Authors Note: Not for the faint-hearted. Please comment, your comments are the best Christmas Presents!

John had pulled a week of night shifts at the Accident and Emergency Unit at Barts. Not something he would normally have done these days, but they were desperately short of trauma surgeons, and a friend of a friend had called and, well, let's just say he was a pushover.

He came home that morning at about 7.30am. Sherlock was sitting at the kitchen table working on something or other. He was freshly washed and dressed, and with an unusual glow about him.

'Has the kettle boiled?'

Sherlock didn't even grunt in reply.

John was not offended. He was too used to it. Instead, he filled the kettle and switched it on. And then went placidly off about his business.

The bathroom was still steamy and humid from Sherlock's shower. John was eager to get to bed and catch up on as much sleep as Sherlock's noisy experiments would allow, so he figured he'd just clean his teeth. He snatched up the brush, loaded on the toothpaste, and was about to get started when he glanced down.

And there it was.

A black plastic thing, cup-shaped and on a hinge. It was adhered to the tiled wall over the bath, under the shower head, with some kind of suction-cup arrangement.

Some kind of experimental thing, he concluded, and started brushing.

By the time he got back to the kitchen, the kettle had boiled.

'Mmmm,' Sherlock said. Perhaps in reply to John's earlier question, it was always hard to know with him when he was absorbed. He was intent on what he was doing anyway. 'Good shift?'

'Not dull, that's for sure,' John said, yawning. He made himself a mug of tea and sat down opposite his flatmate. Tea didn't taste too good with toothpaste, but it was a necessary evil. 'What's that?'

'New slides,' Sherlock said, not looking up. He was assembling slides of retinal tissue cut from a selection of eyeballs that stared out of a jam jar next to the toast rack.

'Nice. Just what I need to look at over the breakfast table.'

'I'd imagine you've been looking at far worse all night.'

'Exactly. What's the new experiment in the bathroom about? Is it something I should ban on the grounds of environmental toxicity or is it just a new holder for you shower gel?'

'What on earth are you on about?' Sherlock looked up, frowning.

'That black thing on the bathroom wall?'

Sherlock shrugged and dropped his head again.

'Oh, that. It's just the wall mount for my Fleshlight.'

Shocked silence.

'Er…'

Sherlock glared at John over his slide from beneath his curly fringe.

'Oh, come off it, John. Don't look so shocked! It's not as if you are the only person who needs to alleviate certain bodily urges in the shower.'

John realised he was gaping like an idiot.

'Right,' he said, and got up. 'Okay.'

He turned and made for the stairs.

'John? You forgot your tea!' Sherlock's innocent baritone wafted after him.

Lying on his back with the curtains drawn against the morning light, John screwed up his eyes. But it was no good. Adhered to the backs of his eyelids was the incriminating image of Sherlock's long, lean figure, water sluicing over it, the buttocks flexing as he thrust into a wall-mounted sex toy in their own bathroom.

'Bugger,' John growled through gritted teeth.

He'd been doing so well with this lately. He had convinced himself he was finally on top of it. No more fantasies. No more badly timed erections caused by a sleek smile from his friend. No more desperate longings triggered by a waft of Sherlockian aftershave. He really had been doing well. Until now. Bloody Sherlock, why did he have to -

There was a knock on the door.

'You can borrow it if you like,' Sherlock called through the wood in his sweetest tone. 'Just be sure to clean it out when you're done. But of course, you would. You're a doctor. Never mind. I'll just leave it in the bathroom, shall I?'

Followed by silence. And then heavy steps descending the stairs.

John pressed the heels of his hands to his eyeballs and groaned.

'I am so fucked,' he breathed.

The dream came two days, or rather nights, later. Things were on an upwards trajectory, despite the presence of the tempting black plastic tube in the bathroom. He had coped. He had even managed to look Sherlock in the eye that day. He'd been practically calm!

In the dream, he walked into the bathroom to find a fabulously naked Sherlock, his skin glimmering like mother of pearl, standing in the bath, facing the wall. It took a few moments for John to realise that the detective was thrusting his tumescent cock into a lusciously aroused vagina that had developed in the tiles.

John woke with a start, and a very sticky mess.

The black tube remained on the bathroom windowsill like a reproach. From the glow that Sherlock exhibited in the mornings, though, it was being used on an almost embarrassingly regular basis. Sherlock clearly had a substantial appetite.

John tried hard not to think about it.

He took another week of shifts at Barts, this time 'lates', so he could at least sleep during the hours of darkness, and at the same time, avoid Sherlock during the evening hours.

And things were going alright, they really were. Not seeing Sherlock so much really helped. And the detective was engaged in the pursuit of a rather ingenious insurance fraudster. It was a problem that was rather beneath Sherlock, he told John archly over toast one morning, barely even a four, but it was mildly amusing, and it passed the time whilst he was waiting for his current experiment to complete. He would not be drawn over the nature of said current experiment. He simply chewed his toast enigmatically and read the paper.

John had to fight extremely hard not to stare at those lavish lips compressing around each mouthful.

John came home from work about 10.45pm on the Thursday night. It had been a demanding shift, most of which he had spent dealing with a death and a particularly distressing amputation, both the result of a nasty traffic collision. He needed a hearty dram. And he needed to fall into bed and not think about anything again for at least the next century or so.

What he did not need was Sherlock with his now familiar rosy glow, and a bathroom full of seductive steam that spoke volumes as to how the detective had spent his free evening alone.

Sherlock, meanwhile, was glued to his laptop.

'What's that?' John peered over his shoulder and immediately regretted it, being hit by the delicious waft of cologne and damp skin and maleness that rose up with the wave of Sherlock's body heat.

'Spreadsheet.'

'Yes, I can see that, you numpty.'

Sherlock huffed. 'I am attempting to correlate data on urban deprivation with crime statistics in a bounded area of three streets in Stepney.'

'The liberal side of criminology. It's nice to know you care about the poor,' John quipped.

'I'm looking for areas where youth gangs are likely to be active,' Sherlock muttered.

'Preventative criminology. That's' good too. Very compassionate.'

'Oh, fuck off,' Sherlock growled, but not with much venom. John concluded that he was still in a post-coital haze, so he went off to the bathroom and made with the toothpaste routine, determined not to think about why the condensation was running down the tiles, or why Sherlock's eyelids looked particularly hooded and seductive that night.

And the whole 'not thinking' strategy would have worked, it really would, if it had not been for what happened next.

Because at exactly 10.53pm, the toothbrush adhered to his upper right No.7 molar, there to be suspended for what felt like a lifetime of shock, whilst Captain John Hamish Watson, formerly of the 8th Northumberland Fusiliers and the Royal Army Medical Corps, lately of Barts A&E Unit and the Bermondsey Lane Medical Centre (senior partner Dr S Sawyer), hit the furthest reaches of whatever tether he had left, and promptly rocketed through the barrier into the outer stratosphere of sanity.

What his eyes alighted on, as he stood in front of the sink, idly scrubbing at his back teeth, was a large, flesh pink, silicone dildo, adhered to the tiles inside the shower area of the bath with a suction cup.

If John's brain had been working with any coherence, he might have had time to be impressed by how effective the suction cup on the dildo was. Instead, he was so frantic in his efforts to prize it off the wall that he had to wiggle one side of a pair of tweezers in under the rim to release the vacuum sufficiently to loosen it.

Sherlock glanced up briefly. 'Toothpaste,' he said.

'What?'

'You're foaming at the mouth.'

'What? Oh, yeah.' John took a swig from the whisky tumbler he had filled on the way to the bathroom, and spat the disgusting tasting result into the kitchen sink. And turned back.

'Sherlock?'

'Hmmm?'

'What the fuck is this?'

He held it out, still glistening from the shower. The big pink dildo. In his fist. Right under Sherlock's nose.

Sherlock lifted his eyes, and stared at it. With anyone else, John would have expected shame, or at the very least, embarrassment. What John was actually expecting to show in Sherlock's sea green eyes was arrogant defiance. He expected a sharp 'So what?'

What he actually got was a look of such naked desire that it knocked all the air out of his lungs. Sherlock's eyes burned.

And that was when the penny dropped.

Not just that Sherlock wanted him.

Not even that Sherlock had been planning this all along.

Just the panoramic realisation that Sherlock had been preparing himself for John all evening.

'Oh, fuck,' John gasped.

'Yes.' Sherlock's voice was so deep it was barely audible.

'You're-'

'Yes.'

'Oh, Jesus fucking wept-'

'Yes.'

A lot of things suddenly happened at once.

John's hand on Sherlock's shirt, grasping a handful of crisp white cotton, warm from the heat of Sherlock's skin. Sherlock's fingers curling around John's bicep, digging deep into the muscle. Sherlock's lips parting. The softest gust of his sweet breath of John's skin as he tilted his head up. John pulling Sherlock to his feet and shoving him back against the tabletop. Sherlock letting rip a broken moan of desperate lust that sliced into John's gullet and crackled all the way down his spine to his anus, lighting up his balls like a Christmas tree. John's body grinding against his flatmate's, suddenly sweaty and hungry, his burgeoning erection clashing with Sherlock's.

'Please,' Sherlock panted.

John kissed him. Kissed that magnificent mouth, those preposterously sumptuous lips, just as he had been longing to do since the first moment they met. Slid his tongue between and met Sherlock's, shivering with delight. Tasted and tested and gulped and devoured until they were both breathless. Each thoughtless, heedless of the consequences, of any conscious consideration except:

More.

Sherlock's lips soft against John's cheek, rasping on the bristles of the day, then against his ear, whispering barely spoken needs.

'Please, John.'

'Is that consent?'

'God, yes!'

John's hands fumbling with Sherlock's belt, Sherlock's fly. Fingers rubber, numb with need. Sherlock's fingers deft on John's zip. Trousers and underpants dragged down to knees.

'Oh, Christ!' For a moment, John was transfixed.

Sherlock's cock was long and slender, rosy pink and perfect. He was circumcised, unlike John, and very, very erect. He twitched as John's fingers ghosted close. He whimpered.

I am the man who made Sherlock Holmes whimper, John thought.

And then he grabbed Sherlock by the waist and spun him around, pushing his chest and shoulders down onto the table. Slides, laptop, notebooks, test tubes all went flying, and neither of them cared. His mouth watering, John ran his hand over the beautiful curve of Sherlock's buttock and along the crevice.

Sherlock moaned.

And then, as he swept his fingers up from Sherlock's perineum, John felt it. The flared silicone base of a plug.

That was when his knees nearly gave out. He flopped forwards, head spinning, and pressed his forehead between Sherlock's shoulder blades.

'I've been waiting for you,' Sherlock whispered.

And now it was John's turn to whimper. He gripped Sherlock's hips and pressed his length along the crease between. Sherlock pushed back, shaking.

'Please… please?'

Nothing, not thermo-nuclear war or the arrival of a zombie apocalypse, nor even the premiere of a new James Bond movie, could have stopped John from that point on. Some part of his brain was still functioning, way beyond conscious awareness admittedly – nothing filled his consciousness beyond the woody scent of Sherlock's sex – because a thread of practical thought was definitely present. John scanned the kitchen for something suitable, and found what he wanted – a bottle of olive oil on the counter that he had used a few nights previously to cook up a pasta dish. Thank God it never got put away.

Sherlock moaned and pressed back against him, grinding his backside against John's cock and bucking his hips. No question what he needed, right now, but that plug had to come out, and oily fingers wouldn't manage it.

John grabbed the tails of Sherlock's shirt and pushed them up his body to his armpits. He stroked his palms back down again over the gleaming skin, took a moment to knead those magnificent buttocks, and then slipped his fingers between and grasped the base of the plug.

'Thank fuck!' Sherlock wailed as it shifted.

There was a moment of initial resistance and then a thick 'plop' as it popped out, leaving a generous dribble of lube. For a second, Sherlock's hole, wet, pink and a little puffy, gaped, and then it closed like a flower.

It was all John could do not to swoon there and then.

For a moment he held onto Sherlock's body and closed his eyes, trying to calm himself. Then he reached out with shaking fingers to grab the oil and spill some into his cupped palm. He slicked it onto his rearing cock, but there was still plenty left. He took his time, trying to get a grip on himself as he rubbed it into Sherlock's deliciously responsive arse. His buttocks glistened.

And then John couldn't hold back any more.

He pressed the head of his cock against the rosy little knot, and panted: 'ready?'

Sherlock nodded vigorously, spreading his legs to bring his pelvis down to the level of John's, and pressing his chest and palms to the tabletop.

John took him at his word. There was a brief moment of breathless anticipation, and then in one long, sweet stroke, John was buried in his detective's body to the hilt.

He held there for a divine pause, feeling the caress of Sherlock's hungry muscles, the heat and wetness. He had done this once or twice before, with more adventurous girlfriends, but this feeling was better than that, better than anything he had ever known.

And then Sherlock leaned back, pressing against him and circling his hips, and John lost it. Immediately, he was thrusting blindly, grinding and delving and drawing out to just the tip, tantalising Sherlock till he was almost screaming with need, and then plunging in again. At some point, John thought to pull his t-shirt over his head and drop it on the floor so that he could bend forward and feel Sherlock's smooth skin against his belly.

'Harder,' Sherlock wailed. 'More! Harder! Oh, God, John!'

Compassion penetrated the thick fog of lust in John's skull, and he slipped a hand down, round Sherlock's hip bone to stroke his cock. Sherlock batted him away.

'No, no! Just your cock, just your cock,' the detective panted.

'Oh, God! Oh, Sherlock!'

It was getting more than John could stand, overwhelming every sense. The scent of Sherlock's body, the tantalising texture of his silken hair, the heat and tightness, the cool skin, the erotic sounds coming out of that endless, pale throat.

'Fuck me, oh God! Fuck me!' Sherlock wailed.

Teetering on the edge, John canted his hips and instantly knew he had hit the sweet spot. Sherlock keened. The muscles inside him seemed to vibrate. Suddenly everything was infinitesimally tighter and hotter.

Instinct dealt the final blow.

John reached out and grabbed a handful of those ebony curls in his fist. He dragged Sherlock's head back roughly as he pounded into him until the table was rocking.

Sherlock screamed.

And came.

Everything went a little white and fuzzy around the edges. John felt the pulsing, the delicious convulsions as Sherlock's hips shook and jerked. He even heard the splatter of semen hitting the floor. But it was far distant. By that point, John was too far gone to do anything but ride the wave out. He flung himself forward onto Sherlock's white back, sank his teeth into the muscle and bellowed as he filled his depths.

Sherlock was holding him up. He made to ease out of his friend's body, but Sherlock whimpered, and grabbed his forearm. John pushed back in as best he could, feeling a little flood of come escape. Dizzy, he pressed kisses to the nape of Sherlock's neck and tried to get his breath back. But he was softening, and Sherlock's legs had begun to tremble alarmingly. Deciding to take the initiative before they both ended up in a heap on the floor, John finally uncoupled himself, and struggled to stand. He pulled Sherlock upright and turned him around so he could perch on the edge of the table.

The face that greeted him was almost enough to make him hard all over again. Sherlock's hair was standing up in a halo around his head. His lips were swollen, his cheeks red and streaked with sweat. He had never seen anything so debauched, or so erotic in his life. Sherlock blinked at him, post-coitally dazed, and John fell on his lips, helpless to resist.

When they finally came up for air, Sherlock's head flopped against John's shoulder. John stroked his hair, fondly.

'Oh, God,' Sherlock moaned.

'Get what you wanted, you scheming fiend?'

Sherlock tipped his head up to face him. John looked into his eyes and saw something he never expected to see. Sherlock – open and vulnerable and full of hope.

'I hope so, but that rather depends on you.'

'So you admit to entrapping me?'

'You weren't taking my hints.'

'You were making hints?' John laughed.

'I was obviously being too subtle,' Sherlock smiled a little.

'An eight inch dildo is being subtle?'

'That was obviously my unsubtle approach,' Sherlock said, rolling his eyes.

'Well, it worked.' John cupped Sherlock's face gently. 'And by the look of you, if I don't get you into bed, you'll drop where you are. Very unsubtly.'

Sherlock ran his hands over John's chest in response.

'Thought we could have a shower first,' he suggested. He looked up John through his eyelashes. 'You could try out my little pink friend while I suck you off.'

'Jesus, love, don't you stop?'

It was an incidental word. It fell out of John's mouth before he had chance to think. But it had a demolishing effect on his friend.

'Love?' he whispered, his eyes widening. A single word had shattered his attempt at nonchalant seduction.

Something twisted deep under John's ribs. He smiled softly down into those sea-green-sky-blue-silver eyes and let it all finally show in his own face, everything he had spent years trying to conceal, everything he wanted, hoped for, needed, yearned towards.

'Of course. Don't tell me you didn't realise.'

Sherlock stared up at him. And then shook his head.

'Will you ever stop surprising me, John Watson?'

'I hope not,' John said.

End