


John looked across the dining table, over the rim of his newspaper, as Sherlock slumped into the chair opposite. Their knees bumped and John tore his gaze away.

"It's summer, Sherlock," he replied casually and turned the page of his paper. He took a bite of his sandwich and ignored Sherlock, who slid further down the chair. He focused on an interesting article as Sherlock un-popped another button on his gleaming, white shirt.

John's eyes fluttered upwards to the man opposite him. The piece of sandwich suddenly felt wrong in John's mouth, so he attempted to swallow it. He winced as it sunk solidly down his throat. So much skin…

Sherlock let out a deep sigh and John watched, captivated, as the bareness that was revealed engorged and descended. His paper was forgotten.


John shook himself out of his reverie, very aware of the hot flush pricking at the back of his neck and the tingling of something dancing around his crotch. Sherlock was staring blankly at the ceiling.

"What?" John croaked, the confusion laced in his voice not because of Sherlock calling his name. Dry throat, quickened heartbeat, sweating palms, hot neck… He was a doctor. He knew what this was. But at the same time, he didn't. Was this it? Was he actually attracted to someone?

"We need milk. And chocolate," Sherlock said lazily, his arm high and taut as he languidly traced a pattern in the air. John made an incoherent noise in the back of his throat, too focused on the way the white material stretched itself across Sherlock's chest to acknowledge what he was saying completely.

Air. I need air.

"Fine," his reply came out strained and angry. Ignoring the flash of guilt that ran through him when Sherlock propped his head up curiously, he stumbled out of his chair, shoved on his shoes and retreated from the sweltering, unbearable heat of the flat.

He took two deep breaths, tightened the grip on the Tesco bag and then re-entered the flat. God, it was stifling. The windows were closed tightly, the curtains and nets were tied and pulled back, letting in all of the sunlight – what had Sherlock done?

He stepped inside and closed his eyes as he shut the door. The humid air was almost sickening and sweat was quickly forming on his brow. Then his eyes snapped open and he hurried to the kitchen, tearing the chocolate and milk out of the bag to put it into the fridge.


John froze and looked at Sherlock, who was leaning casually against the doorframe. The curls on his forehead were glistening, as was the bead of sweat travelling down his brow to the dip of his jawline. It didn't drop off. It stuck to Sherlock's damp skin and slowly travelled down, past his Adam's apple and into the dip of his collarbone. The shirt was completely unbuttoned.

Hot. Damn it, why is it so hot? John looked away, hands uselessly limp against the kitchen counter. What was wrong with him?

"I want the chocolate to melt." John jumped when Sherlock's voice came from beside his ear. The detective sent him a smile – it didn't reach his eyes – and leant across to pick up the bar. He wasn't even touching John.

"Personal space, Sherlock," John reminded tensely, stepping back from him. Sherlock raised an eyebrow but said nothing. His interest was quickly taken up by the soft chocolate bar in his fingers. He unravelled it slowly, his long fingers playing tantalisingly with the silver foil.

Move, John. To the living room. Move.

But he couldn't. He was watching Sherlock and Sherlock was fully aware of it. Of course he was, the arrogant prat. The chocolate was open now, the brown treat slightly liquefied. John stared at it, watching with unbreakable interest as Sherlock broke a piece off with ease, the tip of his digits coating themselves with the creamy substance. John's open mouth was quickly drying and his pupils contracted and enlarged.

Too slow. Sherlock was moving too slow. John clenched his fist atop the kitchen counter, glaring at Sherlock's languorous hand rise slowly towards his mouth. Bite it. You have to bite it.

John's legs almost gave out when Sherlock's tongue emerged to lick the sticky substance from his fingers. It's hot. So hot. Too hot. John's own tongue came out to wet his parched lips.

"Want some, John?" Sherlock popped the chocolate into his mouth and held the bar out to John. John shook his head quickly, taking a cautious step backwards when Sherlock moved forwards. Sherlock noticed this – he noticed everything – and frowned. His analytic gaze devoured John, picking and putting together the puzzle that was presented to him.

He snapped another piece of chocolate off and John watched as the shell of melted goo wrapped itself around the pale fingers. He dampened his mouth.

"You must really like chocolate," Sherlock's voice was low and deep - deeper than usual. That wasn't normal. Not normal at all. John's eyes darted upwards, staring at Sherlock with surprise. He was holding the piece of chocolate out, between his fingers. John stared at it, confused.

"I said—" John cleared his throat, "I said I don't want any chocolate."

Sherlock moved closer. John panicked and took another step backwards, but the backs of his thighs collided with the kitchen counter. Scorching heat, aching crotch, unclear thoughts, urge to touch. He was aroused. He wanted Sherlock.

There wasn't enough time to register the shock of his revelation. Sherlock had moved closer and the square of chocolate was pressed to John's lips. No – it was barely a square. It was gunge.

Their gazes locked. Sherlock's stared with interest, pupils alight and excited. John stared back with want, desire and need.

He parted his lips, allowing Sherlock to slip his fingers into his mouth. John's eyes closed and he suppressed the moan that threatened to tumble from him. His hand came up to grasp Sherlock's, holding in it in place as his tongue swirled around the fingers, drinking in the agonisingly warm chocolate hungrily. It was good. So good.

When the chocolate was gone, John continued to suck and tease the fingers with his tongue. He opened his eyes and released Sherlock's fingers, a trail of saliva following them as he took them out of his mouth.

Sherlock's expression was no longer playful or curious. It was burning. The heat of his gaze pierced the humidity of the air and shot through John, igniting the desire that he had already began to feel in the pool of his stomach.

Sherlock tore off another piece of chocolate – it was all pulp now – and put it into his own mouth, eyes never leaving John. Then he leant down, gradually, placing his hands onto the counter either side of John. His fingers tightened on the shiny surface as he dipped his head lower, slower, fraction by fraction. John's breath was gone, but his chest still rose and fell with a rapid speed. Anticipation lingered, lust sparked, dizziness pronounced. Sherlock's breath mixed with John's.

Sherlock opened his lips further, revealing the half-melted chocolate on his tongue, before finally capturing John's lips with his own.

Oh. John couldn't process his thoughts. Sherlock's frown was pushed against his own as their lips rubbed and pushed against each other, heavy sounds of inhalation coming from their noses and they took in the breath they had lost. It was a pleasant kiss. Passionate, but not wild. And then Sherlock's tongue burst through John's closed lips.

John moaned and his immobile hands flew up to capture Sherlock's head, pulling and tugging for more. The chocolate crossed over into John's mouth and then they were both fighting to get as much of it as they could, tongues rough and angry. Sherlock lifted John with his hands – one still grasping the bar of chocolate - so he was seated on the counter and parted his legs so he could step between them. John's jeans were tight across his erection.

"Jesus," John gasped the moment Sherlock freed his lips.

"No, it's Sherlock," Sherlock quipped, nuzzling his nose into the side of John's neck. John tilted his head back and almost soothingly tendered to the curls on the back of Sherlock's head. He went rigid when a tongue flicked out to lick away a bead of sweat.

"You—You can't know how to—" John took in a deep breath, closing his eyes in an attempt to stay coherent. Sherlock's lips were massaging the pulse point on neck, smudging damp, sticky chocolate over the throbbing skin. "How do you know what to do?"

Sherlock hummed into his skin before lifting his head, brushing their noses together. His eyes were low slits as he scoured John's face.

"How do you?" He replied, voice husky. It echoed in John's chest, not helping to relieve the uncomfortable erection that was digging into the zipper of his trousers. John cleared his throat, tried to look at Sherlock, and failed. He stared at his hearted, chocolate-smeared lips instead.

"I was following your lead," John spoke slowly, almost as if he was in a trance. He was subconsciously leaning forwards towards them, tongue darting out to dampen his lips. Would chocolate taste any different if it was eaten, licked or drunk from Sherlock's body?

John cupped Sherlock's face firmly, ignoring the gentle look of surprise that flittered across the wonderful, breath-taking features. John moved forwards, closer and closer. Sherlock had reopened his lips in preparation, but John didn't want them yet. He approached the corner of his mouth and placed his own on top of it, sucking gently at the chocolate that was plastered there. Sherlock's chest twitched as he inhaled sharply, catching on to what John was doing. John moved to the tip of the heart-shaped upper lip and began to suck gently again, tongue flattening against the surface to gather more of the sweetness.

"John," Sherlock breathed, his hands moving to John's back. They ventured underneath the light-blue shirt to spread across the sweating, hot skin there. John's body arched in response to the touch, the nerves tingling. But he didn't stop. John continued to clean the messy substance from around Sherlock's mouth, varying between sucks, nibbles and licks. With each action, Sherlock's fingers dug deeper into the skin on John's back.

He finally snapped.

He tore John off of the counter and slammed his lips against the ones that had so teasingly cleaned his face. The chocolate in his hand clattered to the floor. Instead of bending down to retrieve it, Sherlock pushed John harshly to the wall, dragging him down to the floor with him, lips mashed together and tongues furiously fighting. Sherlock swallowed the groan that John produced when he pushed his knee against his groin.

Sherlock tore open John's shirt and discarded his already-open one beside it, their connection never wavering. John broke apart for breath, tilting his head back when Sherlock's head nudged at his chin. Sherlock's knee still massaged his erection, sending spikes of pleasure through his body. With his eyes clenched, he attempted to gasp in as much oxygen as he could while Sherlock occupied himself with his chest.

Sherlock was just staring, examining, his analytical eyes absorbing as much as he could. John lifted his head to look at him, but the sight just drew all of his breath away again. The detective was flushed, his skin a light pink; hair tousled, moist; chest, flawless and toned. John wanted it. He wanted it now.

"Sherlock—" A spark of pleasure blew into a flame the moment Sherlock's tongue darted out to push against his stiff nipple. John let out a noise he didn't even know he was capable of and his hands dug into the back of Sherlock's head, pushing him closer and harder. He panted heavily, arching his hips up in an attempt to reach Sherlock's knee, which had withdrawn from its previous position.

"I want—" John grit his teeth as he bit back another groan, "I want you," he gasped out.

Sherlock lifted his head, staring up at John through his eyelashes. One side of his lip curled upwards and he brought his hand up. In it, he was clutching the chocolate he had received during his ministrations. John's eyes widened and followed Sherlock's movements, his bare, sweat-slicken chest rising and falling upwards rapidly. A tongue darted out in anticipation. Sherlock unfolded the edges of the foil, revealing what was left of the chocolate – it was just a thick, gloopy pulp. He dipped in two long fingers and drew them out, the trail of chocolate tied to them.

John watched with interest as Sherlock drew a swirl around his belly button with the twine of chocolate, before pressing his fingers to the small dip, filling it completely with the brown liquid. It felt smooth and velvety on his skin and John shivered, his tongue flicking out again to feed his thirsty lips.

"Sherlock," he croaked as Sherlock leant closer, lips dancing over the puddle of chocolate. His mouth slowly began to open and his tongue slowly made its way through the open chasm. Puffs of oxygen burst into John's mouth and nose in an attempt to replace the carbon dioxide he was releasing – his nerves tingled with eagerness.

Sherlock dove in, his tongue assaulting the sensitive nerves of his bellybutton. John let out a harsh shout and his head flew backwards, colliding with the doorframe he was resting against. Sherlock put his mouth over the dip and sucked, absorbing the chocolate that he had so easily painted over John's body. John's breath caught in the back of his throat and he let out a choked cough to clear it.

"P-"," he swallowed, "Please." His hands reached forwards to pull Sherlock up. Sherlock resisted and pressed a chocolate-coated finger to John's nipple, a predatory smirk rising on his messy lips when John cried out in response. Chocolate was smudged from Sherlock's lips to the back of his pale jawline.

John was painfully aroused. It was maddening, impossible, so so so hot, and he loved it. He shuddered when Sherlock's messy fingers drew a line at the base of his throat and then whimpered when a tongue followed the trail.

"Enough," John growled, grasping Sherlock's shoulders tightly to push him away. With quick fingers, he undid the buttons on Sherlock's trousers and pulled them down with his boxers, gaze snapping instantly to the long, pink erection in front of him. Sherlock shuffled out of the constraining trousers and underwear willingly, his eyes never leaving John's face as it flittered through many expressions – the sight of his cock was sending a bizarre collage of emotions through his features. But with a sudden movement, John flipped Sherlock over so his chest was pressed to the floor. John straddled his hips, unbuttoning his jeans hastily as he went.

"This certainly is an interesting afternoon," Sherlock's deep voice was muffled against the tiles of the kitchen floor. John let out a breathless laugh and removed his jeans completely, allowing a small sigh to fall through when his erection bobbed forwards in his boxers. He removed them too, and threw them alongside the other items of clothing.

He spotted the foil that contained the melted chocolate and froze. Then, with a smile, he leant forwards to pick it up.

"Hmmm," John hummed in agreement, settling a chocolate-covered finger at the base of Sherlock's neck. The skin was smooth – almost like marble. He drew the finger down the silky back, watching as the muscles contracted. Sherlock's hips jutted forwards and John looked up. He had made a noise, but… it was almost like Sherlock was muffling his own moans. John leant forwards, resisted the urge to sigh when their skin connected, smearing the chocolate. Their clammy bodies were pressed together but it brought no discomfort. John nuzzled his nose against Sherlock's spine, inhaling the fresh scent of his sweat.

"You're being quiet," John whispered into his skin, teasingly licking a smudge of chocolate. Sherlock's hips jolted and another stifled moan reverberated through his body. John propped himself up on his knees, placing his hands on either side of Sherlock's head. His shadow hugged the form beneath him when he bent his own head down, lips pressed to Sherlock's ear. "Sherlock," he whispered wantonly, nipping at the earlobe.

Sherlock tilted his head to the side, revealing only a portion of his face. John was momentarily startled. Those eyes, so silver and yet so blue, were ablaze with evil lust and madness. His lips were open and breathless, cheekbones flushed and damp.

"As you're quite aware, I don't enjoy expressing myself." His voice was still sturdy, despite him clearly being wild with arousal. John, surprise dissipated, smiled reassuringly. Then with a quick push, he shoved his chocolate-covered finger inside Sherlock.

The cry that followed was loud and echoed around the kitchen – no doubt Mrs Hudson would have heard. John smirked in victory and leant forwards to place a gentle kiss to Sherlock's temple.

"Beautiful," he breathed. Sherlock opened his eyes that had screwed themselves shut, glaring relentlessly at John.

"That was—" he swore under his breath when John moved the finger, "—unfair."

John began to pump, backwards and forwards with his finger, watching as the portion of Sherlock's face twisted and contorted into an expression of unworldly desperateness. He inserted another finger, eyes widening at the gorgeous gasp that flowed from Sherlock's lips. Without realising it, John began to slide up and down, grinding his erection roughly into the crook of Sherlock's back. It was good. It was more than good.

Sherlock was becoming restless, his body moving on its own accord, thrusting back into John's fingers, sending them deeper and deeper. John curled them, an intense stab of desire spreading straight to his gliding cock at the loud cry that erupted from Sherlock's lips.

"John," Sherlock ground out, lifting his right hand to clutch the doorframe desperately. He pushed himself backwards, throwing his head upwards to release a guttural moan when John's fingers plunged further. John fell forwards and captured the neck that Sherlock had revealed to him with his lips. He sucked and nibbled on the pulse, his free hand curling into a fist on the tiles beside Sherlock's head as his hips thrust faster and faster against Sherlock's back, each slide of skin-on-skin bringing his pleasure nearer and nearer to what seemed like an endless tunnel.

Sherlock's groans and whimpers became more erratic and loose and John knew that he was spiralling out of control. John felt the same loose, maddening sparks of orgasm treading along his veins too. He lifted himself off of Sherlock and roughly dabbled his hand in the discarded foil that contained the chocolate. Sherlock was writhing uncontrollably now, heart-shaped lips parted and gasping for air hungrily. John sucked the chocolate off of his fingers, leaving it on the top of his tongue, before leaning forwards once again. With his coated tongue and chocolate-filled mouth, he captured the skin on the back of Sherlock's neck between his teeth, drawing it in tightly.

"John!" Sherlock exclaimed, his body erupting into tremors as he came. His fist tightened around the doorframe and John could feel the vibrations travel through Sherlock's body against his chest, cock and thighs. It was too much.

John grinded out Sherlock's name as he reached orgasm, his thighs clenching around Sherlock's hips painfully tight as he saw white. He collapsed on top of Sherlock's recovering, pale form and slid off of him, his back protesting as he settled himself on the kitchen tiles.

"That…" John breathed out into the thick air filled with their panting "…was amazing."

Sherlock hummed in response and turned to his side sloppily, propping his head up with a hand. He stared with half-lidded eyes down at John, who met his gaze with a languid blink.

"And messy," Sherlock added, his lips curling upwards into a smirk. John felt a smile begin to spread on his own face.

"And hot," he flushed at his own words, "in more than one sense. I need a bloody shower." He slowly began to clamber to his feet, beginning to feel slightly conscious now that he was naked in his entirety and was standing in front of Sherlock. Sherlock eyed him up lazily and slowly began to get up too.

"Hm… that would be wise." He looked around the floor of the kitchen. It was damp with sweat, smeared with chocolate and splattered with their bodily fluids. He smirked. "It looks like a crime scene."

John followed his gaze, taking in the mess. He shook his head in disbelief.

"Only you would see it that way," he commented, rolling back his shoulder. It ached a little, from being cramped in such an obscure angle. "Next time, maybe it'd be a good idea to use a bed instead of the floor. I'm not as unwounded and young I used to be."

Sherlock's eyes immediately snapped to John. "Next time?"

John froze, his throat seizing up at his words. Fuck.

He cautiously met Sherlock's gaze, but was unable to hold it. He looked around the room, looking for something to distract him. Idiot, John mentally berated himself.

"I… I only thought. Well, obviously I didn't expect—No. No, it's fine. If you wanted this to—I just thought you'd want to-" John was silenced when his own hand was lifted from his side and placed over his mouth. He looked up to see Sherlock smiling down at him, his hand tightening around John's wrist.

"Yes." Sherlock answered, leaning forwards to place a chaste kiss on the back of John's hand. Sherlock released John's wrist, allowing it to flop back to his side again. Then he turned and pattered his way across the flat, naked, towards the bathroom. John followed the swinging movements of Sherlock's bare hips with his piercing eyes and his lips quirked upwards at one corner, his heart warming.

He cast one more glance towards the kitchen, smiling, then headed off to the open bathroom door, where Sherlock was waiting for him.

A/N: Endings. Why can't I do them? gah. Um, I still can't trust myself to write FULL-ON smut, but I'm getting there. I hope nothing was wrong with this. ._. Also: I'd like it if you pointed out any typos - I make a few of them and never find them during a proof read.