"I'm bored."

Sherlock Holmes sat sprawled on his couch, gazing at the ceiling with the focused concentration of someone attempting to decode a complex message. Across the room, John Watson didn't look up from his laptop screen, but paused in his typing.

"Is this what you're always like whenever there isn't a serial killer on the loose for you to track down?"

Sherlock didn't respond. He wondered how people mindlessly kept themselves busy during the day. A person's mind could be grasped so quickly and be distracted for hours at a time by simple things such as television shows about pregnant teenagers or games where you steal cars and shoot computerized people, yet he couldn't find a way to sway his attention somewhere for a few minutes. Sherlock was trapped within his own mind, the endless thoughts racing, but never reaching a finish. At times like these, he almost wished he had a mind as vague as most of the human population. There wasn't a thing for him to do—no homicides, no so-called-suicides. The world seemed to have frozen.

For a few moments, he listened to the patterns of his companions typing.

"You haven't got much to say today, have you?" Sherlock inquired. "There are frequent pauses in your already monstrously slow typing speed."

Still keeping his eyes peeled to the screen, John replied, "No, Sherlock. Not much today, but I've got write something." He wouldn't look at Sherlock. There was something satisfying about not giving Sherlock his full attention as he is so used to people listening to his theories intently.

Sherlock continued to follow the thumps of the keyboard. His life was devoted to figuring out why and how terrible things happened in order to stop them from happening in the future, yet he longed for them to happen.

"John?"

The typing stopped again, but the pair of eyes had yet to make contact. "Yes?"

"Could you come here for a moment?"

"Sherlock, if it's just to get you your phone, which is more than likely right next to you, I think you're completely capable of get—"

"No, no, no," Sherlock cut him off. "It's merely that I seem to have acquired a sharp pain on my side for a while. I just can't seem to figure out why. Being that you were an army doctor, I was hoping you'd see to it. I haven't suddenly turned into a hypochondriac."

John couldn't help but glance at him, his eyebrows raised in surprise. What was wrong with him? He usually didn't ask John of these sorts of things.

He was skeptical of there being any serious problem, but it was rare for Sherlock to confide in him that anything is wrong. He was much more of an introvert. John walked slowly over to the man he has been rooming with for the past month, though it's felt like he's known this man since childhood. Maybe it was the way he could see completely through him, as if he had a hole cut open in his head, revealing his thoughts, some of which he wasn't even aware he was thinking himself.

John stood over Sherlock, who was still statued horizontally over the couch. He let himself simply look at him, his body outstretched. His body was so long, his feet falling over the edge of the couch. After realizing what he was doing, John immediately attempted to compose himself and look away, hoping that Sherlock didn't notice the stare or the redness he could feel in his cheeks in the aftermath of it, but he knew it was pointless to try to reassure himself of those things. Sherlock notices every detail.

"Well," John said, feigning causality. "Where exactly is it hurting you?"

"Precisely here," said Sherlock as he indicated to the side of his lower abdomen.

"I can't exactly see through clothing, Sherlock."

"All right, now that we've established that you possess x-ray vision, don't you think it would be a brilliant idea for you to lift the shirt a bit?"

Once again, John's eyebrows raised above their usual levels. He was well aware that Sherlock was too incompetent to reach into his pocket to retrieve his phone, but to raise his own shirt so that he could look for any strange marks? Nevertheless, John reached out his hand and grabbed the end of the smooth, dark fabric of Sherlock's shirt. With a quick first glance at Sherlock, who appeared completely indifferent, he began to lift it up three or four inches to the approximate location which Sherlock pointed. His skin was so light, almost ghostly compared to his tanned skin. John felt his thumb brush against it for a split second, then quickly removed so that it was no longer touching him.

Suddenly, a hand grabbed at the arm that was slowly peeling away the shirt. A pale hand. John flinched and tried to move back, but Sherlock was grasp tightly on it.

"Err, Sherlock?" John stammered. "What are you doing?"

"I told you. I'm bored. I'm bored out of my mind. Or rather, I'm stuck in it. Entertain me, John."

John was stunted in place, partially because he was unsure of what to do, and partially because he was being held, making the situation physically inescapable.

"I-"

He felt a rush of wind and a crash against his chest. He found himself laying completely underneath Sherlock on the very same couch. Their legs were parallel to each other and their stomaches touching. It was as if John was a mattress on which Sherlock was making himself comfortable on. John's face was merely inches from Sherlocks'. John was about to utter something to explain what he doing, but before he could speak a syllable, there were lips pressed against his. They were cold and heavy against his face. John was tense, he was confused, he was utterly lost. He pulled away from the embrace. Sherlock placed one knee on each side of John, his legs trapped in-between them. His arms were also placed above each of John's shoulders, making his body take the form of a cage.

"Sherlock, what-what's going on?" He looked up into the eyes of the world's only consulting detective.

"Oh, don't pretend like you haven't been thinking of this for the past entire month that you've been here. Your eyes have desire in them. I know you enjoy pretending like these thoughts never go through your mind, but it's so painfully obvious. Also quite clear by the bulge in your pants."

Sherlock smirked, and with out waiting for a reply from John, swooped down on him. Sherlock's body hovered above and around John's but their lips were inseparable. Slowly, Sherlock slid his tongue into John's mouth, and John met it with his. John could feel the side of Sherlock's mouth muscles for a split second curve into a smile. In that moment, John realized he had been waiting for this moment.

Sherlock had been waiting for it as well, and now that it had arrived, he was going to embrace it. Mouths still touching, spilling the words that had not been said, Sherlock realized he couldn't contain it any longer. He reached for the bottom of John's sweater and pulled it over his head, exposing the skin he had been so longing to see. Sherlock then felt a hand reaching for the buttons on his shirt, being torn open by anxious hands one by one. Soon, the two mens' chests were bare. Sherlock placed his hand on John's torso. The moment has hand came in contact with the delicate skin, he felt the man under him give a brief shiver.

The warmth from John's sweater made his skin a radiator. The heat transferred from his side to the fingertips to the palm to the heart of Sherlock like a wave. Sherlock's hand was cold. So cold. They were fire and ice, blending together. It was a melting sun and freezing moon clashing and colliding against each other.

John had never felt like this before. He was even a little afraid of it. He was succumbing to something he had never seen himself doing, but as his hand moved up and down across Sherlock's chest, he knew it was right. Sherlock's lips were as icy cold as the rest of him, and he couldn't get away from them. He didn't want to get away from them. They were intwined and tangled together. Soon enough, they slid from the couch and were embraced in each other on the hard, wooden floor.

Sherlock kept a firm grasp on John's sides, feeling his body temperature rising by the second. John's hands found Sherlock's face. He placed them on those hallow cheeks then found their way up to Sherlock's tangled, dark hair. As he ran his fingers through the silky, small curls. Sherlock held John even tighter in a way that screamed he never wants to let go of him. The hand of the cold man was slowly reaching downwards. John could feel the ice sliding down his stomach. He could feel how long Sherlock's fingers were as they continued to fall past his waist. The long fingers came to a stop between his legs. John could barely contain it as they explored his bottom half and gave out a quiet moan, barely audible.

"I want to hear you," Sherlock whispered to him. "I want to hear how much you're enjoying it." As he said this, his hands glided up John's crotch, and John was about to burst by the burning, euphoric sensation between his legs. He didn't want to give Sherlock that satisfaction - he didn't want to cave in - but -

"There you go," Sherlock said, the pleasure written across his face as John gave out a louder "Mmm" though he tried to restrain it, the hands lurking through him made it impossible. John didn't care anymore though. The pleasure he was feeling made everything else unimportant. He sat up, and Sherlock followed swiftly. He pushed him onto the ground and set his lips down on Sherlock's chest. His lips freed themselves over the pale chest. He could feel a heart pacing fast. It was an steady rhythm, but as he pressed his lips over him, the rate quickened. Sherlock was so thin, but his stomach and chest were stone. John's lips climbed up and up. They reached Sherlock's neck. It was so beautifully curved, so deliciously long and soft. John kissed the lovely structure as he ascended up the ladder of Sherlock's body. Sherlock's head titled back as John kissed his jawline, then found his place back on Sherlock's lips.

"John," Sherlock murmured.

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"You're," He paused for a moment. "You're wonderful."

John was momentarily stunned. He had constantly told him that his abilities to deduce things was brilliant, but he always seemed slightly weirded out by it, now here he was, telling him that he's wonderful. It made him feel pretty … wonderful. Too many emotions at once boiling through him, his hand reached for Sherlock's zipper. He pulled it down with a quivering hand.

A minute later, their clothes were sprawled across the floor. Every inch of them was bare, and begging to be touched. John standing pressed against a wall in Sherlock's bedroom. Sherlock had his hands on the wall, pinning down John's, trapping him. He wanted to make him his. He didn't want him to escape when he finally had him. John had his arms wrapped around Sherlock's neck. John was able to break free of the grasp, took a step forward, and pushed the world's only consulting detective onto the bed and tumbled onto him.

The bed shook and the walls seemed like they were going to break down. From another part of the building Mrs. Hudson smiled and thought to herself, "I knew they wouldn't really be needing that second bedroom."

The bloody murders, the alleged suicides were now unimportant. The only thing that was important now was for their bodies to be touching, for their tongues to expose the most sensitive parts of each other. Their lower halves rubbed against each other, a heated friction. They rocked back and forth on the bed together as one. Hands were uncontrollable. Heavy sighs. Groans. Legs being wrapped around others legs. Necks being caressed. Pulses racing. Fingers tickling. Two men intertwined.

John lay in the bed. Sherlock lay right beside him, his stomach touching John's back. His arm stretched across John's body like a protective barrier. Their heart rates slowed together, and breaths slowed down. Their eyes slowly closed and drifted off to sleep.

Hours later, in the very early hours of the morning, Sherlock opened his eyes to see John typing at his computer. He was typing faster than ever before. He surely had a lot to say now.