So, I finished it! Wow and all that. Am very seriously considering a sequel as a fill for another prompt on the meme, will post it here as well, if you're interesting keep checking my account. If I take it on, it should be up in the next few weeks. Er, enjoy?

Sherlock staggers back into his room and the sight of Joan, curled up and waiting for him, steals his breath. She has tucked one knee up and is resting her chin upon it, staring at Sherlock. He crosses the room and clambers up onto the bed, just brushing her toes with the edge of his knee. He watches her eyes rove across his skin, and he's never felt so exposed. People have told Sherlock in the past that his gaze makes them feel naked sometimes; well, now he knows exactly how that feels. Joan can see everything, from the knife scar just below his ribs to the small, faded track marks on the otherwise smooth skin of his inner arms, testaments to years as an unmoored youth trying to dampen his brilliance for the sake of his own sanity. He'd found a tether in his work, years ago, but now he thinks that maybe there might be safe harbour to be found in the steady blue gaze that's now slowly stripping back all his layers.

"Joan," he says, because really, what else can he say?

In response she unfurls her body and extends a hand to tangle it in Sherlock's hair. He lurches forward, closes the distance between them and seals their lips together. Joan eagerly pulls him in and reclines, letting him sink down over her once again. They kiss for a few minutes, just like this, wrapped up in each other and savouring the slow burn of anticipation. Sherlock has dropped the condoms onto the bedspread and after a short while one of his knees brushes it. It crinkles between his skin and the fabric and reminds Sherlock, viscerally, why he had left the bedroom at all.

Joan seems to have the same idea. As soon as she hears Sherlock nudge the small foil packet she resumes tugging at Sherlock's only remaining article of clothing. He hastens to help her remove his pants, and when they're gone he sits up and fumbles for the condom. Joan levers herself up off of Sherlock's pillows and gently plucks the packet from his uncharacteristically shaking fingers. Her fingers are perfectly, tellingly steady as they tear open the packet and she reaches over to roll it on. She does so with a wicked grin and a firm grip, slowly applying the condom to Sherlock's length in a way that makes his breath hiss out through clenched teeth. He barely waits until she's finished to slide his arms around her and reposition them so she's sitting in his lap. In this position they're at eye level with each other, so Sherlock swallows and meets her gaze. Joan's blue eyes are fogged with desire and she's panting; Sherlock has never seen anything as amazing as this. Without looking away from Sherlock, Joan rises up and cants her hips. As she slowly lowers herself down onto his cock, Sherlock's breath starts coming in sharp little huffs and he grits out her name over and over. Inside, she's hot and tight and Sherlock's vision blurs a bit at the edges when she's finally pressed up flush against him.

"Ah, Christ…" she breathes, eyes now flicking across Sherlock's face as though she needs to memorize him. "Sher… Sherlock. God, I need to-…" She cuts herself off by kissing him, slanting her mouth across his in an uncoordinated, hot smear of lips and teeth and tongue. Sherlock can't help himself now. He kicks his hips up, driving himself even deeper into her heat. They both moan and Joan starts to move, a slow tidal writhe of her hips that's barely motion but is more than enough to make Sherlock break the kiss to throw his head back and groan. It's like she's replicating the gyrations of her dance, except this time it's against him, around him. The thought makes Sherlock's abdominal muscles tighten with possessive lust. Joan drops her head to rest at the juncture of his neck and shoulder and she grips his biceps hard enough that he can feel her fingernails digging into his skin. Skimming his hands down to her hips, he takes hold.

"Do it," she breathes against his neck. "Fuck me, Sherlock, come on."

A heavy, deep moan rumbles through Sherlock's chest, unchecked, as he does just that. She feels so good, and the combined motion of their bodies is tearing Sherlock inexorably to pieces. He hitches his hips up against her as she rocks down to meet him.

"Joan, ah," is all he's able to articulate. He won't last, not as long as he wants to. It's been years and years, and he's buried to the hilt inside Joan, which makes it even sweeter. Wanting to make it as good for her as possible he drops his head and sucks at her throat, leaving blooms of red that will show above her collar. She whimpers, the sound high and threadbare. It only spurs him further towards the edge, and he feels he should warn her.

"Ah, Joan, I won't… I'm not. It's been…"

"Shh, it's alright," she says, lifting her head. She stills and leans back enough that he has to look her in the face. Unhooking one of her hands from around his arm, she smoothes sweat-slick curls gently off his brow. "You'll have ages to prove your incredible stamina. For tonight, I just want to know how you look when you come inside me."

Sherlock's mind short-circuits. His thoughts power down and his senses take over. Wrapping one arm around Joan's ribcage and cupping his other hand at the base of Joan's skull, he lays her on her back and sinks back in. It drives a shaky sound from his lungs.

The rest is biological imperative. Sherlock privately takes back any comments he's made about his body being transport; in fact, his body seems to be a livewire, shooting sparks and warmth between his brain and his cock. Joan is arching her back and holding him to her, and he can feel the softness of her breasts where they rub against his chest. Sherlock can't help but cry out as the jittery heat blooms through his flesh. He's chasing the edge now, and the sounds Joan is making are fuel to his flame. When he makes a particularly vigorous swivel with his hips and grinds his pelvis into hers she shouts and clenches down around him.

It flings him over. He ratchets his head down to muffle his own cries and gasps against her lips, even as she's riding the tail end of her own climax. Sherlock feels like he is dying, just a little bit. He chokes out Joan's name and has to bite back the addition of "love you", coming in huge shuddery pulses and quaking with the force of it all.

Sherlock Holmes is very rarely lost for words. But as he trembles in the wake of a mind-altering orgasm, pressed against the most singular woman he has ever met, Sherlock can't seem to think of any words that might suit the situation. Other than the ones he's forcing himself not to say, of course.

"Sherlock," Joan murmurs. "Sherlock, not that I'm uncomfortable, but at some point you may have to move." Her voice is a bit unsteady.

He clears his throat. "Of course, my apologies," he replies in a hoarse voice, reaching down to grip the condom as he gingerly pulls out. Disposing of it in the wastebasket beside the bed, Sherlock rolls back over and finds himself pinned by a luminous blue gaze.

"That was… amazing." Joan's expression is one of warmth and satiation and something else, something complicated and fond and almost apologetic. She smiles. "Do you want me to stay?"

It would be idiotic of Sherlock not to kiss her. She hums against him and he can feel the upwards curl of her mouth.

"Shower first," he says. "You smell like a souk."

That wasn't what he meant to say at all, but judging by how Joan's grin widens, it is acceptable.

They tumble back into Sherlock's bed after their shared shower, too exhausted to do anything further. They both smell of mint shampoo; Sherlock had insisted upon working the suds through Joan's soaked hair, and the noises of contentment she made were almost enough to make Sherlock feel up for a second round. Pulling the covers over them, Sherlock hauls Joan against him and fits their bare bodies together. They're still damp, but the room is warm and Sherlock isn't about to pass up an opportunity to have Joan's skin against his. She sighs and tucks her head under his chin.

"You meant it, yeah? What you said about… you know, wanting more than just a casual shag," Joan says into his clavicle. "It wasn't just about my dancing, or… I dunno. I mean, I saw you watching me dance, and I wondered if maybe it was just about that."

Sherlock sleeks a hand down her back. "I meant every word and more," he says. "If you wish to continue this line of questioning, please reserve your queries until morning. As you may have noticed, I had some rather excellent sex this evening. It seems that emotional bonds do have a direct bearing on the success of sexual endeavours. Now, go to sleep." He pauses. "I will be here in the morning."

They settle in. Joan's breathing evens out, but Sherlock can't stop his mind now that it has rebooted. He used to think that he could have lived out the rest of his life without all this, on his own with his work. Before Joan, his life had stretched out before him, full of intrigues and danger and probably cut short by one failing or another. But now that he has these complicating chemicals commonly interpreted as the symptoms of love coursing though his grey matter, Sherlock can almost watch as his path shifts. His ideal future, now, contains much the same things as before: work and danger. Now, though, he wants it to also contain a baffling, wonderful, smiling woman at his side and in his bed, until his plans peter out into uncertainty and further, to old age and death. He envisions her, expressive face crumpled up with age and years of grinning at him, sitting on the porch waiting for him to come back from tending bees. He wants her to be the last thing he sees every night before sleep. He never wants another man or woman to touch her, ever again. He tightens his hold on her sleeping form and buries his nose in her damp hair. In this small, private moment, Sherlock allows himself a tiny bit of sentimentality. Now that he has Joan, he doesn't intend to let her go unless she tells him to. Some people might call this insanity so early in the game.

But then again, Sherlock is no stranger to being called crazy.

I'm really sorry for how sappy and porny this got, it wasn't supposed to be this long, I promise. Hope you enjoyed, if you did, drop me a review and let me know! And thank you to everyone who has reviewed and added me to various Story Alert and Favorite lists! Each one makes my day!