Author's Note:

Hello! Alright, well I haven't posted anything on this site for quite a while. This one-shot that I'm posting is rare; I barely write fanfiction anymore, and if I do, it is definitely not rated M. I wrote this story for someone else out of a Secret Santa during the holidays.

I have only seen one episode of Sherlock, so I apologize if the characters are very OOC. Also, I apologize if my lemon writing sucks; this is the first time I've done this.

Other than that, enjoy! (;

Was it wrong to be disappointed when a bullet missed you by mere inches?

Today had consisted of any other – long, wonderful walks down dark alleys, getting lost in the inception of his friend's thoughts, and staring down the barrel of a gun more than once. Most men his age had children to watch or papers to fill out; he instead played the part of a canine, following this man Sherlock wherever he went.

It's not like he minded – Okay, he did mind. And today, he definitely minded. He wished the bullet that whizzed by his ear ten minutes ago had nicked him. Not a lot, just a little. Just enough to do some damage and give him the guts to drag himself to the hospital or their apartment.

The two of them had been running from a mad man with a gun when one of them had decided to duck behind a trash can and open a sketchy looking door with amusement in his eyes. Sherlock had looked him in the eyes and asked "You trust me, right?" Before he could answer, words came rushing out of his friend's mouth, answering for him: "Of course you don't trust me, but we're going in anyway. Play along if you value your life."

Of course he didn't actually want to follow him into the unknown, but it was that or actually getting a bullet in his ass. It wasn't like he hadn't done this before anyways.

The metal door closed quietly as it could behind them, and they were met with a dimly lit, questionably green corridor that cut around a few corners. Sherlock continued valiantly down the hallway, not a care in the world about where this would lead them.

And oh did it lead them.

After more turns than he could imagine, the hallway led them to a party-type of sorts. Actually, that was too tame of a word. It was more of um, uh, orgy of sorts. And it included a very diverse group of people.

Music blasted from an unknown source in the wall and a light fog of something hazed his vision. People laughed and screamed and danced and did a lot more things his mind didn't want imprinted into his memory. He saw body parts and partners and movements and sweat and it was worse than being shot.

Sherlock just laughed and started dancing to the music in that interesting way of his. How did this not bother him? Wouldn't things like this annoy him and cause him to hate humankind even more? And instead, he fell into the rhythm and pulled him along.

"What are you doing?" He managed to spit out, pulling against Sherlock's pull. "We need to leave."

"You and I both know that is not possible. Right now, this building is surrounded by the guy that wants us dead. In a little bit, he'll be in here searching. The only way to fit into this crowd is to become a part of the crowd." His blue-green-gray eyes held amusement and his mouth twitched into a smirk.

Death or…something else? "Alright." The word was out before John could do anything about it. He had been to war. He had been a teenage boy once. This couldn't have been that bad.

Sherlock dove into the crowd and all he could do was follow. He was feeling…different. Something in the air was making him feel this way. Ration told him that he should be on alert, but his body told him otherwise. He was here, might as well have some fun, right?

A scantily clad woman ten years younger than him blocked his way. She was pretty. Her hips swayed along to the beat and her hand reached to his. "You look lonely," she purred.

Did he? No he didn't. Even if he hadn't had any relationships in the past two years didn't make him lonely. Either way, he had come with someone. "Oh no, he's with me," Sherlock stated, dragging him away. With him? That didn't sound so bad.

They heard faint banging coming from the walls. The partiers didn't notice, but the two of them definitely did. The bounty hunter was coming. They were running out of time.

"It's time to become the crowd."

John had barely registered the words when Sherlock's lips crashed down on his. He felt his body still being pulled into a direction he couldn't fathom. This felt weird, but at the same time it felt good. Eh, he was here to have fun, why not?

The thing in the air was definitely affecting his brain. He needed to get out of here.

But then again, maybe he didn't need to.

Their lips worked faster, someone's hands roamed. He felt himself being pulled faster and faster and then he backed into something and then a door banged shut. The whole time the two hadn't parted and now he was against a wall. At least, he thought it was a wall; he wasn't sure anymore.

Softness – and sweetness – that's what he tasted. A warm breath hit his neck and a groan escaped someone's lips. In this kiss, they battled for control. He gripped his hand in curls, and Sherlock's palm came against his. He didn't know it was possible, but his breath continued to escape him.

And in his mind, he could see their assassin coming closer. If he found them, he would recognize them. They didn't fit into the crowd yet; they needed to go further.

A coat was shoved towards the floor, pooling at their feet. A hand drifted under his shirt, then pulled it abruptly over his head. Right now, this battle was unmatched. He needed to get something off of Sherlock for it to be even. Usually, he was put second to Sherlock. Here, he could take control.

One by one, both were stripped to their essence. Skin on skin. Pulling, tasting, touching, aching for the other. It wasn't their usual practice, but neither minded. This was what they needed to do to keep their lives. He wasn't sure about Sherlock, but right now he was enjoying life very much.

He was no longer against the door. The room he had been pulled into had a dark couch that at least made things more comfortable. Now he was doing the cornering. Sherlock was under him, trying to break free all while begging for more. And he hadn't even started.

His hand raked the curls, pulling them to bring their lips together. His other hand placed feather touches on neck and shoulders and bare skin. He teased, trailing feather kisses right behind his caresses. Moans filled the air. All at once, control surged through his body. He was the reason for Sherlock's current weakness; shattering a man could not have held more power.

This man, who was so strong and quirky, was putty in his hands and he hadn't even gotten to the good part yet. He trailed a few fingers down Sherlock's chest, to his stomach and stopping at the hips.

The pressure continued to build. John's body was warmer than fire and felt more brilliant than the stars. It had been years since any moment even matched up to half of this. But one look at his mate told him that he wasn't as pained as he was – Sherlock looked in much worse shape.

Sherlock was the exact opposite of his usual persona, completely undone in every possible way. He was gasping for air and pulling back and trying to gain the upper hand. John wanted to win this battle. He was going to win this battle.

In one swift movement, he took hold of Sherlock's length. The room went quiet, minus the harsh breathing. Sherlock's eyes snapped open and imprisoned his in those ever-changing, mysterious irises. This was it - A so well-put-together man coming to nothing.

One movement was all it took for time to start back up again. John could feel his fingers tighten around the warmth, moving up slowly. Ever so slowly just to torture. One glance let him know that Sherlock had given up fighting back. Instead, his eyes remained closed in serenity although he strained against the torturous pace.

John decided to change direction, deciding to be nice and increase the pace just a millisecond faster.

And he couldn't take it anymore. This electricity, this pleasure, running through his body at a luscious speed. It was deliciously overwhelming. Reluctantly, John let go of the soft curls and brought his hand down to tighten around himself.

He matched the speed for both of them, slowly at first, then quickening without warning. Sherlock gasped with the shock, attempting to stifle the groan that came with it.

"Faster."

That word. It was short, quick, and full of a desire that could not be described. It was a command and a plea mixed together. John felt his heart melt all at once, but decided against it. He was in control, not Sherlock.

Sherlock groaned in frustration, realizing his demand would not be made. Instead, he decided to take matters into his own hands and grasped around John's hand and length. One hard, almost desperate thrust against John and Sherlock knew things had been taken to the next level.

And all at once, everything became movement. To just do, faster and faster until there was no more thought of direction or speed at all.

The spark that began this grew into a flame. It grew and spread and consumed everything in its wake. The rhythm was set to the blasting music right outside the room that they had escaped to, an erotic beat that couples danced to and became one. John wanted to slow, to re-gain control of the situation, but he couldn't stop himself. He was just so clo-

"JOHN."

Liquid hit his body at an alarming speed. Freezing cold liquid to be exact. His eyes fluttered open and it took him a flew blinks to understand what was going on. His eyes stared up into the curious eyes of Sherlock.

"Well that took long enough."

"Excuse me?"

Within a few seconds, he was able to notice that his back was on asphalt and that he lay in a puddle of ice water. "What happened?"

"A bullet coming at you. You weren't going to dodge it so I knocked you down. Too hard, though; it knocked you out. I had to drag you out of the guy's way. Gosh you're heavy. I don't even know how we made it out of that one."

His head felt funny and his back ached, but at least he hadn't gotten shot. He lifted his head as far as it would go before blackness edged his vision. They were in an alleyway and further down he could make out a metal door behind a trashcan. He cleared his throat, completely forgetting the fact that his life could have been lost minutes ago. He nodded towards the door. "Where does that lead?"

Sherlock's eyes glinted. "No idea; care to find out?"

Hit or miss?