Authors Notes: This has been ages since I've been on here and I'm so sorry! Only six weeks left of school forever so you'll have to be patient with me xD Anyways, this is a follow on from 'All Because of Some Stupid Emotion Called Love', requested by emmish. It didn't turn out quite as I expected but overall, I think I'm happy with the result! This is my first gay smut too, by the way... XD Let me know what you all think. New chapters of 'Their Journey to the End' will come soon, same with 'Sanctuary Goes to Preschool'. K, thanks. Enjoy 3

Three months.

It had been three months since they, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, hooked up.

From that night of another date going horribly wrong and John eventually masturbating for his flatmate, things between them had been perfect. Sure, they still fought and Sherlock still put body parts in the fridge but they worked through it as the always did.

And yet, there was one problem with their relationship and that was; now that they were together, what were they called?

The topic had arisen when they'd been at a crime scene and Sherlock had stood a little too close to John for Lestrade not to pull the doctor aside and ask about it. Until then, they'd just been 'them'; Sherlock and John, shagging and cuddling and loving each other. Now that their friends knew though, they were forced to be known as something.

Three words immediately popped into John's head but apparently the universe had yet to make a word for them.

The three words were partners, lovers and boyfriends and John hated those words; all three of them, because despite hours of restless sleep, and frown lines appearing on his forehead, he still couldn't find the right word for this relationship.

They had more than a partnership, the word implying that they were running a business together, or were two kids working together on a school project, which they most certainly were not. It was more than that; more formal than such activities and hell, a lot more sexy. And what they had was definitely more important than a partnership could be or had ever been before.

'Lovers' made them sound sappy or romantic, something which, though John had much experience in those area, just wasn't something he could think of in context with Sherlock. Their relationship was slow developing and until a month ago, hadn't been overly sexually deviated. Now it was raunchy and hot, the sex was mind blowing and there was nothing particularly romantic about it at all, which was absolutely bloody fine by him, but still left him without a word for their romps.

So 'lovers' didn't work.

Finally, 'boyfriends' just didn't suit them. Sure they were together, and sure, they were both men but something about the word didn't work. It was possible that it was because of Mycroft, repeatedly texting the pair with mocking messages like 'Boyfriends buy each other coffee, Sherlock,' or 'His favourite flower is the Hyacinth, John. Be a good boyfriend and buy him a bouquet, will you? He gets so stroppy when he can't close a case.' And, if John was to be honest, then 'boyfriends' was such a childish sounding word, like they were giggling teenagers discovering their sexuality for the first time. (John refused to remind himself of the truth of that statement)

Sherlock hadn't been much help, of course. Every time John brought up the topic, asking him what he called their relationship, the younger man would smirk and kiss him, simply mumbling in John's ear that "You are mine". Those words always got him going and would eventually lead to them shagging against any flat surface; the kitchen bench, over the couch, against the door, and even in front of the crackling fire.

It seemed that, rather than admit that he didn't know the answer; Sherlock set out to make John forget the question all together.

It worked, of course.

Despite his nervous, shaky start to all things sex, Sherlock was a fast learner and now with only a few touches, he could have John hard and begging to cum, his eyes closed with pleasure.

Now, as the pair sat in a cab on the way home from what he was calling the 'Ping Pong Killer', John remembered the question and snuck a glance to his companion.


"Hmm?" The Detective responded, his eyes following the buildings that passed the cab.

"You and me…what are we now? What is," he gestured between them, "this called? Us." It was a safe time to ask. They were in a cab and there was no way that Sherlock would try to distract him in such a public place, with the Cabbie sitting mere seats in front of them. (John was also trying to ignore the fact that such a scenario was one of his longest reoccurring fantasies.)

Sherlock looked over to him slowly, his face impassive and after a long moment without an answer, John raised his eyebrows expectantly.

"John," Sherlock said slowly and turned in his seat, his hand brushing against John's leg, heat burning in his wake.

"No, Sherlock, no, don't avoid the question. Seriously, I want an answer." John stammered a bit, his gaze hard but his voice disobeying him.

But Sherlock wasn't responding, moving forward in his seat and John watched him, swallowing hard. Sherlock rested his hand higher up John's leg, his thumb stroking over his thigh, letting his fingers brush against John's groin.

"Christ, Sherlock, the cabbiewill see us! Stop it." He wanted to wipe the smirk off Sherlock's gorgeous face but found himself humming with pleasure, his eyes closing for the briefest of moments. And he wasn't moving all that much to stop the man, either, something that Sherlock took great pride in noting as he grabbed John's hands and pulled him into the seats across the vehicle, their backs to the Cabbie.

"There, now he won't. Happy?" He sneered, not at all meaning it as he latched his teeth to John's neck, sucking and lapping at the skin he pulled and the Doctor struggled to hold back a moan. Sherlock smirked, curling his fingers around the growing bulge in his companion's trousers and he nuzzled his neck, his tongue darting out to lick the shell of John's ear.

A soft moan pressed itself from the Doctors lips as he shuddered and gripped Sherlock's hair, tugging as he bucked into his hand. His cock was beginning to strain uncomfortably against the metal teeth of his fly and he dropped his head back, brain shutting down.

He couldn't think.

He couldn't breathe.

He could only feel Sherlock's fingers prying his jeans open.

Hot breath washing over his neck as Sherlock kissed her ear, latching his teeth to it slightly and oh fuck, fingers, so long and cold, wrapping around his length.

"Sher-"He almost moaned but Sherlock slipped his spare fingers into John's mouth. The doctor clamped his lips around the digits eagerly, his tongue curling around them and he sucked them in time with Sherlock's closed fist around his cock.

"You love this, don't you, John?" The detective's voice was a dangerously low rumble that sent a shiver through the shorter man's body as he rutted his hips up against his hand. "Being so hard in my hand while we're in a cab. The cabbie only needs to turn the music down a fraction, and he'll hear us. Is that what you want, hm? I've read your blog, love, even the private entries. I know what you like." He nipped again. "And what you want."

John panted around Sherlock's fingers, pre-come beading on his swollen, red tip and bit down as the hand around his length, squeezed deliciously.

"I want you to come for me, John. Come for me, only me because," Sherlock bit his neck, sucking at the skin, "you," He nipped higher, behind John's ear, "are", he bit the lobe of his ear and the doctor stifled a moan, "mine."

His hand worked faster down the older man's shaft, twisting his wrist as he reached the base and John was close, so close, when Sherlock got to his knees between John's legs. His mouth engulfed John's cock and without warning, he was coming because fuck, there was nothing, nothing , hotter than Sherlock's fingers in his mouth as they sat in a cab, only a glass panel separating them and the cabbie as Sherlock sucked him off like an eager lapdog.

Sherlock hummed as he caught the load, swallowing what he could and licking the rest from John's shaft, aftershocks shaking the doctor's body as the cab pulled onto the curb in front of 221B Baker Street. Sherlock fixed John back into his pants, noting with a smug smirk and a quick lick of his lips, that he was completely boneless. He helped the man out of the cab, thrusting a twenty into the cabbie's hand with a mumbled "Keep the change."

John was slowly coming back to his surroundings as Sherlock unlocked the door, helping the flushing man up the stairs. The doctor licked his lips, feet stumbling through the door into the living room and then he pressed Sherlock to the wall, massaging the heel of his hand to the taller man's trousers. Sherlock sucked in a breath, growling a bit and swapped their positions. Shoving a hand up John's shirt, he pressed their lips together hard, whispering against him.

"I want to fuck you, John."

John whimpered embarrassingly but was too far gone to care as his brain flickered back to life. With his hands pressed against Sherlock's chest, he pushed him back.


Sherlock's eyebrows shot up to his hairline and he looked very carefully at the other man.


"No." John had never said 'no' Sherlock during sex, ever. It was exciting and frustrating and made him want to fuck him even more. A growl, deep from his chest vibrated through him and he rested his hands on his hips, mimicking the doctor's pose.

"Not until you tell me."

"Tell you what?" Sherlock's fingers were playing at his belt, eyes never leaving John's.

"Us. What we are. Fuck buddies, lovers, partners, boyfriends, what?"

Sherlock launched for John but the shorter man ducked under his arm, taking the opportunity to press his front against the detective's back, pinning him to the wall. His lips were on his ear, teeth tugging less than gently.

"Tell me Sherlock." He spoke slowly, accentuating his words with a grind of his hips. Unfortunately, he wasn't fifteen anymore and his recovery period wasn't as quick as it used to be but he knew that the feeling of him against Sherlock's back would drive the other man crazy. He gripped his wrists and held them above the man's head, an effort for the short doctor but Sherlock submitted easily under him, thrusting back to get more of John's hips.

"J-John, please…" He gasped, needing friction and it still amazed the both of them just what John could reduce him to; a pile of shaking knees and straining erection, splayed against a wall.

"Tell. Me."

There was something dangerous in his voice that sent a shiver down the Sherlock's spine and he swallowed hard.

"I-I don't know…" He hated sounding so weak and vulnerable but a voice in the back of his mind whispered to him that only John. It was always going to be only John who could do this to him.

John pulled back away from him and Sherlock moaned softly at the loss of contact but didn't move. There was a silent authority that rolled off John in waves and Sherlock had witnessed it several times and it was something he always admired but this time was different. He was dominating without words, leading with gentle tugs of Sherlock's shirt, turning him around and Sherlock let his half-closed eyes drag up over John's body.

Hungry brown eyes stared back, a tongue darting between kiss swollen lips as John watched him, stretching to wrap an arm around his waist. He kissed him slowly; teeth nibbling, tongues dancing, hands threading through hair and finally Sherlock had an answer. It crept through his silent brain quietly, as if not to alert himself to the thought and when it finally reached him, he pulled back, pink tinging his cheeks.

"I know—" His voice was rough and thick with arousal and he cleared his throat, trying again.

"John, I know why we haven't found the answer to your question."

John, who was now stroking his half-hard erection slowly through his pants, looked up lazily and hummed as an instruction to go on.

Sherlock strode across to him with two steps, long legs carrying him gracefully and he pulled John forward, pressing their lips together again, trailing his kisses over his mouth and jaw. He let his lips rest to John's ear, fingers trailing over his neck and chest.

"Because there is no one, no one , like us in the world; no one who has ever felt this connection like we have, who have loved each other so deeply and with such realism that it hurts, who can say that they've died and killed for one another as we have. We're Sherlock Holmes, world's only Consulting Detective and John Watson, his lover, best friend, blogger and the part of him that he hadn't known was missing from him all those years before he met him."

He kissed John's pulse point that thrummed rapidly.

"Titles don't matter; they're just words. So no, there isn't a word for what we are, John, because, we are us and that's all that matters."

John made a noise like a strangled sob and Sherlock froze. Of course he would have said something wrong. It was completely typical of him to ruin everything!

He closed his eyes, ashamed, knowing he'd said too much. He'd pretty much just confessed his love and obsession for the man and they'd only been together for three months.

Stupid, idiotic, moronic.

John would pull away from him now, call him a freak and a creep just like everyone else did and he knew it would break his heart that only John had been able to get to. So he braced himself, moulding his face into a picture of blank disregard and pulled back.

But John clung to him.

His hands fisted in Sherlock's deep purple shirt, clutching desperately and his lips pressed themselves to his forehead.

"My god Sherlock..." His voice was shaking but with admiration and love and Sherlock looked up, mouth open. John grabbed him and kissed him once more, backing him to the wall and he secured a leg around Sherlock's hip, pressing body to body, two layers of clothing separating their skin.

The kiss heated, all teeth and tongue, nipping, sucking and licking, exploring and yet every inch of love John felt for the younger man was emanating through the touch and they were dizzy with the feeling.

Sherlock moaned, eyes closed and rubbed against him, erection against erection, fingers fumbling with fabric. Somewhere along the way to the bedroom, their clothes were stripped and littered the floor of the hallway, desperate hands stroking and rubbing. The tumbled through the bedroom door and onto the bed, Sherlock grinding impatiently onto John's cock, the other man throwing his head back with a loud moan.

"I want you inside me, please…" He breathed, pulling Sherlock back for another bruising kiss and the man didn't wait any longer. He reached for the lube on the bedside table, hands shaking and flicked the cap up.

John watched, breathing hard with anticipation as he ran his fingers gently up and down the man's arms. Sherlock let the lube warm in his hand, keeping his eyes locked to John's and he pushed two fingers slowly into the man.

The room was quiet for a moment and then John moaned; a long, keening sound that sent jolts of pleasure and pride to Sherlock's cock that lay stiff against his lover's thigh. He stilled his fingers, letting the muscle clamp around it, not unlike John's mouth had earlier in the cab and when he felt it loosen a fraction, he pulled them back out, slicked them up again and pushed them back in, adding a third digit.

He ran his eyes over John as he lay there panting, cheeks and chest flushed, knuckles white as they clenched into the bed sheets, pleasure contorting his face. This , Sherlock thought, stroking himself slowly, this was his reward, his prize. John was laid out for him, only him, so bare and naked, not just of his skin but his emotions too and it made something in his chest tighten and his erection twitch against his palm.

John mumbled something, pulling Sherlock from his thoughts and noticed with a blink that his fingers were curled against the doctor's prostate, his hips bucking forward.

"What was that John?" He kissed his chest, scraping his teeth over the taut, pink nipple.


Sherlock let a smirk grace his lips and scissored his fingers inside him but pulled them out slowly, dribbling more lube into his hand. It warmed quickly and he worked it over his cock, tugging himself for more than might have been necessary since a very impatient John Watson was growling from deep in his chest.

The detective laughed a bit and then ran his slick fingers over John's tight ring of muscle again, making sure he was open as he lined himself up and pushed in.

It. Felt. Incredible.

He was tight and warm, soft and hard around him all at the same time and Sherlock moaned against John's chest. His cock was only an inch in but he stopped, letting the fluttering muscles adjust around him until John hooked his heels around his back and pushed him in further, his hilt buried inside the doctor's warmth.

Sherlock cursed loudly, digging his nails into John's hip. It was almost too much to take and if he wanted to, he could have come there and then but he wouldn't, though he knew his lover wouldn't last long after his earlier orgasm. Slowly, when John's tongue licked his parted lips, Sherlock started to move with long, hard snaps of his hips.

They moaned in unison. It was never something either would get used to; the way they acted as one complete person together, each of their separate flaws balancing out the others and the way their bodies fit together like a jigsaw puzzle. They were perfect together; John brought Sherlock back down to earth when he was lost in his thoughts or in the adrenaline of a case and Sherlock took John's body and mind to new places no one else could.

"Sherlock, please," John moaned, thrusting back to impale himself more on Sherlock's throbbing erection and the mushroom tip hit his prostate, forcing a sharp yelp of delight from him.

Sweat beaded on Sherlock's forehead, dampening his hair and trickling down his neck and he smirked smugly as he took John's prick in his hand, tugging on it with vigour, matching his thrusts and then John was crying out, hot, white semen spilling from him in ribbons, coating Sherlock's hand and their abdomens. The detective jerked, the muscles contracting around him sending him over the edge and he shook, burying himself hilt deep as he came inside of him.

A minute ticked past.



Finally, pulling his sweaty forehead from John's, Sherlock let out a shaking breath, absently wiping his hand on the bed covers. He braced them beside his lover's head and pushed up, trying not to move his hips too much as he pulled himself from John, both letting out a whimper. He collapsed beside him, not caring as he stretched himself out, leg over John's hips.

Another few minutes passed and Sherlock felt himself drifting to sleep but John spoke softly.


Sherlock hummed and secured an arm around him, nuzzling the man's chest, both falling into a deep sleep.

Neither had to speak to show the other the love and admiration they held for each other because they were them and words didn't matter; it was actions that counted. It was the experiments not left out on the table, the extra cup of tea on the table in the morning, even if there was an argument the night before, and it was the snogs and blowjobs in cabs that made them 'them' and proved their feeling. Actions spoke louder than words.