A/N: So johnsarmylady sent me a newspaper article about couples who ended up stuck together during sex O_O - & then asked me what I could do with it;D - I am attempting to lead up to that:O This will be an open ended story about a series of occasions where the boys are stuck literally and figuratively. I might take prompts - throw one my way & I will see:)

Thanks to johnsarmylady and mattsloved1 for checking it out.

I do not own. How sad.

1. Closets, Cupboards and Crawlspaces, Oh My!

It had only been about an hour, but it felt a whole hell of a lot longer than that.

He was constricted and sweaty. The dark pressed painfully against his eyeballs and the air was heavy, molten with not enough oxygen for two people to share in a confined space. His legs were cramping a bit, as he couldn't shift as much as he'd like.

Not with a great big, leggy git in a heavy wool coat taking up all the oxygen and room.

"'Get in the closet!' he says. 'It will be fine!' he says. 'Five minutes tops!' he says." John muttered barely above a whisper.

"Hush John, I am trying to determine if they have left yet. No, I can still hear them. They are further down the hall but in sight of the door. We can't leave yet." Sherlock sighed. His arms were braced on either side of John's head and he was leaning forward against the shorter man. To be fair Sherlock was probably more uncomfortable than he was. The taller man had to stoop and was crowded against him, their bodies pressed up tight with little leeway.

This wouldn't have normally been too bad, really. But things had begun to shift a bit between the two. Or at least John thought they might have. He was almost certain there had been a lot more of those long, lingering looks and tiny brushes of fingertips. Sherlock certainly wasn't the touchy, feely sort but he seemed to be doing an awful lot of what could only be construed as cuddling and almost, dare he hope, fondling. John would plop himself down on the couch after a shift at the hospital and stretch out his legs on the coffee table to watch some mindless telly. Sherlock, no matter where he was in the flat, would immediately come sit beside him and either swing those abnormally long legs on to John's lap or lean up against him, occasionally placing his head on John's shoulder. The doctor would, upon occasion, find himself twining his fingers, absentmindedly through curly hair, settling rocketing thoughts. Nothing happened and they certainly didn't talk about it, but it was rather…interesting and perhaps a tad promising.

So now, here they were stuck in a closet without room to manoeuver and it was dark and his closest friend was whispering in his ear. Not just whispering, but sighing, velvet fragments, brushing against the outer shell, warm, moist breath caressing. John shuddered as cautiously as he could, but it was hard not to give the game away when forced close to someone who could read what you had for breakfast by looking at your right nostril. Perhaps a slight exaggeration and maybe being trapped in the dark, stuck together, maybe he wouldn't notice.

"John?" came a carefully, puzzled inquiry.

Damn

John cleared his throat and tried to back away but he was already against the wooden slats of the ancient closet. Crawlspace really, cupboard under the stairs. Harry Potter had it better. He was sure there was a nail poking him in the back.

"What?" John growled back sub vocally, trying not to feed any more data to his information hungry flat mate.

There was a giant pause. It weighed heavier than the musty air.

"John, why are you breathing rapidly? Are you claustrophobic? No, that isn't it. You are shivering, but it isn't cold."

"Shut up, Sherlock! You'll give us away."

But he was off like a hound on the scent. He moved his arm a bit and groped around until he caught John's wrist. "Your pulse is elevated. Why is your pulse elevated?" The quiet crept back in and even through the pitch black, John could still feel the power of The Gaze.

"Oh!" It was a silent explosion in the air as all of the tumblers clicked into place and revelations were ignited inside that massive intellect.

"John?" aching perplexity exuded from the lips he dreamt about at night.

He really, desperately wished the ground under his feet would open up and he'd fall long and hard, down past the cellars in this old house, down through the centre of the earth.

"Sherlock," he said, his voice breaking a little. "I'm…I'm…sorry. I never intended you to know and think…"

His protestations were stopped with a crushing kiss on his mouth. Sherlock confined as he was, could do nothing but lean into the kiss, pushing John hard against the wall. As there was nowhere else to go and at the moment nowhere else he'd rather be, he melted as best he could.

For someone who claimed disinterest in anything to do with sex outside of a murder scene, Sherlock was a very thorough kisser. He couldn't move his hands to wrap around John, but he could lift the one that had been at his wrist and clutch at John's jumper. The other shifted down so that it was tentatively cupping John's chin, the taller man was now resting on John's forehead as he leaned into him.

A tentative glide of a tongue swept out and licked his lower lips. John opened his mouth and allowed Sherlock in. He was as thorough in his exploration of John's mouth as he was in everything else. Intense and concentrated, he felt his knees waver a bit. He moaned softly. Teeth came into play as he was nibbled and sucked. Kisses followed a trail to his ear where another whispered conversation occurred,

"I have imagined this, John. I have wished and wanted and reasoned how to trap you and take you apart. I have wanted to shove you hard against a wall and kiss you. At night, when you are sleeping, I have come and stood at your door and thought long and hard about slipping in and waking you with lips and teeth and tongue. I have longed for forever to hear you moan my name as you are tangled in my sheets, on my bed, undone and gasping. How could you not know this?"

John's head was spinning, Sherlock's words reverberated in the small space. How could he not know? How could he know? And this confession, this was more emotional output than he'd ever received from Sherlock. Who the hell was supposed to know that that was bottled up inside? John would have collapsed to the floor in shock if the wall and the detective weren't holding him up.

"I see you've thought about this a bit, then. Could you have given me a clue? I mean besides the one during our first dinner together, where you told me you were flattered but definitely not interested?" There was a small amount of bitter recrimination in his tone, but in his defence, he was thinking about all of the wasted time, years where they could have been shagging each other senseless. He was busy trying not to imagine the possibilities of what Sherlock was like in bed. He could have come just from that speech and if he was half as good as his words and mouth suggested, then John was a dead man.

The other man said nothing and he could almost feel him thinking. "I guess I figured you were not interested either," came the humble reply. John had rarely known Sherlock to admit to guessing or being unsure of anything. His heart thudded and flipped painfully in his chest, envisioning Sherlock lost and wondering if John would ever, ever love him.

"Well I guess we've both made a mess of this. When we get the hell out of here we need to sort out a few priorities." John's voice now held a tinge of laughter and bright promise.

He could sense when Sherlock cocked his head. "We won't be going anywhere for a bit. They are still talking." The detective bent into the doctor's space again and resumed making love to his mouth. John could feel the length of Sherlock pressed up against him and he could feel something else, demanding and clamouring for attention, touching his stomach. He moved his hand and slipped between their bodies and, as best he could, he moved. Now it was Sherlock's turn to shudder and huff a breath once again, melted into the kiss with heated passion. John slipped his tongue into the open, panting mouth, showing Sherlock what he was capable of, why he had earned that interesting and colourful nickname.

Sherlock gasped very quietly.

Breaking off long enough, John asked, "So you won't mind then if I continue to stroke you through your trousers? You won't mind if I kiss you back? You won't mind if I keep you on edge, hard and ready to come? And all the time, you need to be quiet, so very silent, because if we are discovered…"

Neither really cared at that moment if it was just the fact that they were confined together or if it was the threat of discovery, but with their senses heightened to the breaking point and the thrill of the possibility of being caught, the emotional outburst of their confession fell upon them and ignited the long held back feelings and desire. This was probably the best sex John had ever had and they were just getting started.

Sherlock's breathy moans turned into hums and his tongue traced the edge of John's ear. The touch with his tongue was careful, slow and steady. He was meticulous in setting a pace that kept John wired. His free hand clutched at Sherlock's waist, kneading the tight back muscles, but his other hand cupped and grasped the swollen length of what couldn't help being up against him; the very sign of Sherlock's complete arousal. He struggled to keep his own whimpers silent. As best they could, they moved enough to gain some friction against each other.

"You know this is probably not the smartest thing we've ever done."

"Shut up, John."

They were not likely ever going to come trapped as they were with no wiggle room but it was a close and delicious thing. Sherlock stilled shortly after and John almost whinged as he broke off teasing his ear.

"They've gone. I have distinctly heard the door close.

John closed his eyes. Relief for not being discovered flowing through him along with the regret of not being able to successfully cause Sherlock to lose control in a closet.

"Best to close your eyes until they adjust."

"They already are," he murmured back. He heard Sherlock fumble for the doorknob and could see the light creep in under his lids. He cracked them open slowly as the gloom was swept back.

With much shuffling and a lot of swearing, they managed to operate their way out of the closet. There was the creak and groan of muscles and spines as they stretched their way back to semi normal posture. But they were impeded once more.

"Shit," John cursed. One of the buttons on Sherlock's shirt was entangled in the wool of the oatmeal jumper. John looked down at the items caught together and began giggling. Tears coursed down his face and he grabbed the lapels of the coat to steady himself. He felt the rumblings of Sherlock's laugh reverberate through his entire body. "I guess I really am stuck on you," he giggled harder.

"Not only that, John. I made you come out of the closet. Literally." The two collapsed, boneless, onto the floor leaning against the wall beside the open door.

Each tried to regain composure long enough to unhook the button, but sprawled together all they had to do was look at one another to start giggling again.

John raised a shaky hand and removed the button, but he fisted his hand in the shirt and pulled Sherlock to him again. "Are we going after them tonight or am I going to take you home and spend the next two days in bed with you?"

Sherlock's look was heated and languid, his pupils dark and not just from being confined in the closet, but real regret lay in the depths.

"John…"

"I know," he smiled, cracked and shattered, calling on reserves of the soldier to hide what might be the sound of his heart breaking. He felt the first stirrings of panic. This was not what Sherlock would want. This had been a mistake. "The work comes first. I wouldn't have it any other way." He cleared his throat again. He had to say the next part, even if it killed him. "But after? Are we going to see where this goes or are we going to pretend it didn't happen and sweep it under? I only want to know so I can, you know, work up my shields against you." He raised a hand and touched the beloved face. "I think this may be the best thing, Sherlock, but I won't ruin what we already have, if it makes you uncomfortable."

The bright eyes opened wide and there was a minute shake of the head as Sherlock's mouth opened and closed. He struggled with what to say. "I don't know. I don't know if I had ever intended on confessing." A frown graced his full, generous mouth and his hand came up to cover the smaller one on his face. "I know some of what I said was in response to the closet and our confinement. I think I do want this John, but there is too much input right now. I can't sort everything yet."

Hope burst inside and warmth replaced the chill that had crept in at the thought of losing his friend. John was surprised it didn't shine bright enough to light the darkest places inside them both. He looked steadily at his friend. "Okay. That will do for now, but we are sorting this through when we get home."

He stood, muscles quivering from weird positions and emotional firestorms. He held out his hand. The other grasped it and they straightened themselves and slipped off after the criminals they had been tracking.

The outcome of what had happened to them would have to wait, until they were clear headed and the light of day could illuminate and divulge what they both knew to be true. There really was only one outcome.