A/N: Biggest ever thanks to my fabulous thorough beta, alannalovingwriter, who not only inspired me to get writing again, but made sure the final product ended up making sense at all.

There will soon be a part two to this story, but it kinds of stands alone as it is.

"Don't let that door... Shut. Well done, Lestrade, very well done."

"Really, Sherlock? Didn't think to mention that a second or two earlier?"

John rolled his eyes at them in the dark and kept his mouth shut while he thought. Great. This was just... great. Not.

"Ok, ha ha, very funny, you two. Now open it." Greg snapped.

"Oh, credit me with a little maturity, Lestrade."

John rolled his eyes again. He didn't fail to notice how the request didn't cover his own maturity. He abandoned the attempt to try to find any kind of light source and adjust his eyes.

"Are you serious? We're actually stuck? This isn't just a stupid joke?" Lestrade again.

"I fail to see how even John could find this amusing."

John ignored the pair of them and ran his hands blindly over the inside of the metal door. There were no handles or latches of any kind. He shoved it with his shoulder. There was no give either. If they had no mobile signal outside it was pretty certain there would be none in there, but John checked anyway. Not even emergency calls.

"Oh, God. Tell me there is an air supply in here."

"Now is not the time to succumb to dim-witted histrionics, Detective Inspector." Sherlock drawled.

It was pitch black and rather chilly in the safe. Well, he said 'safe', but it was more of a glorified storage cupboard with a reinforced door. And they were stuck, at least until Greg's officers realised something was wrong and came looking for them.

"If we're labelling dimwits, how about the one who knew, but neglected to inform anyone else that the door locked from the outside?" Greg was letting himself get wound up.

"If so, what does that make the one who begs said dimwit to do his job for him?" Sherlock retorted.

The hushed conversation was no longer hushed, and no longer a conversation – it was just bickering.

"Really, guys? Shut the hell up!" John finally snapped, spinning round to glare at them as though they could see him doing it. "If we're stuck in here for an indefinite amount of time I vote for silence."

There appeared to be no arguments. John ran over what he knew about the room, if it could be called that. It was approximately six or eight foot squared, with shelves running along the back wall and, judging from the faint draft across the top of his head, an air vent located somewhere in the ceiling. He reached up to see if he could reach it, but it was to no avail; he was a good foot short.

"Sherlock, can you reach the ceiling?"

"No. I'm busy being silent," he snapped.

John ignored his childish tone, "There's a vent up there, I'm sure. Can you tell how big it is?"

"I've already explored that possibility, it's far too small. There is no way out without assistance. Do you think I've been standing here idly like Lestrade?"

"Hey, I'm thinking too!"

"Guys, don't," John warned.

"He started it," Greg protested.

"How original," came Sherlock's dry reply.

John sighed and sank to the floor, leaning his back on the wall. He heard the movement as Greg followed his lead and sat with his back to the door. Sherlock of course, remained standing. John could feel the presence of him, towering over them.

"Bloody wanker." Greg muttered, "Don't know why I bother."

"Greg, I completely sympathise," John knew Greg couldn't see his face, so he laid a gentle hand on his arm to support his words, "But let him think."

"He's already said there's no way out."

"He has. But this is new information for him and he'll want to add it to his compiled data on the case." In fact, he was probably solving the damn thing now.

Greg huffed like he wanted to argue, but he stayed quiet. John was surprised by a shift beside him and a knock from a foot on his ankle, a thank you from his friend. It would have normally been communicated by a quick significant glance. Sherlock had known that wouldn't be seen, so had found another way to say it instead of just not bothering. Like it was important. John fought down the little glow that brought about.

Finally, after a few minutes filled with just breathing and the quiet tick of Lestrade's watch, Sherlock sank down beside John, stretching his long legs beside his. The loss of one sense had sharpened John's remaining faculties. He could place everything in the room, every folded limb and sharp edged shelf. There was the scent of cologne on the air, but it was probably all theirs and stale coffee from Lestrade, leather jacket, familiar fabric conditioner; all muddled together with sweat and dust and steel. He could tell there had been paper stored in here until recently, and something adhesive, probably in large quantities. Was this what Sherlock's senses were like? Did he experience them all as focussed as this altogether? How did he cope?

"How long, do you reckon?" John voiced the collective concern. It was obvious to whom he was addressing the question.

"Lestrade is most likely to be missed. His colleagues will be concerned over his absence, probably tonight if they are on good form..." Sherlock paused and John could picture the crumple of his face as he conveyed his thoughts on the form of New Scotland Yard to the darkness. "So no more than a few hours, I imagine."

John closed his eyes and tipped his head back, resigned to the wait. He sensed Greg do the same beside him. There was an opportunity here, for conversation and bonding, but they were all too tired and annoyed to take it. It seemed some were more tired than others, if Greg's gentle snore a minute later was anything to go by.

Sherlock snorted. John kicked him gently.

"What?" At least he was decent enough to whisper.

"Leave him alone."

There was no response to that, but he suspected he heard a tiny chuckle. There was another few minutes of boredom. Another tiny chuckle. The process repeated itself.

"What are you thinking about?" John asked quietly.

"You."

John wasn't sure how to respond to that. Flattered? Offended? Worried? It really depended on what exactly about him Sherlock was thinking.

As if in answer to his silent question, Sherlock nudged John's leg slightly with the side of his own, "Nothing too terrible, don't fret."

"Why are you thinking about me?" It wasn't what he'd meant to say. He had meant to request further elaboration, to ask what he was thinking about.

"You are very interesting to me, John." As if realising he had said something that sounded far too nice he added, "Would I put up with you if you weren't?"

John smiled to himself at Sherlock's attempt to accompany his compliment with a jibe. It didn't work. Being interested in you was the greatest compliment a Holmes could pay. He reached over and squeezed a leg, to say thank you. He whipped his hand back when he realised it had landed above the knee and the tense of lean muscle beneath the fine wool trousers had thrilled him slightly. Now was not the time to make a prat of himself over his flatmate.

"Like that, that was very interesting."

John gritted his teeth and sucked down the urge to groan at himself. Way to go, Watson.

"I predict you are biting down with frustration now, John, and trying not to mumble to yourself. Am I right?"

John stayed quiet. There was quite enough tension coiled within him, there was no need to ebb any out externally. His legs were getting a little stiff but he refused to move them, Sherlock would just take it as confirmation of his discomfort.

"It's the same almost every time. You touch, and then regret." It was not a question, just a thought spoken aloud, "Every day the same action. A touch, a retraction. A caress, a withdrawal."

It was true. John's instincts were always to reach for his friend, to connect their skin, to graze against him. They always had been, and he had always detested it. There was nothing like longing for contact and lusting after someone when it was not returned. Except, perhaps, having it noticed and examined, as appeared to be happening now. That was definitely worse.

"Stop talking nonsense. I'm trying to listen in case anyone is outside."

"The room is soundproof, John, which you well know."

He did. His legs finally shifted of their own accord, fidgeting and twitching for a few seconds. When he settled into a new position, Sherlock pressed his alongside him, from hip to ankle. John did not react – because that was what Sherlock was aiming for, obviously. A test, an experiment to investigate John's reactions to touch. Although, maybe that was the wrong response, maybe he should be shying away.

"John."

"Sherlock." Not going there – dangerous conversational territory ahead. John was determined not to fall into any traps, to say anything he would regret. But names were safe enough, weren't they?

The tension was heavy; it had been for a few minutes, if he were honest. And, try as he might, he couldn't think of a way to lift it.

"What are you doing?" John asked eventually. He wriggled his leg, disturbing Sherlock's where he leant against it, "What is this?"

"It's pretty tight in here, John. Don't develop personal space issues now."

It was complete nonsense, and they both knew it. There was, if not plenty of room, then at least enough. And if it were the case, there was still no reason for the hand, which was lightly placed upon the bottom of his right quadriceps. Fingertips squeezed gently.

"Don't–" John stopped his angry admonition just in time, Greg snorted and slumped a couple of inches to the left. He restrained his voice to a whisper, "Don't play with me, Sherlock."

"Who's playing?"

It was a quiet breath of words, heating the sensitive shell of his ear. It sent a wave of goosebumps scattering down his arms. Except John knew when he was being wound up, and this was definitely a wind-up. Sherlock must be drawing conclusions, and John really wished he wouldn't.

"Piss off."

How long did they have left? It felt like they had been in there ages, but it couldn't have been any more than half an hour. This was quickly becoming unbearable. The faint sense of Sherlock's cologne had increased with their closeness. Now it was all he could breathe, along with whatever it was that Sherlock smelt of. The underlying salt of a fine sheen of stale sweat from the running earlier, the coconut of his expensive shampoo, the bitter sting of tobacco smoke.

"Have you been smoking?"

"Are you smelling me?"

"Yes." There was no point in lying.

"Oh. Yes, I admit I may have had one earlier."

"One?" John knew him better than that.

"Five."

John laughed at that, just a quiet huff. The fingertips squeezed again, an inch higher, a touch firmer, stealing the mirth from his lungs. "Sherlock," he warned.

"John?"

"Again, stop with the playing." He tipped his head back to the wall, pleading to the heavens. This could end up humiliating. What exactly was Sherlock trying to achieve? John knew if he had realised his own feelings towards his friend it could only be a matter of time before Sherlock twigged on too, if he hadn't already. But this was a hell of a time to be twigging; locked in a cupboard with Greg snoring in the corner and a possible troop of police officers searching abandoned offices for them. A hell of a time to mess about with it.

Sherlock's voice wasn't against his ear this time, it was an inch from his throat. "Again, who's playing?"

Oh. Fuck. That was just too much. And if that alone was too much, John wasn't sure what it was when he heard the strained uttering of his name, soft lips grazing his suddenly heated skin as they curved around the letters seductively. Holy Jesus. His lungs contracted on an audible gasp. It took every iota of control he had to lean away, to cool the air between them.

"Please..." he wasn't sure what he was asking for. For him to stop? For him not to? For him to never stop?

"I'm sorry, John," he sounded sincere. He sounded... sad. "I've just been... Nevermind, I'm sorry."

John had been just about to question that, but Greg chose that moment to jerk out of sleep. He bolted upright, probably panicking that he had gone blind for a moment, before relaxing back against the door.

"Still stuck. How long's it been now?"

"Thirty eight minutes."

It didn't surprise John that Sherlock had been counting the passing seconds. If he had the mental capacity to, he probably would have as well.

Greg scrabbled in his coat pocket for his phone. They all protested at the sudden blinding light from the illuminated screen, turning away. John had ended up with his nose pressed into the crook of Sherlock's slim neck, searching for blackness. The hand, still on his thigh, tightened, squeezing in reaction.

"Argh," Greg moaned, apparently trying to squint at the screen, "Still no signal."

John heard him shove his phone back into his pocket and made to remove himself from Sherlock, but the hand that was on his thigh shot up and anchored itself in his hair, holding him there. He breathed in a deep lungful of Sherlock, intending to utilise the opportunity as much as possible before he forced himself to question what was going on.

"Sorry to be blunt, but I'm going to need to piss soon." Well, if ever there was a mood killer, Greg had just supplied it.

John forcefully removed his face from its nest and laughed. "Told you that you shouldn't have drunk all that coffee."

"If I'd seen this happening I wouldn't have. Or maybe I would, but I would have dosed it liberally with whiskey beforehand."

"Aw, we're not that bad company," John quipped, aware of a movement beside him, but determined not to show it.

Sherlock was leaning in; John could feel the silky tickle of his hair on his ear lobe. What the hell? He forced himself not to shy away. Sherlock alone knew what he was up to, but John could predict that a reaction would be noted.

"No, s'pose not. Could be worse."

"We could be Anderson," John pointed out and earned a chuckle from Lestrade. Sherlock, on the other hand was silent, apart from his breathing, which was strangely arousing in John's ear. There was a graze of the tip of his nose on the skin there and John had to force himself not to lean in.

Speech. Talking. Words. He had to make some conversation with Lestrade. "If you had to be locked in here with anyone you could choose, who would it be?"

"Not you two, no offence." He paused to think. Meanwhile Sherlock had tipped his head slightly, his full bottom lip glancing the corner of John's jaw. Greg hummed, "Anybody?"

"Living or dead," John elaborated conversationally, awed at his own ability to sound casual. What the heck was Sherlock doing? The lip curled, stroking up the skin under his sideburn. John sensed rather than felt his tongue swipe out across that lip. Was he tasting him?

"Mohammed Ali and Freddie Mercury."

"Ohhh, good choice," he tried to make it sound like his moan was thoughtful or impressed, rather than blatantly sexual. "You, Sherlock?" That had to move him away, surely.

"Do I actually have to participate in such inane conversation?" Hot breath puffed at John's jaw before he leaned back.

"Yes."

"Dead you say? Can they still be dead?"

"Can you try and seem a little less like a psychopath?"

"I meant rather so I wouldn't have to converse, as opposed to displaying a desire to be locked in a room with a pair of corpses."

"Still..."

"Well if not then I would pick John, obviously. Preferably alive."John felt a little thrill at those words. And another as the lips beside him pressed, warm and wet, against his cheek, at the peak of his zygomatic bone. They slipped down, sliding hot silent kisses down his face, along his jaw. John clenched his fists.

"And I suppose Lestrade isn't too bad a choice either, if he refrains from speaking too often." He spoke as though he was sitting there still and thinking, rather than caressing his mouth across John's skin and digging his fingers into his thigh.

"What about you, John?" Greg asked.

He was curious, bless him, but John hated him in that second. He couldn't think. He was pretty sure he had an answer lined up for questions like this, but right now, with Sherlock moving down to caress John's throat with his delicious mouth, it refused to make itself known. He made a noise that could have been pondering, although he and Sherlock both knew it was something else entirely. The lips were drifting slowly, cautiously, as if wondering why John hadn't pushed him off yet and anticipating the moment he would. To be fair, John was wondering the same thing. The silence stretched; he had to say something.

"Natalie Portman and..." He wanted to say Sherlock. He would quite happily be locked in a cupboard with Sherlock forever if he carried on the way he was going, but he couldn't say that. A sharp line of teeth scraped along the stubble emerging at his chin. "Jesus!"

It had been an omission of shock, rather than an answer, but Greg took it as the latter. The mouth at John's neck snorted, but Greg just made a thoughtful sound. "Not Sherlock?"

John just laughed, with a faint note of the hysterical. Exacerbated by the fact that Sherlock's wandering fingers were getting perilously close to the growing bulge in John's jeans.

There was a sudden jarring scrape on the door. John's heart leapt, though he had no idea whether it was from possible imminent rescue, possible imminent threat to life, possible imminent discovery of the state he was in, or possible imminent ending of what Sherlock was doing. Hell, it could have been all of them.

"Was that you?" John asked Greg.

"No."

"Will they be able to open the door?" He asked Sherlock.

"We'll soon find out." Sherlock had apparently decided getting caught attached to John in more than one place was not a state he was going to lower himself to and slowly pulled himself away.

The door swung open with an ominous squeal, swiftly followed by the roars of all three occupants being blinded by the daylight.

It wasn't mentioned for the rest of the day. John couldn't quite believe it, but they managed to get through the rest of the case, solve the mystery, apprehend the culprits of a precious metals smuggling ring and get out of New Scotland Yard and all the way home without either of them saying a word about it. It. Whatever it was.

There had been a couple of moments, furtive heated glances that had sent something burning down to his curling toes, but John was beginning to become concerned he was just imagining those.

Until Sherlock interrupted his musings, approaching him in the kitchen, "Is this all in my head?"

"What?"

Sherlock gestured to the pair of them, "This."

He could make some wisecrack. It was the perfect opportunity to laugh it off and lighten the mood, put it all behind them and move on. But that wasn't what he wanted, was it?

John sighed, "No."

"Well, that's reassuring in a way. And not, in others."

"Does it bother you?"

"Immensely."

Oh. Well shit. That wasn't what he'd been hoping to hear. He turned away, reaching into the cupboard for mugs and tea and something to distract him from what might possibly have been a disturbing crack of his heart.

Sherlock stepped up behind him, joining them from chest to back of knee and extended his arm alongside John's. He slid his long musician's fingers up the back of John's hand and entwined them, using the grip to pull his arm back down again. "But not in the way you are thinking."

There was no wisecrack, or laughing that off, and he certainly didn't want the mood to get any lighter, not when Sherlock was lowering his head to run the tip of his nose down the side of John's neck and breathing in the sensitive skin behind his earlobe.

"You know once this starts, it will never end," Sherlock murmured, his breath and his words both sending a shiver through John. His other hand came around to flatten on John's abdomen, holding him tight against him, "There is no backing out."

"It's already started."

"A long time ago," agreed Sherlock.

"So the time for backing out came and went a while back."

"I'm so glad you agree."

"Not that I think I would anyway."

"I should hope not."

"Do you want this cup of tea I'm making?" John asked, because he didn't. What he wanted most of all was to turn around, shove Sherlock up against the kitchen table and kiss the life out of him. But he also didn't want to push it – this was probably something they should take slowly. He squeezed the hand on his belly lightly, pressing Sherlock's fingertips into his flesh.

"No." Sherlock nipped lightly at John's ear, "I want you to turn me around, push me up against the table and kiss me so hard my bones feel like they're melting and my legs can't hold my weight."

Damn. John couldn't stop the noise that squeezed out of his throat – a needy little grunt that dragged out into a moan. How did he know? Did he know what else John wanted? Did he know every little need and desire he had been coveting and dreaming of? Did he know how desperately John wanted to take him to bed and spend the rest of the evening tasting his body?

"Then I'd like to take you to bed, John, and learn you. All of you. Every centimetre, every tremble, every whimper. And then I want you to take me and possess me and make me yours."

John turned in Sherlock's arms, crowding him backwards until the back of his thighs hit the edge of the table, laughing at Sherlock's encouraging grin. This was what he had been waiting for, and apparently what Sherlock had been waiting for too.

He reached up, as Sherlock leaned down, crashing their lips together. It was perfect, in the way only hot, wet chaos can be, full of sucking lips and scraping teeth, alternating between sweet caresses and filthy explorations. Sherlock tasted of coffee and cigarettes and something dark and dangerous. Hands were everywhere. John felt long strong fingers squeezing at his side then his shoulder, the back of his neck, finally twin grips on his buttocks, pulling him in as Sherlock thrusted forwards.

"Let me take you to bed, Sherlock," he whispered, emerging not at all unscathed from the embrace, pulling Sherlock up with one hand, catching the slim body against his chest as he stumbled.

"And take me and possess me and make me yours?"

"You're already mine," John replied with a smile, directing him backwards towards his bedroom.

To be continued...