Disclaimer: I own nothing.

This is basically an utterly ridiculous tale that involves public sex, witchcraft, and other wholesome things. Don't judge me, I just wanted to write something crackish. Hope you enjoy though!

The first time John and Sherlock slept together, it was sudden. Sherlock came into John's room while he was reading with a fire in his eyes—please keep in mind that Sherlock started it—and John was confused as hell.

Well, for a second, he was angry, because again Sherlock didn't knock. But he saw that look in his eyes pretty quickly, and he knew that look. He'd gotten it enough times before from enough women.

"Erm, Sherlock?" John asked tentatively.

Sherlock wordlessly climbed into the bed, on top of John.

"Sherlock, what the hell are you doing?" John asked, but his voice had gone hoarse and it didn't sound as assertive as he intended.

Sherlock hovered over John for a long moment before saying, "When you aren't in the room, I can't think."

John's brow went up. "I didn't think you were capable of not thinking."

"I didn't either, trust me, but now it's different."

John was quiet for a moment. "So you thought climbing on top of me would fix that?"

"If you'd let me finish speaking, you wouldn't have to ask so many questions," Sherlock told him, so John sighed, but didn't say anything either. "When you aren't around, I can't think. But when you are around, I can't think either."

"So you're just never thinking then."

Sherlock scowled so furiously that John actually didn't say anything. "John, it's very difficult for me to speak to you about my… my, you know. Emotions. If you could stop teasing me for them, it would be helpful."

He almost wanted to mention that Sherlock wouldn't hesitate to make fun of John's feelings, but decided not to be an arse and just let Sherlock speak, as he really seemed to be struggling.

"Alright, continue," John prompted.

Sherlock nodded. "I don't think I could properly explain to you the way my mind works, not in a way that you would understand. But I'd say that the brain of the average person in comparison to mine is about the same as a mouse in comparison to the average person. And don't make that face, it's not supposed to be an insult, it's just to make you understand how much more my mind does in every moment than yours. I can think a hundred things, a thousand things, all at the same time, and remember every thought to reference later. So when I say I can't think when you're around, but I can't think when you are either, I don't mean I can't think at all, I mean that my mind becomes average. I can only solve one problem at once… because the rest of my brain is focusing on you. When you aren't there, I wonder what you're doing, if you're safe. When you are, I watch you. The way you twitch your foot when you're upset with me, the way you lick your lips when you're thinking too much."

John couldn't believe this was actually happening. He'd been secretly wanting Sherlock for ages—longer than he even wanted to admit to himself—but he ignored it, because he knew it'd never go anywhere.

But now Sherlock was saying all this.

"So I've begun an experiment," Sherlock continued. "Likely, you haven't noticed. But I knew I had to find out a way to stop being utterly distracted by you. Once I considered drugs, but decided I can't afford to fall into that habit again, so I dismissed that idea. I tried many things that involved a separation from you, but it only made things worse. The only other option was to get closer. I'd sit nearer when you were in the front room, and inexplicably, I'd think better afterwards, but then after a while, I'd just need to get closer again. I've never gotten close enough. And so I realised what must happen. You and I must fornicate. It's the only way I'll find peace. I've noticed your physical reaction when I get near you, and I know you want it."

He stopped, like John was supposed to say something, but what was he supposed to say to that? He was appalled that he was being used as some sort of experiment, and he could already feel blood rushing south at the thought of it. He was uncomfortable with Sherlock's phrasing and wanted to shut him up with his mouth on those pompous lips. Or, even better, he wanted to make him unable to speak coherent words any longer by making the sentences come out as moans. Oh, yes, that was exactly what he wanted.

"I can see that you want it right this moment," Sherlock added.

John was still considering words that might fit into this situation, but still none were coming to mind. He ought to tell Sherlock that you couldn't just sleep with someone so you could think straight. He needed to tell Sherlock that if he wanted to sleep with anyone ever, he should never say the word 'fornicate' again. He was gonna tell Sherlock that he was an arsehole, and that he needed to get the hell out of this bed right now.

And then he lunged upward and pressed his lips to Sherlock's, and he had to try hard to keep from laughing at the surprised noise Sherlock made.

But he didn't laugh. And Sherlock didn't stop him. And it wasn't long before their clothes were lost to the floor and John couldn't believe that this was actually happening, but Sherlock around him felt so good that he didn't care. Sherlock was amazingly responsive, moaning and cursing in a way that John never would have expected.

And when they were finished, Sherlock promptly grabbed his clothes and walked out. John felt a little bit of a sinking feeling, but decided to ignore it. Yeah, he'd wanted Sherlock. Now he'd had him. The mystery of it was gone. Sure, it was pretty much the best sex he'd ever had, but he'd get over it.

He stared at the ceiling.

Weirdest night ever.

But that wasn't the last time. In fact, it was the next day, and John was in his bed again, sleeping this time, when Sherlock came back.

"I was able to think all day," he said, which was the sentence that woke John up, with Sherlock standing over him in the dark, looking particularly creepy in the minimal light coming in from between the blinds. "I solved three crimes just in the past two hours."

"Am I supposed to congratulate you?" asked John exasperatedly, rubbing his eyes. "Get the hell out."

"It was because of our coitus," Sherlock added.

"Jesus, Sherlock, both 'fornicate' and 'coitus' are forbidden terms in this flat from now on."

"That's what it's called."

"Sure, okay, but either way, it's really not sexy to say, so just quit it."

Sherlock actually seemed to be considering it. "Then what am I supposed to call it?"

"Fucking."

"So you would like me to say that I was able to concentrate today because I fucked you last night."

John was surprised at the heat that filled his abdomen when Sherlock said that word. Sherlock saw it, of course, and smirked.

"I guess you would like me to say that. Good, then you're ready to do it again."

"Again?" asked John weakly, but still his cock already seemed interested in the idea.

"I told you, I was able to think all day. But as of three minutes ago, that stopped, because I was recalling our 'fucking' and it made this happen."

He gestured down to his trousers, where there was a clear bulge. John's mouth was dry, looking at the reaction just thinking about John had given Sherlock—and the fact that he had said fuck again, which was amazingly attractive in that silky baritone of his.

He then said, "It's quite a hassle to try to think with this going on, so I'm going to need us to 'fuck' again."

The night before, John was too dazed to have any clue what to say. This time, however, he was able to think a little more.

"You need it, do you?" asked John dryly. "Well I'm sleeping right now." He flopped over so he was facing away from Sherlock.

Sherlock promptly crawled into bed behind him, so they were basically spooning. "John," Sherlock whined. "My mind is functioning on near-Anderson levels of stupidity right now. I've got only one thing on my mind and I can't do anything else until you fuck me again."

John was nearly positive that requiring Sherlock to refer to it as 'fucking' was the best thing he ever did.

And he couldn't help but be flattered that Sherlock was only thinking about him.

And there was the fact that Sherlock's dick was pressed against John's arse right now, which made it really hard to think.

"Then try thinking like us normal people for a bit," John said, but it didn't sound nearly as scathing as he'd wanted it to. "Sometimes we get horny and can't think. It happens. You go wank yourself and get on with your life."

"But I don't want to do that," Sherlock said. "There's no point unless it's you."

John blinked and turned his head to look at Sherlock—and was caught a little off guard by how close those intense eyes were to his own, so it was a long moment before he said, "Really?"

"Yes, of course 'really'," Sherlock said in a patronising manner, which made John turn around again so he could roll his eyes. "Do you imagine I have a great deal of libido? No, not normally. I've never once touched myself, John. But with you," he added, and John felt Sherlock push even closer as he wrapped his arm around John's front and put his lips to John's ear, "You feel what you do to me," he said, just barely grinding up against John's backside. "I need you."

John stubbornly grit his teeth. Sherlock was utterly manipulating him, that's what he was doing. Sherlock was capable, when he was desperate, to say whatever you want to hear to get what he pleased.

"John," Sherlock said again, managing to make it sound somewhere between a complaint and a moan as he slid his hand down John's abdomen, so his fingers were just under the elastic of his pyjama trousers, "I know you want me."

Okay, so Sherlock was using him. But really, what did that matter? Yeah, of course he wanted him.

John grunted in irritation and flipped over on top of Sherlock. "I fucking hate you."

"As long as there's fucking involved."

It quickly became a habit. Sherlock was getting more done than he ever did during the day, but every night he'd climb into John's bed, and they'd sleep together. Or, as Sherlock now had to call it, 'fuck'. Which was much more accurate a term, actually, because there was nothing restful about it. It was carnal and desperate, not careful or loving.

The first week, John still protested each time Sherlock arrived, but after eight or so times, John was lying awake, waiting for Sherlock's appearance in his room, and he yanked the taller man down onto the bed himself.

For a month, the moment they finished, Sherlock would leave, and neither of them would bring it up during the day, or even act different at all, until the evening when Sherlock needed to think again.

Then one night, John was still trying to catch his breath, but he knew Sherlock would leave any second now… but Sherlock didn't move. He lay on the bed next to John, naked and staring at the ceiling.

John turned onto his side to look at Sherlock. "Quit looking at me like that," Sherlock snapped.

"Like what?" asked John amusedly, not able to get irritated because of his post-orgasm high.

"With fondness."

John actually smiled. "Oh, come on, you know I'm fond of you. We're mates."

"As I still have residual semen in my mouth from swallowing your orgasm, I'm not sure that's the correct term any longer."

"Okay, so now we can't be friends anymore?"

Sherlock looked over to him. "We are friends, John. But this is just sex. I'm still married to my work, same as before. I'm doing this for my work, if anything."

John wanted to have hurt feelings. To be mad and kick Sherlock out and never let him into his bed again. But really, isn't this what he should've expected? And it's not like John was looking for a relationship out of this either. He just liked the sex.

So instead he said, "Yeah, I know."

"Just as long as that's clear," Sherlock said.

And then he proceeded to turn on his side, hugging onto his knees, and shut his eyes, automatically asleep like he'd flipped a switch in his brain. John looked at him in confusion for a moment, but then decided not to question it.

So that was the night that Sherlock started sleeping in John's bed each night after their sex.

It was three weeks after that when Sherlock wanted midday sex. All their sex before then had been in John's room.

This time though, John was just putting the kettle on to boil, and he turned around and Sherlock was right there behind him.

"What the hell—what, right now?" he asked exasperatedly, knowing the moment he saw the look Sherlock was giving him what he wanted.

"Yes, now," Sherlock said, but before John could mention it'd only been eleven hours since the last time, or say anything at all, Sherlock kissed him hard, pressing him against the wall, and John didn't feel the need to talk anymore.

So that was when they started having it anywhere in the flat, any time of the day, as long as Sherlock initiated it.

Two weeks after that was the first time they switched roles, so Sherlock was the one inside John.

A month after that was the first time John initiated it instead of Sherlock.

So it'd been six months since this whole thing started. They didn't have sex every day anymore—their horny adolescent stage eventually died out—but they still had it pretty frequently. And now their entire dynamic was different.

They always slept in the same bed now, even if they didn't have sex first. They teased each other over text sometimes, and they flirted—well, in the way Sherlock was capable of flirting, that was.

Five months into the whole thing was the first time John had a really bad day at work and Sherlock suggested sex not to help himself think, but to cheer John up.

A week after that was when Sherlock suddenly grabbed John's hand in the cab.

John looked over to him in surprise, but before he could ask, Sherlock said, "I told you, being physically close to you makes me think better."

Three days after that was when Sherlock kissed John for the first time without it leading to fucking. Just a random kiss when John came home from work.

"Couldn't think?" asked John, his voice annoyingly quiet, like a nervous teenager.

"Precisely," Sherlock replied, walking away.

But the big problem with all this was that they were so close to just being in a relationship that John was having trouble keeping in mind that Sherlock was still married to his work. John had stopped going on dates, because he felt like he was dating Sherlock. And, most importantly (and unfortunately) was that John's feelings weren't just lust anymore and he knew it. And he was nearly convinced that Sherlock really liked him as well, but was just afraid to admit it to himself.

It was a recipe for disaster.

It was amazing how quickly Sherlock turned John into a spluttering mess. One minute, John had been on his laptop, working on his blog. Then Sherlock was right behind him, his lips against his ear. "How I'm expected to get a thing done in a world where you exist, I just don't know."

John smirked. "Then don't get anything done," he said.

Sherlock turned the chair around. "Not an option. But I suppose I can assuage my urgings." Sherlock leaned into to kiss him, but then John stopped him with a hand to his chest.

"Wait a moment," John said.

"Yes?" asked Sherlock with an eyebrow up.

"Is that really all I am to you? Just the way you burn off your sex drive?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and backed away, sitting in his chair. "John, don't do this. Don't make this complicated. You know the arrangement. We fuck when we feel the need, and otherwise things stay the same."

"Yeah, you're right, that was the arrangement. But now we hold hands almost constantly as long as we're sure nobody's watching and greet each other with kisses and send flirty text messages and cuddle while we're sleeping… Sherlock, this isn't just meaningless sex and you know it. We might as well be in a committed relationship at this point."

"But we aren't," Sherlock said.

"You sure about that? Because I'm not sure anymore."

"John, you know very well that I'm m—"

"Yeah, married to your work, I know. I'm really starting to think you're just telling yourself that because you're uncomfortable with the fact that you actually like me."

"That's utterly ridiculous," he scoffed. "Maybe you've let your feelings get away with you, but I certainly haven't. This is still just sex to me."

John set his jaw in irritation. "Yeah, sure, maybe you're right. Maybe I've lost track of my emotions. But don't tell me this is just sex to you, because it's obviously not. You initiated everything that's past sex—the hand holding, the cheek kissing, the texting. I never once crossed a boundary, not until you'd crossed it first. You're the one that turned this into a relationship, not me."

"Well I didn't realise you would take it all incorrectly. I'll be careful not to overestimate your intelligence again."

John glared at him. "You're unbelievable," he snarled, getting up and grabbing his jacket. "You know how you feel, Sherlock, you're just not enough of a man to admit it. Well, until then, have fun with your right hand, because I'm done."

John had slammed the door and was halfway down the stairs when Sherlock was following him. "Wait, done?"

"Yes, done. This is stupid. Either you like me and refuse to see it or you never liked me and you're just using me. I didn't mind being used in the beginning, but you're in too deep now, Sherlock. There's nobody on the planet that wouldn't assume you liked them if you acted the way you have been for the past few months. So figure out how you feel, Sherlock."

John kept going down the steps and stepped out into the rain. Sherlock was still following him.

"So, what, if I say I feel nothing for you, then we're over?"

"I thought you said there was never anything here. What's to end?" said John coldly. He started stomping away towards who knows where.

"John!" Sherlock called, splashing behind him. "Please, just stop. Can we talk about this?"

John turned on him. "There's nothing to talk about. Either you like me or you don't. It's that simple."

Sherlock looked at John silently, a petulant look on his face, his hair officially sopping down into his eyes with the downpour. John kept staring him down.

Sherlock sighed. "John, don't be an idiot," he said, and yes, this was the part where Sherlock was going to say he could never like John. Maybe John shouldn't have asked at all. Well, that's what he thought was going to happen until Sherlock continued, "Of course I like you." John blinked at him, feeling like he might have heard wrong. But Sherlock continued, "But I'm not… I'm not ready for a commitment like that. I don't want to like you… I've just… well, I didn't mean for this," he finished lamely.

After a moment, John actually laughed. "Sherlock, you're not ready for the commitment? We're already doing everything a couple does, just without mentioning our emotions."

"And that's the hard part," Sherlock sighed.

"It's not," said John. "Really, it's not. Nothing has to change. I just wanted you to admit it."

"So does that mean you'll come back inside and fuck me?" asked Sherlock desperately.

"That depends. Did you only say you liked me so I'd go back in and fuck you?"

Sherlock glared. "You know I didn't, John."

John just barely smiled. "Yeah, okay, I guess I do. I just wanted you to say it again." Before Sherlock could say anything, John added, "We're all wet now. I suppose we better get this clothing off before we catch cold."

Sherlock smirked. "That's the most intelligent thing you've said all day."

And so, after that day, John and Sherlock were in something that resembled a relationship. Sherlock, when he was in a very good mood, might say something sweet. John was allowed to say how he felt all he wanted and Sherlock wouldn't look disgusted. In fact, over time, he started to look flattered.

And things were good. Really good.

That is, until John suggested becoming public…