Hello again! This is a follow-up to my last Sherlock fic called Stimulus.
Due to the fact that I've written a second one, a third does not seem unlikely anymore!
Be aware, there is no plot here. My little story exists for sex, and that is all.


Sherlock Holmes was currently involved in a case of extreme importance. There was some matter of national security at risk. I was reminded vehemently of the case of Irene Adler-or, as Sherlock referred to her, The Woman-by the manner in which we were swept off by one of Mycroft Holmes' companions. It had been an extraordinary case which I had been forbidden, by the government itself, to blog about. So, for that reason, I shall resist discussing it here.

The day of its finish, the case had become a violent one. Sherlock had been forced to defend himself to a man physically. A knife had been held to my friend's throat, but he saved himself and it was the other man who came out with injury. Blood stained the detective's fine suit. There were spatters on his long neck which I observed in the cab on the way home to 221b Baker Street. It had been a rocketing adventure. My pulse was still racing with the thrill of it, and I was glad for a break now that it was over. After a case of this magnitude, however, I knew my colleague would not look at the end of it as a positive thing. No; the man was always bored, and with the completion of something so dramatic and high-profile, he would fall into depression more quickly than usual. I hoped another case would come along quickly for the sake of his sanity. Then again, I thought to myself with a lurch in my stomach, I might earn something for myself in my friend's boredom. I was not proud to wish for his sorrow, but from that sorrow a passion could arise-one I genuinely looked forward to, as I loved the man helplessly.

During that cab ride, I watched my friend carefully. I could tell that he was already becoming despondent. It was amazing to watch, how obviously the misery settled over him. He was like a statue of marble with a shadowy and contemplative gaze. A vein throbbed in Sherlock's neck. I watched it go. The man was otherwise as still as could be. I sighed as I looked upon him. The depression was heavy in his eyes already. It made me nervous.

By the time we reached 221b, Sherlock still had not said a word. Before we stepped into the flat, he grumbled to himself, "I need a cigarette."

"You're doing so well," I told him earnestly. "Don't break this good streak now."

Sherlock snorted, and fumbled around in his pockets as I opened the door for us to enter. He was still searching himself vigorously as we stepped inside. "I need cigarettes!" he cried. His voice was sharp with agitation.

"You don't have any cigarettes, Sherlock," I reminded him.

"There is a box you have hidden!" he shouted. I curled away from him a little, fearful of his raised tone. "I need it, John. Give it to me."

"No." I threw my jacket aside.

"Please?" He gave me his best pleading eyes as he removed his long coat and scarf. It was incredibly sweet, and did warm me up a bit.

I smiled. "No."

He gave up. "I will go out and buy them, then."

I rolled my eyes. "No you won't, because no one will sell you any. You paid them off, remember? How many times do we have to go over this, exactly?"

"Bring me my cigarettes or I will go back to the cocaine!" It came out in a massive yell. He looked like a madman, now. His eyes were wild, bloodshot, desperate. I didn't understand how that could be, after only an hour since his last case.

"Sherlock! What is the matter with you? You are being such a drama queen!"

"I need it, John! I need it!" he shouted. He was scratching at his forearms as though there were something crawling beneath his skin. He appeared to be shaking.

"You are really a crazy person," I sighed. "I'll tell you where they are, but I really wish you wouldn't."

An incredible look of relief flooded the great sleuth's face. "Thank you, John. Thank you. Where are they?"

"I really wish you wouldn't," I said again. He did not respond, but simply looked at me. Pleading. I sighed. "Fine," I said, then paused for several long moments for dramatic effect. "They're behind the toilet."

"Oh, thank you, John! Thank you!" He kissed me square on the mouth in his gratitude, and off he flew to retrieve the cigarettes I'd so thoughtfully hidden. I took a deep breath to calm the feelings that had arisen in me at his swift kiss. He emerged, a cigarette balanced between his lips. His eyes shone in my direction. "Lighter?" he asked weakly. I sighed, and took the lighter from the mantle place. I handed it to him. His hands shook as he tried to flick it on, but no spark took. There was a large crease between his eyes where his frustration showed.

Clearing my throat, I snatched it back and lit it for him, shaking my head in shame. My friend inhaled deeply. A huge grin crossed his face. He walked over to the couch, holding his breath. He did not release the smoke until he had flopped onto the cushions and made himself comfortable. It billowed from his lungs in a great cloud. "Mmm," he grunted. He looked satisfied. The last time he'd looked that relieved, physically, was a week ago when last we'd shagged. We had only done that twice. Our first experience I have already recorded here, but the second time had been a short but gorgeous quickie on the very couch where now he slumped. As I thought about it, I felt my emotions bubble. God, how I loved him. I wished he knew it more than anything else in the world, but it could never be. I watched the end of the cigarette glow as he took another long drag. As he exhaled, he looked at me. I smiled vaguely. "This was the last one in the box," said he, looking disappointed. His voice was calm, but I could see he was still trembling from withdrawal.

I shook my head at him. This case must have been more stressful to my dear friend than I had thought. He still had blood on him. I wondered if he even knew there was arterial spray on his neck and jaw where he couldn't see it. I took a deep breath and sat back in my armchair, snatching up a newspaper and burying myself in it. We fell into a quiet moment, which was very comfortable. He smoked with a sort of determination, breathing deeply for a long time after every drag. His eyes were closed. He appeared to be savoring every puff. It was endearing, but also made me sad. At least, I reassured myself, he had stayed off the coke since the last time, just like he'd promised. He had been doing such good work lately, anyway, he deserved this little reward. It was also a lot harder to say no to him now since admitting to myself that I loved him, and since we'd begun our... physical relationship, for lack of any better term.

Ten minutes later the smell of smoke had filled the flat, and only the butt of the cigarette remained. In a fit of annoyance, Sherlock stood dramatically, and threw the little end into the trash. "That's it," he said in a low, dangerous voice. "No more." He looked at me, and I just barely glanced up at him from over the top of the paper. "We'll need to buy some more," he said.

"No," I said. "That was it. That was your last box, and I am not buying you another one. That's what the patches are for, aren't they, Holmes?"

He nodded. "Yes, those patches," he said grumpily. "Damn those patches." He started pacing.

"Oh, not the pacing again." I rolled my eyes.

He stopped rather agreeably, but was still tapping his feet where he stood. "Dinner?" he asked abruptly.

"Er... Sure. Yeah, alright." He started scrounging around the kitchen, opening cupboards and leaving them open, removing nothing. He opened the refrigerator, and then closed it again without taking anything out. He didn't seem to know what he was doing. I laughed, and stood to help him. "Here," I said softly, showing up at his side. He looked skeptical, but stepped back so I could open the fridge. There was nothing in it. "Oh," I said. He laughed, then. "Why do we have no food?" Sighing, I shut the refrigerator door again. I turned around, and my heart nearly leapt out of my ribcage to discover that my flat mate was standing directly behind me. "Jesus, Sherlock, you scared me!" He was so close, our noses were almost touching. My stomach turned at this closeness. It was erotic to me.

"Distract me, John," he said quietly. He smelled like cigarettes. His words made my chest pound like a heavy drum. He started to lean towards me. I couldn't move. The surprise was rushing through my body, immobilizing me. "Please."

He took my head suddenly in his hands and drew me greedily to his face. His lips connected with mine so fast, I had the feeling that he was desperate for me-well, not for me, I supposed, but for distraction. I groaned from the shock of it. Our breath mingled as we kissed. Our tongues flourished together, warm and wet. Jesus, he smelled good-like sweat and blood and cigarettes. He tasted sodding fantastic.

Sherlock's eager mouth drove me crazy. I imagined those gorgeous soft lips wrapping around me, and I grew hard at the thought. It was my incentive to deepen the kiss. I lunged forward at him, grabbing his chiseled face in my hands and completely smothered him with my kiss. My fingers tangled in his hair, tugging him as close as he could be. I incited a moan from him as I clutched the dark curls at the very base of his scalp. I knew he liked it when I pulled his hair, for I knew him intimately and well. I loved seeing the stoic genius reduced to this quivering thing in my arms, moaning with arousal. It turned me on immensely. While I dominated his mouth, the taller sleuth fumbled desperately with the buttons of my plaid shirt. I walked him clumsily backwards toward the kitchen wall as he worked the undone garment from my shoulders. Once the fabric had fallen away, he ran his long fingers over the skin of my collarbone and chest. I shuddered at the delicate touch. I stopped kissing him then, and he looked frustrated with me for doing so. I smiled. "Undress," I demanded, glaring at him with unmistakable lust. "That's an order." Sherlock's mouth twisted into an excited grin. It was close to the one he wore when a new case would fall into his lap.

"Yes, sir," he joked, saluting me playfully. It warmed my heart. "I do love it when you pull rank, Watson."

"I love doing it," I replied coolly with a smile. "Now remove your damn shirt, Holmes."

"Yes, sir," he said again in a low rumble. I chuckled at that response, and as I watched him unbutton his tight-fitted violet shirt, I removed my belt.

"I like that," I said, eyeing the slowly revealed flesh of his chest. "Sir."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow as he undid each button slowly-so slowly it was agonizing. "Do you?" His eyes narrowed, and he looked positively devious. "Sir," he purred deeply, drawing out the syllable and sending an intense wave of arousal to my loins. His shirt fell apart at last, but he did not remove it. He just let it hang open, and leaned back against the wall, staring at me.

At the sight of his fit torso, I let out an involuntary hiss. "Oh, bloody hell, Sherlock," I said weakly. "I want you." It was the first time I had ever said something like that to him. I eyed him cautiously to see if he would react to those words negatively, but I could spot nothing. There was only a little smile playing across his pallid face. It was a dirty, teasing smile. I could not let it slide.

I took my friend by the shoulders and started to push him downwards. He went to his knees with little resistance, but his brow twitched a little as he went, and I caught a flash of confusion in his sparkling blue eyes. "Is this okay?" I asked. My heart was thumping at the sight of him kneeling before me.

Sherlock shrugged. "Do whatever you please," he said. His speech was lofty and slurred, as though drunk on lust, just as I felt. He then snickered and added a mocking, "sir." He smirked up at me.

"Oh, you are bad," I said, feeling the lust rage within me. I undid my zipper, watching the detective at my feet. Our eyes were locked. I think I might have been holding my breath. His eyes seemed to be taunting me, daring me. It was that smug look he was giving me that urged me forward. I guided myself to his mouth. His smile was making me wild with desire. I wanted to wipe it off his damn face, to make the confident genius choke and sputter and beg for me to stop. My own urges frightened me a little, but Sherlock was certainly not protesting, and in fact showed every sign of enjoying my dominance. I pried his lips apart roughly, and-oh, I sighed. Goodness, he felt fantastic around me.

I was not gentle. I thrust into his hot, wet mouth without hesitation. Sherlock, my dearest friend and colleague, made a most incredible sound through his mouthful of me. It was a sweet, muffled moan: a sound of surprise and excitement all at once. As I fucked his mouth, actual visible tears built up in his wide, beautiful eyes. The sight was glorious. I was overcome by it. I took his curls in my hands like reigns to hold him still, and shoved myself as deeply into his throat as I was able. He took it diligently, his eyes closed tightly with the effort. The gagging sound that rang out with every violent thrust was a gorgeous one. I was so turned on by it, I thought I myself shamefully sadistic. Then suddenly his tongue-oh, that tongue!-began to move. He was making as much of an effort as he could with his mouth stuffed full of me. I cried out. It was unbelievable, so warm and enveloping.

He licked the length of me, drawing a deep shudder from me. I moaned gutturally. "Oh, Jesus, Sherlock," I hissed through my teeth. The man had me at the very peak. I almost filled his mouth right then and there, but I resisted and withdrew. It was too much for me. I couldn't keep at his beautiful face this way if I still wanted to shag him properly. I wanted to ease his mind. I wanted to be his perfect distraction. I wanted him to want me the way I wanted him. As I pulled myself away from my famous detective, I watched him. He looked gorgeous kneeling there with his shirt open, his chest rising and falling. His plump lips were wet, swollen, and slightly parted. He looked so sexy.

"Please," the man said. "Please, give me more, John. I need this." Those eyes would be my death. The way he stared made me ache to my very core. I nodded, still backing away from him until I collided with the kitchen table.

"On the table, Sherlock," I commanded him. I cleared it with a single swipe (though I avoided the scientist's microscope and slides) as my flat mate arose from his spot on the floor. The knees of his high-end trousers were smudged, and even that sight made me throb eagerly. The mere thought of what I'd just done to him made every nerve in my body sing. "Now that's an order!"

Sherlock approached me rapidly, but paused in front of the table, staring at me. He was waiting. "I said," I rumbled, "that's an order." He smiled, teasing me again. Damn that man. Unable to stand it a second longer, I yanked his trousers to his ankles as quickly as I could, and took my friend up in my arms. I kissed him deeply, scouring the inside of his mouth with my rough tongue. Our bare chests were warm on one another. A few seconds later, I shoved him onto the table, face first. I held him in place with a hand at the back of his neck, controlling his movements.

"Oh," he said huskily. "Yes, please, sir."

I laughed, running my fingers through his dark tresses. "Oh, boy do I like that. You should always call me sir."

"Yes, sir!" he said again, giving a booming laugh. He was so fit, I couldn't deal with it. I pinned his arms behind his back and held his hands there, cradled in the stitch of his back, nestled in the fabric of his shirt. He squirmed anxiously. I spit into my hand, and made him ready. He was shaking beneath me. I poised myself, preparing to enter my best friend for the third time. I loved him. I loved him so much. But the man could never love me back. He never, ever could. Tears were starting to form, and it was then that I rammed into Sherlock. The genius shouted, invoking various deities as I began to shag him thoroughly. He wiggled powerlessly.

It was exactly the way we liked it, so very much the opposite of our usual lives. He was mine, I felt suddenly. He was mine, and I thought to myself that if anyone else ever got to have him like this, I would wish ill of them. Sherlock Holmes was mine-my best mate, and my lover. I would never leave him, and if he ever left me it would be my doom. That thought made me wild with rage, and I grabbed at his hair again. I yanked him by the scalp, forcing his head back as I thrust into him over and over again. "John!" he grunted. "John, yes; please, yes. I wish you'd never stop." Whenever Sherlock begged like this, and became so uncharacteristically subservient, it drove me up the wall with pleasure. I wanted release, but I couldn't let it happen yet. I needed my dearest Sherlock to come first. I needed him to love this.

I dug my fingernails into his wrists where I had them clutched at his back. He gave a sigh of pain amidst his pleased groans. He flinched a little, which made my heart leap. Enough of his shirt was pulled up that I could enjoy the sight of his dimpled lower back while I shagged him. It was gorgeous. God, the further I went, the more magical it all felt. Every sense of mine felt alive, ablaze with pleasure. It was inhuman, really, but then, Sherlock Holmes was barely human as it was.

"Oh God, yes," I cried loudly. It was magnificent. "Tell me, Sherlock," I whispered into his ear, bending close to him. My breath rustled his hair.

"I feel amazing," he growled. "I want more. Sir." His back began to arch. His arms writhed under my strong grip. I forced him as still as possible by pressing his head to the table. He began to yell, then. He was pulsing around me. That was it. He exploded. Oh, the kitchen table was a mess after that, but at the moment it didn't even matter. At the moment, all that mattered was the way Sherlock's body throbbed, the way he sounded shouting my name to the heavens, and the way his voice cracked as it reached its greatest volume. It was all so intense and arousing, I couldn't hold onto myself any longer. I came with him, squeezing his wrists so tightly that I'm sure he must have lost feeling in those skeletal fingers of his. It was glorious. In the throes of our pleasure, I let go of his hands at last, and he used the opportunity to claw feverishly at the table as he flailed in his orgasm.

We trembled together once we'd finished, trousers around our ankles, bent over our kitchen table in 221b. For the third time, I found myself awed by what had just transpired. How had this become our relationship? How had this become us? I hated that I loved him, and I hated that we had this physical relationship. It made loving him so much harder. "Damn it, Sherlock," I sighed into his neck, which was still blood-stained from a couple of hours ago, nuzzling his hair that smelled so strongly of cigarette smoke. "We made an enormous mess this time." I fell out of him, and the sensation made my colleague shiver. As I stepped away from him, Sherlock slumped. He slipped from the table onto the floor, and crumpled there at my feet. "Sherlock!" I cried, bending to see if he was alright.

"Oh, I'm fine, John," he muttered. "I'm simply worn." I helped him to his feet. The poor man looked a mess. His thighs were dirtied, his chest and face were red from being pressed to the table, and his wrists were bruised. His eyelids were drooping. He looked exhausted.

"Do you need to have a rest?" I asked softly, stroking his fantastic cheekbones tenderly. I wanted him to see how much I loved him. I wanted him to just know it in his way, understanding everything from nothing.

He nodded. "God knows I never sleep," said he, cringing a little as he pulled his trousers off in order to walk to his bedroom without the hinderance around his ankles. "But right now, I feel... tired, yes." He looked at me with an oddly stiff smile. He seemed surprised by himself.

"That's good," I said enthusiastically. "Sleep is good for you, y'know." I led him into his room, holding him by the arm even though he didn't really need it. He did not protest my assistance, though.

"I understand why people like sex, John," he said, flopping onto his bed. "I really do." My heart leapt. It was the sweetest thing I'd ever heard him say. "And now I can sleep." I have never seen his mind shut off so quickly as it did that afternoon. He went out like a blown lightbulb. I sat by his side, a little overwhelmed by the sensation of being this intimate with him. It was a very different kind of intimacy, siting at someone's bedside while they slept. It was much different from simply shagging someone's brains out. This was what I wanted: to love him, and look after him forever. I stroked Sherlock's dark hair absent-mindedly as I admired him lying there. What a perfect man, he was. I loved him.

Another ten minutes passed that way before I finally came to my senses. With a deep breath, I pulled myself together, and left him alone. I thought, as I exited, that I heard my name whispered, but then it might have been the creak of the floorboards beneath my feet. I ignored it, and returned to my own quarters. I dressed again after cleaning myself up.

I felt a strong resolve, suddenly, to go out for the shopping. I longed for a fully stocked fridge so that when my Sherlock awoke some hours later, I could make him dinner. I was ready to prove my love to him, even if he'd never return it. I wanted to take every opportunity to take care of him-to feed him when he wasn't eating, and to put him to sleep when he was exhausted.

Sherlock Holmes was all I had, all I ever wanted, and all I'd ever need.