AN: This began as just a few unrelated iPod drabbles, then it became a story written in disjointed parts to music. I like it, otherwise I wouldn't have posted it. Un beta'd and not Brit-picked. All mistakes are mine. I've been hiatus from writing for a long time. POV changes and tense changes are all over the place….I've never been good with those anyway.

Sadly for my bank account, I do not own BBC Sherlock. Or Sherlock, for that matter. Or any of the songs mentioned within. And I apologize for my… oooh, lets be nice to myself and say eclectic musical tastes. But the sadness really shows when I admit that I don't own Benedict Cumberbatch…

COME UNDONE: Duran Duran

Sherlock woke up in a hovel with no idea of how he'd gotten there or how long he'd been in that retched place. His mind clearing, he picked himself up off the dirty floor and stumbled his way outside for some air free from the fetid stench of the room. It proved too much and he vomited against the side of the building. Chest heaving and stomach grating he looked up and forced his mind to recall his impeccable mental map of London. Sighing with relief as he realized where he was in relation to what he wanted he took the short stumbling steps of someone trying not to be ill towards the street.

Mycroft was just sitting down to tea and more of the unending pile of paperwork he had by his favorite chair when there was a noise at his front door. Pausing to try and deduce what it could possibly be, it stopped and he began to sit when it started again. Grumbling lowly he forced his way out of the chair and to the foyer. He roughly yanked open the door to find Sherlock leaning against the railing and froze.

Mycroft took in the state of his beloved little brother; hair and eyes wild, skin waxy, clothing rumpled, dirty and stinking, skin waxy. He could be disappointed, he could be tough, he could send him right back round to whatever place he'd clearly dragged himself from, but one look into Sherlock's eyes disabused him of any of those notions. He stepped forward to drag the nearly unresponsive body into his home and shut the door. This was Sherlock finally admitting that he needed help and Mycroft couldn't turn him away. He needed his brother too much.

Without one word, Mycroft slung Sherlock's much too skinny arm over his shoulder and helped him up the stairs into the plush bathroom. Without a care for his own appearance, he stripped his brother, systematically taking off the dirty, disgusting clothes and throwing them into a plastic bag to be thrown away later. Cradling him as gently as he could he lifted the too-skinny, little more than a boy, into the tub and began running water, knowing that he'd need to soak, but that the dirt had to come off first.

He stepped back while the water warmed, watching Sherlock's head roll on his shoulders as he stripped off his waistcoat and rolled his sleeves up as far as they would go. He'd never call someone in to help, even if he hadn't sent the staff away for the evening. This had to be handled with care; Sherlock had to be handled with care.

He knelt by the tub and began to scrub off the grime from his brother's body, much like he did when Sherlock had been a tiny boy. Just like then, there was no talking and no playing around. Sherlock's eyes were open and clearing with every layer of dirt that came off, simply watching the proceedings and not helping.

Mycroft scrubbed until he could see clean skin and pulled the lever that would allow the water to drain. He silently urged his brother to shift around in the tub until his head was nearer to the tap before re-plugging the drain. He scooped water in his hands and brought it up over his head, wetting his hair so that he could give it a proper washing. A small groan left Sherlock's lips as the warm water cascaded over his head but he stayed silent and aware otherwise. He allowed Mycroft to wash his hair twice, inwardly marveling at how much his head cleared with each rinse.

Mycroft pulled the plug on the tub again and stood, reaching into the cabinet to get a large towel. He slung it over his shoulder as he leaned down to help Sherlock stand up. Sherlock wobbled, but managed to stay upright while Mycroft toweled him dry before wrapping him up in yet another big, fluffy, dry towel. Mycroft took Sherlock's upper arm and guided him gently to the vanity and stool there. He sat Sherlock down before heading to the cupboard.

Coming back with a razor and some shaving cream he looked his brother over. Much more clear-headed, but more work was necessary to get him into a presentable state. He lathered up Sherlock's face, mind not on what he was doing but how to keep Sherlock away from whatever he'd been doing. There was that young, attractive new DI at New Scotland Yard, perhaps he could find some way to help his way-ward brother. The razor glided over Sherlock's face, getting rid of the dirty stubble on his handsome face.

Bathing and general clean-up done he led his brother to the guest room that was always ready for him, even though he'd never used it. Mycroft grabbed some cotton pajama bottoms and a soft t-shirt from the closet that was stocked with Sherlock sized clothes. Sherlock unselfconsciously dropped his towel and stepped into the proffered clothing without a twitch of mistrust or disgust on his features.

Mycroft turned down the comforter on the bed and gestured Sherlock in. Sherlock slid between the covers and pulled them up to his chin. Mycroft sat on the side of the bed and smoothed the still damp curls away from his little brother's face. Sherlock pursed his lips, looking like he wanted to say something, but wasn't sure how to say it.

"I will always love and care for you, little brother, even when you've come undone. Who else is there to put you back together?" Mycroft kissed his brother's forehead as though he were a little child and got up from the bed. When he moved to turn off the light and shut the door, he heard a sound of distress from the bed. He turned and saw Sherlock sitting up in bed, reaching out to him.

"I shall be right down the hall, lights off but the door can stay open. No barriers between us right? Just like when we were younger?" The corner of Sherlock's lips twitched upwards.

"Will you still be here when I wake up?" The voice was gravelly with disuse and other, more unsavory factors, but Mycroft was relieved to hear it none the less.

"Of course Sher."

"I love you too Myc…"


Sherlock Holmes was many things: brilliant, observant, recovering addict and madly in love with his flat-mate Dr. John Watson. It happened without his knowledge or frankly, his blessing. He'd looked up one morning as John handed his a cup of tea and it hit him like a bullet. He didn't know how to handle it. He couldn't ask anyone and everything he'd searched on the internet had left him disgusted.

He wanted the solid little man who'd swept into his life and flat, cleaned up, and made tea before setting up shop in Sherlock's (once thought to be non-existent) heart. He found himself obsessing over everything that the two had done together. His memories from before John were in black, white and shades of grey. With John, there was colour in his life.

"John, you are the perfect drug…no, no stupid. Irrelevant. Corny, like one of those bad novels that Molly is always reading. Besides, he wouldn't want to be compared to a drug. A bit not good." Sherlock trailed off talking as he realized that he was no longer alone in the room. Mycroft.

"I do agree little brother, probably not up to your usual standards for speech." Mycroft swept into the room and sat down in John's chair. Sherlock struggled not to demand that he move his extra-large posterior from John's chair, lest he wear out the springs. He managed by gracefully getting up off the couch and grabbing his violin and bow.

"Please do keep your abnormally large, pointed proboscis out of this Mycroft. I am certain that it is none of your business. Don't you have a regime change to tend to?" In truth, Sherlock wished he could talk to his brother about this, but was mortified that he'd been caught actually verbalizing that awful line.

"As apt and succinct an analogy as it was, I do hope that you are going to rethink your track brother-dear. Mummy would be so happy if both her children settled down. Even if she would not get grandchildren from the situation." Mycroft actually shared a smile with his brother, who'd deduced that Greg had been enthralled by the elder Holmes long ago.

"Going well for you Myc?" Mycroft nearly sobbed aloud at the endearing shortening of his name, it meant that Sherlock was not as on edge as he'd been.

"I should think so he's agreed to move in. And I do believe that the Queen will be signing the paperwork to legalize gay marriage within days." Mycroft gave a genuine smile at the thought of Gregory wearing his ring. Sherlock smiled along with him.

"Myc…truly, I am happy for you. Can you…urgh, I despise asking for help." Sherlock flung himself into the chair opposite his brother. Both of them knew that that would be the best that they would get.

So Mycroft helped.


Dr. John Watson, formerly of the fifth Northumberland fusiliers, was in love his mad, brilliant flat-mate. It was intolerable. Since he'd met the self-diagnosed sociopath he'd wanted to see the world the way that Sherlock did. But it never felt so important to be able to read people the way that HE could. John could read Sherlock, but not pertaining to this. Feelings. Sentiment. Ever since the "it's all fine" conversation at Angelo's that first night, they'd not brought it up. John "three continents Watson" was fairly certain that Sherlock was gay…possibly bi-sexual, but a definite 5 on the Kinsey scale at least. John would rate himself at a 3. Boys, girls it's all good to "three continents Watson" but Sherlock was a whole other world.

He'd fallen hard for the man with the marble skin and the raven hair. The eyes that looked like a galaxy was contained within. The brain behind those changeable eyes was the best part. The way thatmind worked was just amazing and beautiful, even more gorgeous that the wrappings and that was certainly saying something.

When he'd been invalided home from the war, he'd had nothing but depression and an ever increasing urge to eat his sole-remaining firearm. Then Mike "I got fat" Stamford introduced him to Sherlock and it was like nothing he'd ever felt before. He was enthralled. It was just what he'd needed; The danger, the excitement, the humour, hell, just sharing a living space with someone.

John had never been the, I like to be alone type. He enjoyed hearing proof that he wasn't alone all the time. Being physically alone had nearly been harder for him that being mentally alone. But he wasn't either anymore. Did he want to change all that? Did he want to risk it? If he wasn't rejected outright and asked to leave that flat, he could still be let down gently and that would nearly be worse.

Working alongside Sherlock everyday and living with him, both of them knowing that John was in love and Sherlock didn't reciprocate might send him back towards the kiss of his browning. Did he have any chance of the best-case scenario? Was it worth the risk for everything that he needed?



They stumbled into the dark flat, not caring at all for Mrs. Hudson downstairs. IF she heard them over the "herbal-soother" induced slumber, she'd probably just throw them a party for it finally happening.

John pushed Sherlock up against the wall running his hot tongue up the long line of Sherlock's neck making Sherlock crack his head on the wall in haste to give John more room to work at his sensitive neck. He puffed breath out at the ceiling through kiss swollen-reddened lips, breath catching as John actually sucked at his Adam's apple. Sherlock forced his mind to focus, he could hear that John had been speaking but hadn't caught one single word.

"What do you want 'lock? I have to know what you want; there is so much I want to do to you. So much I want to have you do to me." John growled the words out against the skin of Sherlock's clavicle, his top shirt buttons having been popped open while he'd been drowning in sensation. Sherlock angled his head to the side so he could observe his John. His John, it felt so good to say that in his head. He had to say it out loud.

"My John." His voice was lowered with arousal and it shot right through to John's cock. John's breath caught in his throat as he flicked his hips forward, denim clad arousal pressing against Sherlock's. They both moaned and john repeated the motion, needing to hear more of that deep baritone's noises, the ones that were just for him.

"Time for you to decide is over, I want you to talk to me Sherlock; tell me what I'm doing to you. Try to deduce what I'm going to do to you." Sherlock felt his knees go weak, John never wanted Sherlock to deduce him, and this was the time he decided that he'd like it? It was a dream come true. John was a dream come true.

The baritone voice rumbled in his chest as he tried to find the words that would so normally leap from his lips.

"You are going to lead me away from the wall and into my bedroom. My bed is bigger, closer and it smells like me, which I know you like." As though in confirmation, John slid the tip of his nose up Sherlock's throat and to the underside of his ear and took a deep breath. Both of them shivered.

John led Sherlock to the darkened bedroom, pausing only to switch on the bedside lamp. She gave a feral smile to his gorgeous new lover. "Need to see you 'lock." John's normally smooth voice had gone a bit gravelly with arousal too, and to Sherlock he'd never looked or sounded better.

"Next, John, you are going to remove all of your clothes but none of mine, because you've recently found out that you have a bit of a clothing kink." John's smile turned even more predatory as he looked over the gorgeous man in front of him. Charcoal slacks making his legs look miles long and clinging to that luscious ass. And the purple Shirt of Sex. Oh, thoughts of that shirt had given him so many nights of pleasure.

YOU'VE GOT IT (THE RIGHT STUFF): New Kids on the Block

Sherlock had to force himself to breathe as John began stripping for him. Breathing was so boring compared to this man who was just made for Sherlock. Perfect in every way, physically and mentally. How the universe managed to send him everything he'd ever wanted and needed in one, neat Army doctor wrapped package would forever befuddle Sherlock. But he found himself grateful none-the-less.

John stripped the last of his cotton barriers away and left himself naked for Sherlock to see, pausing just long enough for Sherlock to see it all before he stalked up to him. He reached up and pushed the Charcoal suit jacket off Sherlock's shoulders and let it fall to the floor.

"And now, you are going to let me pick you up." Sherlock's voice seemed to get even deeper and he could now see the full effect it was having on John. He filed away the clothing kink and the talking kink for further experimentation.

Feeling like a dumb blonde in a romance novel, but knowing it was what they both wanted, John climbed into Sherlock's arms, wrapping his legs around the skinny hips and locking his feet behind the lush arse as he twined his arms behind the taller man's neck. Then he started to writhe, rubbing his naked, sensitized skin against the man and his clothes. The purple Shirt of Sex felt amazingly good against his peaked nipples.

Song over…for now. I like drabbles, but I can never write as much as I want to before the song is over and it feels like cheating to replay and/or skip to another fitting song. I might be persuaded to expand this into a fully M rated fic…add more chapters. If anyone wants to read that after my horrid writing.