Here is chapter two, as promised. Thank you all so much for the patience and kind reviews! They mean so much to us, and I promise we'll get back to all of you just as soon as we have time!

Sherlock shook his head vehemently. He would run away. That's what he would do. Surely piracy was more of a realistic option now than it had been in his past! Maybe it wasn't as grand as he had imagined it as a child, but it was better than this. It would be better than the awkward silences that he knew would follow. 'You don't have to give it a thought, John. You don't have to be so...kind.' He felt so much sorrow as he spoke the last word; he knew that any sort of platitude would be because John wanted to spare his feelings. It would be because John was too kind for his own good. 'Just go to bed.' I'll be gone in the morning.

"I am in bed." John's voice had grown firmer. The tremor was gone. His hands had stopped shaking. He licked his lips, regulating his breathing again, his chest still rising and falling heavily. This was madness. This was completely barmy. This was... perfect. It was perfect; it could not be more perfect. It was Sherlock, wanting him. And though John had spent three months in bed with this man, though he'd never once thought of reaching for him and changing this relationship forever, now that it hung in the air between them, John could not think of a single other thing he wanted more in the universe than Sherlock Holmes, writhing in his arms and calling out his name. Of course this should happen, had to happen. John could not suppress the laugh that barked from his throat. He was a blind fool, and it took a sociopath to show him the light. "Sherlock, look at me right now," he growled. He trailed one hand up Sherlock's side, plucking at his elbow.

Sherlock's whole body was shaking, he knew he couldn't just block out this experience, John was getting angry. The air in the room had changed, it tingled with a rare sort of electricity that the detective had never, ever encountered. Sherlock felt John's hand at his elbow and slowly looked up. 'What?' He asked in an agonized voice, slowly dragging his gaze to meet John's. Sherlock almost couldn't bear to look at that gorgeous face, that beautifully formed mouth, the adorable nose, those deep and ardent eyes. And as he looked at John he could not help but begin to babble, to plead with the man. 'Please, John, can't we forget this? Can we go back to before? I don't want to...please, please. I don't want to lose you. I don't want to run away and be a damn pirate! I just want to be with you...'

John opened his mouth at the word "pirate", but closed it again, shaking his head. He leaned over the thin frame of his best mate, drawing close, fingers closing over Sherlock's elbow, pulling it down to the mattress and forcing Sherlock onto his back. Those eyes widened, and John felt his heart tighten at the sight of him. Sherlock lay, sorrowful and frightened, cradled in the soft cushion of his bed, dark curls sticking to his forehead. His limbs were gangly and limp against the mattress, his chest exposed and pale, his neck long and inviting, and John's heart began to hammer in his breast as he leaned over him, shadowing that beautiful, sculpted face from the moonlight. "No, Sherlock, we can't forget this," he breathed, and loved the way Sherlock shuddered when the warm air from his lungs danced across his face. "At least, I can't. My brain isn't a hard drive, Sherlock. It's a rolodex, an old fashioned filing system that never gets cleaned out, and just accumulates more and more until its overflowing, and damn it all, Sherlock, every fucking file is overflowing with you." And before John's mind could screech him to a halt, he bent, right leg sliding between Sherlock's thighs, hands on the pillow on either side of his head... And John kissed him.

Sherlock was bemused when John pushed him on his back, horrified when John said they couldn't forget, shocked when John's leg came in contact with his crotch, and incredibly aroused when John kissed him. Sherlock had never been kissed before, and he found that, really, he quite liked it. It wasn't half as wet as he'd imagined. He pushed up into John's lips, wiry arms closing around John's broad shoulders, bringing the strange man closer to him. Sherlock wanted to feel as much of John as he could; he wanted that naked, tanned skin to come in contact with his own. Oh God, how he wanted John Watson. His erection was more than enough evidence of that.

John moaned into Sherlock's closed, pliant lips as he felt the twitch of a hard cock against his thigh. He dug it in, shocked by his own enthusiastic response to Sherlock's arousal; his body was stirring, heating, flames licking at his groin as he embraced the one man in the world whom he couldn't live without. John pulled back a moment, staring into darkened coal eyes, and he smiled, nuzzling Sherlock's nose. "It's okay," he whispered. "Move your mouth with mine, Sherlock." Shit. He'd never been kissed before. John was blown away by this revelation, and he panted, diving in to taste those petal soft lips once more.

Sherlock did as he was told, trying his best to move in time with John. He was amazed at how delightful those firm lips felt, how fucking good that hot mouth tasted. Sherlock shifted against John's leg, he didn't understand it, he didn't know why it was happening to him of all people, but all he could think of was how badly he needed more friction. Sherlock let out a whimper, his hands sliding down John's chest, feeling all of him, all of those glorious muscles. His tongue was prodded by John's and with that invitation he moved it, searching the insides of John's mouth.

John felt all of the blood in his cheeks rush suddenly south, and he gasped as Sherlock's curious, tentative tongue wrapped around his own. "F..Mmfph.." he cried lowly into the embrace, and a shudder ran through him as Sherlock's hands explored his naked chest, slipping around to his back, pulling him closer. Sherlock was beginning to thrust against his hip, his erection rock hard and hot; John could feel it through the soft cotton boxers he wore, and he was startled by the mad desire to rip off his shorts, rip off Sherlock's, and rut. He swallowed another cry, and slowly, hungrily, began to rock his own desperately hard cock into the jutting hipbone beneath him.

All the air gushed out of Sherlock's lungs as he felt John's hard-on hit him, rocking into his thin body with an eager burst of energy. '...more!' He hissed, sucking John's neck, licking and kissing it inexpertly. His hands had slipped under the boxers and began to run along John's firm arse, feeling the soft, pliant skin. 'Oh fuck... John, I need more.' He pushed against John, removing his hands from John's shorts and trying to pull his own shirt off. Sherlock wasn't really sure where to go from here, or what was going to happen. He didn't know how he was going to be able to get enough of John; all Sherlock knew was that he was damn well going to try.

His head was reeling. John arched sharply as Sherlock's hands dove into his shorts, cupping, rubbing, exploring his buttocks, and he let out a guttural groan, tilting his head, letting Sherlock devour the skin of his neck. He shouldn't have done that. John sucked in cool air through his teeth, his eyes huge. "Fuck, yesssss..." His neck was too sensitive, he knew that, he knew what it did to him, and yet... John rutted harder, thrusting against Sherlock's hips, shifting to line up their cocks, and biting down hard on his lower lip as Sherlock removed his hands long enough to rip at his night shirt. John's eyes raked over the porcelain expanse of skin, and he drove his body down again, pleasure exploding behind his eyes, tingling in his scalp, as Sherlock begged for more. He lowered himself fully on that gorgeous body, chest to chest, nipples brushing, eliciting a gasp from the detective. John kissed his slack mouth again. "More, Sherlock?" he whispered fiercely, abusing the cock beneath him with his own. Sherlock tossed his head, straining. "More? You need more?"

Sherlock moaned and writhed beneath John, this was more pleasure than he had ever thought possible. Never in his dreams had he ever imagined just how bloody good it would feel to have another body thrusting against one's own. 'Yes!' he gasped against John's mouth, feeling that cock pound against his own with a desperate, needy passion that drove him to distraction with need. 'What do I do, John?' He asked, running his hands down John's sides, kissing at his jaw line. 'Where do I...?' Sherlock let out a little sound of desperation as he felt John's hands on his skin.

There was something pathetic and pleading about Sherlock's breathless whines. He was lost, and John... well, though John had never been with a man before, he certainly knew how to pleasure himself, and he knew how to pleasure Sherlock. His mind was racing, his body screaming, his blood pumping, and he began to feel something... a tingle, building in his gut, dancing through his nerve endings, pooling between his legs. His balls tightened, and he pushed himself up and away from Sherlock's tremulous body. He stared down at him, panting in the darkness. "Sherlock..." Fuck. He needed to ask. This was Sherlock's first kiss, first... everything. John could taste the lust for him, could feel it like a physical force, pressing down on him, urging him to take that body and fuck it until Sherlock remembered nothing, not the types of tobacco, not the varieties of perfume... not his own name. But... "Sherlock. How... far do you want to take this?" his voice was raspy and hoarse.

Sherlock's heart thudded in his chest, so loud he was half sure John could hear it. The cold that immediately settled in after John had moved away from him made Sherlock desperate to get him back. He sat up and moved against John, pulling his waist until they were flat against each other. Sherlock looked into John's eyes and pushed up close until they were almost kissing. 'I want to go as far as we can, and I don't want to stop there. God, John, I want to own all of you,' He breathed, trying to quell the thought that he needed to get as much of John as he could before the morning dawned and John came back to his senses. Before Sherlock Holmes would turn into a pumpkin and John would not want him anymore. 'I,' he kissed John's nose, 'want,' he kissed John's upper lip, 'to,' he kissed John's lower lip, 'fuck' he kissed John's chin, 'you,' he kissed John's neck 'hard.'

John knew that he should be indignant. He'd assumed he would fuck Sherlock. Well, why not, he was more experienced, he was... straight. Sort of. Perhaps. Maybe. He should be the one inside this body, pumping him with his thick cock, taking Sherlock from trembling virgin to screaming, begging, mess of a sociopathic consulting detective. But... Sherlock's lips trailed down his neck, and John bucked, unable to control the need, the desperation washing over him. He let his fingers graze down Sherlock's bare sternum, and tease lightly at his cock, tenting his crotch. He groaned as smooth teeth took hold of his earlobe and rolled it. John bucked again, and inside, he caved. Just this once. It was Sherlock's first time... just this once. "Wait here," he grated out, and with a great effort, he scrambled out of the bed, his erection painful and throbbing as he took the stairs to his bedroom two at a time. He pushed through the door, fingers shaking as they snatched open the drawer of his nightstand, searching... searching...

Sherlock blinked at the sudden exit John made. What the fuck was he doing? Had Sherlock said something wrong? Was John offended that he had automatically assumed dominant the position? "Wait here"… what was he doing? What could he possibly need now? Sherlock bit his lip and surreptitiously touched in-between his legs, an action he'd really never done before, but damn it all, he was so hard it hurt! Sherlock had never masturbated once in his life, he had never needed to; he'd never been attracted to anything in his life. He knew what the people at the Yard thought, they thought he got off on the crimes, probably that he wanked to the image of a corpse, but Sherlock had never even remotely thought that the words sex and himself belonged in the same sentence, not before now. Now all he could think of was shagging John. And if Sherlock was a little vague as to how he was going to achieve that, well, he'd figure it out somehow.

John's feet skidded on the floor as he reached Sherlock's bedroom door again, his hand clasped tightly around a small plastic, half used bottle of lubricant. He silently rejoiced in his overactive libido, and the fact that he was always prepared for a good wank in the middle of the night... His body felt as if it were on fire as he tumbled back into Sherlock's bed, and saw what awaited him there. Sherlock was crouched, breathing heavily, dewy with sweat, glistening and white. He reached out for John, and the doctor wasted no time, guiding his hands to the waistband of his shorts, murmuring wordless encouragement. He pressed his lips to Sherlock's lightly, tenderly. "Go on then."

Sherlock pushed down the only article of clothing that stood between John being completely naked. Sherlock's heart beat out an erratic tattoo as he saw John's cock, he kissed the spot right above where the trail of John's brown pubic hair became thick, right below his belly button. He looked up at John, feeling the tip of that hot cock on his bare skin, shuddering a little in anticipation. The consulting detective pulled John down on the bed, lying him flat out on his back, crawling over him and pushing down his own pyjama bottoms. Sherlock felt as though he should be embarrassed to be in nothing but his skivvies, but as he saw the way John looked at his crotch, at the erection beneath the short pair of black boxer briefs that hung low on his skinny hips, all Sherlock could feel was an immense amount of arousal and a little bit of pride at the way John licked his lips. Sherlock smiled and kissed John's chest, eyeing the bottle of lube clutched in John's hand, and with a little trepidation, moved to take it from him. He was 90 per cent sure he knew exactly what it was for.

"Right... ahhhh..." John wriggled on the bed beneath his lover, eyes trained on the magnificent sight of Sherlock, naked except for his tight, black boxer briefs, and the very large, very tempting bulge that flexed below. Sherlock's hand was wandering his body as those clear eyes peered curiously at the bottle, bringing it close to read the back label. John gasped as warm fingers slid through his hair at the base of his cock, and he arched, his spine curving off the bed. "Shit... Uh... right then, Sherlock... fuck..." He was having difficulty forming a sentence as Sherlock's hand began to rub his length firmly, absently, and John whimpered. "Sherlock, you don't have to read the instructions," he said, frustration coloring his deep voice. "Just... fuck... Just give it here." John sat up; snatching the bottle and flicking it open with one thumb. Sherlock's eyes followed his movements, intent and bright, and John could almost hear the gears of that brain whirring, memorializing, learning. He squeezed out a generous amount in his palm, and after a moment of incredulity for what he was about to do, John took a deep breath, hooked his other hand into Sherlock's shorts, and pushed them down, revealing a long, wet, angry, red cock. His breath escaped him in a harsh hiss, and John felt his mouth begin to water. Fuck, this was new. He gulped, trying desperately to retain control of his senses, and slowly, he lowered his slick palm to Sherlock's erection, capturing those eyes, keeping them.

Sherlock let out a loud moan as John's cold, wet hand touched his cock, a little startled at how very good it felt. 'Ffffffuuuuck, John,' he gasped, looking into John's eyes. Sherlock could not close his lips, he kept moaning and letting out little sighs of pleasure as John's hand closed around his hot, pulsating erection and began caressing it. His eyes nearly rolled back into his skull. This was...this was... 'Oh! John!'

"Oh, shit." John could come up with no other words as Sherlock began to gently cant into the slippery tunnel of his fist, slowly, then faster, more erratic, his throat bobbing, his head falling back. He looked bloody glorious. Just this once, John thought with a whimper, and began to rotate his own hips, grinding his ass into the mattress wantonly. "Tell me how it feels," he said huskily, and he slid his fingers up that throbbing cock, tightening them over the bulbous head, playing with the slit, feeling Sherlock's violent judders.

'It feels... haaaaaaah... oh God, John, I've never fel...t... hannngg... Like… J..ohnnn! ' He licked his lips and looked down at John practically fucking the mattress below him. Sherlock bent his shoulders forward, touching John's cheek briefly before tracing down his neck and brushing the pads of his fingers across a nipple. As he did so, Sherlock noticed the shudder it elicited and brought his fingers up to graze it again, moving against John's hand, feeling the pleasure begin to corrode his insides. Sherlock needed more. 'John...' He pushed John down onto the bed again and looked at him, biting his lip. He needed more but he didn't want to damage John. Sherlock moved his other hand to John's cock and teased it a little before trailing his fingers down the other side of it, passing down his balls, until he found what he was looking forward. Sherlock nearly stopped breathing, this was...he was sure this was what he was supposed to do. The sleuth recalled some distant memory of a conversation he had overheard at a gay bar once when he'd been looking for clues on a case. He needed to make sure John was prepared.

John stiffened as soon as those lithe fingers slid down past his balls. He knew what was coming, and... for the first time in his life, John was scared to have sex. He held his breath, every muscle in his body seizing up at once, and as Sherlock's eyes met his, he tried to smile, tried to let him know that yes, it was okay, he could touch him, he could explore... but John was fucking terrified. He raised one shaky hand, indicating the Sherlock should do the same. "H..Here. Give me your fingers."

Sherlock frowned, a little worried that he was doing something terribly wrong. He removed his hand from near John's arse and gave it to John, almost holding his breath in anticipation as to what his companion was going to do next. Sherlock desperately wanted this to be good for John.

The bottle reappeared, and John could not help but chuckle a bit at the dawning light in his lover's eyes. He trickled it over two of Sherlock's long, oh, so bloody long fingers. They were beautiful, crooking and glistening as John slicked them, and Sherlock rubbed them together, fascinated. John was beginning to breathe fast again. He could not swallow. His throat was too dry. How the fuck had this happened? He could have been shagging a red head right now... How was he on his back, cock aching, body trembling, legs spreading for bloody Sherlock Holmes? John strained a bit as his friend ducked his head, flicking a tongue over his nipples. Sherlock was a fast learner; he'd already registered and filed John's weak spots. He widened his legs, chanting to himself... Just this once...Just this once... Just this once... Cold, wet digits found the puckered opening again, and John gasped, "Fuck... Just push them in, one at a time."

Sherlock obeyed John's commands and slowly slid one finger in, feeling the tightness surround it. He moved it around in curiosity, pushing at the smooth, hot walls of John's body. He felt John's body jolt around the intrusion, just a little, and he smiled at the reaction. Sherlock let the breath that he hadn't realised he'd been holding out in one gusty sigh, twisting the digit around and crooking it several times. Then came his second finger and he heard John whimper. Immediately Sherlock stopped and looked up at John's face, worried he was going too fast. 'Am I… should I slow down?'

"Fuck... no." This wasn't good, this wasn't right, this wasn't good, this... oh fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck... It used up every bit of mental strength John had not to lose himself and begin impaling himself on those fingers. John's eyes were wide open, unblinking as he stared up at the ceiling, stomach muscles flexing, thighs taut, toes curled. His dick wept and pulsed and twitched between his legs, and John raked in the air, deliberately not looking down at the young man kneeling between his legs, fucking him with his fingers. He couldn't. He couldn't look down there because he was about a hairs breadth from shooting his load all over his chest, and this fact was purely staggering. John let his mouth fall open, let a long and ragged groan rip from it, and he closed his eyes at last against the sensual onslaught. Sherlock's fingers sped up, and he spread his legs wider, pleasure coursing through him, pleasure like he'd never ever known before. "Oh.. mmm...hhnn... Sh...Sh...eeerlock... fuck that's... so good..."

Sherlock could barely contain himself as he heard the string on nonsensical words and sounds falling from John's lips as he shook and writhed to the pace of the detective's fingers. 'John...' Sherlock's lips parted and he pushed up against John, shoving a third finger in and stretching that tight hole as much as he could, 'can I now? Please... I...' He grasped one of John's hands and pressed it against his hard cock, trying to illustrate what he meant. He wanted, no, he needed to be inside John as quickly as he could. The overwhelming sense of need and desire was second to nothing the poor man had ever felt before, and if he did not ease it soon he would burst. Sherlock needed to be buried deep inside that gorgeous arse.

John could only manage a "Hnn... aahh..." and he squeezed Sherlock's dick once before letting it go, and twisting round on the bed, on his elbows and knees, spread wide, arse in the air. He was shaking uncontrollably, hyperventilating a little again, and at the loss of those wonderful fingers, he could feel his hole tighten and loosen rhythmically, longing for the filling sensation again. John rocked backwards encouragingly, once again amazing himself at the willingness, the eagerness of his own body. He needed Sherlock, needed him splitting him open, needed him fucking him with the long cock. Right. Fucking. Now.

Sherlock saw the arse wiggle invitingly in the cool air and his mind went blank. It amazed him how one man's body could produce such a mind shattering effect on his person. Slowly, eagerly, the younger man knelt up and grasped John's firm hips in his hands. Then, with a loud groan, he grasped his cock and, lining it up with the willing entrance, pushed into John. Fireworks burst inside his skull as his cock eased further and further inside that hot arse. Sherlock could see stars as he felt how gloriously tight John was, how his hole caressed Sherlock's dick. Slowly Sherlock began to make small rocking movements, his prick still mostly buried deep within John, gradually quickening. This was sheer madness. This was pure pleasure and Sherlock revelled in it. He let himself go, finally. Allowing himself to be overridden by lust. Allowing the loud sounds of skin slapping against skin and both of their cries and moans to intertwine and crash against each other, as Sherlock and John became one. He could feel John 's body roll back to meet his and his own quickening, picking up the pace. Faster and faster and faster until Sherlock's body could no longer take the pleasure that was quickly building up inside him. 'Haaaaaah! Ahnnnn...J...ohnnn, oh Gooood, John! Oh fuck! John!' He felt himself cum for the first time in his life. Sherlock had never known this much pleasure, he had never known he could feel like this. He reached around John and with a trembling hand he grasped John's cock, touching his thumb to the little slit and rubbing the precum around, John felt so good.

This was utterly impossible. John felt as if he were a stranger, watching from a dark corner as his body began to take control, began to act on its own, rutting backwards, writhing, rolling with every thrust until the sounds pouring like water from his mouth were constant and frantic. The sensations were dizzying and crashed over him in wave after wave of euphoria, and the pain of being penetrated evaporated in the ecstasy of Sherlock's damned, fucking, perfectly wicked cock as it ravaged him. "FUCK!" John began screaming into the pillow, feeling the precise moment when Sherlock orgasmed, pumping his white, hot, thick seed into John's body, and it hit him deep inside. "FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUUCCCKKK!" His mind went blank. Sherlock's hand wrapped around his cock, and that gorgeous dick was still inside him, still semi- hard, still splitting him in half, and John lost himself. The edges of his vision went black. His muscles stiffened. His balls tightened, and his cock exploded, all over the clean linen sheets.

Sherlock felt John cum into his hand and, almost immediately, he felt his own cock rustle again, but no, he would not... Sherlock carefully pulled out of John and collapsed on the bed, pulling John down on top of him. Laughter began to bubble up in his chest as the waves of his first orgasm began to slowly roll away, leaving the panting detective sated and tired. 'John,' he nibbled John's earlobe lightly, 'that was...' Sherlock closed his eyes and let out a long sigh, 'was it...did you enjoy it?' Sherlock hoped John had liked it, that it had been as good for him as it had been for Sherlock. He held the compact body tightly against him, feeling John's own heart thumping against his chest. Oh God, how Sherlock loved this man. Now all he could do was hope that John loved him as much or...even just a little. Hell, he'd take what he could get at this point. Anything to be granted access to John's delectable body once more!

Just this once. Just this once. John breathed shallowly against Sherlock's chest, his heart racing, his head just now beginning to clear. Never, never in his entire life had John felt anything so... remarkably freeing and wonderful. He was tempted to dissolve into sobs, to just lie and cry in Sherlock's arms. He'd just let his flat mate shag him in the arse, fuck him till he screamed, and... John turned, rotating slowly in his grip, and he pressed warm lips to Sherlock's mouth. "It was brilliant," he murmured.

Relief flooded Sherlock and he kissed John back with remarkable enthusiasm. 'I'm glad,' he whispered against John's lips, grinning. 'Oh, John...' Sherlock did not want to let go of John, it felt so good, so right just to hold him close, to feel that body move against his. But Sherlock knew sooner or later he would have to stop, so with a reluctant sigh he loosened his grip so that John could get up if he so chose. 'John...' he pursed his lips and wrinkled his nose. At this point, Sherlock knew that he could go for another round, or two, or three, but he would not even ask. Ignoring the flicker inside him that demanded more, that screamed for more attention, Sherlock let go of his companion. He would wait to see how this developed. After all, John was the deciding factor, it seemed, to Sherlock's life. This moment was almost omnipotent. And so, with a calm face, Sherlock sat up and glanced at John out of the corner of his eye. He was half afraid that if he left him, he would come back to his senses and run up to his room and bolt the door and never come out again.

"Hm?" John felt like one of Mrs. Hudson's Christmas puddings. He lay; completely limp on the bed, a tiny smile quirking his mouth. That bloody red head wouldn't have held a candle to this.

'I...I think I need a shower...' Sherlock looked down at himself, a little chagrined. Damn. Even though he knew the import of this very moment, his body was not cooperating! Already his prick had begun to stir, just at the sight of John's naked body next to his. The quick recovery time must be because of the lack of sex in his life, surely. Or maybe it was John Watson. Sherlock was always better with John.

"Mm. Yeah." A shower sounded fucking perfect. John felt his eyelids droop, and he nestled further into the blankets. Damn, he felt good. Aching and burning and... where was Sherlock going? John blinked lazily up at him as the tall, limber man rose from the bed, his eyes darting, his naked body all angular and gorgeous and... John lifted his eyebrows. Hard. Sherlock was hard.

Sherlock flushed and turned around, trying to hide from John's curious gaze. 'I...I'll be back,' he blurted out and quickly bolted for the door.

John watched him leave, the image of Sherlock's rock hard body making its way sluggishly to his cranium. His eyes widened. "Wait for me!" he cried out, and rocketed himself out of bed, his ankles getting tangled in the sheets.

Sherlock ran to the loo as fast as he could, his face a violent shade of pink. Surely this wasn't going to happen all the time, right? Right? He closed the door behind him and leaned against it for a few moments before walking shakily to the shower and turning it on as hot as he could stand it. Sherlock had absolutely no experience in this whole "over active libido" problem he was facing. He did not know the protocol for how many times in a row one ought to have sex. Besides, he could not ask John to do anything for him... taking it up the bum must be incredibly draining and painful. Sherlock bit his lip and stepped in the shower, pulling the curtains around him and gasping a little as the hot water rained down on his excited body. So many new sensations were cropping up tonight.

Damn, Sherlock was fast. It wasn't fair, John thought as he scrambled after him, trying to suppress the giggles and the sharp hiss of pain that tried to escape his lips as he thrust himself out of Sherlock's bedroom, down the hall. Sherlock's legs were longer. How was John supposed to keep up with those long legs? Those... wonderful, strong, lean, sinewy legs... He shook his head as he reached the bathroom, hesitating a moment outside the door. He heard the shower beginning to run, heard the curtain rustle. John frowned. His hand hovered over the knob, and the thought occurred to him: what if Sherlock didn't want his company? What if Sherlock needed some time alone, to process what had just happened? John froze, his chest suddenly very tight. Oh, bloody hell. What if Sherlock was panicking? What if he was already regretting it? What if... what if... John ran his sticky fingers through his hair, wincing. He needed a shower. He was... fuck, he was covered in his own cum, and a great deal of Sherlock's was slippery on his thighs. His cheeks burned. As the tempo of the water within changed, he closed his eyes. He could picture Sherlock, naked and hard, ducking beneath the stream, and John felt his own groin stir. This was... novel. A tiny gasp sounded inside, and John's hand was turning the doorknob of its own accord.

Sherlock was leaning against one wall of the shower, his feet anchoring him against the floor, his pale toes just touching the opposite wall. One long, slender hand was experimentally brushing at his hard, throbbing cock, his other arm was thrown back behind him, hand splayed on the wet tile wall. 'Fuuuck, Johnnn...' he moaned as the water sprayed down on his body, making the dark curls atop his head stick to his face and neck. Quite suddenly he heard the door open and whipped his head around. There was John standing in the doorway, his eyes bulging slightly, his hand frozen on the door knob as he stared directly at the young detective in front of him. Sherlock's lips parted, he tried to speak but he could not formulate the words. John had just walked in on him wanking and moaning the man's very own name. Never mind that they'd just had sex, never mind they were both men, never mind any of that, it was still as embarrassing as hell.

John stood for several seconds, just staring. Sherlock was tossing off in the shower. His Sherlock. The Sherlock that was all ice and logic and deduction and ridicule. Not that John believed it, or had ever believed it; he knew Sherlock had a heart from the moment he met him. Those eyes, they were his downfall. His lips could speak bitterly, his tongue could cleave a man's soul in half, his body revealed nothing but what Sherlock wished it to. But he could not deceive John, not when those eyes, wide and deep set, gazed back at him with such honestly, such openness. John felt his heart thunder beneath his sternum, and he took one step inside the loo, shutting the door behind him. "Oh, Sherlock," he found himself whispering, the sound nearly lost in the patter of the water, running down that white body in sensual rivers. "You're bloody beautiful."

Sherlock straightened up, he did not need to hear what John said, he could read those lips all too well. His heart nearly stopped, he could hear a ringing in his ears. He was beautiful? HE was... Sherlock frowned and he could feel his body trembling slightly, he hoped to God John could not tell. Sherlock could not remember when the last time, if ever, someone had called him beautiful. The words used to describe him that stuck out most were "freak", "unnatural", and "psychopath", though the last one made him snort every time he heard it. 'John, what? I-' he paused and leaned his shoulder against the wall, letting his head rest on the cool, wet surface. He wanted John so badly. Slowly, very slowly, he pointed an arm at John who was still standing in the doorway, all sticky and rumpled. Sherlock crooked a finger, beckoning him forward.

"Yes," John mumbled, his feet stumbling in his eagerness to climb into the shower with his lover. He bit his lip as the scalding hot water hit the cold flesh of his back, and he arched a bit away from it, and into Sherlock's trembling body. John reached out to steady himself, his rough hands finding purchase in Sherlock's shoulders, and for a long moment, they stood facing one another beneath the jetstream, panting, eyes boring into one another.

The feeling of John's naked body against his own wet one was almost too much for Sherlock. With a smile he bent down and captured John's mouth in his. The kiss sent jolts down Sherlock's spine and he closed his arms around John, pulling him as close as was humanly possible. Bony white hands made their way down his back until they reached John's buttocks. Sherlock kneaded his fingers in the soft flesh, eliciting a hungry moan from John. 'I want you, John.' he whispered in the doctor's ear, turning the statement into more of a request, asking if it was okay. Sherlock pushed against him, almost lifting John from the floor.

Shit... John was torn. He felt his body responding eagerly, pleadingly to Sherlock's attentions, an erection swelling once more between his legs...bully for me, I've still got his arse began to flex, twitch, and jerk in anticipation. John pressed closer, gulping and shuddering as Sherlock's cock brushed his own, and he latched onto one pink nipple with his teeth, sucking, licking, tasting. Sherlock tasted fucking delicious. Sweet. Salty. Pure. He devoured, his hands clutching at those bony hips, rotating his own up against him, moaning. But when long fingers began to trail down his arse, seeking, John gasped and pulled away. His body may be demanding, but the dull ache from his extremely hard fuck was not gone, not even close. He reached back, stilling that hand. "Sherlock... Sherlock I want to do something, will you trust me?"

Sherlock let out a quiet whine as Jon grasped his hand, making him stop. He looked deep into John's eyes and nodded silently. Anything. Sherlock would do anything and everything for John Watson. There was no one in the world he trusted more than his short army doctor.

Thank God. John groaned, leaning his head on Sherlock's chest and breathing deeply. From this vantage point, he could stare down at the long, spasming cock jutting out from a mass of black curls, and for the second time that night as he gazed at Sherlock's swollen dick, John's mouth began to water. He felt his knees go weak with the force of his desire, and he gave in to the sensation, letting himself fall, kneeling before Sherlock's quivering body. He was nose to tip with the gorgeous thing. John licked his lips, his eyes dragging up Sherlock's torso to his face, and he felt his own cock jump at the open wonder and disbelief written there.

Sherlock gulped, he had an idea as to what John was going to do, but he could not believe that he would do it. It was...unsanitary at best. Sherlock never saw the point in such actions; he didn't understand how they could be pleasurable for either party. Well, he understood that such stimulation to the erogenous zone could be very pleasurable for the receiver, in theory, however the idea of having someone's mouth around one's cock did not seem appealing in the least. But as John looked up at him Sherlock felt his breath come quicker, his whole body tense up with anticipation. '...John?'

"Yes, Sherlock?" John had turned his attention back to that cock, and he refused to take the time to think about why the hell his entire body was clamoring for this, why his lungs were pushing the air in and out like a marathon runner, why his hands were shaking so bad he had to steady them on Sherlock's lean thighs. He couldn't think about this right now. He would think about it later. Right now... John flicked his tongue out to lap lightly at the slit in Sherlock's cock, and tasted the salt there. He began to pant, rubbing his nose into the head, then ducked it to nuzzle the hairs below. They were thick, and soft, and wet, and he darted his tongue out again to tease his balls a little before sucking them in, rolling them around his hot mouth, and moaning. His own arousal was throbbing as he felt tremors wrack Sherlock's body. "Mmmmm..."

'Ohhhh Ggggooooddddd!' Sherlock cried out, slamming his hands against the wall of the shower to steady himself as John's tongue began to do wicked things to his cock. He took it back, any misgivings he had before now, any skepticism previously professed about this Sherlock now avidly redacted. 'FUuuuuuuccccccccccck me!' he arched his body, feeling John's hands dig into his hips as he swallowed Sherlock fully. The sleuth's eyes popped open as John hummed against his cock. Oh fuck. Sherlock tried holding back, but he couldn't help snapping his hips a little. It was too much, too much, too good. Sherlock moved an arm forward and grabbed John's hair, twisting his fingers in the wet sandy mop, tugging it, moaning and yammering nonsense. He could not form a coherent thought. Deep in the pit of his stomach Sherlock could feel that strange new sensation coiling up. He tried pushing John away, he did not want to cum all over his flat mate's face. 'John. Stop. Goi... fuuuck... going to cum... stttooooh Goood!'

John growled, and grabbed him by the arse, hauling him forward. Hell no, he wasn't going to stop. Not when Sherlock was coming to pieces all around him, and John was making it happen. He grinned, scraping his teeth over the bulging veins in Sherlock's dick, sliding one hand around to grasp the base as he concentrated on sucking just the sensitive, round, purple head. Sherlock began making those glorious sounds, the ones that he'd made as he pounded John's hole, not fifteen minutes prior. John peeked up, unable to help himself. Sherlock was holding himself up against the wall, the muscles in his arms convulsing, and his eyes were half lidded as he gazed down at John, servicing his cock. John groaned deeply. He sucked harder, biting down perhaps a little too hard on the head, and he began to stroke himself roughly, his legs spread on the wet, slippery floor. "Cum, Sherlock," he grated, his throat hoarse as Sherlock desperately tried to restrain himself from slamming into John's mouth. "Fuck my mouth, Sherlock, fuck it hard."

Sherlock's eyes rolled into the back of his head. John was giving him permission to... to... the mere idea made Sherlock's head explode. "fuck it hard". Oh FUCK. Sherlock slammed against John, giving the man exactly what he wanted. He could not hold back, not now that he'd been told to go. Thrusting deep into John's throat, feeling his tongue try to move. It was too much. Sherlock slammed again and again, faster and faster, until with a loud scream he propelled his arms forward, grabbing onto John's shoulders and cumming in great spurts, shooting down the man's devilish mouth. Sherlock collapsed against the wall, breathing heavily. His legs felt weak, his whole body felt as though it had turned to mush. Sherlock let himself slide down until he was at the same level as John who was stroking himself with a passion. Sherlock leaned against him and gently pushed his hands away. It was the least he could do... Sherlock grasped onto John's cock and began to taunt it. Tickling the underside before grabbing on and pulling a little harder than was needed, rubbing his thumb around the head, pushing down on the slit. Sherlock smiled as he heard John groan in pleasure.

"Shiiiiiit..." John let his head fall back; the heat and taste of Sherlock's ejaculate still burning in his throat. He heaved, bucking up into that warm, slick hand, devoid of technique and experience, and so very very wonderful. John cried out in pain and ecstasy as Sherlock jerked his erection, hard, too hard, forceful and violent, and explosions of excitement and fear began to fire off in his brain. The knowledge came crashing in on him as Sherlock's fingers tightened, squeezing, torturing him as the other hand grasped at his balls, yanking on them as well. He liked it. He liked the pain, he liked the roughness, he liked the near agony and the screaming that was currently being ripped from his chest and the sweet relief as his body gave in, and his eyes flew open. His mouth gaped, and John shouted through his orgasm, unable to tear his eyes from Sherlock's fascinated, enraptured face. He rode the high for a long time, much longer than before, continuing to rock into those hands, until at last he literally sank onto the floor of the shower, cum leaking from his lips, from his arse, splattered all over his chest. John lay there, letting the water wash over him, and it was cold now. Sherlock's hands dragged through his hair.

Sherlock stared at John in fascination as he sprawled out on the shower floor. Sherlock could feel the sticky semen slowly begin to wash from his hands, stomach and legs but he did not care. All he cared about was John, beautiful John, wonderful John, amazing John. Carefully sliding his arms under the limp figure, Sherlock lifted John up and propped him against his own body. 'John, are you alright?' Sherlock asked, licking his lips and peering down into John's slack face. He felt John shiver a little and realised that the hot water had run out. Bugger. Sherlock lifted John onto his lap and, with a good deal of effort stood up. He would take care of his doctor.

John felt himself being lifted and carried out of the shower stall, bridal style, and he tried to protest, tried to raise his arms feebly, tried to squirm out of Sherlock's arms. This was damned undignified. But... he groaned, still completely knackered from the overwhelming climax, and at last he simply allowed Sherlock to carry him easily to his bed once more. John grumbled at the sight of it. It was rumbled, and bore evidences of their love making. He wrinkled his nose. "Bloody hell, I just got clean," he muttered softly.

Sherlock threw his head back and laughed at John's disgruntled words. He gently set the older man down on a chair and knelt down in front of him. 'Don't move.' He commanded, grasping John's chin and making him look Sherlock in the eyes. 'I'll take care of everything, just sit tight and be good.' He leaned forward and kissed John's forehead before getting up and hurrying out of the room. This time he was going to be the one taking care of John.

John sat on the chair and listened to Sherlock's frantic movements upstairs. He was looking for linens. John's eyes flicked to the linen closet in the corner that still housed some sort of wretched experiment, and he lifted his eyebrows, rubbing his head with a groan. He shifted on the chair, sighing. What the fuck had just happened? He eyes the bed suspiciously, as if it were at fault for the whole thing. Perhaps it was. This certainly hadn't been John's idea. No, it hadn't been his idea to kiss Sherlock, to touch him, to make him tremble, to spread his legs for him and let Sherlock fuck him into the mattress, to follow him into the shower and get on his knees and suck that cock, that lovely cock, that hot and sweet and amazing cock that made John want to bend over and get fucked again and again and... "Bloody hell. I'm a poof," he said to the darkness. Sherlock's feet were thundering down the stairs.

Sherlock reappeared in the room holding fresh linens and a towel. He dumped the sheets on the floor and hurried to John, wrapping the towel around his shoulders and began laboriously drying him off. When Sherlock was finally satisfied that John would not get too chilled from the cool air in their flat, he picked up the sheets again and set to work making the bed up, glancing over his shoulder at John every so often. Making sure he was staying put.

John rolled his eyes a bit when Sherlock's back was turned. "Sherlock... you don't have to look at me like that. I'm not hurt. I'm fine."

Sherlock frowned at him and shook his own dreadfully wet head. Without a word he picked up John yet again, pulled back the covers and lovingly set him down. 'Tea. Would you like me to put the kettle on?' He asked, pulling the covers up to John's chin and smoothing them out, giving John a lopsided smile.

"None for me, thanks." A poof. That's what he was. How the hell had he not known this before? John scowled a bit into the blankets, but a cool hand on his cheek brought him back to the moment, back to the flat... back to Sherlock. Oh. Sherlock. His heart skipped as he faced the younger man, with his brilliant eyes and smile and mind, and John felt a rush of relief. He wasn't a poof. Not at all. He'd never wanted another man in his life. But he did want Sherlock. He... he was in love with Sherlock. "Well, bollocks," he whispered, and leaned in for a kiss.

Sherlock kissed John back appreciatively, resting a hand his damp, sandy blonde hair. 'You're not going to leave the bed tomorrow, understood?' Sherlock eyed him shrewdly and leaning a little on John's chest. He had to admit he'd been worried. Worried that John would decide it was too strange getting shagged by a man, by Sherlock, but as soon as he saw that smile, Sherlock knew it was alright.

"I have to work." But oh, a lie in sounded like just the ticket. John chewed on his lip, sleep invading his senses once more. He'd be sore tomorrow... that counted for a sick day, didn't it? He rolled over onto his side, back to Sherlock's chest, and dragged one of his companion's arms over his waist to cradle against his breast. Sherlock's hand was splayed over his heart, and John took a deep breath, yawning. "Mm. We'll see."

Sherlock smiled against John's back, 'no, you're taking tomorrow off. You're going to lie in that damn bed all day, whether you like it or not. Now,' Sherlock roused himself and leaned over to kiss John lightly on the cheek. 'Shut your eyes, I'll be right back... just have to dry myself off.' He shivered a little as his own state of undress started to take its toll. The covers looked inviting and, well... maybe he didn't really need to dry off that badly. Only his head was wet now.

John was almost asleep. Sherlock's breath was rustling the hair on the back of his head, and he could feel the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest behind him. His heart drummed against those long, twitching fingers, and for a long moment, there was silence. John swallowed. Everything, everything had just changed. Sherlock was quiet against him, but he felt the tension in his arms. Through the haze of exhaustion, John's voice was thick and deep in the blackness. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock lifted the covers, keeping a bit of distance between them until he warmed up. 'Shhhh,' he stroked John's hair again and settled his head down on a pillow. 'Go to sleep, John Watson.' Sherlock smiled happily at his back, watching the rhythmic rise and fall of his muscular figure in the half light. Somewhere in the distance a bird chirped. Morning was creeping up on them, within an hour it would be dawn and Sherlock would wake up next to John just like he had done every morning for the past three months, only this time he would lean forward and give his John a kiss to start the day.

John heard Sherlock as if from a great distance. He wondered briefly if he would still have to tell stories about Afghanistan to tuck Sherlock in at night, or if they'd simply fuck until they were too tired to continue. Right now... that seemed like the logical option. He let himself drift off, still clutching Sherlock's fingers.

Sherlock moved in closer until their bodies were touching. He still could not believe that John was his, that this whole thing had ever even happened. A small part of him felt that if he went to sleep he'd wake up and it would have all been a dream, but that was a very small part. Brushing his thumb against John's hand Sherlock inhaled deeply, filling his lungs with the scent of John. With one more tiny squeeze, he closed his eyes and let sleep over take him. Eager to start the new day, eager to wake up with John.