A/N: So, here we are at the end of our story! I will give you the warnings right now, because this is where it gets slashy, so if you're squeamish about that you should stop reading.

Warnings: Foul language, dirty talking, sex, lots of sex, um... all the sex.


Sherlock started when he heard his door practically bang open. He was, for the most part, undressed. His shirt hung open and his trousers were pushed down to his knees, his shorts had joined his trousers leaving the hard cock to jut proudly up in one slender, long fingered hand. He blinked up at John and cocked his head. "What do you want?" He asked in a flat, uninterested tone, while inside his mind was going crazy. Oh god, oh god, oh god. John was in his room. And he was looking at him. At Sherlock. Sherlock wanking. Fuck. Oh shit. Why was he here? Why? Wh... John had lubricant in his hand. Perhaps John was just being friendly and allowing him to use it. That, Sherlock concluded, was the stupidest scenario possible. Judging by the dilated pupils, shortness of breath, and the rather glorious tenting in his jeans, John Watson was not here with the intent of neighbourly kindness. Sherlock shifted a little, pulling his legs up, unable to stop the slight flush from growing on his cheeks. John was staring.

John's troubled eyes moved slowly, from Sherlock's face, down the lean, long, pale chest, to the hand wrapped around his dick, and back up to those silver eyes. Despite Sherlock's aggressive bravado, John could see the humiliation and fear in that haughty expression, and he stalked forward quickly, before he completely lost his nerve and retreated back upstairs to pull on his clothes and go to work and pretend none of this ever happened. It would be so easy; John could just force himself to forget the past twelve hours, and Sherlock could no doubt delete it from his hard drive, and everything would go back to normal. But John didn't want normal. Hell, John had NEVER wanted normal. He wanted adrenalin and danger and excitement... and Sherlock. And for the first time, that included wanting ALL of Sherlock.. his body as well as his mind. He watched closely as the detective shrank back with every deliberate step John took into the bedroom. "You forgot this," he whispered in the dim light seeping in through Sherlock's heavy drawn curtains. His hand held the bottle of lube out, the limb stretched between them, hovering dangerously close to Sherlock's stomach. The air was warmer there, as if heat radiated from the soft, flat belly and open thighs.

Colour rose to Sherlock's cheeks. "I didn't forget it. It wasn't mine." He said simply, covertly pulling the sheet over himself, his dick weeping quite a bit. Fascinating. So this was a very effective, if horribly mortifying way to rid oneself of these frustrating bodily functions. "Leave now."

John's knees were touching the bed now, and his chest rose and fell deeply, his eyes darting and lidded, not meeting Sherlock's intense gaze. He licked his lips, glancing down at the sheet that so indiscreetly covered Sherlock's naked cock. He'd seen Sherlock naked before; the man was not exactly a modest bloke. But he'd never seen him, never even imagined him, with an erection. Now that he had, John was hard pressed to think of anything else. The brief glimpse he'd gotten was... impressive. Rosy, tall, slender, noble. John wanted another look. He swallowed dryly, and bent, taking one of Sherlock's free hands, the one that was not currently under the sheets grasping the base of a very pretty cock, and he slid the bottle of lube into it. "Sherlock," he murmured, golden eyelashes catching the light and spilling it over pink cheeks, "do... you really want me to leave?"

Sherlock hesitated. Did he really want John to leave? Of course he did! He was Sherlock Holmes! He needed help from no one, he depended on no one, he... "not... if you don't want to." He muttered, pulling the sheet up even farther, staring down at his knees. Shit. Why was John still staring? Why was he even in here? He clutched the bottle, his knuckles were white he held it so tightly. "So just go now. You're satisfied, aren't you? Now you have enough ammunition to torment me for the rest of my life." He spat out bitterly, flipping over on his side, back facing John as he pulled his sheets over his head. "So go on."

John stared at his back for a moment, at the Sherlock-shaped mound beneath the sheets, and he sighed. "What the hell have I done to deserve this?" he muttered softly, loud enough for Sherlock to hear, soft enough to let the man know he wasn't angry. And he really didn't understand. As he sank to the bed, pulling his legs underneath him, John continued to speak quietly, his brow drawn. "I could understand if it was Mycroft, Sherlock, but it isn't, it's me. And it's not as if you were doing something wrong. And it's not as if you were doing something that every man ever born hasn't done. Fuck, I can't go more than a day or so without a toss, you know it's true. Why the bloody hell would I torment you for doing something I do on a daily basis? Why do you think I lock my door? Do you know how many times you've nearly walked in on me wanking?" The sheets rustled, but Sherlock did not reply. John rolled his eyes, and scooted closer. They sat in silence for a minute, and John looked down at his own trousers, at the bulge there. It might have to wait. Sherlock seemed... tense. He chewed on his lip a few moments, then made up his mind. Tan, calloused hands slid in the sheets to Sherlock's smooth back, and as John settled down further in the bed, he began to rub the muscles, gently, firmly. He could feel the coiled tension beneath the porcelain skin, so soft and supple to the touch, and with a gusty sigh, John leaned forward to whisper to him through the linens, "Sherlock... go ahead. I won't mind."

Sherlock shifted around under the sheets and grabbed John's hands, clutching them to his chest. After all, it was John's fault. He said it was okay. He said it was fine. It was all his fault. ALL his fault. He was always so damn accepting, and so... so John. Sherlock had never known someone quite like John before. "Because I was doing it thinking about you." The detective said quietly, curling up and resting his head on John's arms. "It's all your fault. I could resist every other time... it's not my fault. It's not mine. Don't blame me. So don't... don't go."

"I'm not blaming you, Sherlock." John drew him close, pulling him to his chest and inclining his head against the mass of dark, fragrant curls. Shit, but he smelled good. All the damned time. No man had a right to smell this good. "I know you were thinking of me. That's why I'm here. There's no blame to be had, Sherlock, none at all." He kissed the top of his head, exhaling gently, feeling the tickle of the rustling hair against his nose. John's fingers traced the sharp cheekbones, the curve of his lips, and with a resigned grunt, he let himself fully recline on the bed, turning to nudge the full length of his body against Sherlock's. For a long, quiet moment, he waited, his fingerpads resting on the pulse point of Sherlock's neck, waiting... waiting.. waiting for his best friend to notice the insistent hardness that twitched, flush against his lower back. John's face was scarlet, and burning, but he did not move. This... was new, yes. But there was no shame to be had here, despite what poor Sherlock's fucked up little psyche told him. Sherlock had every fucking right to have a healthy sexual appetite, and... and if he was hungry for John Watson, then by the fires of hell, John was going to give him what he needed.

Sherlock felt something nudge him in the back and it took him a few moments to realise what it was. He moaned quietly, arching his back into the erection before he realised what HE was doing. Slowly, very slowly, a hand reached back behind him, searching for the source of his shock and, strangely enough, pleasure. His hands lit on it and he almost took his hand away. Almost. That was before he felt John shudder and gasp. The detective turned around, gaping up at him in surprise. "Me?" It was almost a squeak, something Sherlock would chastise himself for months after this encounter. His hand got bolder, flattening his palm against the straining in John's trousers.

John could not answer. He was every bit as floored, every bit as fascinated as he gazed down at the lily white hand cupping and palming the tenting in his jeans. He dragged his eyes back up to Sherlock, mouth opening and closing, and at last he let out a guttural groan, rocking just once into that strong hand. Oooh, shit! His head fell back a little, and he whimpered, shivering all over. John's hands fell to the detective's stomach, and he gripped it, pulling him back harder, his mouth finding its way to the nape of that long, slender neck. John pressed his lips there, his tongue flicking out very tentatively and tasting the salt of his skin, and the moment he did, Sherlock's scent assaulted his taste buds, and his cock jumped in his friend's hand. "Hah.." John cried out very softly against his neck, his eyes squeezing shut. His right hand inched lower, tracing the lines of his abdomen, down, down, down.

Sherlock's mouth opened wide, moaning loudly as John's hand touched his bare prick. He immediately sealed his lips, his cheeks heating up. Bowing his shoulders, he curled over, eyelashes fluttering. "Johnnn..." The sleuth moaned, his own hand tightening over John's cock, squeezing it lightly as the doctor's hand closed around his. Shit. This felt too good. Too damn good. Sherlock had never felt anything this gratifying in his entire life. He shuddered, rocking his hips slightly into the callused hand. "Goddd."

John's mouth had taken on a life of its own. It moved up and down the white neck, finding a spot below a curved ear and sucking there as his hand brushed up and down Sherlock's long cock. His knuckled grazed the shaft, his fingertips danced around the head, and it occurred to John as his friend moaned and rocked against him that no one had ever touched Sherlock like this before. Not once, in his entire brilliant life. Better make it good. With a comforting nip at his shoulder, John reached for the lubricant, still grasped tightly in Sherlock's hand. He worked it out of the iron grip with some effort. Sherlock seemed dazed, lost between rolling his hips back into John's aching groin, and grinding up, looking for the contact he'd lost. "Shh.. it's okay, I'm not going anywhere," he whispered into the crest of his spine, his eyelashes fluttering against the milky skin, and he squeezed him once as he uncapped the bottle, and upended it on the pretty cock. John's eyes glittered as he watched it spill out, dribbling down the heated flesh, shining like liquid diamonds and making Sherlock hiss. It was cold. He capped the bottle again, and his breath was coming so fast, so shallow. "Sherlock..." his voice ghosted across the shell of his ear. "Have... you ever touched yourself before?" John's fist closed once more around the wet base.

Sherlock's eyes flew open and he stared at the opposite wall, silent for a few seconds. "Wha..? What a stupid question! I have no reason to answer that! What business is it of yours whether or not I've... hoofuuuckkk!" He whined, rocking up into the grip, his toes curling. John's tongue flicked out, tasting the back of Sherlock's ear and making him mewl. Like hell he was going to answer that question. Touched himself indeed. It was a stupid way to phrase a base question. Everyone TOUCHED themselves, whether they touched their genitals was a different question!

"Answer me.." John squeezed it once, good and hard, before letting go and taking Sherlock by the wrist. He removed the hand from his crotch, nearly moaning at the loss of heat between his legs, but that was easily rectified. John reached round to grab his cock once more, and with a sharp, jerking motion, he snapped his hips up, digging his erection into the tight, round globes of Sherlock's arse. "Tell me, Sherlock..." he breathed again, his voice growing husky and hoarse. "Do you touch yourself, late at night, when I've gone to bed? When you've tired of the violin, and you're bored with telly? Do you lie in this bed and think of me and touch yourself... here?" One pump. That was all... one firm, slick, glorious pump. John grinned like a madman as Sherlock keened loudly.

This was too much for the poor detective. John was completely taking over every last inch of him, defeating all his defences. John was touching him in places NO one had ever touched before. "I don't... no... it's a pointless activity when I have so many other, better things to do." John's cock came in contact with his arse again, the hand squeezing slightly. "FUCK! Fine," he whimpered, letting his head fall back. "Fine. Once... once I stroked it... just a touch, with a finger. Still had my trousers on. Once. When you first came out of the shower wearing only that damn robe." Sherlock's cheeks burned with shame, but he couldn't help it. John's hand was... talented to say the least. And Sherlock never wanted him to stop. Never ever. "This is the first time I've..." He trailed off, biting his lip and stopping himself from whimpering. Damn it. Probably fucking moronic that he hadn't masturbated before. John was going to tease him, going to laugh right in his ear. Everyone did it. But Sherlock didn't DO what everyone else did. He wasn't LIKE everyone else. He didn't NEED to be sexually gratified. He was Sherlock fucking Holmes!

A heavy tremor passed through John's frame. "Sherlooock," he moaned in his ear, and with quick tugs of the wrist, John began to stroke him, each long drag accompanied by a gentle rock of his cock into that tight arse. Fuck! Fuck, this was... fucking wonderful. Sherlock was the most beautiful, most innocent, most virginal person John had ever met in his entire life, and the moment was improbable but perfect. His free hand tangled in the dark curls, pulling his head back to rest in the crook of his neck and shoulder, and John held him steady there, quickly sliding Sherlock's prick in and out of the slick tunnel of his fist. He'd never gotten another bloke off before... never even thought about it. Even in the army, when more than one of his mates were shagging for stress relief, John remained stalwartly straight. But.. Sherlock Holmes was a special case. One that John was simply DYING to crack. Gooseflesh ran up and down his thighs as he canted up into the muscular buttocks, trying desperately not to think of what lay between them, and he concentrated on coaxing as much pleasure from this first wank as possible. If he was to be a part of this... he wanted Sherlock to remember it, for the rest of his days. The detective's lips were pressed together, and John pulled his head back far enough to dance his mouth lightly over Sherlock's. "Make some noise," he whispered hotly. "It will help."

"How?" Sherlock asked curiously, jolting into John's grasp. "Is there any scientific study to back up that claim?" He hissed out as John's finger traced around the head of his already leaking cock. Oh, oh, OH that felt good. Why hadn't he tried this before? The thought was now completely ludicrous now that he had time to ponder the subject. This seemed like a perfect way to relieve stress and boredom. Why on earth had he never bothered even once before? "Why?"

In answer, John ground up particularly hard, letting his body have just a tiny taste of the welcoming firmness of that lithe body, and he cried out to the walls and to Sherlock, his ache and hunger plain in the shout. And it felt GOOD. It felt fucking wonderful, to have his hands on him, to kiss his cherubic mouth, to make noise. His hand quickened, and he began to thrust up, unable to help himself now, jerking Sherlock's prick as he allowed his own to slam into the back of his friend. A spike of white hot excitement shot through the little doctor, and he tried very hard to ignore the fact that he was now humping his best friend on the bed in the early morning, and he had no intention of stopping until they were both good and sticky and sated.

Sherlock couldn't hold back his voice then, not after John had shouted in his ear, not after he'd began slamming up into him, the hard cock ramming up into Sherlock's bare arse with a passion. Not when John's hand was so well employed, jerking up and down with the ease of a well-practised soul. "Hnnnnn... aahh!" He practically sobbed as the force of his hunger, his need hit him like a tidal wave. Soon he was meeting John's thrusts with backwards ones of his own, rocking into the warm hand and back into the firm cock. But it wasn't enough. It would NEVER be enough. Sherlock understood that the moment John first touched his prick. He would never be able to get enough of John H Watson, and he never wanted to. "More." It was a rather pathetic request spoken in a voice so small that even Sherlock himself had a hard time hearing it, but it was there none the less. He wanted MORE.

John hesitated, his thrusts stalling as his throat went completely dry. Beneath the denim, his cock ached and throbbed, engorged and begging to be set free. John's right hand left Sherlock's shaft, and he ignored the whimper of loss, lifting the wet hand to grasp at his chin. He turned the beautiful face to look into his eyes, intense and piercing. "Do you trust me, Sherlock?" John asked lowly. He would not inflict anything, any touch, any action, upon Sherlock that his friend did not want.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, his expression somewhat dry as he gave John The Look. "I thought I explained it to you before, or have you forgotten again? I trust you. More than anyone, anything in the world. You are more reliable and useful to me than my mobile." He pulled out of John's grasp and sat up, his back to the man. "If you don't want to, fine. Leave me to get the business taken care of on my own. I will understand, as strange as that might seem. I've been reliably informed that I am not completely heartless." He smiled a little, folding his legs under him. Of course he trusted John.

It took only a second after Sherlock's back was turned for John to register the fact that his defences were down. This should not have mattered as much as it did, but to a military man like John Watson, when one bloke was about to pin another, with the very likely purpose of penetrating and fucking him into the mattress, and when the bloke in question was as strong and able as Sherlock Holmes, it seemed only sensible to take the advantages one was given. He pressed swiftly and suddenly to his friend's back, planting one tanned hand on the back of his head and pushing him down, his heart quickening in his chest. "Elbows and knees, Sherlock," he murmured, his entire body pounding with possibility. How would it feel? Would it be as good, as sweet as sinking into the heat of a woman's soft body? Would it be tighter? Would it hurt too much? Did any of that matter? Right now, hell, no. John's hands urged him down, his eyes braving the gorgeous expanse of Sherlock's body to seek out the virginal pucker between his cheeks. One thumb grazed it, as curious and frightened as Sherlock himself.

Sherlock shuddered as the digit, from the girth, angle, and size of it he deduced it was the thumb. The detective tucked his knees under him a little, propping himself up. Sherlock's heart rate increased, his blood beginning to pump and converge in one central location; namely at the tip of his dick. A new sensation in Sherlock's book. Sex. What a strange word with so many different meanings, some Sherlock understood perfectly, others he had next to no practical awareness of. Logically he knew what happened now, but how it was going to be able to happen the sleuth had no clue. All he knew was somehow John was going to, for lack of a better term, be inside Sherlock. That both terrified and excited the poor man, causing his whole body to tremble with anticipation. He reached a hand behind him and brushed a few long fingers over John's knee. "Aren't you going to get undressed? If I am not very much mistaken it is rather impossible to complete this... transaction without being at least mostly naked." He shifted about, burying his face in the pillow, his shirt falling down over the top of his back.

Transaction... John would have laughed out loud if he didn't think it would make the skittish creature below him bolt for the door. And if there was one thing he did not want right now, it was a frightened detective making a run for it. Instead, he forced his breathing to calm, and he continued to dance his thumb over the elastic muscle, eyes widening as it twitched in response. With his left hand, John flicked the snap of his blue jeans open, shushing his friend when Sherlock stiffened automatically. "Shh, Sherlock, it's all right. I'm not doing anything, I'm just... letting it breathe, okay? It hurts." And it did. The moment he unzipped his trousers and pulled his cock free, John moaned aloud at the sight of it. His dick was enflamed, nearly purple with the blood rushing to its head, and it throbbed in his hand, harder than it had been in fucking years. He petted it lightly, violent shudders wracking him from the attention, and involuntarily, his thumb pressed against the flexing hole. Shit. John jerked his hand away as Sherlock convulsed, and he whispered an apology, staring down at the tight pucker, and his own thick cock. This... was a very, very bad idea. His eyes darted about the bed for the bottle of lubricant, and he snatched it up, his chest heaving.

Sherlock shook his head, his face still buried in the fabric of the pillow. He needed John to hurry up before he lost his nerve and yelled at John to get the hell out of his room. He needed John to be inside him. He needed John. Needed him desperately. The sleuth mewled a little as John's finger returned to the tight hole. "It doesn't hurt," he said quietly, "just feels... odd." He flushed, shaking his head again. "Not like that... it feels, different. Better than expected." He rocked his hips back a little, trying to get more friction, eager to see if the rest of this whole encounter felt half as interesting. "Push it in."

The doctor wet his lips again, nervous and far, far too excited. The air dragged in and out of his nostrils, quick and heavy as John uncapped the lube once more, blinking rapidly to stave off the slight dizziness of the moment, and he let the liquid slide down his fingers, glittering in the dull morning light. One hand gripped Sherlock's bony hip with force, pulling him backwards just a little, until his thighs met with John's, and the smaller man stared down at him, so open... so willing. "Just one finger now," he whispered, more to himself than to Sherlock. He was having a hell of a difficult time convincing himself that he should not slick his cock and shove it in. That... sounded lovely. Fucking wonderful. Instead, his smallest finger rubbed insistently in between his buttocks, finding the hot, twitching pucker, and twisting about, working its way inside. John's mouth parted, sucking in a sharp breath. It was so SOFT.

Sherlock's breath came out in one, big gasp. "Oh!" He started, his hips involuntarily shifting back into the finger that was wiggling its way inside him. Sherlock had never had anything like this happen before. He'd never so much as had a prostate exam before! It was a strange, rather wonderful feeling. The finger twisted around in him, crooking about quite suddenly. "Deeper." He commanded, grabbing his own prick, his fist tightening over the organ as he let out a tiny moan in the back of his throat. The detective was terrified, completely and utterly terrified, and he wanted MORE. More and more and MORE, and then some more again. "Hurry up."

The little finger left, replaced by John's forefinger, and he thrust it in quickly this time, beginning to pant at Sherlock's enthusiastic reaction. It had not been at all what John was expecting, and it made the jutting problem between his legs far, far worse. He was grinding it into the back of Sherlock's thigh before he could control himself, and the instantaneous relief and white hot lust that resulted tore a growl from his throat. Sherlock's arse was eating up his finger hungrily as he dug it in, pulled it out, dig it in deeper, and the detective was stroking himself in time, moaning and rutting his face into the pillows below. "Bloody hell, that's hot," John muttered, his hips grinding up into the lean thigh. "Sherlock.. do you think you can take two?" His cock was a hell of lot larger than two fingers.

Sherlock bit his lip, nodding furiously. "...I think I can take more." He muttered, icy eyes rolling to the back of his head in anticipation of the larger intrusion. "Just put them in. Put them in." Sherlock whimpered, rocking his hips into the thick finger. It felt so fucking good inside him, twisting around and stretching him. There was a slight burning sensation, but then again there was only one digit, even if it was mostly buried in him. In him... Shit, John's finger was inside him and there was going to be more. Sherlock's insides burned with sudden desire. Ohhh, he wanted to feel that cock before it was balls deep in his arse. The detective pulled away from him, his eyelids fluttering, his body protesting severely at the loss of John's finger. He flipped around and stared at John, licking his lips. "Can I... can I touch?" He asked quietly, his eyes dragging down to the erect, red cock in front of him.

John's grey eyes rounded, growing huge and wondering as his friend knelt before him, his best friend, his dear companion, his precious Sherlock. The detective blinked up at him, needing assurance, permission, and slowly, John nodded, his heart hammering. The man was so unsure, which was such a vast difference from the normally arrogant, proud bloke John knew and admired. This Sherlock was hesitant, tentative, and utterly charming as he bit his pretty lip, eyes darting from John's awed face to the aching flesh between his thighs. John leaned back a little, lifting his hips and pushing at his jeans, sliding them down muscular, slender legs and kicking them off. He knelt there on the bed, facing his flat mate and now-lover, his chest quivering. Sherlock did not move. John's hands shook as he dropped them to Sherlock's body, grazing down his torso, and he wrapped both palms around the long, white cock. "Like this," he whispered, and began to stroke his friend once more, slowly, sweetly, never leaving those mercurial eyes.

Sherlock let out a tiny little mewl as John's hands closed around his prick. Without hesitation the detective reached out and grabbed John's prick, his eyes widening as his hands came in contact with the overly warm skin. He stared up at John, his mouth open slightly as he met John's gaze. It was warm and firm and felt surprisingly nice in his hands. "John..." The detective licked his lips nervously. Oh god. Sherlock wasn't completely inept when it came to sex, well, he did know a few things. And he wanted to try. Oh, but he wanted to try. "Can... can I?" He licked his lips again, his eyes flickering down to John's cock. John's cock that he was finally touching. Sherlock gently stroked up, experimentally rubbing his thumb around the slit, staring up at John's expression to make sure he was doing it right.

Again the nod, but this time, it was accompanied by a throaty, strained groan that shook John to the core and came bubbling up from his lungs. He canted his hips up into the soft, smooth tunnel of Sherlock's hand, and his ears flushed red as a jolt of pleasure seared him, like lightning strikes throughout his limbs. John's mouth gaped, and he quickened his pace, inching closer to the tall man.

One hand left Sherlock's cock to card through his hair, and John dragged him down, pausing as their noses brushed, just to gaze at him, to look at his sweet face. Already, Sherlock looked completely and thoroughly debauched. His eyes were lidded and lusty, his full lips parted and panting. His hair was mussed, his cheekbones scarlet, his expression dreamlike... and John wanted him. He stretched up to pluck at his mouth with thin, dry lips, their breath mingling as he whispered to him. "Keep touching me like that, Sherlock... you can do anything you like."

"Ohhh good." Sherlock sighed in relief, ducking his head down and tentatively flicking his tongue over the head of John's cock, his eyes closing for a half a second as he tasted the precum. A low, guttural moan left his lips and he sucked in the head, suddenly eager for more. For everything. Sherlock wanted everything John had to offer, he wanted to own this man heart and soul. He wanted his life and his love. "John... the chemicals in our body seem to react well together. Did you know that when two people are attracted they both think the other's smell and taste and touch is supreme?" He chuckled at John's incredulous expression. "I never believed it before now. Or at least... I wasn't quite sure I believed it until now." He grabbed John's hand and bit down on one finger. "I want you."

Later. There would be time later to teach Sherlock that one did not spout factoids and scientific research in the middle of a blowjob, particularly when one's partner was as close to exploding as John was. He felt the sharp teeth sink into his finger, and his cock jumped at the pain that shot up his arm, and John grinned ferally, showing two rows of white, pearly teeth to his friend. "Then get back on your elbows, baby," he commanded softly, pulling him off of his cock by his hair and twisting his fingers, just a little. Hell, he couldn't help it! Sherlock looked so damned fine and naughty bent over between his legs, that wicked red tongue flattening against the head of his cock! A powerful part of him was considering just allowing him to finish the blow, to hold that head down and make Sherlock eat his cock, make him suck and lick it until he ejaculated all over that haughty face... but John could feel the throb of blood inside the detective's stiff prick, could feel it pulsing and rushing and engorging the head, and he wanted desperately to know what it would feel like to shove inside that nubile body, if it would be good for Sherlock... if John could make him cum. He kissed his mouth again, and wedged a shoulder against him, urging him down.

Sherlock obeyed in an instant, his breath coming in short gasps once more. This was it. This was real now. He buried his face into the pillows once more, thankful of the shield, for his cheeks were a rather gorgeous shade of magenta. Slowing his breathing down, the detective tucked his legs under him once more, lifting his arse up into the air, opening himself for John. It was a terrifying, shocking sensation. One that Sherlock wasn't sure he could ever get used to, even if they did this again. Did it again... Sherlock wasn't even sure how it would feel, and already he was wanting to undergo this strange transformation another time. But how could he not? How could he not want to hear John's panting behind his back? Feel the warmth radiating from the doctor's body, the heat pulsating into his skin from John's burning hot hand on his back... Sherlock gurgled a little and spread his legs wider, remembering how good just one finger had felt.

"Shit." Strange, how John's extensive vocabulary seemed to have been reduced to grunts and curses. He knelt behind his best mate, staring down at him, unable to tear his eyes away though a powerful sense of British propriety told him he should. This... this view was too raw, too vulnerable for John to gaze at with hungry, devouring eyes, and yet, he was utterly powerless to stop. His hands moved up and down the supple flesh, feeling the silken curves of Sherlock's hips, the velvety globes of his arse, and he rubbed both thumbs over his entrance firmly, his breath coming fast and heavy. "Damn," he muttered, and wondered where his silver tongue had gone. John had always fancied himself a bit of a smooth talker in bed. Not tonight. Tonight, he was stripped of reason and reality, and was laid bare. He was nothing, nothing but a man in need, and he needed Sherlock. "Tell me what you want," he whispered, digging the tips of his thumbs inside as he rubbed his aching cock against Sherlock's white, lean thigh. "Tell me, Sherlock Holmes, and do be as detailed as possible."

Sherlock groaned loudly as he felt the wet head of John's cock rubbing against his leg, as he felt the barely there intrusion of John's finger tips. "I... want..." he gasped out finally, managing to get his voice under control. Never in all his years would he have expected himself to lose his vocabulary. "To feel you. Your... penis..." He licked his lips and propped his head up a bit, all the better to speak. He thought about it for a few moments, wondering just how "detailed" John wanted it to be. After all, Sherlock could greatly expound on the scientific process of the sexual practises between two men. He'd looked it up enough the past few weeks. "I want you to fuck me, John. I want to feel your damn penis inside me, I want to feel you ejaculating. I want to feel your sperm. I... I want to feel." Sherlock choked a bit and hid his face once more. "I want to feel you."

John let out a strangled noise, his heart breaking as the halting, clipped words fell from those gorgeous, angelic lips. Fuck! In his entire life, no woman had ever been so bloody honest, so innocent and naked in her desires, as Sherlock had just been with him. No one had ever said such simple, beautiful words to him before. He swooped down, grabbing a hand full of Sherlock's hair, and he yanked him up just long enough to kiss him soundly on the mouth, pouring every centimetre of passion and adoration into that one ripping kiss. John released him suddenly, and grasped the slender hips. He lined himself up, panting and looking down at himself in wonder, and with a whimper of disbelief, he nudged forward, just a little, teasing the pucker bit by bit until it gently gave way, and the head of his cock slipped inside. John halted there, his eyes rolling back. Sherlock was clutching his pillow silently, every muscle tense, and John took a moment to pet his back, the desire to shove in and just have his way overwhelming. "Shh.." John hissed, barely able to catch his breath. Shit, he was tight. "Sherlock.. hahhh.. j..just relax, love. Focus on your body. Make it relax." He reached between Sherlock's legs, and slipped his fingers up and down the weeping shaft.

Hot, desperate tears filled Sherlock's eyes as the immeasurable pain filled him. It wasn't wholly unbearable, though, he thought to himself as John's hand began to work the length of his prick. In fact... the more he got used to it the better it felt. It still hurt, but John wasn't moving, and that was good. Very good. Very nice. Very... "I AM relaxed!" He shouted out, almost petulantly. "So MOVE. GOD!" Sherlock couldn't help it. It was the only way he could fully voice just how much he wanted it. Even if... hell, John didn't even have any lubricant on his cock. But Sherlock didn't care. He didn't mind if it hurt. Not when it came to John. Nothing was ever "normal" with John. And perhaps that was why Sherlock adored him so. For being such an ordinary bloke, John was the most interesting person alive. Sherlock felt the head of John's cock rotate around a little, and he let out a tiny whimper. He knew this was the smallest part, too... it could only get thicker from here on. How would it feel? Would it be good? Would the pain persist and become unbearable? John's hand tightened around his cock, making Sherlock's body jump forward. Oh, he wanted more of the prick inside him. Badly.

The doctor laughed a little, desperately, shakily, and he complied without a word, sliding in Sherlock's body a little further. Jolts of electric pleasure shot through him, and he groaned aloud, the grip on his hips tightening to a bruising grasp. Sherlock's body resisted. The man was hunched over on his elbows and knees, shaking all over, impatient and terrified, and... John pulled out suddenly, scrambling for the bottle of lube and slicking three fingers again. Sherlock nearly shouted at him in protest, his throaty, rumbling voice crying out unintelligibly, but John ignored him, and pushed the three fingers in with haste. Sherlock gasped and buried his face in his pillow, still red and muttering angrily, but his hips rotated back against the intrusion. John grinned. He began to twist the three fingers about, and with his free hand, he poured more of the clear liquid between his arse cheeks, letting it slick between his fingers, pushing it inside, liberal, shining, disgustingly debaucherous. John pulled the fingers out as fast as he could without searing his conscience, and he repositioned, pushing in all the way this time. Hell. Hellll, that was better. The passage was slippery and soft, and the muscle contracted and expanded around his cock as if they were made to fit together. Like puzzle pieces. "Oooh, FUUUCK." John moaned, pulling out a little and sliding back in again, his body jolting. "Sherlock.. Sherlock..Sh.." He lost his voice, and pumped him again. And again. And again.

Sherlock's mouth gaped open as he felt the fullness of John's cock enter him. Without wasting any time, his arms shot up underneath the pillow, bringing it up so that it entirely hid his face, and then he screamed. It felt good. So damn GOOD. Better than anything Sherlock could have ever imagined. And soon he was sobbing quietly and rolling his hips back as John's prick began to thrust in and out and in, each time with more force. Obtaining both accuracy and precision as the head of his prick began to strike against Sherlock's prostate, sending the man into a wild state of desperate arousal. "JOHHHHNN!" He shrieked out, thankful of the pillow's muffling properties. It was too much. The doctor was far thicker than Sherlock would have thought. The bulging veins scraped against his insides, causing him to shudder and whine with each thrust. John's hands were on his hips, a bruising force, the only thing keeping Sherlock from arching up completely into the air. The only thing that kept him grounded. "Johnnnnnnnn!"

"Yeah, Sherlock, take my cock..." Oh shit, John was lost. It had been far too long since his last shag, and now that this door was open... hell, blown apart... he was completely gone, surrendered, and having a hell of a time. Sherlock's body was tight and wet and so, so fucking hot. Driving into that snug heat was like coming home, to a home he'd never known, but always knew was out there, somewhere, waiting for him. Fuck, he'd just never ever thought it would be HERE. With this person. Another slamming drive, and John's nerves began to sing, the blood rushing in his ears as he barked out a laugh, staring down at his own thick, forceful cock invading Sherlock's sweet arse. "You fucking love it," he muttered, mostly to himself. Sherlock replied with a sob, and John groaned, his thrusts quickening, growing deeper as he became bold. "You fucking love it, look at you, Sherlock. Not a fucking virgin anymore, are you, baby? Look at you, spreading your legs and eating my cock. Oh, hell, you're going to regret this night, Sherlock, when I'm crawling in your bed every night at all hours, riding your arse, shoving my dick into you, fucking you all night..." John's hands had released his hips, and they began to wander the creamy flesh of Sherlock's bucking, virginal body. They memorized every place that John had always wanted to touch, claiming him, making it known that this body was John's now, and the doctor intended to keep it. He rode him hard, their flesh slapping loudly in the dark.

Sherlock was silent for long moments, listening to John's growls, to the sounds of his cock slamming in and out, to the way their skin met in a delicious frenzy of need and arousal. It all felt so perfect. So wonderful. And then Sherlock decided to address the comments. He turned his head around, marshalling all his faculties into a row so that he could maintain enough brain cells to speak. The rest being concentrated on the pleasure that was coming to a peak at the pit of his stomach. An odd sensation. Sherlock opened his mouth, his voice tremulous and whispery as he stared into John's eyes. "Why?" He asked softly, bucking as John's prick hit his prostate once more with bruising force. "Why would I ever regret this night when all I want is you to be in my bed every night?" He reached a hand behind him, his fingers brushing over John's skin. "When I simply want to worship this body every night?" Sherlock pulled his hand away and once more hid his face in the pillow, waiting John's reply, if one was forthcoming. After all, John seemed to be in as dire straits as he was. Sherlock let out a groan. He knew what was coming.

John's thrusts slowed gradually, and came at last to a stop. His hands stalled on Sherlock's chest, and for a few tense moments, they stayed there, John buried deep inside Sherlock's body, the detective face down in the pillows. At last, John slipped out once more, letting out an audible whimper of agony as he did. His hands plucked at the narrow waist. "Turn over please," he said very softly.

Sherlock protested violently at the loss of John's prick. He thrust backwards, ignoring the request, until it became evident that John would not continue without Sherlock complying. The detective flipped over and stared down at his painfully hard cock. He'd asked a stupid question, then. Oh, he saw it now. John's words hadn't been actual questions. They'd been... sex talk. And stupidly Sherlock had let his lack of knowledge get in the way. "Can we just continue?" He demanded somewhat insolently, feeling horribly open. If John didn't slide back in him in two seconds, the detective was going to grab him by the hair and throw the short doctor from his room. "Just expunge the question from your memory. It was stupid. I get it now. Hurry up and fuck me!" His lower lip protruded and he ground his arse down against the sheets to emphasize his need. "It hurts." Sherlock reached a slender hand down to his prick and rubbed it, moaning a little. He was so close... so very close.

John shook his head, smiling gently and lifting the thin legs to his shoulders. He nestled between them, closing his eyes as he slid his cock back into the welcoming decadence of Sherlock's silken tunnel, and he gasped, letting his head fall back. He stayed there a moment, ignoring Sherlock's wriggling impatience, and when he opened his eyes again, they were burning and full of emotion. He bent until he was eye level with the detective, and John kissed his lips deeply, slipping his tongue into the open, panting mouth. "Sherlock," John breathed, thrusting shallowly into the wonderful heat. He shuddered, a wave of unbelievable delight exploding in his bones. "I just... wanted to see your face... our first time." John laughed hoarsely as his orgasm came approaching swiftly, and he wrapped one rough and around Sherlock's stiff cock, and began to stroke, quickly, his thrusts picking up speed again. Shit shit shit SHIT he felt GOOD. "I.. fuck... want... every night, yes, yes, yes," John babbled, his head falling back as he began to spasm and convulse in pure, carnal pleasure.

The impossible had been obtained, it seemed. Sherlock Holmes was struck dumb. He opened his mouth to reply, to say something, but nothing came out. Not a single sound. He had absolutely no words that could sum up the intense feelings. He felt John convulsing inside him, and he could not express himself vocally. All he could do was curl his fingers around the sheets and cum. Violently bucking down on John, tightening around the prick, his mouth opening and closing, silver eyes wide. Oh, it was delightful. It was perfection. John's prick was quickening its pace, pumping him full of the white, sticky liquid. All the while, Sherlock was riding the waves, trying desperately to stay grounded on the bed as his own seed splattered across his stomach, a few strands landing on his cheek and chin. He sobbed and grabbed onto John's hands, clinging to them tightly, staring into the deepest pair of grey eyes he'd ever had the pleasure of encountering.

Their eyes met as they came together, and John's heart was suddenly racing, and it had nothing to do with his orgasm. Oh, the climax was massive, and the best of his life... it lasted, pulsing over and over into the body below, violent and dizzying, but... it was not the mind blowing ejaculation that had John's heart pumping.

It was those eyes.

Sherlock's titanium eyes gazed into his as John felt the warm splatter of cum erupt between them, as Sherlock experienced his first orgasm, gazing deeply into John's eyes and holding them. They came together, holding onto one another, panting and experiencing the other's climax as deeply and fully as their own, and when it was over, the gaze still held. They hovered together on the bed, mouths open, eyes round, bodies slick with sweat and semen, until at last, John leaned down very, very slowly, and brushed his dry lips over Sherlock's. "All right?" he murmured softly.

Sherlock nodded, still silent for a few moments as he gathered his faculties together in a neat row. "Yes," he finally said, blinking rapidly. "Yes." The detective's fingers loosened around John's and he allowed his body to relax on the bed. "Quite all right. Thank... you..." with a tiny moan, Sherlock pushed up and deepened the previous kiss, unwilling to let the moment pass. "You meant it, correct?" He asked softly, leaning on his hands. "What you said about... about being with me? Because I won't let you go, John. Not now." Sherlock swallowed hard and looked bravely in John's eyes, his jaw set. There was a rather high percentage that John would reject him even now.

"Idiot." John crawled to straddle him, wrapping both strong, sturdy arms around Sherlock's neck and bringing their lips together again, and again, and again, until he was pushing him down and snogging him, their tongues sliding together, guttural moans and wordless whispers escaping their throats as they rolled on the bed. John lay on his back, his friend... his lover... atop him, devouring his mouth with fervour, and as he lay in Sherlock's bed, naked, sated, and accepting the kisses hungrily, John felt a sense of wonder and excitement build in him. His adrenalin was pumping. Once more, for the thousandth time since meeting this man, he had no idea what tomorrow would bring. And that was the way John liked it. One thing was for damned sure... he wasn't sleeping upstairs anymore. He arched up, hooking his leg around Sherlock's waist, and he opened his mouth wider, moaning his name. Nothing in the world had ever sounded more natural.

Sherlock smiled into the kiss and grabbed hold of John's wrists, bringing them high over his head as he deepened the kiss, returning John's moan with one of his own. John was his. No one else's. Just his. And Sherlock knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he would no longer be cold in bed. He had John. The detective growled a little and curled up possessively around John's body. "Mine."

"Mine," John repeated quietly, firmly, and ground his soft cock up into Sherlock's. He did not resist the grip on his wrists, but relished it, and found he rather like it. Damn. Damn. He'd just fucked Sherlock Holmes. His chest puffed out proudly, and his chin jutted. If he'd had a mirror, John would have seen a foolishly smug grin on his handsome face. "Mine." He looked up into the aquiline, smooth face, and his breath caught. How long had he been in love with Sherlock and not known it? "Mine," he growled deeply.