Author's Notes:This is my submission for the 'First Kiss' contest, arranged by fuckyeahjohnlockfanfic dot tumblr dot com. It can also be read as a glimpse into my 'Stop This' universe, although it does not influence the story in any way whatsoever.

"Don't shoot!" The muffled voice echoed from behind the door.

"Raise your gun and lift your hands where I can see them and I won't!"

"All right, all right. Just take it easy-,"

"Walk out from behind the door! Now!" John shouted at the figure's shadow, his brow set in concentration as the barrel of his gun stared, unwaveringly, at the mystery silhouette. It had all happened so fast - one moment he had been chasing after a Ukrainian assassin, knocking around trash bins and trying not to trip, when suddenly the woman had simply vanished behind a steel door of a former plant of some kind, leaving him panting and disappointed. He had been going after them, the web, for months now, never stealing a moment's rest, hoping against hope that he would have in him what was required to complete the job Sherlock had started. A memento. Sentiment. Sherlock would have probably liked it, though. Killing criminals in his memory. Yes, that sounded about right.

He had been creeping around the factory building aimlessly, struggling to hear the clicking of the woman's stiletto boots when his army training had kicked in, sending off warning signals in his head - a shadow, a man's shadow, slowly making its way through the door frame, the clear outline of a gun in his hand.

"Now, I want you to make your way towards me slowly, and don't try to do anything, I'll have you know I'm-,"

"Behind you!"

Before he was able to wheel around, something had sent fizzling sparks of pain through his left shoulder, the same shoulder which had already once endured such treatment. Hissing, he turned around only to see another bullet whiz right past him and into the skull of the murderess. Her wide brown eyes opened even more as she stared at him in disbelief, a strained breath pulling from her lungs... no. That wasn't quite right. They were staring past him as she drew her last gasp and he whipped around, only to see the shadow's arm, outstretched from behind the doorframe, the pistol gripped tightly in his hand.

"Who are you?" John whispered, gripping his bleeding shoulder tightly to prevent himself from haemorrhaging. It was just a graze, he noted absent-mindedly, while his eyes inspected the figure closer. "You saved my life. I won't hurt you... For now." He panted, watching as the silhouette lowered his weapon, shaking visibly. "Please. I know I've seen you before, we've crossed paths... Come on... Navarra... The supermarket... That was... you... too, wasn't... it?" Shit, John thought, biting his lip with the effort of standing up straight. Traumatic shock. Wonderful. Just what he needed when he was this close. "I'm bleeding... 'bout to collapse... doctor..."

His vision blurring, John felt his knees buckle underneath him as he fell to the dirty factory floor. His only hope would be that his savior would save him once more and call an ambulance. Feeling the shock slowly set in, he struggled to see as the figure from behind the door slowly slid into his view. Eyes watering, he tried to... No. No. He had to see what, who, that was, he needed to know who had been following him on his path, who had killed two of Navarra's men at the very beginning, who had disabled the bomb in Tokyo, the one that John had been bound to go with, who had just prevented him from getting fatally wounded. Who would, if they were indeed a friend, call for medical help while John's body shut down.

Soft lips suddenly made their way into his muddled world, descending upon his gently. They felt familiar, somehow, as if he had known them to kiss him before. The shadow's breath was sweet, surprisingly, John had always thought killers would taste like blood and maybe death but this... man, definitely, totally, completely a man, tasted of home. Coffee and sugar. Biscuits. Toast. Moaning out, whether from relief of suddenly being back home, at 221B Baker Street, or from the pain that radiated in waves off his shoulder, John exhaled into the person's mouth, making him press even closer.

Lightly, even feebly, they descended upon his mouth again and again, eliciting small gasps from his shocked lungs. He could feel himself slipping away into a state of lucid bliss but for some reason, instead of settling him into that soft unknown, those lips seemed to anchor him to the cold, hard ground where he lay. His eyelids fluttered close, his eyes useless, and he attempted to raise his head just a bit to taste more of Baker Street. A firm finger pressed itself into his forehead, denying him the right, and instead, the man's breath became hotter, closer, as John felt his tongue slide in effortlessly beneath his own parted lips. Gently, almost reverently, the man explored every crevice of John's mouth, the finger sliding from his forehead to touch John's cheek. Ragged breath mixed as John's confused mind basked in the glory of the man's mouth, inhaling every whimper, drinking every drop of saliva that blended together on the man's sweet lips, making John wish desperately for a glimpse of the man's face. He found it in himself to press back, making the man moan a bit louder and to raise a shaky hand to touch his... waist? arm? Back. A coat-covered back.

John's heart ached even more than it had so many months ago as he had been packing his small sack to set off on his first challenge outside of the country, walking out of the only place he had called his true home for what he had been sure was the last time. The coat was rough underneath his fingers and yet it had the same softness as the man's beautiful lips. It had the same familiarity. He had touched that back a million times before, in comfort, in sadness, in resignation, in anger; and to touch it right now, in search of shelter, of help, in thanks, was worth more than any revenge in the world.

Finally, their lips unsealed themselves, John's breath almost fading into a shallow pattern and as his consciousness slowly slid into the beyond, he felt his mouth whisper what it had longed to say for so many weeks:

"Sher... lock..."

Watching the ambulance pull away from the car park, Sherlock finally allowed himself to breathe out fully. He brought his hands up to his mouth, the haunting feeling of his first kiss lingering on his lips.

My dear John. Why are you here? You should be marrying some bland girl from Exeter or opening up your own practice in Manchester. Danger... And yet here you are.

Thank you for your help.

Thank you for your love.

We shall meet again.

Pull through.

Would you do this, just for me?