'Go! Do it!'

Mary understood things. She just did. She was Sherlock in reverse, with all the social understanding he lacked. She understood things instead of knowing things. She understood this better than John did, far better.

'You need to sort this out. Five years of tension and two years of anger. I have no interest in competing with that. Go and see him. Oh, and don't kill him. I refuse to deal with the emotional fallout of that after everything else!'

So that was that. John had been pushed out of the house to go and see Sherlock (the cruel, lying, gorgeous bastard) and settle scores, or talk things out, or something. He walked toward Baker St, thinking about the huge list of things he had to say. With every step he felt angrier, more betrayed, more abandoned, more vengeful. He'd attacked Sherlock three times. It wasn't enough. He hadn't greeted his friend, hugged him, or expressed any sort of joy to have him back. Back from the dead, no less. There wasn't time, wasn't room, not with all the anger. Surely no human could be as cruel as Sherlock... And yet he could only be so cruel because he was so deeply loved. John felt used and humiliated. The love he had had been used to destroy him. Nothing more was needed.

By the time he reached the door marked 221B, John was shaking with both anger and a desperate desire to see, touch and grab the friend for whom he'd grieved, to prove he was alive, real and truly present. The more he imagined revenge, hurting him, the more he wanted to clutch, feel and protect Sherlock. The more he wanted to love and protect, the more he felt the humiliation of its use against him. John stopped at the door and focused. He was a soldier. He could kill without shaking. He could do this. He stilled his hands, clenched his jaw and unlocked the door. He purposefully strode up the stairs, two at a time. Sherlock must have heard him, but he was still sitting in his armchair, the smug bastard.

Sherlock looked up with a decidedly unsherlock expression. Fear, confusion, desperation and even regret made brief appearances. John just stood at the door, breathing heavily and staring, wrestling the urges for both violence and affection. Sherlock stood up slowly and walked toward him, stopping inches away and pausing long and still before grabbing his friend and roughly hugging him as tightly as he could.

John's impulse control was on a knife edge. He was full of adrenaline and ready to kick, run, punch or scream in a split second. Without thinking, he reacted with the strongest impulse. He seized messy, curly hair, clawed at it and hauled Sherlock's face down to meet with his own. He bit as much as kissed and received as much as he gave. His wet tongue met one equally eager. He forcefully pushed his best friend and worst enemy into the door frame and pressed his own strong, shivering body against him. Sherlock had hands all over him. Long fingers flicked open his buttons and clutched at his flesh. John suddenly realised he was being undressed, he reacted hard.

He forced Sherlock away and stepped into the flat.

'YOU DO NOT GET TO DO THAT! YOU HEAR ME?' He pulled the other man in and slammed the door before holding him, by the neck, against it.

'You let me love you, you let me see you die! You let me grieve for two years! Then you show up and... YOU DO NOT GET TO UNDRESS ME!'

Sherlock stood wide eyed and still. Staring into the eyes of his disheveled captor, he nodded as far as the hand around his throat would allow. John interrogated the face until he was fully satisfied, then, only slightly loosening his grip, vehemently kissed his prisoner, who returned his passion.

'On your knees.'

Sherlock just stared.

'ON YOUR KNEES, SHERLOCK!'

He obeyed, slowly but willingly. John unhooked his own belt and trousers after slapping Sherlock's eager hands away.

'Suck it.'

Sherlock didn't need to be told, but John needed to tell him.

The mechanics were new to the man quite publicly known as The Virgin, but although unfamiliar, the process was in no way challenging. Sherlock quickly picked up the intricacies of the situation and immediately put newfound understanding into practice. John watched himself move from domineering, through gratified, to overwhelmed. That wouldn't do. He dropped to his knees in front of Sherlock, kissed on equal footing for a moment, then pushed his friend onto the floor. He made quick work of the unnecessary pants and, with teeth and growls, claimed ownership, took possession and demonstrated impressive skill. He gave enough to torment, too little to satisfy before moving over Sherlock's body and staring dominantly down at him.

'Lick it. Make it wet.'

The intended victim knew what he was in for and tried to do a good job, for his own sake. John only gave him a moment before pulling away, kneeling over him, forcibly pushing back his legs and entering ruthlessly. Sherlock stoically took the manhandling, quietly whimpering into frantic kisses.

The boys, master and slave, friend and enemy, the virgin and the cripple, lay gasping and exhausted, covered in all manner of bodily fluids. They glanced at each other, laying side by side on the floor. They both smirked, then laughed together.

Sherlock served tea, wearing only trousers. John gratefully accepted it, wearing only a shirt. He did also have underpants on, but they didn't really count, they weren't his.

'You never make tea.' He said conversationally.

'You're a guest in my flat.'

'Is that what you call it when someone breaks in, screams at you, then fucks you in the the middle of the floor?'

'It was constructive, on our part, at least. What about your situation?'

'Oh, it's fine. Mary likes you. She'll want you 'round to dinner, by the way.'

'But what about all this?' Sherlock waved his toward the damp ruffled clothing on the floor. 'You're going to tell her.'

'I think... I think... She suggested it.'