Title: Drugged

Author: John Faina

Ratings/Warnings: Rated M for sexual situations

Pairings/Characters: Sherlock/John

Disclaimer: Although it's my favourite show in the world, it's so unfortunately not mine.

Genre: Friendship/and I don't want to say Romance, but I guess it really kind of...is.

The Personal Blog of Dr. John Watson


Right, so Sherlock has sent me back to the flat.

There we were, chasing after this bloke wearing a coat that, now I think on it, looks something like Sherlock's, when Sherlock suddenly stops dead and throws out his arm to stop me as well. His eyes were wide in fear, I think, and even more astonishing, panic. I was just about to ask him what the hell was the matter, when he whirled, gripped me by the upper arms, and pushed me from him with all his might. While I was still stumbling around, he shouted at me to turn around and go back, as quickly as possible. I straightened up as best I could and calmly refused the order. I knew, without knowing exactly how I knew it, that he wanted me out of the way for my own safety. And I also knew that if I was in danger, so was he, and I was not about to leave him on his own. But his face when I told him so was like no other I've ever seen. It was twisted, and his eyes doubled in size, his teeth bared - he looked mad. He hissed at me to go back at once, and he would come to fetch me in a short while.

Well, I found it hard not to obey. He looked at me with such a desperate, mad expression! So I squeezed his elbow and swallowed back my protests before doing as he said and fleeing back to Baker Street. I was only wasting time, really. I didn't look back, and now here I am, all comfy within the confines of our flat, waiting to hear or see or feel what's happened. What is happening. He knows how I can't stand not being part of the action! He knows I have to know what's going on at all times! Where is he? What if something awful's happened? Wha

Footsteps stampeded up all seventeen steps leading to the flat, and the door burst open. John nearly sent his laptop flying from him across the room as he jumped up, shouting something unintelligible at the intrusion.


It was Sherlock who rushed into the room like a tornado, sending various objects flying, and then he was in front of him, clasping his head in two hands, his blue eyes still as wild as before.

"Are you alright?"

John only blinked at him, trying to get the appropriate words out, through the surprise and confusion.

"Are you alright?" Sherlock demanded loudly and somewhat harshly, giving him a little shake, but John could clearly detect the concern.

"I - yeah, m'alright, why shouldn't I be? What's happened? Sherlock, what was all that ab - "

"Oh - God," Sherlock exclaimed, pulling John to him, and absolutely crushing him. John found himself preoccupied with just how quickly his friend's heart was beating, as his ear was pressed almost directly against it. He could also feel Sherlock looking frantically about the room for - what? He had no idea what was going on. "He hinted that you might be - I don't know what I - there were - "

"Sherlock," interrupted John, his voice slightly muffled. "D'you mind very much getting off - I - What the hell are you babbling about?"

"You, John - you could have been - and I wouldn't have been there in time to - it's just - they had me fooled and said they had planted - "

Sherlock seemed very close to hyperventilating. John needed to do something to impede this, and he needed to do it soon. But before he had the chance to do anything, Sherlock was off dragging him around the flat, inspecting this and that, his hand clenched very tightly around John's wrist. They reached the bookcase, and Sherlock began shoving books aside one-handedly, peering into every uncovered inch, a scowl on his face, his eyes wild. When nothing was to be found there, they moved on to other areas of the room, but nothing of consequence or importance presented itself anywhere. John thought that surely that was to be the end of it, but no, Sherlock merely dragged him off to the kitchen, where they once again found nothing. Off to the bedrooms they went, and after that, the loo. Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Okay. This was getting a bit absurd.

"Sherlock," John said as he was pulled to the ground to begin prying up floorboards, "Sherlock, stop - "

"They might've popped in while we were out and put some sort of explosive under here, where we would never think to look, or they could've managed to seep poison in through the cracks, the kind that's invisible and deadly, John, you know the sort, the - "

"Sherlock," John said firmly, yanking his wrist out of his flatmate's grip. He grabbed him by the shoulders and forced him back so that he sat on his haunches, then spun him to look him in the eyes. "What is the matter with you? There is nothing here! Nothing. No one popped in while we were out, Mrs Hudson would've told us as much, she's just downstairs. Didn't you say moments ago they had you fooled? You're being quite unreasonable, really."

"But I'm not, John, I swear it," Sherlock argued, his eyes actually pleading with him. "There's something here, if I could just - "

That was when John noticed something else about Sherlock's eyes - his pupils were dilated, so much so, they resembled nothing more than little pin pricks.

"Oh...Jesus," he mumbled under his breath, palming his face. Then, a bit louder, "Sherlock, shut up for a moment, will you? You've been drugged."

Sherlock's mouth clamped shut almost at once. He looked at John. "I haven't," he said in a tone that was almost offended.

"You have. I dunno how, but you have. C'mon," he grunted, getting to his feet and pulling Sherlock along with him. "Enough of this. You need to get to bed for a bit, okay? Sleep it off."

"No, John, no - " Sherlock was shaking his dark curls as John began to lead him down the hallway. "You're wrong - there's no way I could've - there's something here, John, and if - "

John steered Sherlock into his rarely used bedroom, and made for the comfortable-looking bed.

"That's it," he said as he sat him down upon the edge. "Lie back..." He took hold of the long, dark coat by its collar and removed it from Sherlock's shoulders, tossing it over the end of the bed. "Sherlock, you need to lie back."

"How could they have drugged me?" Sherlock asked him, fighting against his attempts. "They couldn't've - John, you know they couldn't've, I haven't eaten - "

"Maybe you drank something, then," said John logically, managing to grab both of his wrists and pin them together. Sherlock looked up from the sight and met his gaze, eyes wide. "Listen to me. Everything's fine here. I need you to go to sleep, you'll wake up in a few hours and everything will still be fine, okay? You'll be fine, I'll be fine. It'll all be fine, do you understand?"

"Now, John - "

"Do you understand, Sherlock."

"Yes...please listen to me now. Listen to me. Will you listen?"

"Only if you're about to say something sensible."

Sherlock swallowed thickly and extracted his wrists from John's hold to cradle his head again. His lower lip trembled, which John admittedly found fascinating, but he did not allow himself to become distracted by it. "You must leave. You must take your things and get out, John, go live with your sister for a bit. It's not safe here for you, and - "

John tossed his head to release it, annoyed. "Rubbish," he growled, even though he knew that Sherlock wasn't well at the moment, he didn't want to have to listen to him tell him to get out of the flat. "I'm not going to do that. Go to sleep."

"But you must," Sherlock said to him desperately. "Please, you must - they're targeting you because you're my only friend, John, can't you see what they're doing?"

"No, I can't, because no, they're not," John responded, not quite sure why he was arguing. "And even if they were, I mean - who are they? Who are they, Sherlock? No one's targeting anybody right now, we're all perfectly safe."

"What about the man from earlier, then, the man we were chasing?" demanded Sherlock. "That's who! He's got allies, hitmen - he's got the government - "

"I'll tell you who he hasn't got, and that's you. He hasn't got you and he hasn't got me, so if you could try to calm yourself down, we can both get some rest and try to figure it out this evening. Or in the morning, it all depends. Alright?"

Sherlock blinked multiple times at him and looked very much as though he wished to argue the matter further. But by some miracle, he refrained, swallowed a few times, and eventually consented by a nod of his head. He promptly began glancing about the room, his eyes darting here and there, never remaining fixed on one place for long. John nodded as well, relieved, and made to get up from the bed.

"Oh, stay," Sherlock insisted immediately, his voice deep and rumbling, twisting his long fingers in his lap. "I can't bear it if you're not within my sight, not when..."

"What d'you expect me to do, snuggle up next to you while you sleep?" John huffed, furrowing his brow in some amusement.

"Would you?" Sherlock replied at once, his head snapping around, sounding like he had seldom heard of a better plan than that. "It would be a source of great comfort to me, I think." He looked up at John, his expression honest and worried. And something else unidentifiable, simply because John had never seen it there before.

John narrowed his eyes. "You're serious," he stated. Then, he shook his head. "No, of course you're not, you've been dosed with something, but...Jesus, you actually want me to crawl into bed with you."

Sherlock said nothing; his expression took on confusion. John ran a hand down his face, sighing heavily. There was really nothing else for it. Couldn't hurt, could it?

"You're gonna to take the piss for this when you wake up," he murmured, going around to the other side of the bed and getting in. "Just remember it was your idea." He toed his shoes off, which thudded against the carpet individually, and then proceeded to lie down on his back, his arms folded over his middle. He glanced over at Sherlock, who had not moved. "Well, go on then."

"No, John, it was your idea," Sherlock said, hesitating a moment before lying back as well. Or sort of collapsing really, with an "oomph" noise, one side of his face smushed into his pillow. His head was turned towards John, and he stared at him for the longest time without blinking, his dark curly fringe hanging over one startling eye. "Thank you," he breathed into the silence, barely disturbing it.

"Right," said John. "Please go to sleep now."

He wasn't aware of Sherlock's hand creeping towards him until he felt the tips of his blunt fingernails scratching against his ribcage through the material of his shirt, trying to get a grip. He jerked a bit, surprised, and rolled his head. Sherlock continued to stare at him. A contest ensued, though John didn't know at first that that was what it was, for he was too focused upon the nails and the pin pricks.

"John, what on earth are you staring at," came that deep voice in the midst of the continuing silence, sounding bewildered.

John almost laughed. "You're asking me."

"Yes, of course, I don't keep my skull in the bedroom."

John did chuckle at that. "That's right, you don't. How silly of me."

Sherlock's one visible eye finally fluttered closed as a smile drooped onto his face. The effect made him look rather dreamy...as if he were fantasizing about the perfect, most challenging crime. He then sighed to complete the image. "Before I forget..." he trailed off, breathing deeply into the pillow.

"What is it?" John asked after about thirty seconds had gone.

"Oh..." Sherlock opened his eye. "Yes...I think you should know that you're worth more to me than anything in this stupid, boring world. Anything...anything at all."

John allowed his gaze to travel to the ceiling as he slowly let the meaning of these words wash over him. If they were true, then...well. That was really something. If not, then...why would Sherlock of all people say them? Was this simply the drug talking? He found himself hoping not, and he couldn't help but to respond.

"You, um...you mean a lot to me, too. Now. Sleep."

Sherlock's reply was quick and rather sharp. "Everything, do I mean everything to you?"

John blinked. "Erm - "

"Because you mean everything to me, and I do mean everything," he continued, his eye never leaving John's face. "You cannot possibly imagine it."

John's breath caught somewhere in his chest. Sherlock...Sherlock was telling him the truth, wasn't he? He had to. The way he'd been behaving - and there was no doubt or uncertainty in that sharp gaze, in that blue eye, in the set of his mouth. John's arms had fallen away from his middle, and Sherlock wasted no time grabbing onto the one closest to him with one surprisingly strong hand. The thumb swept over and over the material of his shirt. John swallowed, tensing. Damn the drug.

"Can't I?"


"Can't I imagine it?" he elaborated, his voice thick, unable to pass up this opportunity to speak his mind. "Sherlock, you...showed up out of the blue into my life, my dark, dull, pain-filled life, and you were like - like a whirlwind, you came in and spread you everywhere," he said, hoping to the high heavens that Sherlock was capable of understanding what he was trying to say at the moment. "Everywhere I turned, there you were, in some shape or form. Your wit, your intelligence, your cases, your flat, your landlady, your brother. All those things managed to pull me straight out of the utter rut I was in. I cannot express to you my gratitude, my good fortune at having somehow, miraculously, met you."

"So I do mean everything to you as well." Sherlock was biting his lip.

Thank God.

"I dunno, I mean - that's quite a big question, isn't it?"

"I've answered it already."

"It wasn't a question when you answered it."


"No, you're right, no, I'm sorry, it's just...yeah, you do mean everything to me, it's just...I hope you don't forget we had this conversation, you know, and I'm not used to you being so...human with me. So honest."

There was a beat of silence. "I've reached a conclusion, John."

"What, just now?"

"Do pay attention, and try to keep up," Sherlock instructed him in a manner that was quite a bit resembling his usual self, though the pin prick was still evident. "Here is what I've discovered: you and I are a couple."

John's eyebrows shot up. What? Not only did every single person in the entire universe think this, but now Sherlock thought it as well? He supposed it was only a matter of time. "You mean like a romantic couple," he said just to be absolutely certain that was what he was getting at.

"Exactly. All the signs are there, we'd be fools to ignore them. We are in love. Surely you've noticed?"

Without warning, a certain warmth flooded throughout John's body. He looked at Sherlock, sure that his cheeks were beginning to heat up, sure that a smile was threatening to overthrow his somewhat stony expression.

"In love," he repeated monotonously. "You think...that we're in love."

"Yes," Sherlock said, but was that a shadow of uncertainty that crossed his features? John thought that it was. Wasn't that something.

"Well..." he said slowly, heavily. It was now or never and all that. "I think...you might be right." He paused. "Only this once, though." His heart thudded dully in his ears and throat.

Sherlock's mouth curled up into a triumphant grin. "How long have you known, then?"

"The moment you first explained to me the deductions behind 'Afghanistan or Iraq?' - that's how long I've known, you clueless bastard. You absolutely fascinated me."

Sherlock's grip on his arm was incredibly tight by this point. John found he didn't mind too much. "Well, that's fascination, John, that's not love, is it?"

John blinked. "No. No, I don't suppose it is, but all the same..." he trailed off, not certain how to explain himself. "It...is."

Sherlock's cheeks coloured. The lightest shade of pink possible. "Yes, well...I...John, I don't mean to be insensitive, but could we possibly continue this portion of our declarations at a later time? I'm really in no state to...I wouldn't want to...you know. I wish us to move onto the next portion in order to save our relationship from destruction before it properly begins."

John snorted softly, filled with a familiar affection. "You started it. And only you would be able to churn out elaborate sentences while under the influence. Well, that, or the dose wasn't very strong." Then he paused as the rest of Sherlock's words caught up with him. "What exactly is the 'next portion'?"

Sherlock cleared his throat, looking suddenly sheepish. "You would know better than I."

There was a beat of quiet. "Oh. Oh!" John said, reddening further. "You're thinking - ? Okay, erm - "

"Not good?" Sherlock asked, worry creasing his nose.

"No, no, it's - I - I wasn't expecting you to - want - that, I suppose. So soon. So suddenly. At all, really. It's...fine."

Sherlock continued to look at him, his frow furrowed. "What is it that you think that I want, John?"

"You want - don't you want - ?" John stammered, unsure of how to phrase or finish the question. Unsure of how he himself was feeling about it.

Sherlock answered anyway. "I want whatever you wish to give me."

"Oh." John bit his lip. "Alright then. No pressure or anything like that."

"Pressure?" Sherlock appeared confused. "That's precisely what I'm trying to avoid putting on you. But, John, I must say, this drug - "

"Ah, so you admit you've been drugged then," John teased, trying to break some of the odd tension. Sherlock scowled at him good-naturedly.

"This drug," he continued, "is beginning to wear off already, I think, making me more aware of its presence, but it's had some rather unusual...side effects," he finished, clearing his throat lightly. His cheeks flushed a slightly darker pink.

John's eyes widened as his comprehension caught up with him. "Jesus," he whispered.

"Yes, and I've never quite experienced anything like - " Sherlock stopped, cut off; John promptly burst into peals of laughter. Sherlock's eyebrows raised in indignation. "What? Why are you laughing? This is not a humourous situation, John!"

John rolled a bit and buried his face into a pillow, trying his damndest to stifle the chuckles, but he laughed until tears pricked the corners of his eyes. The back of his mind registered Sherlock sighing haughtily at him.

Once he'd finished, he removed his face from the pillow, grinning like a loon, and wiping his cheeks. Sherlock glared pointedly, his own cheeks now a rather dark shade of pink. John reached over and patted his shoulder sympathetically.

"I'm sorry," he said, and he meant it. "I'm really sorry, Sherlock, only I've never seen you like this before! This is the most...human-like you've ever behaved and it's all because of some drug, forgive me for finding it bloody hilarious. It isn't decent, I realise."

Sherlock had unexpectedly stiffened at his touch. He squinted at John. "A-alright," he stuttered, and John stared. "You're forgiven." Then his voice transformed into a sort of whine, the likes of which John had never heard before coming from him. "John, I'm really in a state." His teeth clenched.

John, totally astounded now, allowed his gaze to travel down the length of Sherlock's thin body, to where his problem could be clearly seen.

"Now," he began, his eyes fixed, "can I just ask you something?" He glanced at Sherlock's face.

"Ugh," Sherlock breathed, "I can promise that I would not ask this of you if you did not truly mean the entire world to me, and if you'll be so kind as to remember that I never say things unless I've got piles of evidence to back it up or years worth of considerable knowledge on the subject, that would be most helpful. If not you - no one, do you understand?" His voice was strained. "Though if it is going to be you, I do hope you get a move on soon - "

"Yes, okay," John breathed back, scooting closer to him. His heart thumped hard in his chest, and his palms tingled and began to sweat. He swallowed a number of times, unable to squash the lump that had formed. How had they gotten to this point?

There was nice bit of heat pooling in his stomach already. Sherlock watched him, his expression an odd mix of impatience, affection, longing, uncertainty, and utter desperation. John figured there was really no point in drawing this out much; he got close enough, and carefully threw a leg over Sherlock's body, his palms planted down on either side of his head, his breathing getting heavier by the second.

He looked down at his best friend, whose breathing pattern was also transforming into something unlike his usual. John could tell he was struggling to hold something back, and he found he wanted to know very much what it was. Licking his lips once in nervous anticipation, he smiled, leaned down, and covered Sherlock's mouth with his own.

"Mm," Sherlock groaned in the back of his throat. He opened his mouth at once, and, if John had ever had worries about his lack of experience, they all flew right out the window when his tongue came into the picture. Sherlock devoured him, hungrily, desperately, clutching his short bristles of hair, pulling him closer, as if he'd done this sort of thing a thousand times.

John was caught off-guard, but he quickly adjusted, and with a low growl, he began to undo Sherlock's buttons. Sherlock emitted a small whine into his mouth, clearly aroused almost to the point of it being painful for him. John wrenched their mouths apart to instead move down to his smooth, pale throat, kissing skin as it came to be exposed as he kept on with the buttons. Sherlock threw his head back as soon as they parted, and now gulped in lungfuls of air, huffing every time he felt John's lip on him.

John hurriedly pushed aside the flaps of Sherlock's shirt to attack his middle with kisses that had the potential to leave bruises. He dipped his tongue into his bellybutton and Sherlock gave a yelp that would surely be heard from downstairs - from across the street, even - then groaned, drawing in a great, shuddering breath.

John reached his trousers, his mind whirling, little spots appearing in the corners of his eyes. He'd never been so - God, he'd never. He nudged Sherlock's legs apart without permission, swooped down and tongued the rather impressive bulge through the material, breathing deliberately onto the area surrounding it. It had to be killing him. It was best to get it over with quickly, but John wanted to provide extraordinary pleasure along the way, especially since this was likely Sherlock's first ever experience. It was John's first experience too, come to think of it.

Sherlock arched his back so far off the bed, John was forced to reach up in order to grab his hips and forceably push them back down. He made absolutely no sound at all during the arch, but when John grabbed him, it all came pouring out: heavy breathing, groans, noises of pure lust and desperation.

"Oh, Sherlock," John whispered, his throat tight, his head swimming. "Alright, here we go..." he said, hardly aware he was saying anything, and he stuck his thumbs under the waistband of the trousers and underwear, and tugged them both down at once. Sherlock hissed at the ceiling.

It was almost scary to see it - the direct point of Sherlock Holmes's staggering arousal. John was pretty certain he'd never seen anything like it. What the hell kind of drug did this to a person? John had never in his life been that stimulated. Until now, of course; he was well on his way there.

"John - " Sherlock gasped. "John, touch me, touch me again - "

"Oh, God, yes," John responded to the familiar deep, sensual voice that was made unfamiliar by the sheer amount of need, frustration, and want. "I'll touch you, no I'll do better than that, in fact, I'll - mm," He was murmuring without really realising it, and he put a stop to it by filling his mouth full of Sherlock, driven by animal instinct.

"Oh - OH - "

"Mm," John hummed again around him, swirling his tongue, his hands on the insides of Sherlock's thighs, rubbing soothingly.

"John - OH - GOD - "

Sherlock was thrashing around, gripping handfuls of sheets and then releasing them, arching his back, flexing his toes, hooking his ankles around John's back, then dropping them back to the bed.

John couldn't help groaning around him repeatedly, which only made matters more hectic. He pushed Sherlock's legs as far apart as they would go and gently dragged his fingernails down his thighs, which quivered rather like an earthquake. Then he pulled off Sherlock with a tiny pop and directed his attention to the soft balls underneath, caressing them with his lips and occasionally pulling one into his mouth and sucking lightly, overwhelmed by the sight, taste, and scent, and not able to get enough of the three. And the sound. The sound of Sherlock. God, that sound. What were they doing?

He lowered his mouth back onto Sherlock, plunging down as far as he could, impressed that he hadn't finished yet, as desperate as he was, and determined to make him. He sucked hard going back up, flattening his tongue to the underside of him.

"C'mon," he whispered encouragingly before taking the plunge again.

Sherlock whimpered. Actually whimpered. And began repeating John's name very quietly, as if his voice had gone. He then went a bit still, and very tense.

"Yes," John said, sensing he was close. "Yes, come on." He took him in his mouth again and massaged his balls with his hand, humming.

Sherlock inhaled once, very sharply, and came with such an intensity that John pulled his mouth safely out of the way, though he left his hand. He leaned over him, attaching his mouth to his damp neck, pumping him of every last drop, which admittedly took a while, and then continued to lavish him with attention while he returned to himself.

John gently nipped and licked at his neck, down to his chest and middle, his hands sliding down the pale arms, then kissed each jutting hipbone. He glanced down at the evidence their actions had produced.

"Hm...you made quite a mess," he said softly to Sherlock's palm, which he had just brought up to his lips.

Sherlock obviously tried to respond, but he had not yet got his voice back; all that came out were a few grunts and half-formed words. John smiled and chuckled against him, feeling pleased, utterly astounded, and overwhelmed.

"...had to have been the most attractive thing I've ever seen..." he continued to murmur as he made his way back up Sherlock's torso. "Had no idea you were so sexy...only ever imagined..." He barely knew what he was saying.

"J..." Sherlock said breathily, his eyes on the ceiling.

"Sherlock," John whispered fondly, disbelievingly, kissing his shoulder. "Look at you." He ran a hand through his slightly damp curls. "Can't so much as utter a syllable...we should make this an everyday thing." He began to nibble lightly at his jawline.

Other than turning his head a bit to allow John more access, Sherlock lay limp to his ministrations, breathing deeply.

John kept on until he was finally able to function again. But the first words out of Sherlock's mouth shocked him considerably and stopped him dead in his tracks.

"...more...John, I need more. Of you. I need more of you...give me more...please..."

"What d'you mean, more?" John asked, breathless. Anxious. Hopeful. So bloody turned on, he couldn't stand another instant without -

"More," Sherlock insisted, grabbing the hem of John's jumper and giving it a sharp tug. "Do what you want to me, John, do everything to me. Get these clothes off us both, and then for God sakes, ravish me. Have me until you make me beg for mercy twice - only you can, I'm sure of it - "

John didn't need to be told a third time. Sherlock sounded so convinced that this was what he wanted, craved, that John didn't hesitate to press a bruising kiss to his pink lips, before sitting up and pulling off the jumper and the shirt underneath, both of which he flung somewhere. Sherlock made short work of the button on his trousers - his hands were deft, just like the rest of him, and John merely had to shrug out of them and fling them off somewhere as well in order for him to move onto the most exciting part, in his opinion: undressing Sherlock Holmes. Completely, that is.

The shirt was already unbuttoned, so he pushed it from Sherlock's shoulders and tossed it on the pile - if there was a pile. Who the hell knew where the clothes were landing?

And there they both were. Exposed, completely bared for each others' eyes.

John had never seen Sherlock look like this - flushed, eyes bright with (love? Could it be?), lust, excitement, and mischief, his pale skin glowing underneath him, his dark curls tousled, messy, and damp. Various lovemarks on his neck and shoulders.

"John, what on earth are you staring at," he suddenly said, grinning warmly, his tone teasing because he knew he'd said it earlier on.

"The most beautiful and brilliant person I've ever had the pleasure to share a flat with," John answered, leaning down to smother his mouth.

Sherlock angled his hips upwards, effectively pressing them together, muttering "Idiot". John grunted at the friction, as hard as he'd ever been in his entire life, perhaps even including his teenage years.

"I may be an idiot," he teased, gasping a little, "but I have the power to make you beg for mercy, apparently."

"Did I say that? Oh, God, I did..." Sherlock said, clearly wanting his mouth. John let him have it. He kissed Sherlock intensely, applying every trick he'd ever learned along the way, until his friend was gasping for air at every opportunity and unconsciously digging his nails into his back.

"Now, what did you want me to do?" John asked, reaching back and grabbing Sherlock's hands. He linked their fingers and slammed them down against the mattress, pinning them on either side of Sherlock's head. Sherlock gazed up at him, blue eyes clouded, and lips swollen. John squeezed his hands, leaning down to kiss him once more. "Anything specific?"

"What - what kind of a question is that, John?" Sherlock managed. "You're well aware I've never conducted experiments in this area. I simply want you to - to give me everything you've got."

"Well, if that's true, then you know where this is going," John said, kissing him again. And again. "But I only want to go there if you're absolutely positive - "

"John, I believe I did say ravish me," Sherlock said through clenched teeth. "So if you'd be so kind - "

"Okay - " John nearly stumbled over himself trying to get that one word out. "Alright, h - hang on a - I'll need to go and get - " He nodded his head towards the bedroom door, which was open, and released Sherlock's hands in order to get up, hoping he was capable of standing. Sherlock clenched his knees around him, trapping him, his eyes widening.

"I'm coming right back," John said, swallowing a number of times. "My room's - next door - "

"What do you need in there?" Sherlock asked sharply.

"Well - you know - or m-maybe you don't, um - the, um, condoms and things - "

"Oh. Right." Sherlock cleared his throat and his knees slackened. "Quickly."

John scrambled from the bed, through the door, and practically busted down his own in his haste. He made a beeline for his night table, yanked open the drawer, and rumaged frantically until he found what he was looking for, his thoughts blocked off.

"Do take your time!"

John nearly jumped out of his skin, and scampered back into Sherlock's room, where the most unbelievable sight awaited him: Sherlock's luminously pale, lithe, toned body lay long and flat on the bed; he was gripping his hair with one hand, the sheets with the other, and his eyes were fixed on the doorway, sparkling and flickering like blue fire. He breathed a sigh of relief when John appeared, then bit his lip hard, and swung his legs over the edge of the mattress, getting ready to stand.

John walked forwards and collided with him before he even had the chance, tackling him backwards onto the mattress, his arms underneath his shoulders, fusing their mouths together. Sherlock grunted in surprise, and then in pleasure, jutting his hips upwards. Breathing heavily, John broke them up, stuck his index finger in his own mouth, wetting it, then reached between them both to press it against Sherlock's opening, which he knew would likely be hyper-sensitive, never having been breached before - but Sherlock took to the sensation like he did to a new case.

"Oh, that is brilliant," he groaned, as if he'd discovered a vital clue.

"Hm," John hummed, smiling. "You'll like this, then." He gently inserted his finger, watching Sherlock's face.

He winced, but only a little, and then he positively growled. "John, you're wonderful, you're - " John carefully inserted a second finger. " - a-amazing!"

John chuckled deeply. "You've told me that once, you know," he said, slowly scissoring the two fingers to get him more used to it. "That time in the cemetary..."

Sherlock tossed his head to one side, his eyes clenched shut. "You are approximately as big as your first three fingers, that should do it..."

John blinked, reddening absurdly. "How...observant of you. Wait - you know what this is for?"

"I realise I may not know everything about this particular subject, but I'm not so naive as to believe you're trying to give me - " Sherlock cut himself off with a sudden yelp, then continued, trembling ever-so-slightly, " - a p-prostate exam, Doctor Watson."

John grinned and leaned down to kiss his neck, sucking lightly on his pulse point, while he slipped a third finger inside. He nudged his prostate again with the tip of a fingernail. Sherlock's entire body froze, and then he relaxed, his breathing very haggard. The hot breaths hit John's ear in a rather sensuous fashion, making him curl his fingers a bit inside Sherlock, which, in turn, drove Sherlock nearly wild. He pushed back on the fingers, one foot coming into contact with John's calf, tossing his head from side to side, groaning loudly at the ceiling.

"Ahhright," John exhaled, "how about we crack on, then?"


Shaking his head, John gently extracted his fingers and set himself up between Sherlock's legs for the second time, placing his hands on either side of him, breathless with desire.

"You can touch me, you know," he said suddenly.

Sherlock's eyes flew open; he looked at John, who smiled somewhat apologetically.

"I thought I had been," he rumbled, glancing to one side uncertainly, pressing his hips into John's. John bit back a noise of appreciation, and kissed him briefly to show him that it really didn't matter. Yet. In the future, though, John was definitely going to need some intimate contact, if this was going to continue on.

"You know how I've been kissing you everywhere and all that?" John said quietly. "That's what I mean. It's not all about getting off for the sole purpose of getting off."

Sherlock tilted his head. "You want me to do that."

"At your own pace, yes," John told him, nodding. "It won't make a difference right now, of course, but I'm just letting you know you can do those sorts of things. For future reference."

"Right," Sherlock said in a tone that conveyed how seriously he was taking John's words, and how carefully he was storing them away somewhere in his incredible brain.

"Right," John repeated, aligning himself with Sherlock opening, his voice shaking. The condoms lay forgotten next to them. Sherlock inhaled sharply and clenched his eyes shut again. John began to push himself inside, biting his lip deeply. He stopped when he met resistance. Sherlock stared at the ceiling, biting his lip as well, his Adam's apple bobbing.

"Are you alright?" John asked, rubbing soothing circles on his arm with his thumb.

"Yes, of course, m'alright, why would I not be alright, in fact, I've never been better, John, you can't know how this feels, you inside me, hovering over me, and, yes, I'm rather tense, but just give me a moment to accomodate you, and then we can proceed as...ooh," Sherlock sighed, his body suddenly relaxing. "Ah, now, John, you can move now...oh, please, move now..."

John couldn't have refused if he'd tried. He couldn't speak; his tongue seemed to have swollen to three times its normal size. Tentatively, he pushed the rest of the way into Sherlock, hands gripping his narrow hips. Sherlock had barely stopped biting his lower lip, his eyes shut tight, but when John came to a halt, fully inside him, he let out a giant breath of air.

"Oh...oh...John," he sighed.

John swallowed, looking down at him, and very carefully began to move. Sherlock threw his head back, exposing his pretty neck, his breathing heavy. John bent down to nibble along the side, up to his earlobe, his thrusts slow and gentle. He nibbled back down. Sherlock all but shuddered, a noise getting trapped in his windpipe. John rubbed one of his hip bones with his thumb before allowing his hand to wander down to Sherlock's member, which was trapped between them, throbbing. He stroked it very gently.

"Hah!" Sherlock cried, biting his lip again. He released it quickly. "Oh, yes, John!"

John groaned, muffling the sound in Sherlock's collarbone. The heat between them was already becoming stifling and slick; it was most unbearably wonderful. He began to thrust a bit harder. He licked Sherlock's skin to see what it tasted like - it tasted like Sherlock and salt, of course. Sherlock gave a shuddering groan, tossing his head to one side. John sat back a little and slid his hands underneath Sherlock's thighs to pull him closer for a better angle, but the man was already so limp with pleasure that it felt like pulling a lolling, life-sized doll. The sight turned him on more than he could have thought possible.

But then Sherlock surprised him by lifting one leg and draping it over John's right shoulder. He was...extremely flexible. Breathless, John grabbed it and held on, thrusting at an even better angle now. Sherlock gasped and groaned and grunted at the ceiling, clutching the sheets and rolling his hips in the most sensuous way, though he surely had no idea...

John kissed him, and it registered as amazing somewhere in the back of his mind when Sherlock's knee made contact with his chest during the act, but he couldn't dwell on it because Sherlock had grasped his head with both hands and was now running his fingers all throughout John's hair.

John was soon overtaken by something purely animal. And Sherlock didn't protest when he suddenly flipped him over to lie flat on his stomach. He merely gave a surprised and confused, yet clearly aroused "John - !", before burying his face in the sheets and gripping them tightly with his fingers. John whispered shakily that it was alright in his ear, and gave it his all, kissing his shoulders, back, and neck.

It all became too much for Sherlock. His cries and groans came out strangled as he struggled between stifling them in the sheets and pushing back forcefully against John, as John had begun to hit his prostate with each thrust.

"Please..." John thought he heard.

"What?" he managed, kissing Sherlock's neck.

"Oh, John...please! I can't - I can't - "

"You're begging," he whispered breathily, hitting that spot again. John was dizzy, and rested his forehead on Sherlock's shoulder blade. "You're actually begging..."

"John!" Sherlock panted into the sheets, his eyes closed, his brow furrowed heavily. "John, John - "

"God, yes," John groaned, thrusting harder. The bed, though it had seldom ever been used, began to creak, and John knew that flipping Sherlock over had been a very smart move indeed, for the friction he probably felt was sure to help things along quite nicely.

Sure enough, Sherlock raised a hand and slapped it down upon the mattress, clenching the material there until his knuckles turned a shocking white.


He shook violently, and John knew he was finished. As soon as he knew that, he was finished as well.

He came with astounding intensity, with a cry to match Sherlock's, and then proceeded to collapse on top of his friend, who was damp, still shaking, groaning, and oblivious. They stuck together wonderfully, their arms and legs intertwined, John's cheek on the back of Sherlock's neck. With the slightest bit of effort, he could press his lips to Sherlock's jaw line, but he couldn't seem to muster up the energy, and he stared unblinkingly at the headboard. Sherlock's eyes were closed tightly.

There was quite a lot of silence, apart from their laboured breathing, that lasted for ten minutes at least. And then, once all was beginning to go silent -


This triggered something in him, and, unable to contain it, he burst out in breathless laughter, which, he figured out too late, probably wasn't the most intelligent action to take. Sherlock tensed underneath him.

"Did I do something wrong?" he asked, his voice quiet and stiff.

"Did you do something - ? Wr - no! For heaven's sake, no," John said, stunned out of his laughter. "You did everything absolutely right, Sherlock, better than right, in fact, that - was so incredible, that I almost can't believe you've never done...hum, no, I was just laughing at the, er, contrast between your last two 'John's, to tell the truth."

Sherlock gradually relaxed again. He then gave a little chuckle as well, his face still partially buried in the sheets. John smiled, letting the vibrations from it seep into his skin, before getting off him and rolling onto his back.

"So. That, um, took care of the side effects, did it?" he asked cheekily, looking over at him.

Sherlock sighed. "I suppose," he said, his eyes twinkling. "Though we may have to periodically continue keeping them at bay for the next...oh, four hours or so."

John raised his eyebrows. Sherlock raised his own in response.


"Are you...flirting with me, Sherlock Holmes?"

"Am I? I thought I was just having a guess at..." he trailed off, looking thoughtful. "No. You're absolutely right."

"I'm right?"

"Yes. I'm flirting. Shamelessly."

That was when John noticed the sensation on his ankle that was Sherlock foot rubbing against it. He grinned and inched over until he could press a kiss to Sherlock's forehead and run a hand through his damp curls.

"You do want this," he said in a questioning tone. "You want...this. All this."

Sherlock looked at him, biting his lip, which already bore bite marks, and nodded.

"I doubt I could live without it, John."

"You did fine for years without it." John kissed his nose, which Sherlock wrinkled endearingly.

"Apparently not," he replied quietly. "I thought it was fine. Now I know that it wasn't, not even close, and if I lost it now, I would lose everything."

John nodded slowly, placing a hand on Sherlock's cheek, his thumb stroking over the remarkable cheekbone.

"God, I love you," he said.

Sherlock smiled genuinely. "You certainly do, no doubt about that."

John laughed. "Well, I'm glad you're sure about it now. You weren't earlier on."

"My brain was in a frazzled, drug-induced state earlier on," Sherlock pointed out. "I didn't actually mean to say any of the atrocious things I said to you."

"You telling me that I mean everything to you and that we're clearly in love were atrocious things?" John teased.

"Of course. You know me, John, I would never have said them otherwise. But," he said, pressing his face into John's hand, "I did say them. And I meant them and I can't take them back. And now you're stuck with me, I'm afraid."

"I still can't believe you made me jump you," John said with a bright, pleased smile.

"Oh, I did..." Sherlock said, as if he'd almost forgotten. "How utterly atrocious. I feel like I perhaps ought to apologize, but - "

"But the fact that it led to the best sex of my entire bloody life more than makes up for your poor manners," John finished for him, his tone final.

Sherlock blushed, looking pleased. John was smiling fondly at him, his fingers stroking over his face, brushing back his hair.

Sherlock's eyes suddenly widened. His face took on the expression he got when he had figured something out - only this time there was shock and bewilderment there as well. He slowly looked at John and blinked. John looked questioningly back at him.

"Mycroft," he rumbled.

"Sorry, what?"

The space where Sherlock had been emptied as he jumped up and darted to his bedside table where rested his phone. He picked it up and began going through it frantically.

"Sherlock, what - " John sat up.

Sherlock went very still and silent.

"John. Go and fetch your phone, would you, please."

"Uh - "


"Okay," John said, hopping up. He grabbed Sherlock's blue robe on his way out the door, for he did not fancy walking starkers throughout the flat, and went down to the den where he'd left his phone sitting next to his laptop when Sherlock first burst through the door. He got it and brought it back to Sherlock's room with him.

"Here you are," he said, holding it out.

"Check your messages."

Frowning, John looked down at his phone and did as Sherlock said. He had one new message. It read:

You're welcome, John.


John looked up.

"Mine says 'It was about time, Sherlock, don't you think?'."

They stared at each other. Then they both burst out laughing.