Disclaimer: Sherlock and all recognizable belong to the Arthur Conan Doyle estate, and the BBC and others that are not me. I make no money in the writing of the following.

Oh, that was it.

Sherlock's Adam's apple bobbed in his long throat, his pale eyes bugged, and his mouth worked silently. As in, it attempted to speak, yet no sound came out.

That was it. That was the absolute final straw to break the proverbial camel's back. And what a stupid phrase that was anyway.

He'd been gone for, oh who knows, two hours, maybe seven. Upon return, he'd found John, sitting on their living room floor amidst scraps of newsprint and plaster, and mess, and streaks of more plaster was on his cheek. Amongst it all sat the skull directly next to a papier-mâché twin that John was presently decorating with what might be fake blood. He'd made a double of the skull. For fun. To play with. Because he'd thought Sherlock would think it funny.

Which he did. In the most irritatingly delightful way because someone had gone and made a double of his appropriated human skull for giggles.

Well, that was just it. Done.

John, noting his change in demeanour with the most endearing expression and tilted head, smiled softly at him from across the room. "What's happened?"

Sherlock stood there. Staring. Because that was it. John had finally done it. It had taken a long time, too. Yes, it had been a long, sometimes painful fight filled with lots of tiptoeing, and backward glances, occasionally innuendo, and lots of denial; but as he stood there gazing at the sight before him, he realised that apparently it really was all over now.


Yes, John had made the perfect assistant, then working partner. Yes, he'd then become his only real friend (best friend, don't forget that, that's important.) Yes, they did most everything together, and John had become the one person Sherlock never tired of, and okay yes, perhaps the rest of the entire planet fancied they could see what they themselves had worked very hard to ignore for the sake of a professional, working relationship and pleasant living situation. So what if John had always rather completed Sherlock. Listened to him. Tolerated, no, understood him. Smiled at him with genuine affection. Worried about him. Made him better…


He cleared his throat and straightened his spine. Well. John may have won, may have completely and irrevocably broken him (and to be sure, he was wrecked now. He could see that. Probably for forever too, goddamnit.) but it didn't mean he didn't have at least a little pride. He could still maintain his dignity for fuck's sake.

"John." he replied, a tad hoarsely. Damn.

John's brows rose in question, waiting politely, and even that was irritating. Always so polite, his John. Would he still be this polite if Sherlock did what he wanted, which was to stalk across the room, grab two fistfuls of ridiculous jumper, and shove him very firmly up against a wall? Would he still be polite then? 'I'm not kissing you too quickly, am I, Sherlock?'

Sherlock's mouth went dry, and to his utter horror, he released a strangled giggle in hysteria. Just a tiny one. God, he really was broken.

He glared at John.

"You did this." he accused. John's brows shot up fully this time.

"Beg pardon?"

"I'm broken now! That's just great!"

John blinked once. Twice. Calmly swallowed. "Again, what's happened? I'm just sitting here." His eyes flicked down to the craft-turned-horror-show below. "Well. I mean I did this, but I'm really only just sitting here."

Sherlock ran a hand through his hair and groaned. "You're always just sitting there!"

John frowned, but leaned back against his palms, legs splayed out in front of him on the floor.

"You're always either sitting there, or standing there, or handing me tea, or breathing! Or playing with the skull! Jesus, John."

"Mary and Joseph," John whispered to himself with a chuckle. "And your point?"

"It's not enough anymore! I'm thoroughly wrecked!" He collapsed into his chair and did his utmost best not to look back to John, because he knew exactly what his expression would be, and he loved that expression, and he wanted to see it, but there was no way he was giving anyone the satisfaction.

He could throw John up against a wall. God, he deserved it. His entire body shuddered at the thought.

"Are you ill?"

"No," Sherlock croaked miserably.

"Mmk. And how many nicotine patches are you wearing?"

Sherlock flashed his forearms. "None."

John paused. Sherlock refused to open his eyes to watch all those damned expressions play across his face. Oh, and they were there, flashing, he was sure of it, because John was an open fucking book of rotating emotions.

"So, not ill, not hopped up, you slept last night – I checked," Sherlock swallowed another groan because that meant John had been in his room, "and you ate today. Hmm."

"Wrecked. John." Sherlock reiterated.

"So you've mentioned." John inhaled and slowly released. His voice, when he spoke, was warm if not a little bit hesitant. "I think I know what this is about?" More question than statement.

Sherlock went still. His face was hot. Was it too late to stomp out in a strop? He cracked open an eye to gauge the situation - and his heart plummeted straight to his hips at the look on John's face. Definitely too late. Plan B: Think of the wall.

Before that could happen though, John, in a move that defied known behavioural patterns slowly leaned forward onto his knees, and began literally crawling across the floor towards him. Sherlock's breath left in a rush and both eyes popped open. Well he had to watch that, simply had to. This was an entirely new reaction, new movement; he was like a stalking lion, only cuddlier. (Cuddly? Well, he wasn't being ferocious by any means, at least right now, and that's typically how one would describe a lion, but lion though he was, John was being silly and playful, not ferocious, and throw him up against a wall!)

And then his face hovered between Sherlock's knees. Sherlock jammed his lips together. His brows furrowed in concentration. His stomach swooped for God's sake! Just a bit further, John….

"Are you going to say it?" John asked quietly. He was still smiling, just at the corners, the bastard. Did he think this funny? It most decidedly was not. Sherlock harrumphed. John's gentle huff of amusement only furthered his ire, but he refused to break eye contact. Pride. (Lions travel in prides.)

"You can, you know," John continued with a whisper. Sherlock swallowed. John cocked his head. His blue eyes skimmed across all the bits of Sherlock from shoulders, to buttons, to eyelashes. "What are you thinking?"

Before he could stop himself he murmured, "About the walls."

John grinned, exposing the tiniest flash of teeth. "The walls? Leave them alone, they didn't do anything."

But the walls could be. Could be supporting them while they… Sherlock licked his lips; a movement John's eyes were quick to follow, and it was interesting to note how this prompted John to lean into Sherlock's knees. He wanted to growl. Or whimper. Or rage maybe because how could such a thing be so disarming? He could face a serial killer in an abandoned warehouse in the middle of the night without a moment's hesitation, but a grin, or a touch from John could stop his breath. Oh, the goddamned injustice.

"Do you not approve of the new skull?" At this proximity John's scent flooded Sherlock's senses. He smelled unreasonably pleasant tonight. Probably did that on purpose, too.

"It's not a real skull," Sherlock replied, voice gone low and possibly seductive. He hadn't done it on purpose, though. Blood vessels were doing things against his will. Biology. Animal urges… Against. A. Bloody. Wall. That one. He knew which one exactly. God.

"So, you don't like the skull's companion? Pity. So many more experiments we could do to it that wouldn't involve damaging the original."

Helpless. He really was. He leaned forward. "Like what?"

John shrugged, his shoulders brushing the inside of Sherlock's thighs. Oh, and that wasn't unbelievably awkward. Or stimulating. He could just grab him. Right now. He doubted John would mind. Not if the state of his pupils were anything to go by, oh good Lord, John's pupils. Sherlock may have panted.

John's slow smile quickly morphed from playful to predatory. "Bit on edge tonight, eh?"

Sherlock nodded. He kept leaning forward. Honestly. Rein it in, Holmes.

John's chin may have tipped up. Oh no. John licked his lips. Those lips. He wanted them. John had made him a toy skull. From a real one.

"Are we going to keep dancing or…" John's words trailed off. Then a hand trailed up. Oh no. Up his calf. Sherlock sucked in a desperately needed gulp of air. The hand slid over a knee.

"Dance," was all Sherlock could say (gasp), which was stupid, but to be fair his body had now fully gone into Betrayal Mode, and endorphins were actually not helping. Hindering. Ugh, synapses. So unpredictable.

Oh God. John's hand.

In what probably was reminiscent of a frightened deer (why must it be predator/prey with them?) Sherlock's wide eyes flashed back to John's; they were so entrancing and pleasant. Yes, he and him were dancing, always, and right over that complicated little border between Friends and More (everything) but Sherlock wasn't exactly experienced in these sorts of transitions, and if that hand took much longer to reach its final destination he really was going to haul John up and do unspeakable things to his person. But even with all that going on, John's eyes, like in all things, were steady through the gathering madness. Intense. Clear. Like pool water. Or those blue chlorine chips. Chlorine is toxic and 1000 ppm can kill a man in three breaths. John could do the same if he's really angry. He's a lion.

John's hand stopped its creep midway up his thigh, and Sherlock exhaled. His imagined deer eyes darted to where the hand had stopped, then back to John's face.

"What are you doing?" he asked a little too quickly. Maniacally. A bit too much. Oh, bloody hell.

John dropped his shoulder so that his cheek could press against the inside of the tortured thigh, and Sherlock's lips parted. John nuzzled, and slid his other hand further up, not quite grazing the inner crease of his hip.

Sherlock definitely whimpered then. Fuck.

"Waiting on you, Sherlock."

Lust-addled, yes, but please, John. "I hardly think that necessary at this point."

"No?" John looked up at him from under blond lashes. Sherlock wondered how many he had. He would count them later.

"John," he consciously made the effort to clear his throat and straighten his shoulders. The shift in position rustled the fabric that was already too tight across his groin, and he bit his lip. Naturally, John couldn't help a quick look at what was obviously staring him in the face, and sonofabitch but did he seriously have the cheek to look smug right now?

"You needn't look so pleased," Sherlock grumbled. He'd just barely stopped from crossing his arms in petulance, but he really did need to fill them with something soon though or – ohmygod. Breath. Hot. Moist. On his thigh. John was blowing hot air through the fabric of his trousers. Trousers. Remove them. Both sets. Right now. He had decided.

Lightening quick, Sherlock was on his feet. John startled, and quickly found himself being bodily hauled from the floor (jumper fisted by two determined hands) and then there was a thud as the doctor was very forcibly pressed against a wall.

"That a yes, then?" John gasped when Sherlock threw himself against him. Hips to hips, chest to chest. Fuck, it was Christmas.

John's body was warm, and solid, and where were his hands? Get them back at his skin! Sherlock grabbed for John's hands and jammed them against his sides, then dipped down and inhaled at John's ear, blood pounding in his ears. He wanted to taste. He had decided after all, and once a Holmes decides a course of action, there was very little in the way of altering said course. John had made sure of that with the plaster experiment several feet away. No use for it. Oh.


Lips on his neck. Yesyesyes!

"Yes, John," he breathed, tilting his jaw to give him better access. His hands slid up into John's hair, angling for optimum position, his nose traced the shell of John's ear just before sucking in a lobe. John hummed and smiled against his skin. God, he just felt so good against him. Months. Months of avoiding this. Carefully. (Stupidly?) Didn't matter. Nothing else did really, except the fact that if John stopped touching him he could very well die. Alright, that was perhaps a bit much, but he'd feel like he'd want to die, and that's just as awful and counts for a lot.

John's clever mouth worked along the dips in Sherlock's neck, and he sighed at the further rush of blood vessels and chemicals and sensation… nerves were lovely. John was lovely. Kiss him.

Abruptly, Sherlock pulled back long enough for John to look up, and then covered his mouth with his own. Ohhh, this. This was a thing to be desired. (Had been, let's be serious.) His tongue darted out to brush against the seam of John's lips, so warm and soft, and he was granted immediate entrance. Mouths; they should be so disgusting, but how very, very nice John's was instead. Hot and sweet. And swirly. With textures. Tongues were definitely worth further investigation. Note that.

Oh, and teeth were fantastic, too, especially when they were employed in biting at Sherlock. Which is what John's teeth were doing at that moment. At his lower lip. And then jaw. And then back at his neck, and it felt so incredibly good, and he needed moremoremore!

Needed more bare skin. It was irritating how shaky his hands were, but they were making headway on pulling John's undershirt from the band of his trousers (which were still on - irritating!) and John kissed his encouragement. And then John was pulling at him. Why were they trying to walk? The wall had been doing an excellent enough job of keeping them up – ooh, John's fingers found his skin beneath the purple shirt, that was glorious and fire.

"Stop moving," Sherlock mumbled against his mouth. John obeyed, and finally, he was able to pull both jumper and undershirt up to accomplish the bare skin objective. Course, in his frantic haste it had gotten stuck somewhere around John's shoulders because Sherlock wasn't a patient person, and the other man chuckled.

"Wait, Sherlock, let me just—"

"No time, John, stop moving, I'll get it."

John laughed louder. "Sherlock, no, just wait a second."

Their hands both tangled around and through the unreasonable jumble of fabric. Sherlock's heart was beating way too hard and why was he so impatient? Oh, right. He'd waited months, and now this utterly ridiculous garment was impeding his goal. How could fabric possibly wield enough power to wreck a whole person's psyche? If he weren't secretly fond of the damned things he'd burn it in retaliation. John would be displeased with that, though, and now he rather wanted to please John…

Sherlock dropped to his knees and began an oral assault against John's chest, and wrapping his arms around John's back, pressing him forward. His friend ceased his struggles above and hissed. Then! Then fingers slid up through Sherlock's curls (fantastic sensation! Very much like.) and Sherlock groaned.

"This is good," Sherlock mumbled against John's stomach. (All the colourful words available to the English language, but really it was all basically covered by the descriptor 'good' when it came to John and John-related activities.) He licked, and nipped (John twitched at that; repeat.) and dipped his tongue into his navel. Salty and something else, perhaps just John, but was exactly what Sherlock had wanted, had suspected. Honestly, John makes the most fantastic sounds. How had he not noticed? Granted, they'd never done this before, so the context had never been there he supposed, but then that stopped mattering because John's offending layers dropped in a heap onto the floor beside Sherlock's knees, and he was looking up. Into John's eyes. Whose pupils were huge, and dark, and if eyes could eat a thing Sherlock was doomed. He whimpered. He would let John eat him. Consume him. He pretty much already had anyway.

"Why have you stopped?" John demanded. Sherlock's insides turned to jelly.

"I haven't," he rasped, and flung himself back to the task at hand which involved continuing to taste and catalogue John's skin. And possibly trying to open his trousers. (Goddamnit were they still on?) He raised trembling fingers to the button at the waist and pulled, and then pulled, and down they went (Success!) and his mouth, again, went dry, at the image before him. John's pants were tented a mere few inches away, and the scent of him went straight to Sherlock's head. And groin. All parts, really. Without a second thought, Sherlock nosed his way along John's length, groaning at the heat radiating through the flimsy cotton barrier, and John's perfect hands were back in his curls, and speaking of curls, Sherlock's toes were doing an excellent job of just that and he hadn't even done anything yet!

"I want," he groaned, and pressed an open mouthed kiss along the shaft. John sighed happily above him, leaning heavily against the very helpful wall at his back.

"Me too," he hummed, bucking his hips ever so suggestively.

Sherlock's fingers hooked over the band, eased away the fabric, and his eyes lit up at the lovely prize beneath.

"Mmm," he rumbled, sliding the last of John's clothing down his thighs even as his lips moved to swallow him whole. From above, John choked out something suspiciously like the word "Fuck." and Sherlock had to nod because they were so definitely going to do that, and oh how wonderfully John filled his mouth! He was perfect! John was always perfect, well, usually, but especially now. Sherlock pressed his hips back with one forearm, wrapped a few fingers around the base of John's cock with the other hand, and slowly devoured John as far as he could go (it had been a while, okay?) and trilled with absolute pleasure. This earned another loud, sincere, "Fuck!" from above.

"You're, you are," John gasped, but didn't really say anything. His fingers gently guided Sherlock's movements at the side of his face, carded through his hair (really, Sherlock could just purr) and his hips moved in tiny little snaps. Not enough to be overwhelming; John was a gentleman after all (Sherlock bet he could break that in him, though) and this was their first time. Please, not the last.

Sherlock released John from his mouth with a plop, and dipped his head to tongue the underside of his shaft. Warm, silk, heat, John. He was just about to begin a thorough examination of points due South, when the man himself actually squeaked and roughly grabbed Sherlock's head up, pleading, "Stop, stop, stop."

Sherlock, whose expression was the exact image of debauched and red-lipped, blinked up at him in confusion.

"Too fast. Come up here," John commanded, though he met him halfway by sliding down the wall, instead.

Lips crashed together again, and Sherlock moaned into John's mouth. How many times had he thought of this? So many. So, so many. (At night, at breakfast, a couple of times at crime scenes, in cabs, on the stairs – oh, God, everywhere.) And yet each imagining was nowhere near as perfect as this. As if imagination had any real place beside fact anyway. Sherlock should know.

John's fingers were quickly plucking at Sherlock's buttons, and he was making very frustrated sounds due to the fact that Sherlock was still basically clothed.

"Remove your trousers, please," he breathed into Sherlock's ear, following it up with a lick. Sherlock wanted to wipe the consideration out of that voice, but found he hadn't the energy. This time. Instead, he complied and really, he managed to do so quicker than he'd imagined he could. Heightened states of arousal were hell on phalanges.

And then finally there was skin on skin! Good God.

Sherlock's head fell back as John's fevered flesh met his bare chest and he essentially rubbed himself against John like a cat. (Lion.)

"John," he breathed, dropping his head forward into his shoulder and lazily sucking at his collarbone. Each and every cell in Sherlock's body was singing in response to John, and Sherlock, in a moment of whimsy, imagined if he had a big enough microscope right then he would see each one straining out to meet John's. Like they'd been wanting to do for ages now.

Hands, all four, were everywhere. Sliding over ribs, and shoulders, over stomachs, cupping jaws. Sherlock all but crawled into John's lap, wrapped his long legs around his waist as they sat on the floor, and his vision temporarily blacked out the second John's fist wrapped around his almost-uncomfortably-hard-by-this-point prick.

"Oh yes!" Sherlock crowed, squeezing his eyes tight, rocking up with great enthusiasm. This, this, thisss! "Keep doing that," he choked, and pressed his face back into the side of John's neck, panting.

John chuckled, and Sherlock fancied he could feel it in his liver. He grabbed John's face and sealed his lips against his again, letting his tongue run along the roof of his mouth in a slow, sensuous stripe. He tickled the inside of his lower lip with his tongue, John, John, John, and chewed a little too enthusiastically on the upper one until John growled and bit back.

"Yes, you can bite me," Sherlock found himself saying (gasping,) because that had been a bit of a surprise to like so much. "You can," he mumbled against his lips. Was John a drug now? He very certainly felt not in his right mind. John had a way making him say things.

"Can I?" John breathed, amused, into Sherlock's mouth, and nipping for added affect. Sherlock could only nod, and then hiss when John did this thing with his hand on his – oh, John. When he bit Sherlock's neck, he cried out and dug his fingers into John's shoulders. (Careful with the left.)

Tongues and teeth and heavy petting, foreplay, Sherlock thought, were all well and good, (God, it really was) but after several more minutes of that he'd also decided that he if didn't get off with John, right now, he would explode. (Not literally. But yes.) And since Sherlock had rules about deciding things after all, and John's hand as it was, was about to not be enough, and he could feel John's erection straining up to meet him anyway, he thrust down just to see what kind of reaction John would have. It was positive. John would also have a knot on the back of his head in a few minutes from where it had hit the wall in response.

"Jesus, Sherlock," he hissed. He thrust up beneath him, erection sliding between the cleft of Sherlock's arse, and Sherlock almost dislocated a hip to meet him where he wanted him most. This angle wasn't working for what they were doing anymore, but fuck if he could move out of his lap to fix it.

"More, John," he mumbled against his throat, still wrapped arms and legs around him. John's warm throat. His pulse fluttered against his tongue, and Sherlock sighed and sucked. John moaned in agreement and wrapped a hand around both of their cocks, pulling and stroking – oh, that was fantastic, yes, keep doing that. Then, John was leaning forward until they were both tipping, and Sherlock was suddenly flat on his back, and John was a ridiculously gorgeous weight on top of him, and they were thrusting into John's hand together (together!) and Sherlock thought his lungs were going to catch fire, and it all just felt so damn good. Brilliant, even! Better than.

He bit John's ear (oral fixation?) and John cried out. Must make John do that more often. Sherlock's nails scratched along John's back as he slung a leg around his waist, again, to get closer. John's hips rocked into Sherlock's and everything stopped because that was perfect, and there was so much heat, and his hand felt like heaven, and why hadn't they done this sooner –

"Don't stop, don't stop," Sherlock whined when the coils in his belly were tightening, and he was so close, oh John is the best, his breath in his ear, his cock against his, slick flesh sliding, nothing else, nothing else at all!

Then they were tumbling together, and John was yelling something, Sherlock was biting someone's lip again, and there were spots in his eyes. Liquid was spreading warm and thick between them (at the same time, even!) and there were shudders and gasps, and waves and waves of glorious pleasure.

Fucking fucking fuck, though!

John went limp above him, breathing a symphony of ragged breath against Sherlock's neck, splaying his fingers of one hand over Sherlock's chest as he calmed, and Sherlock thought he might have the stupidest grin on his face.

That was.


In a few words, that was pretty fucking fantastic.

He was buzzing. Vibrating, even. Wrapped up and tangled in John's limbs on the floor, he was buzzing. (That had happened.) John's breath was pushing the hair in his eyes back and forth with each puff. Sweat was cooling on their skin. It was all fantastic.

When his own breath was in check, Sherlock slid an arm around John's back (because he could do that now) and he made another decision. "Can we do this again?"

John chuckled and nuzzled his cheek. "Why would we not?" He sounded perfectly scandalised.

Sherlock smiled. "Well, I did essentially attack you. But you brought it on yourself."

"To be fair," John smirked, "you kind of attack everything, though."

Sherlock blinked and thought about that. It was true. He attacked knowledge, he attacked his violin, crime scenes and blood samples, the food on his plate, whether he ate it or not, he attacked Anderson. He was an attacker of things. Huh.

John rolled somewhat onto his side and propped his head into his hand. He grinned down at him. Sherlock felt a momentary flash of self-consciousness, but managed to hold John's gaze. (Lions make direct eye contact a challenge, don't they?) "You made me a toy skull," Sherlock murmured.

John's eyes crinkled. "Yeah."

He gave a huff of amusement. "You care, John."

John laughed. "Of course I do. Git."

Sherlock beamed at him. His eyes flicked over to the papier-mâché mess further off. "Did you plan for this reaction?"

John pursed his lips. They were red and puffy. Sherlock felt a surge of pride. "Not this specific reaction no, but I'd hoped you'd find it amusing. Gotta say, it was welcome nonetheless. Pouncing included. Feel free to react that way in future, any time."

Sherlock rolled onto his side and pulled John against him. Bare skin contact was quickly becoming addictive, and Sherlock had never really been good at curbing things like that. "I ought to pounce you again." (He would. Soon.)

John giggled and wedged a knee between Sherlock's thighs. "I'm at your disposal, then."



"Can we bring the skull?" he reached up to lick again at John's throat. Something about that… definitely an oral fixation.

John let his head fall back and slid a hand up to tangle in Sherlock's hair. "After the paint dries," he rasped.

"Acceptable." He rolled over fully onto John then (Oh!) and kissed him deeply, thoroughly, taking his time to really map his mouth now that the urgency had somewhat dissipated. "What you do to me," he murmured several moments later when they were gasping for air, eyelids heavy with arousal. Round two was immediately imminent. (And after that, there would plenty of time for proper mapping of everything else later. He had decided that, too. Do a thing right, after all, and Sherlock was going to charge full steam ahead.)

"I'm prepared you let you show me exactly what that might be." John winked and reached around to grab a handful of Sherlock's arse.

Sherlock nearly groaned, intrigued with this challenge, (also the idea of John could do to Sherlock's arse) and rose to his feet, pulling John up after him. "You have two seconds."

John arched a brow, and then promptly dashed off for Sherlock's room (it was closest), where Sherlock proceeded to attack him again, and again, and again; and a few times, to be attacked by a lion with a penchant for detectives who like skulls, in return.

A/N: And thus ends my first foray into Johnlock pr0n. I hope it was at least moderately satisfying. Many thanks to just_a_dram for her quick eye and helpful tweakings.