Stages

by torchwoodtimelord

The evolving relationship of muggle John Watson and wizard/creature Sherlock Holmes in 11 stages.

Title: THE STAGES SET
Series: Sherlock!Wizardverse
Fandoms: BBC!Sherlock/Harry Potter
Pairings: Johnlock, hint of mystrade and hint of sally/anderson there at the end
Author: TWTL
Beta: Z-sama (tumblr: john-watson-potter)

WARNINGS: slash, heavy with pants still on groping

MISC: This was originally posted in 11 parts + a BONUS stage on tumblr. Stages 8 and 11 contained graphic sexual content that has been REMOVED for this posting. please see author notes at the end for more information.

DISCLAIMER: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, and all other Sherlock characters created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and/or the BBC. All Harry Potter related content inspired by the work of J.K. Rowling, and if it's something you don't recognize from canon, it's probably mine.

---

STAGE 1 – AFFECTION

Dating Sherlock Holmes wasn't easy. It wasn't easy at all.

First John had to overcome the fact that Sherlock was a man. John had always been straight. Though, his continued denial of finding his flatmate even just a little attractive actually drove him to near insanity. Finding out that said flatmate had only faked his death because of him was also a hard pill to swallow, especially when he considered that the other two lives in danger (Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson) combined were still not enough to spur the impossible man into going through with it. Only when it was John did Sherlock risk everything.

Second, finding out the man had been attracted to him, when he'd never been attracted to anyone. At all. For his entire life. Over 80 years. That had been daunting. Frightening, even. Then further discovering the extremes to which Sherlock had ensured John would not be obligated to him in any way was…

Well, from anyone else it would have made him very confused and angry.

From Sherlock, it was just confusing. And a little endearing since the prat never really paid any attention to anyone else's comfort and emotions.

So… Swallowing his straight man pride, he decided to give it a go. His own small attraction was there, and the worst that could happen was a break-up and moving back out of the flat. And possibly waking up covered in boils from an angry and bitter hex. The only thing that could actually BE worse than what they had both gone through was one of them actually dying.

So, why the hell not.

In the beginning, it was awkward. John knew the fundamentals of relationships, having been in and out of them more than he'd care to admit. Sherlock knew only facts and statistics. Not much in their relationship to one another changed. Ocasional hand holding in the cabs. Sherlock would sit closer on the sofa. And he would be sure to thank John (most of the time) for making him tea without his having to ask.

Sherlock also had been careful not to smother him. No more than usual. However, he would get impatient. Such as once while at the scene of a particularly gruesome and bloody mass murder, John looked rather umcomfortable. The detective had read him clearly, only taking a glance at the body to which John's stare was transfixed. He knew instantly that John did not see the victim, face covered in blood with lifeless, pale eyes open. Dark, wild hair matted with clumped bits of brain matter. In one of his rare moments of concern, Sherlock had stopped in mid-explanation and without warning strode across the room.

John had been caught unawares by the scene, and the body that had looked just as Sherlock had looked after… But then he was pulled from those dark thoughts by the man himself. Who had taken him by the shoulders and turned him away. Pulled him into a tight embrace and murmured into his ear, "That isn't me. I'm right here. And I am alive."

Needless to say the room was silent. Even the clicks of cameras and the snide remarks from Donovan had ceased.

And Sherlock ignored them anyway. He stepped back, held John with only six inches between their bodies and asked, "Are you alright?"

John nodded, drew in a deep breath to collect himself, and followed Sherlock as he went back to Lestrade. He fell seamlessly back into his explanation as John knelt down to examine the body at their feet, if only to hide his burning cheeks.

Anderson opened his mouth to say something but before he could get a sound out, and before Sherlock could as well, John roared from below. "Shut up Anderson before you strain yourself!"

Lestrade had laughed. And when John had stood again, he pulled his rubber gloves off and grabbed Sherlock's hand. "I'm starving."

Sherlock, though he denied it later, was smiling.

Donovoan, of course, had hurled one last insult. John told her to shut up or she'd find herself stranded in Siberia.

After they had departed, Lestrade received a text from Mycroft asking what part of Sibera would be ideal for Ms. Donnovan, or did John have a specific location in mind.

---

STAGE 2 – ENDEARING

After the initial incident at the crime scene, public displays of affection became routine. Not overly done, but a hand gently touching a forearm to get attention. Shoulders brushing when they sat in waiting rooms or at the Yard. When they encountered something Sherlock knew upset John, a reassuring hand on the small of the back was enough to put the former soldier back at ease.

They didn't do it all the time, but enough that it was common for them to do so.

The next big change came when they were just sitting at home one evening. Sherlock hadn't had a case in two days, but he'd busied himself with his potions experiments. So he didn't drive John completely barmy.

John had just gone into the kitchen to check and see what they needed from the store, as he had nothing better to do. And they really did need to stock up on other things besides milk as well. He'd pulled out a pad of paper and looked around for a pen. Without asking him to, Sherlock held one out for him, never taking his eyes from his microscope.

"Thanks love," John had said without thinking and started to write things down.

That had gotten Sherlock's full and undivided attention. Until this point in their cautiously budding relationship they had only ever been John and Sherlock. The detective was pleased, and inwardly he was actually preening at the comment. But he knew better than to point it out. Instead, he gave one of his small, twitch of a smiles and refocused on his work.

John hadn't even noticed, having started to go through the cabinets and scribbling things down. He always saved the fridge for last. The reasons were obvious.

Sherlock listened to him all the while, waiting for John to near the inevitable end.

When he opened the fridge he hadn't noticed it at first. Intent on looking in quickly and shutting it back again to keep from looking into bins of thumbs or jars of eyes or whatever other strange body parts Sherlock had decided to stow in there.

But as he started to scribble a few dairy items down, he stopped and tucked the pen behind his ear. He put the pad of paper under his arm and opened the fridge again.

Sherlock heard him gasp in surprise before he'd spoken. "I thought you would appreciate the gesture," he said. "My specimens had gone off."

John turned on him in disbelief. "Sherlock?"

"Don't forget the milk," was his reply shortly before he felt hands on him. Inwardly he shivered at the touch, as he always did. But did not allow his pleasure to show through. Rather, that was what he had expected his body to do.

What actually happened were rough, chapped lips pressing against his cheek.

His mind had, of course, run a wide variety of scenarios that could play out from John's discovery of their fridge not only having been rid of body parts but also painstakingly scrubbed clean. This was not one of them. And certainly if it had, John being the initiator had also not been a factor.

So Sherlock was actually surprised. John pulled back, watching him as he put a hand to his cheek.

"Too soon?" John asked worriedly. "I don't even know why I- I got carried-"

"No. It's fine," Sherlock said, echoing words from their first evening as his lips quirked into a larger than usual smile. "It's all fine."

And John, though flustered, smiled back.

---

STAGE 3 – KISSES

After tentative pecks on the cheek and careful, chaste kisses Sherlock was starting once more to become impatient. But he also knew he couldn't push to hard. Because though from the moment they had met Sherlock knew without a doubt he needed John more than John needed him, there was still the danger that he could lose him due to John's own stubborn discomfort.

Though the physical displays of affection had increased since Sherlock had cleaned the fridge. And that was quite pleasant. They had moved the telly so that it could be seen from the sofa more easily. Neither man would come out and say it was so that they could sit together to watch crap telly (Sherlock didn't really care for television, but knew John was quite taken with the muggle entertainment). Between cases, when John wasn't working, they'd loaf about. When John was on the sofa, Sherlock would soon join him, resting his head or his feet in his lap, depending on what John was doing at the time. If Sherlock were on the sofa first, the very next time John had to get up, when he came back he would sit with him.

Though, in a fit of celebratory post-case bliss that had proved to John that despite the rules of Cluedo, it was indeed possible for the victim to have done it, Sherlock had become so excited that he did not think to restrain himself. He had grabbed John and planted one right on his mouth. No hesitation, no warning. John had seized up right there and become unresponsive.

The moment they had gotten into the cab, John had started. Sherlock was already in a mood, and prepared to give just as much venom as he would receive.

But that's not what John had in mind when he'd started shouting in the back of the cab. His only objection had not been to the kiss itself, but the location in which he had been kissed. He'd tossed in a few "bit not good" to stress his point.

Sherlock had schooled his features and did not respond the entire ride home. John, thinking he'd now completely upset him, had reached for his hand. Neither man looked at one another until they got home, but their hands had remained firmly locked between them on the seat.

When they were once more in the safety of their flat, Sherlock had wanted to say something about what he had done, feeling the rather odd desire to explain himself to John. But when he'd tried, his doctor had said he was tired and needed to get some sleep. Sherlock had stayed up all night playing his violin. He was certain to play only the songs he knew John not-so-secretly enjoyed.

The next few days had been a bit awkward. Sherlock was still gathering data on exactly why his sign of affection had upset John. John because he felt guilty, but also because he felt he was right. A big change like that, well, a big change in the TYPE of kiss, in front of a suspect, the Yarders, and a reporter was a bit not good. That was something meant to be private, and by jove John was not going to back down on that one.

Finally, when neither man could take the tension anymore, John had suggested they go to Angelo's. Sherlock didn't want to leave the house, as a black mood was just beginning to bloom. But when John had touched his arm in that way they had first started doing. And leaned in to brush his lips against Sherlock's cheek, as the man was determined to keep staring at John's computer screen.

"Fine, if you want to be childish," John said after straightening up again and rolled his eyes. "I'll go alone. I'm starving and I'm tired of take aways."

Sherlock had groaned but stood anyway. "I suppose I should peck at something."

"You haven't eaten since the last case ended," John said, knowing full well why. "You're eating a full meal. Even if I have to feed you myself."

"Alright, mother," Sherlock had snapped, but stormed off to change into something suitable.

Despite Sherlock's foul mood at the start of the evening, he found himself easing back into the realm of comfortable by meal's end. John was telling him inane stories of some of his patients at the clinic during the last few days. And Sherlock tossed in a few comments about Mrs. Hudson's herbal soothers.

When they had returned home after a nice, long, lazy dinner they had collapsed, quite full and content, on the sofa. Sherlock's head in John's lap, where it should rightfully be. John's fingers not quite mussing in his hair. Just at the hairline. For some reason, the juxtaposition of light and dark there fascinated him more than the feel of the actual hair.

"Are we good now?" John asked, though it should have been Sherlock doing the asking.

"You bought me dinner," Sherlock replied, even though neither man actually paid since all their meals at Angelo's were free. But it had been John's idea, therefore if anyone HAD paid, it would have been him.

"I believe social protocol dictates repayment," John said. Sherlock frowned for a moment, then it turned into a smile as he sat up. Turning to fully face him, Sherlock raked his gaze across his boyfriend. Yes, they were firmly beyond the common flatmate, and nicely situated past friend or even close friend as the confusing muggle terms tended to go. He searched his face and only found sincerity.

"Well?" John asked. "Don't tell me my efforts are wasted."

Sarcasm. And he knew that Sherlock knew it was sarcasm.

"Sure?"

John laughed. "Honestly, do you even have to ask? Really, Sherlock, you can clearly see-"

His words were drowned by lips pressed firmly, confidently against his own. It was awkward, but not in the same manner as the first attempt at the different type of kiss. Before, they had been surrounded by people. It was unexpected. This time, he had prepared for it. They were alone, and it was private. Intimate.

It was awkward in the way that Sherlock's lips were not what he was used to. Yes, they'd brushed his own before. Chaste. Innocent. But they had not lingered long enough for him to feel the differences between Sherlock's lips and a woman's. They were soft, but not. And then there were his teeth. Getting in the way.

John actually had to put a hand up between them and gently push Sherlock away for a moment. "Look, that's not quite working," he said, then quickly added as Sherlock's expression went from blissfully happy to angry in mere seconds, "Your teeth. They're just… they're everywhere."

Sherlock's face went slack, and he blinked in confusion. "This is new. Do not critique me. You know I have no frame of reference, and the date I have is merely-"

It was Sherlock's turn to shut up when John had re-initiated. But he broke the kiss quickly. "Just do what I do. And don't try to bite my lips off this time. I need those for this."

---

STAGE 4 – SENTIMENT

Snogging.

Oh snogging.

It was brilliant. And Sherlock honestly tried to puzzle out why it hadn't occured to him before. Well, at least with John. Before the entire mess with Moriarty.

Honestly, it could have saved them both a lot of trouble and heartache.

And Sherlock wouldn't have had to deal with John's accusatory "Why" every half hour for six months before his first Christmas back at Baker Street. Because if they'd only just snogged before. Even just once, John would have known exactly why Sherlock had done what he had done.

These were the thoughts that occupied Sherlock's mind when it wasn't used on much else. Of course, it was only a portion of his focus that was dedicated to such sentimental musings. Running parallel, and sometimes intersecting briefly were the fact that Mrs. Hudson had taken to having tea with Mrs. Turner at odd hours again. Or that Angelo was now telling people that he'd picked up on it from the start.

And what inciminating (and obvious to him so why not everyone else as well) evidence that Anderson had Sally dress up in a dinosaur costume when the wife was away. And that this last weekend she actually HAD scrubbed his floors, as her knees were in a much worse state than normal, she smelled of disinfectant, and Anderson had had a break-in. The perpetrator had left muddy tracks across the kitchen floor.

He'd complained about it.

Sally had commented that she never wanted to look at bleach again.

Sherlock was amused. John was as well, but for propriety's sake didn't say anything. He just giggled.

It was a crime scene.

But oh, back to snogging.

Minty toothpaste snogging. Angelo's chicken primavera snogging. Even, reluctantly, snogging after a beer with Stamford snogging. Each flavor varriation of what Sherlock classified as a taste that was distinctly John (the tart flavor of black currant jam with a mild undertone of tea with a hint of milk) was stored in the ever growing and exanding wing of his mind palace that had been devoid of all sentiment and references to anything emotional. Filling shelves and entire rooms with detailed information of John. From which of his jumpers he prefers to wear when his shoulder hurts on a Tuesday, to the fact he only owns 3 black socks. And none of them match.

And yes, snogging with John had warranted not one but three rooms in his mind palace because of all the flavor combinations.

Sherlock had been laying on the sofa in his usual thinking pose. Hands pressed together, fingertips just gracing the skin of his chin. Eyes closed as he breathed quietly through his nose. He was organizing the chaos that had become the John wing of his mind palace, while periodically checking on the other sections of his mental kingdom as well.

His brow creased as he did just that now as it occured to him that he'd somehow mistakenly placed a recipe for a contraceptive potion on the same shelf as snogging John just after John's had his morning tea and toast.

It wasn't the first time he'd discovered this anomaly in his mind palace. So, just as he always did he took it off the shelf and made to return it to the portion of the palace where he kept all of his wizarding knowledge. Tightly under lock and key, thank you very much. There was no need to let anything out of there that hadn't already been safely removed and stored in the "Do not want to remember, but absolutely necessary to life" lobby just before the Wizarding Dungeons began.

He was, mentally of course, just about to leave the main data room of snogging when he inhaled the fresh scent of warm cinnemon. And sandalwood. And that tart taste of John's breakfast jam.

He opened his eyes, but let them fall back to near closing as John kissed him, as he did every morning he had to work. No, this wasn't a full snog. Tongues were kept behind their fleshy, toothy gates. But it was pleasant all the same.

When John pulled back to see Sherlock smiling up at him, he knew not brushing his teeth before he left was a rather nice idea after all. "Didn't want to disturb you," he said. "But you were frowning. Thought I'd fix that."

"I was frowning in concentration."

"Did I break it?"

Sherlock didn't answer at first, assessing his thoughts and position in his mind palace just before it had happened. And then, he realized, that while distracted he'd mentally placed that potion back on the shelf. This time with a handwritten note stating it was to remain exactly where it was thank you very much.

Sherlock's smile grew just a bit bigger. His irrational subconcious, which had not come out to play since he'd given up his dream of being a pirate, had now made itself known again and had taken up residence in the John wing.

And in fact, Sherlock found he didn't mind, so long as it didn't muck about in the rest of the palace.

"No," Sherlock finally said, reaching up to slip a hand behind John's neck and pull him back down. "No, it's sorted."

When John left for work that morning, he was both quite pleased with himself and frustrated as hell.

Pleased because he'd gotten not one but two kisses before work (one of them a rather more intense than usual full snog) but frustrated because he now had the awkward position of sitting behind a desk most of the day, trying (and failing) not to think about Sherlock while he had to stare at sick (and boring) patients the rest of the day.

---

STAGE 5 – HANDS

So dating Sherlock Holmes wasn't easy.

But as it turned out, it wasn't nearly as horrifying an experience as John had first thought it might be.

He knew (roughly) how the other man's mind worked. Once they had begun this process of change, he knew it would be difficult. He was competing with The Work. And right from the start there was one unchangable fact in their lives.

Sherlock Holmes was married to and very monogamous with The Work.

So John had expected a very tough battle for Sherlock's attention. He had prepared for long and frustrating rows and insensitive, cold logic. There were the times, of course, when Sherlock would become that cold, calculating machine of a man he had always been. But it was very clear that this was how he needed to be during cases. Affection at these times was limited to what John had called in his head "Stage 1". Hand holding on silent cab rides. Gentle arm brushes. Shoulder to shoulder occasionally while seated. Or in the rare instances of John's discomfort, a hand to the lower back as if to steady him. Even when it wasn't really necessary. And it was enough for John. To know that while Sherlock had reverted to their professional relationship, there was the subtle reassurance that it was only temporary.

And then, he would soften again. And attack his face with kisses. Attack his lips with those teeth in overexcitement.

In all honesty, he hadn't expected things to get this far. He hadn't expected to get so turned on by the very thought of Sherlock's sweeping, penetrating gaze. Or the way he broke down the most common gestures into a long and intricate life story.

Yes. It had taken a while, and they had progressed in stages. This was for his benefit, he knew. His wizarding detective was taking great pains to move slowly despite the occasional lapse in judgement. He understood that John's previous experience was limited. That he still had lingering reservations. Most of them had been carefully chipped away. The pieces of uncertainty that weighed him down had been meticulously removed until he no longer looked at Sherlock and thought "I'm in love with a man."

No. Now he looked at Sherlock and would smile because he'd think, "I'm in love with this amazing, but childish and actually quite needy, person." And because of the shift in thought, he was more able to initiate. More comfortable leaning in for a kiss first, or reaching for his boyfriend's hand.

Though, it was still a little odd feeling. Like when they would be on the sofa, what had subconciously been agreed upon as their normal point of comfort and relaxation rather than just a place for Sherlock to throw himself and have a good sulk (not that he didn't still do that). The times when they'd be in the middle of a wonderful, delicious snog and John would, without thinking, let his hands wander south. And despite Sherlock's arms around him, stroking his hair, or his back, or even his hand pressed rather firmly against John's bum, John would become still.

When this happened, Sherlock knew, as he always did, that they'd gone just a bit too far for the doctor's comfort. Physically, there was never anything wrong. Both men would be very aroused. Pupils dialated, heart rates rapid, and breathing heavy. That was never the issue. The mental block. THAT was the problem when John would just stop. He wouldn't shut down, no.

Because John knew he was being stupid. He knew Sherlock loved him, and he loved Sherlock. As a doctor, he knew arousal was normal. As a formerly completely straight man… well, he wasn't used to putting his hands on another man's crotch, fully clothed or not.

So, Sherlock did what he always did. He would take John's arms by the wrists and bring them back up to the comfortable and safe zones. Shoulders. Chest. Neck. Then, he would place reassuring kisses systematically along John's jaw. He would keep doing this, gently rubbing his back all the while, until John was again comfortable and responsive.

In embarassment, John would attempt apology and start to babble. But that never lasted long, as Sherlock would tell him he knew (of course he did) and he was fine with it (though he really was getting quite annoyed at being teased, even if it was completely unintentional on John's part).

And they would continue, with John being extremely self conscious of his hands.

---

STAGE 6 – SHIRTS

How Sherlock was able to get John comfortable with his hands was quite simple, actually. Sherlock, in this stage, was the initiator. They had, as was their custom (especially after rather long and trying cases) ensconced themselves on the sofa to watch crap telly. In most of their heavy snogging sessions, Sherlock allowed John to lead (as once more, it pained Sherlock to admit, John had more experience in the area than he) but sometimes, and with increasing frequency, the wandering hands were not the good doctor's, but Sherlock's.

At first, he was careful. Keeping his grabby hands on top of the clothes. But he would brush fingertips under the hem of jumpers, or unbutton the top few buttons of a shirt to expose more neck. A few buttons became a few more. Fingertips up jumpers became entire hands. Until the thought of a shirt on John was just annoying and he was coaxed into removing it completely. Until, finally, John would just come to the sofa without one on at all (since it would be removed regardless).

For a time, Sherlock was fascinated by the scarring in John's shoulder, and despite protests would pay it extra attention.

Most past girlfriends had seen it, of course. How could they not when he'd been naked and shagging them senseless. But only a very few had actually paid it much attention. And no one had given it complete and unwavering focus like Sherlock, who, when finally questioned as to why he was so fascinated with a part of John that the man himself had irrationally hated and blamed for many problems in his life, Sherlock's only reply had been, "Logic."

And John had pulled back, disentangling himself to sit up and blink down from where he sat straddling Sherlock's lap and looked confused. "What sort of answer is that?"

"Logic," Sherlock had said, reaching up to touch the scar again, his long musician's fingers, the same fingers that poked and prodded at some of the most disgusting things in the name of science, gently caressed the damaged flesh. And the corners of his mouth quirked in the subtle and unguarded way that John liked (the real smile, the genuine "just for John" smile that before all of this between them had started he didn't quite understand). For John's benefit, though, Sherlock quietly explained. "If you had not been shot, you would not have been invalided from the army. If you were not invalided, you would not have returned to London. Mike Stamford would never have come across you, and we would have never met."

He pressed his palm against John's shoulder. "I consider this part of you rather important. And thank it accordingly."

And John smiled, too before mumbling something about Sherlock being secretly romantic, and went in for another kiss.

Sherlock was feeling quite proud of himself then, and very pleased with John's reaction. Especially when, for the first time without any restraint, John had finally put his hands lower… And did not withdraw them.

Of course, it didn't last long. As tended to happen to them, life happened to get in the way and just when Sherlock was doing the mental dance of absolute victory (even if this was just a small one), the door to their flat burst open and a breathless detective inspector was standing there gaping at them.

The rather intimate mood now broken, John had jumped back like a surprised teenager when their parents catch them snogging behind the wood shed. Having been seated on Sherlock's lap, which had become quite comfortable, there was nothing behind him to stop the man from falling to the floor when he'd reacted.

"Oh for the love of…. I've been calling you for over an hour!" Lestrade had shouted.

Sherlock actually scowled. John scrambled to his feet, looking for a shirt. Any shirt. His shirt. Sherlock's shirt. Hell, he'd settle for Mrs. Hudson's shirt if he could find one. "I turned my phone off," Sherlock had said coldly in response.

That caused John to stop his search for a shirt. "You what?"

"Yeah, gathered that. Look, I need you at the scene-"

"I turned off my phone, John. Do keep up." His words were normal. Quick and snappish, but endearingly so. And John knew it. That's what mattered.

John stared at him, a bit shocked actually. "You never turn the thing off. Even when it's charging."

Lestrade checked his watch and groaned loudly. "Look, you two can talk about your feelings later. Right now, I've got a serial murderer on the loose and it's either you two or Anderson. If I have to listen to an arrogant bastard, I'd rather it be one worth listening to."

When he'd left, only after John assured him they would be right behind, he turned on Sherlock with hi question written on his face.

Sherlock only shrugged and replied, "You asked me to turn it off when we become intimate, as it frustrates you to be interrupted inconveniently." And Sherlock buttoned up his shirt, fetched his phone and went to put his coat on. "Do hurry up John," he said to his bewildered boyfriend. "Lestrade was quite insistent."

---

STAGE 7 – ROW

It was evident that, despite the steady progression from hands on clothes to hands on flesh (starting with the removal of shirts), John still had a few misgivings. He'd become accustomed to the supririsingly comfortable positions with Sherlock on the sofa (or in a chair, and sometimes in a cab). He'd become comfortable with groping Sherlock's arse, and letting his hands stray to places that he'd never imagined he'd want to touch. But when it came time, as he knew it would, that trousers would have to come off next, he had held back. Unsure, again, but also a little confused. What if, when he actually had the opportunity to see with his own eyes and feel with his own hands what lay inside those tight trousers he suddenly realized he couldn't go on. He couldn't actually do it.

Sherlock had worried, briefly, about this. But not for the same reasons. Oh no, his misgivings were quite different. He knew John was concerned about touching another man's erection in a non-medical way. That was not his problem. His problem was in the fact that… Well… His trouser situation was a bit different. And yes, Sherlock Holmes was, in this instance, self conscious. He'd never had to worry about what anyone else thought because only few people on the planet knew of his particular problem.

Well, it wasn't so much a problem as it was a bizzare fluke of wizarding genetics. One that he had cursed for a great number of years. He had thought about how best to handle the issue. Because Sherlock needed John, and had worked very hard to keep him. Therefore, he would have to handle the delicate situation at hand very, very carefully.

So, while they would spend the evenings making out on the sofa, Sherlock's attention would be divided as he went over how best to bring up the subject. But John had other plans. He had noticed Sherlock's lack of attention (or rather lack of his complete attention) and, determined to get it back, hooked his fingers into the waistband of his boyfriend's trousers with the intent of undoing them.

No, it wasn't curiosity (or so he could tell himself). It wasn't a need (so he lied to himself).

And for the first time, Sherlock was the one to freeze. And ash colored eyes focused in (though it was a bit difficult to do) on John who's face was slowly beginning to frown. "Too soon?" John had asked, feeling annoyed. "Or were you bored?"

"No," Sherlock replied. "Not bored. Definately not bored. The opposite of bored."

"So too soon then," John said, a bit miffed though he really didn't see why he should be so. He put a hand against the couch, either side of Sherlock's head, and stared at him. "You're distracted."

"You have my," he began, glancing down between them to the obvious evidence. "Full attention."

"Physically, yes. Mentally… No. And where you're concerned, that's the more important part I need. There's something you're not telling me."

"There's a lot I do not tell you."

"Clearly." Annoyance slipped into the tone now, the doctor unable to hide it.

Sherlock's hands on his hips tightened. "You are upset."

"Understandably so."

"And sexually frustrated."

"Don't need to be a genius to figure that one out." His tone slightly scathing, but he felt bad immediately after he'd said it.

That now had his full attention. That brilliant mind that John so craved was deducing him now. Breaking down every fact written across his face. The amount of time passing between every breath. And when he did speak, his voice was low. Dangerous. And for a moment John actually felt threatened. "Get off of me."

"Tell me what's going on with you first."

"I will not repeat myself."

"Well you're going to have to." Again he regretted his words as he felt those fingers that often caressed in tenderness now dig into into the faded denim at his hips. He was glad for the barrier, feeble as it was, because if it had not been there those fingers would have dug right to the bone.

Growling, a sound he had not heard from the other man but once before (oh, that terrible, horrible first Christmas after his detective had returned) when it had been released in a rage and a storm of magic and anger, eminated from the back of that pale, beautiful throat. And Sherlock, upon hearing the noise his own body had made, released his grip, and John quickly slid from his position. It was as if Sherlock had actually scared himself with his own reaction, and now was forcing restraint.

What John read as anger was not anger. It was the exact opposite of anger.

And that only compounded his problem. Sherlock jumped from the sofa and as if it were one grand, sweeping movement bent down to pick up his shirt from where it had landed and spun, pulling it over his arms. "I'm going out," he snapped.

"What? Sherlock-"

"I assume you'll take a shower. Be sure to disinfect the wall when you're done," he half spat, half hissed as he gathered his things to go.

John got to his feet, unsure exactly what he was going to do then. He was replaying the evening in his mind. Everything had been fine. Had been quite normal in fact. Yes, Sherlock had been distracted, a bit distant for the week. And John had every right to be worried. Concerned. Even if they weren't… Even if they were still only flatmates, he'd feel that way.

"It's not your fault," Sherlock said in that still harsh tone, his back to John as he pulled on his scarf after his coat, despite the fact it was too warm out for the both of them. "I need to think."

"You can think here-"

"No. Too distracting."

John felt like he'd been striken in the face by the words. "So I'm a distraction now?"

Sherlock whirled on him, having finally gotten complete control over his face. Having rammed his emotions back into that large and far too vast wing of his mind palace assigned to the man he was hopelessly devoted to. "You've always been a distraction." Not giving John time to formulate a response, he turned and ran down the steps. Counting all seventeen of them before hitting the ground floor.

"Is that what you keep me for then?" he heard John's shouting voice as he'd descended. "It's not fucking fair!"

John's words were drowned out by the slamming of the door below. He was too angry to sit back down on the sofa. That spot associated with their closeness. So he threw himself into a chair, then realized it was Sherlock's. He kicked it, shouting angrily because he hadn't been thinking and smashed his toes (no shoes). He threw himself into his chair with another angry shout and wished he, too, had a magic wand. He'd very much like to cast some sort of exploding curse on that chair. And that accursed violin. And the home laboratory in the kitchen. And anything else that reminded him of Sherlock.

Especially that damned grinning skull.

He closed his eyes, finding that to be the only way to block out everything. But only for a few moments because what his sight was now blocked from, his imagination supplied. More vivid and more detailed and more…. No. He would not think of Sherlock bloody Holmes and his cursed perfect lips.

He was grateful when Mrs. Hudson came cautiously up to peer in at him. Concern obvious in her voice. "Everything alright love? That was one nasty row. I've never heard you two go off like that before."

He didn't say anything, almost afraid he'd start shouting at the poor woman.

"Well aren't you going to go after him, dear?" She waited, then gave a slight huff. "I swear, you boys… You're oblivious, you are. He clearly wants you to follow him. That's what always happens in the films."

"This is NOT a film, Mrs. Hudson!" he snapped.

"Alright alright…" She shook her head and huffed again. "With an attitude like that, I'll not bring you any tea then."

"I don't want any bloody tea. I just want to be left alone!" He actually did want tea. And the rational part of him knew shouting at Mrs. Hudson wasn't doing anyone any good. Especially since she held no part in the reason he was so angry.

She'd gone, muttering about how if either of them damaged her walls again, or broke another piece of furnature, she'd take it out of their rent. He knew she was fussing just to fuss now, finding one reason or another to linger just a bit longer.

John remained in his chair, all signs of arousal abated without aid. And the more he sat, the more he replayed the evening in his head until he just couldn't take it anymore and found his phone, the very same one Sherlock had given him for Christmas. He sent a text and waited. Then sent another. Telling Sherlock to grow up and come home. Not exactly the most romantic apology, but it was blunt. It showed that John thought Sherlock was being childish, but that he also wanted him near. Blunt was the only way he could handle such a stupendously insensitive jerk.

He sent one more text after an hour, only to receive a reply from Mycroft stating that Sherlock would not be returning to Baker Street that night, as he had gone to mummy and was quite inconsolable.

That didn't help his mood at all. And he found himself falling asleep in his chair as once again, he was trying to figure out what exactly happened.

o0o

When Sherlock had turned up two days later, John was feeling guilty. He'd figured it out. Well, he hoped he had. He'd accused Sherlock of being bored. While they were in a compromising position. And the way it had come across was not asking if Sherlock was simply bored. It sounded as if John was accusing him of being bored of John.

So he'd tried to work. Tried to get his mind off things. And it had worked… until it was time to return to the flat. He'd left it, just as it was. Empty tea cups on the counter and all.

And had spent those nights in the chair, subconciously sitting so that he faced the sofa.

On the start of the third night, John was starting to give up. At last deciding that whatever this lark had been with Sherlock, it was obviously now over. He could classify it for himself as an experiment. One he would never repeat again. Dating flatmates, bad idea. Dating men, worse idea. Dating super intelligent wand weilding consulting detectives…

John had nearly formed that conclusion in his thoughts when Sherlock was once more in the flat. John had been too distracted by his maudlin trains of thought to notice the door below. Or perhaps he had closed it quietly so as not to attract attention.

"Where the hell have you bloody been!" were the first words that came out of his mouth, an explosion of renewed anger mixed with a landfill of relief.

"I went to see mother."

"Right. Yeah. Mycroft said. Again. Where the bloody hell have you been!"

"So father did floo him immediately after my arrival. Traiterous snake," he muttered, then quickly passed over this thought. He held up a bag. "I needed to retrieve some of my book collection. Obviously, I cannot keep magical texts in the flat, with muggle clients coming and going frequently." He tugged at his scarf, hanging it up before pulling off his coat, taking the time to move the bag of books from one hand to the other.

"Sofa?" Sherlock asked casually, as if they hadn't had an explosive row just two nights previous.

John shook his head. "Chairs," he said, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. Sherlock noticed, and said as he moved to sit in his own favored chair. "You have been blaming yourself for miswording your concerns. You know you are wrong, as I told you before I left that the row was not your fault."

"And you couldn't just stay home and explain this to me?" John bit back, seating himself on the edge of his chair. Knees apart, elbows on knees as he leaned forward. Hands clasped so that they would have something to do as he worked out whether or not to remain angry or try some other emotion.

"No."

"Why not?"

"My control was slipping."

"Clearly."

"I became afraid for your safety-"

"Yeah. You did get sort of… growling. Like at Christmas."

"Different growl," Sherlock said, waving a hand and dismissing the statement. "Different growls for different states of emotion. I don't understand why I do it. I just… It's part of my condition." He reached into the bag now, taking out one of the books. John recognized it instantly as one of the texts from the Potter-Malfoy library. And that was only because it was placed among the books Mycroft and Harry had brought for him to read while he was recovering.

He knew what that book was about, his curiosity having driven him to thumb through it. Why, when speaking of John's safety would the other man bring it out now? Why would he be sitting there, in front of John, and thumb through it as if he knew exactly what he was searching for.

Finally, Sherlock stopped, pointed to the page and handed the book over. "Right page, third paragraph from the top. Read it."

"I don't understand what this has to do with-"

"Read it," Sherlock repeated, pulling out another book and thumbing through it.

John rolled his eyes and humoured him, reading the book. The wording was a little difficult (one reason he hadn't spent too much time reading it before), due to the age of the text, but he could understand enough to get the context. And then he frowned. "This is why they all kept calling you a nymph, isn't it?"

Sherlock swallowed. "Yes," he replied as John continued to read. Mentally he was ticking off little check boxes, briefly glancing at Sherlock every so often before turning the page. Most of the sentences described one of Sherlock's odd quirks. One in particular reminded him of a conversation he'd had with, of all people, Mycroft not long after making both Holmes' brothers' aquaintance. "Now that makes sense," he said to himself, but Sherlock caught it.

"What does?"

"Nothing. Just something Mycroft said when we met."

"Then you're right. It's not important." He put down a book and searched through his bag for another book.

John finished the section and closed the book, looking at the title and thinking. "This is about the mating habits of magical creatures."

"Obviously."

"You're telling me," John started, but didn't finish because Sherlock immediately stated calmly "Yes."

"Okay. Assuming you've not gone suddenly insane, and humans-"

"Magical humans only, John. Really."

"Okay, you weird magical people can actually shag and produce," he paused, opening the book again to a random page. "A blast ended skrewt. How exactly would that work?"

"We can't mate with blast ended skrewts. Not everything is compatable with our genetics. Dragons, nymphs, veela, high elves, three varriations of the fae, giants, werewolves, animagi, and a few other choice creatures yes. But blast ended skrewts? Certaintly not."

"Okay. So…. most of those are humanoid, I assume?"

"Most. Werewolves are, as you know from muggle media, human most of the time. Animagi are typically human with a single shape-shifting ability. Dragons… We still do not understand how that happens. But clearly at one point, it had. As there happens to be quite a few Draconi in the Malfoy ancestry. Nearly extinct now, but there are traces. Romania is a common place to find-"

"I don't need a care of magical creatures lesson," John muttered. So Sherlock dropped it. The muggle closed the book again and handed it back. "What does this have to do with the other night? Because I know you. You don't go running off and coming back with your weird wizard school books and not give me some convoluted reason for it to make complete sense. Usually only to you."

"You noticed, in that section, all pronouns and gender specific words were female."

John thought about it. Yes… They were. A rushed Humanities lecture on the grecco-roman mythologies popped to mind from his college years. "Because all nymphs in classic literature were female," he said, unsure of where this was going. "You're not going to tell me you're secretly a woman, are you? I've had enough of this sexual identity crisis to last me a lifetime. And I very clearly know what I felt beneath my arse every time I was in your lap."

"It's not that simple."

"Then explain it to me. Explain it to me in terms my tiny muggle idiot brain can understand."

Sherlock nodded, reaching for what looked to be a leather bound journal. "I have taken the liberty to make notations in the margins, explaining terms muggles would not understand. These are my complete medical records. Normally, it would be thicker, given my age. But I kept a low profile between graduation and the beginings of my association with Scotland Yard. If you find it necessary, I have added references to wizard healer texts, which I have brought home, for you to look up anything you deem necessary."

John stared at him, frowning in concentration as he accepted the notebook, and the subsequent bag of books. Sherlock stood calmly, gathering the few he had removed for himself, and was about to leave for his bedroom.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes love?" he replied, purposely using the endearment to signify that his feelings, such as they were, had not changed in the slightest.

It had caught the doctor off guard, and he nearly forgot to ask what was now on his mind. "Is this… what you've been thinking about all last week?"

"Yes. I had been trying to formulate a correct manner in which to enlighten you of my condition so that you would not be… surprised by it, as I had been. Only three others outside myself have read my records. Many from that world know of my status as a magical creature. But few know the full details of my condition. I know you will not betray this trust. I decided that in order for you to fully understand, from a clinical point of view, you must be presented with the information in the form of medical knowledge."

Sherlock did not give John the chance to reply, even though the man couldn't really come up with something to respond with. He went straight to his room and shut the door.

John sat for a long time, staring at the books and returning to that mental checklist again. Sherlock was right. As a doctor, he could now focus on the information from a perspective he understood. The checklist in his mind was now a list of symptoms. The reason for which was hidden inside his (still) boyfriend's medical records.

He gathered the books together and took them upstairs to his room.

John remained in his room for a full day and part of the following night, working through the information. Examining cruedly drawn diagrams of anatomy before then focusing on the more modern and up to date diagrams that seemed as if printed from a computer. The sheer bizzareness was mindboggling, but he was able to find in some of his own non-magical texts similar information that helped him to understand.

Finally, when John emerged from his room and reappeared in the flat below, he was ready to face Sherlock again. Now with a much better understanding of the man than he'd ever thought possible. The man in question was sitting in the kitchen when John had gone to make himself some tea. He looked…. rough.

"Tea?" John asked.

"Yes," was the simple reply.

In awkward silence, they shared the space as the water boiled in the kettle. As John prepared the two cups. When it was ready, John set Sherlock's cup beside the microscope. "Here."

"Thank you," Sherlock replied, but did not move to take the cup. John took a sip, sighed, and set his own down as well.

"Sherlock, look at me."

"Busy."

"Sherlock."

"Science, John."

Rolling his eyes, John reached over, grabbed hold of an arm firmly and pulled him from the microscope. And when that big, loud, annoying mouth opened it was quickly covered again. And Sherlock hummed and melted against it.

Then, just as quickly, John ended it.

"You always taste like tea."

"Next time I bloody tell you to tell me what's bothering you, you bloody well tell me. Even if I don't understand half of what you say. Is that clear?"

"John-"

"I said is that clear?" he repeated, squaring his shoulders. The pose and the tone reminded Sherlock of their first visit to Baskervilles, and he felt an involuntary shudder right down his spine. "Of course," he replied.

"And the next time we have a row, I swear to God if you run to your mother, I will find you and I will drag you back home kicking and screaming if I have to. And we will work through the problem like adults." Sherlock started to smile, but John gave him a stern look. "I'm still mad at you."

"Because I didn't respond to your texts."

"No," he said, then let the hard edge leave his voice. "Because you didn't feel you could trust me. In case you've forgotten the last time you did that…" He didn't need to say it. Sherlock knew full well to what John was referring. And John could tell the man was shamed by it. "Now then. Your punishment is to sit on that sofa with me and watch the entire season 7 of Doctor Who with me."

"Classic series or the revival?" Sherlock asked, dreading both but knowing the older series was comprised of more, but shorter, episodes and thus had the greater potential for mental torture.

"Revival. Matt Smith. And we will discuss the plots, and you are going to like it."

"John-"

"No arguments. You have this coming. You have ten minutes to prepare while I find the blu-ray disks."

"Blu-ray? John, no."

John smiled smugly. "If you manage three episodes on these terms, you can hold my hand. If you manage to go seven episodes without a single snide remark, I may consider commuting your sentence."

With that, John picked up his tea and left the kitchen. Sherlock was groaning inwardly. "What happens if I break the terms?"

"Then you'll be forced to compliment Anderson no less than ten times for the next eight crime scenes you visit. And just because I might not be there does not mean you wiggle out. I will tell Greg and Mycroft. And Dimmock," John called back from the living room.

Oh…. Doctor Who was too good a punishment for the emotional roller coaster that Sherlock had put him through. But it would have to do.

---

STAGE 8 – TOUCH

After their row that had ended in John gaining quite a unique insight into the past of Sherlock Holmes, they had slowly worked their way back to that comfortable snogging and hand roaming they had once been at. Sherlock was still unsettled about beyond that point, but John was now quite confident. Yes, it was going to be weird. Yes, it was going to be a bit embarassing for them both considering the strange turn of Sherlock's condition. But in the time since John had poured over muggle and magical medical manuals. Arming himself with every fact he could that was even remotely similar to what awaited him in the trousers of Sherlock Holmes.

And when that moment actually came, John knew he'd have to be the one to take a firm grip on the situation (pun not quite intententional). So he waited. He knew his best chance to progress things beyond their little bubble of comfort would be immediately following a case. But not just any random case. It had to be one that really allowed Sherlock to flaunt his most powerful organ. Because it was Sherlock's brain that had really made John come to terms with his awkward situation. That was the part of his boyfriend he loved the most.

And only after a difficult case would Sherlock's mood be filled with excitement, riding the aftershocks of danger and daring do. John would be better able to convince him to apply that adrenaline to something more… productive. So he kept an eye on the paper. Kept an ear out for news. And even pestered Lestrade every single day when he could, begging for the most convoluted and messy case they could find.

It came in the form of a bank robbery linked to a series of murders, pregnant prostitutes, and surprisingly a sweatervest that turned out to have magical properties (though this was kept under wraps, as it meant Mycroft would eventually need to be contacted, and that always put Sherlock out of joint).

Sherlock wasn't stupid, of course. He had quickly caught onto what John was trying to do within an hour of John actually getting the idea. The genius just let John putter on, appreciating the fact that his muggle was going to all the effort to ensure the detective would be in an appropriate frame of mind.

Solving the case itself was simply a matter of isolating the poisons secreted by the magical and rather filthy sweatervest that had been bought and sold numerous times from thrift stores by expectant fathers in the area of Ealing. The bank robberies were a side-line hobby of the squib involved. The muggles were convinced their squib cohort was a messenger from God. It was rather amusing to Sherlock, really. And had provided the mental acrobatics that always put him in a slightly more amiable mood than usual.

John was nervous. Sherlock knew John was nervous, and his expectation throughout their traditional celebratory chinese (a must-have post case routine since the Study in Pink) was causing him to pick up on John's nervousness even more than usual.

Halfway through eating, John finally sighed and looked up, pupils already blown. "Sod this. Home?"

"Home," Sherlock had agreed quickly and too eagerly for his own taste. John smirked, insisted on paying (despite using Sherlock's card to do so), and they'd taken the left-overs home.

The ride home was torture. Sherlock had pounced him, mouth latching onto his neck and unwilling to let go and move to another point of exposed skin until John forcibly moved it for him. They'd have gone further right there in the cab had it not been for the driver who kept throwing them angry looks. By the time they arrived at the flat on Baker Street, both men thought they'd go absolutely mad. Sherlock had sent John ahead with the excuse of paying the driver (and in John's current single-minded state he didn't point out the fact that usually Sherlock threw a wad of pounds at the cabbies and ran on). Sherlock paid the man, but only after informing him that his bigotry was due to the fact he himself had homoerotic tension with a co-worker, possibly his boss. And that he couldn't handle it due to the state of his marriage, and because of transgendered step-son's obsession with Lady Gaga.

Sherlock was quite pleased with himself when the cab sped away from the curb, but did not stand to bask in his own cleverness for long. John was upstairs. John was waiting.

He went inside, meeting Mrs. Hudson on the stair with a hurried "Your sister called today. Yes, she's visiting next weekend. No, she's not going to like your coffee cake. Yes, we'll attempt to keep the noise down," before he slammed the door of 221B behind him.

He pulled his coat off quickly, annoyed that it caught on his wrist for a moment and shaking it off before reaching for his scarf. "John!"

"Leave it on," John replied from the sofa. Sherlock's long legs carried him across the flat, eyes sweeping across the area. Two cups of fresh tea, one containing slightly less than the other. They would obviously remain further untouched and ignored. It caused his mouth to twitch in that funny smile he held for John. The doctor licked his lips, reaching for one of his boyfriend's hands when he came near enough.

John's breathing quickened when the ash colored gaze was turned on him as he pulled Sherlock down to him. One perfectly sculpted brow was raised before that gaze cut down to look at the length of blue fabric hanging loosely from his neck. "Doctor Watson," he said, his voice low. "Has a secret scarf kink." The tone suggested a sultry, playful laughter behind the teasing words.

"Shut up," John breathed as he closed in, wrapping one of his hands in the scarf. Sherlock half turned, meeting those very familiar lips with his own. Slipping his tongue to between them to run across the seam of John's, begging entry into the delectable cavern beyond as he ran his fingers through the sandy colored hair.

It did not take long for shirts to come off, the loss of John's tea flavored kisses drawing an annoyed hum before hands were on him again. Lips brushing his own briefly before kisses were brought to those high, sharp cheekbones and back down again to his jaw. His neck. Teeth grazed his skin and Sherlock moaned, tilting his head to give John more room before finally becoming frustrated.

"Stretch out a bit," John said, moving his mouth back to press against the corner of Sherlock's. He pulled away, but only enough to nudge him where he wanted him to be. A few panted breaths and a small nod before he shifted to lay back, pulling John with him.

A long arm wrapped loosely around John's waist while Sherlock's other hand, after working it away from where John had accidentally pinned it between them, came up to poke and prod at the familiar piece of damaged flesh. Gently stroking it before Sherlock lifted his head to press his lips against it. He'd imagined what it would feel like against his mouth, but had dared not try it yet. As his tongue laved the scar tissue, John hissed at the unusual sensation. He'd become used to Sherlock's fascination with it, but hadn't expected…

"Teeth, Sher," John said when he'd grazed his skin. When it happened again, John maneuvered his shoulder a little further away. Soon, their mouths were locked again. Tongues pushing back and forth as Sherlock's arm around his waist tightened, his hips thrust upward insistantly. John moaned as he pushed back, hand trailing down to stop where fabric began. The pads of his fingers pressing against hot skin as he thrust down again.

Sherlock turned his head, panting for air and growling at the same time. A low, feral sound. But his eyes, he kept them focused on John's face even from the corner of his eye. This was it.

They had come to the last boundary.

Eyes closed, then a slight nod before he turned his face back again. John's hands were slightly shaking as he sat up. Sherlock bent one of his legs, letting it half-hang off the sofa to make room for John between them.

John stared down at him. Pale white skin turned pink. The criss-cross of scars accumulated from his years circumnavigating the globe in his mission to dismantle Moriarty's web.

"John." His name came out as a combination of a moan and a choked sob. "We… You don't… have to…"

"I did not sit through two days of emotional hell and read wizard books that smelled like moth balls for nothing," John replied, pressing a hand to the most jagged looking scar of the lot. The one right in Sherlock's side. The bullet wound from Moran. The one John had unknowingly reopened when they had first been reunited.

Sherlock didn't smile. He was busy holding in his laughter at John's situationally inappropriate statement. His shoulders shook, pressing into the cushions with his silent laughter. This. This was one of the many reasons he loved this man. Beyond the initially unwanted physical need, it was the brief moments like this.

John's hands never left his skin, sliding lower still to toy with the top of Sherlock's trousers. Last chance. The point of no return.

Blue eyes flicked back up to catch smiling ash. Neither man needed to speak. Sherlock always read him. Knew his mind. And John, in his own manner, knew what went on behind that cold stare by a simple look. The way he moved his eyebrows. The speed at which he would blink. Or the intensity of his gaze.

He traced the edges, just beneath the fabric before bringing his hands around to the front, his breathing coming quicker, his heart beating faster in apprehension.

The button was undone. Calloused surgeon's fingers gripped the tab to pull the slider body along the teeth embedded into the tape of the zipper.

"Purple," John said under his breath when he saw his pants. "Should have known they'd be purple."

"It's Monday. I always wear purple on Mondays."

John swallowed back a laugh. Only Sherlock would think that was… Oh nevermind. John's hungry eyes returned to his task, fingers of one hand reached in while the other pulled at the trousers, trying to tug them down to the thighs. Sherlock lifted his hips to allow the black fabric to be pulled from under his arse, moaning in delight at the feel of John's hand against his cloth covered erection. Palming it, tentatively at first before giving it a firm squeeze.

John released him long enough to fight with the trousers until finally Sherlock snapped impatiently. "Remove your's." The muggle didn't move at first, then crawled back to the end of the couch, fumbling with his jeans before he managed to get them unfastened and open.

"Pants, too?" John asked, watching as Sherlock manuevered out of his trousers and tossed them to the floor beside the sofa. A dark eyebrow rose, informing him that his question was stupid and the answer was quite obvious.

[GRAPHIC SCENE REMOVED FOR FANFICTION DOT NET]

"Sherlock?"

Half-closed ashen eyes looked back at him, a stupid grin on his face. "John," he said. "Don't use the sofa to wipe your hand."

"I could wipe it on you," he teased, still trying to catch his breath.

"Don't be ridiculous." Sherlock cupped his cheek with one hand, the other lazily reaching off the side of the sofa. "Accio tissues," he intoned.

Surprisingly, it worked. Both men stared at the box that had come at the summons from its place beyond the untouched tea.

Just the box of tissues. In Sherlock's outstretched hand. Nothing else had followed. Nothing. At all.

"Well," Sherlock said with a gentle smirk, if a smirk could even be such. "Now I know what to do when my magic becomes too wild."

"Yeah," John said, taking some of the tissues to clean them up with. "Just go have a fantastic shag. Should even things out."

Sherlock was thoughtful for a moment, his face taking on the same expression as when he would dive into his mind palace.

"Oh no," John said, unsure of what to do with the used tissues. So he aimed for the nearest piece of clothing and tried to toss them onto it. The thought of them touching the floor was a bit on the squick side for him. "Sherlock. No."

"No what?" he asked, blinking at him now.

"You were about to go silent mind palace on me. Not the time."

"A bit not good then?"

"Bit not good."

"Now is when we cuddle."

"Erm-"

"My research shows that in the aftermath of coitus, it is apropriate for partners to cuddle, even if only one desires this, for no shorter than fifteen minutes."

John stared at him a moment before pressing his forehead against his chest. Shoulder's shaking as he tried not to burst into laughter. "Sherlock, that wasn't sex."

"I believe you did have your hand in my-"

"Intercourse then," he said, unbelieving that he was actually having this conversation after what they had just done. "Obviously, the more detailed information is something you deleted from your mind palace."

"To make room for the variety of tea flavors you enjoy."

John lifted his head agian to stare at him in disbelief before shaking his head and resting it back down against Sherlock's chest. A long, skinny arm wrapped around him again.

"Yes," John said in reply to his earlier statement. "This is when we cuddle."

---

STAGE 9 – BETRAYAL

They had made a game of it, in their own fashion.

John's curiosity and Sherlock's fascination drove each man to push and push beyond their limits. To explore one another's bodies and memorize each and every sharp angle and curve. To learn how much pressure to apply to that spot, just behind John's ear that would set off a soundtrack made of the foulest and most wonderfully creative euphemisms and commands the soldier's mind could conjure while Sherlock's hands were upon him. Or how many strokes it would take to turn Sherlock into a writing mass of loose limbs before he lost all coherent thought.

There were other times, too, when they would simply lay together on the sofa and watch the telly. Sherlock, being the physically taller would drape himself around John from behind lazily. Thinking quietly as the doctor watched the news, or read a book. Or slept. Whatever he may need at that moment.

They'd had rows, of course. Ending in explosive shouting matches and slammed doors. And despite the occasional need to speak with his mother (because of all those in Sherlock's aquaintance, only John and his mother could explain the finer points of empathy and sentiment in terms he could understand) he did not. That was one of John's rules, laid down in the aftermath of their first relationship related row. But that didn't stop him from sending a request for information by owl post. He didn't particularly care for the method, but it was the most direct way of going about it without having to get his brother involved as go-between.

Their most recent row, which was the reason for Sherlock's sour mood and the fresh batch of unicorn bladders (which he had claimed were actually sheep's kidneys) in the lower crisper drawer of the refridgerator, had been over a very touchy subject. One that despite what John had shouted at him, he was more than ready for… but had kept putting off.

As he sat at the kitchen table, surrounded by his usual equipment, he sat up on the stool and rubbed at his eyes. A quick glance to the nearest clock informed him John had been absent from the flat now for nine hours, thirty-seven minutes, and eight seconds. He quickly deduced that the man in question must have gone to Sarah's first. A consoling shoulder to unload his troubles. Then, if John stuck to his usual routine, the pub with Mike…. No. No. This was Thursday. Pub Quiz night down at the Shield & Gun. That meant he would be with Lestrade, Dimmock, and others from the Yard.

Assuming he held to routine.

Sherlock rubbed his eyes and turned to the carefully lined test tubes on the rack. Filled with various substances that, to the untrained eye, looked like his normal collection of chemicals and compounds.

In fact, they were not. They were, in all honesty, ingredients waiting to be added to the incongruous iron cauldron sitting on the nearby stove. He'd preffer to use a normal cooking pot for his potions, however he had learned rather early on in life that there was no substitute for a good, solid cauldron.

One too many explosions in his father's laboratory had served to illustrate that point time and again.

The other incongruous article in the otherwise normal-ish seeming kitchen was the thick volume open beside the microscope. Sherlock's spidery writing bold and heavy on the yellow, aged pages. Neon green post-its proclaimed various changes to the recipe written down. One Sherlock had never thought he would actually need, and now worked to improve. He'd been working on it for just a few weeks, after he had rebuffed John's first attempt to further the intimacy of their relationship.

A timer on his phone sounded, and he stood, snatching a tube containing a foul smelling sort of purple ooze as he went to the cauldron to check on its progress. Carefully, he tipped the contents in, stirring the potion carefully with a glass rod before setting the empty tube aside. He counted the minutes in his head, watching the contents carefully as he waited for it to turn from orange to blue.

Once it had, he took a sample then returned to the microscope to examine it under a slide.

He did this, checking the recipe and carefully, meticulously following each step as he waited for John to return.

When he finally heard the door below, he had just cut off the heat and moved the cauldron to sit on the back of the stove to cool. He glanced at his phone. Half past two.

He set the phone on the counter, face up, then turned to pack away his ingredients.

John staggered in, and Sherlock listened to the shuffling of his feet. Hmm… He noted the steps were slower than a normal pub night out. He'd become far more intoxicated than he was used to. He would more than likely find somewhere in the flat and pass out. The sofa was an obvious choice, but given the reason for John's intoxication, the choice of a chair became far more probable.

"How did you fare in the quiz?" Sherlock called from the kitchen. He didn't care about those sorts of things, but he had become increasingly interrested in John's successes in them. After all, John had proclaimed proudly after one night with the Yarders that since he'd moved back into Baker Street with Sherlock he'd become much better at all sorts of quizzes, tests, and questionaires.

John's reply had only been a mumbled complaint.

So.. Not that well tonight then.

Sherlock listened, as he finished up in the kitchen, to John as he stumbled around before the unmistakable thud of a body hitting a seat could be heard.

"Chair then," Sherlock mused to himself, snapping his book closed and tucking it under his arm. The plastic box of his potions ingredients was picked up and held in both hands as he made to return it to the space beneath his bed where the floorboards were loose and easy for him to pry up.

He stopped when he passed John, however, wrinkling his nose and glancing at the now sleeping muggle before finally moving forward again. Something was off. Something was very, very off.

When he came back through the livingroom hours later to complete the final steps of his potion, he found John just as he had left him. Again, that same sense of wrongness came to Sherlock as he had passed. But he shook it off. They'd had a row, and according to John, the feeling of unease and apprehension was normal until the situation was resolved between the parties involved. This was, all data suggested, normal behavior.

He'd gone about ladeling the contents of the potion into small flasks he had prepared beforehand, then stored the remaining in opaque jars. He labeled them and took them and the flasks to his room after a quick cleaning charm on the cauldron.

He left out two paracetemol and a bottle of water for John when he awoke.

o0o

When Sherlock emerged from his room, John, the parecetemol, and the water were gone. A quick mental check of John's schedule told him where the man would be at this hour. The clinic. He'd picked up a few extra days while one of Sarah's normal staff were on holiday.

With that sorted, Sherlock went about his day as normal. He'd texted John off and on, but received no reply. Not even a "Busy at work" or a "Need anything from Tesco?"

The lack of communication put him, once more, into a sour mood. Which was evident when he arrived at the Yard, bored and looking for something to do. A good missing persons, or a gruesome death would brighten his day.

All he could really find to occupy his time were cold cases. However, even as he worked through a stack of them without any challenge, he could not help but notice the wide berth many were giving him. Moreso than usual.

Even Lestrade…

Silently he watched those around him closer. Easily picking out those who had suffered, or were still suffering from, hangovers. A short peek in his mind palace confirmed some faces, eliminated others. Calculated the chances of getting honest answers out of each individual before finally he decided to speak while looking over a rather dull case file concerning missing show poodles.

"Something happened last night at the pub," he said in his indifferent way. "Body language suggests it is something that makes some of the usual drinking crowd uncomfortable. Observing your typical Thursday drinking companions I can see that those who have not associated with me often have been avoiding me. Anderson and Donnovan have been shooting looks as if they want to speak, but are holding back. More than likely at your orders rather than a sense of self preservation." Sherlock closed the file after scribbling a note and sliding it in, then pulled out another folder to examine.

Lestrade was silent. Rubbing the back of his neck as Sherlock watched him from the corner of his eye. He was nervous. Unsure. No… Not unsure. Worried. Didn't want to respond, but felt he had been placed into a difficult situation.

"It is to do with John," Sherlock said finally, reading the notes of an armed robbery. It was dreadfully boring and straight forward, but he knew that to seem distracted, preoccupied, would make it easier for Lestrade to speak to him. It was a method of drawing information from the inspector Sherlock had learned and employed very early on in their professional relationship. "Body language suggests you do not feel comfortable speaking on the matter."

"You should talk to John about this, not me."

"I fully intend to." He turned a page in the folder over and began reading through the useless information on the next. "However, he returned to the flat heavily intoxicated. So much so, that he spent the night in a chair." He waited, Lestrade opened his mouth before closing it again.

"Greg," he said. Yes, he actually remembered his first name. Mostly so that he knew who his sister would be speaking about when the man came up in conversation. "Imagine if our roles were reversed. You are me, and John is Mycroft. Would you not want to know what your lover has been doing behind your back? Even if it is potentially fatal to the nature of your relationship?"

Lestrade frowned. The git had a point. He sighed, his shoulders slumped, defeated. "I can't vouch for after midnight," he said, glancing to the open door. "You'd really best talk to John, mate."

"Again, I fully intend to do so. However, if I am to construct a sound counter argument, or indeed prepare for sudden and drastic changes in my current living situation, I need data."

He closed the folder after scribbling another note and slipping it in among the pages. This, he added to the pile of solved. But did not reach for another.

"You're not going to hex anyone, are you? You don't have a wand on you, right?" Lestrade asked, his voice low to keep others from hearing. "I mean it, Sherlock. I know your temper. It's worse than your mother's."

"I am well aware of my emotional faults."

Against his better judgement, Lestrade nodded. "Christ I can't believe I'm doing this…" he muttered. "My office, ten minutes."

o0o

John had gotten a shower and dressed quickly that morning. He felt guilty. More than guilty, he felt terrible. No, worse than that. He actually wished he were back in Afghanistan. Because if he were back there, he'd only have to worry about getting shot. Again.

But instead, between patients he worried about the terrible things he now knew Sherlock could do to him. He couldn't even bring himself to reply to the text messages. The entire world felt like it was pressing down on him, and he just didn't want to go home.

It wasn't that he was afraid. No. He just didn't know what to do. Surely Sherlock had seen the state of him when he came in (even if he didn't quite remember making it up the stairs) and had easily read his entire day and night with just a look. Just because he didn't have lipstick on his collar didn't mean Sherlock wouldn't know.

He ALWAYS knew.

So when Dr. Kent had to leave early (her daughter was fighting in school for the third time this month) he readily agreed to pick up the hours.

"John, I've got it covered. You really don't-"

"It's just a few extra hours. It's really no problem."

"You should go home and sort yourself out," she said, echoing her advice from the day before when he'd showed up at her flat, angry and frustrated and just needing a good cup of tea without the irritating accompaniment of Sherlock's voice. "Trust me. The longer you leave it, the worse it's going to be. Even for normal people, a row like that is bad enough. But this is Sherlock."

"He knows how to hide the bodies where no one will find them," John said flatly, sitting in one of the chairs in front of her desk, his head in his hands. "Sarah, please. Just… I can't go home. I can't face him."

Sarah frowned. "John… What exactly did you do when you left my flat last night?"

"I went to the pub, like I always do on Thursdays."

She nodded.

"Got pissed with the lads."

Again, she nodded. She'd gone with him a time or two.

"And there was this woman…"

Sarah's hand flew to her mouth, her eyes wide. "John Watson!" she managed to snap once she was able to take her hand away. "You go home. You go home and you fix this. And if you don't come back to work Monday, I'll know he's killed you."

o0o

Sherlock was beyond angry when he had left the Yard. He'd gotten three calls from his brother, and took note of the cameras following his every move. Lestrade had, no doubt, called Mycroft immediately following his departure. On the last call, right when Sherlock had reached his front door, he snapped at Mycroft. He threatened his brother with every cruel horror he could think of, both magical and non-magical, if he dared to interfere. And if he even thought to get to John before he did… Then Lestrade was going to meet a very painful, very messy end.

As he let himself into 221, and silently ascended the stairs to the flat, he knew there was only one thing to do.

He was betrayed.

John had turned to another for what Sherlock had been unwilling to give.

He was angry.

A normal person would break things off. Chuck John out on his ear and slam the door behind him.

He was hurt.

And he would ensure that John did not make the same mistake again.

Sherlock would not part ways from John. He would not throw him out. He would not harm him. He would do much, much worse.

o0o

When John returned home, managing to get an extra hour out of Sarah, he'd returned to a very quiet flat. He'd planned to go straight to his room, to avoid Sherlock in the hopes that he could at least find some way to-

"John!"

He winced.

"Did you bring milk?"

He looked around, pulling his coat off and carefully hanging it by the door. He frowned, trying to remember… Yes. He'd gotten a text about milk.

"No," he called back, hoping his voice sounded normal as he ventured further in. The place was a mess, as usual. The kitchen was just as he'd left it that morning, with that odd black cauldron sitting on the back of the stove. Empty and clean (he'd had a look inside it while waiting for his morning tea). The chairs were e,pty, save Sherlock's. He'd taken to dropping his books there when he was finished with them rather than put them away. The sofa was vacant. And his chest tightened as he made himself look away.

That was their spot.

"Where are you?"

"Bathroom."

"Oh…." he paused. "You've got one ensuite though."

"Used for experiments only," came the reply. "You know that."

John rubbed the back of his neck, eyes closed as he sighed. He might as well get it over with. After all, it couldn't have been worse than invading the middle east (even if he did have help then). He moved towards the bathroom, trying to sort out in his head exactly how to bring this up. Sarah was right. The longer he left it… But he didn't get the chance. The moment he saw Sherlock standing in the bathroom with a plunger in one hand and…

"Is that a chicken?"

"It was."

"Why are you-"

"I was cleaning after an experiment-"

"Of course."

"And I was frustrated at the slow progress so I thought to just toss a cleaning charm at it and… Well…" He held up the chicken. It was, thankfully, asleep. "Meet Gladstone."

"Mrs. Turner's married ones' cat? Sherlock, why did you even have their cat? Wait… No. Nevermind. I don't think I really want to know."

"It wouldn't have been a problem had my concentration not been on your inability to keep your penis to yourself." He did not smile. He kept his face impassive. Blank. That same mask that had helped him through his entire life.

John froze. He didn't know what he was going to do. What could he say? Yes, he'd met someone at the pub. Yes, he'd snogged the hell out of her. Yes, he went back to her's.

"There's a but comming," Sherlock said coldly, reading him easily. "Unfortunately, it must wait until I have dealt with Gladstone. And Mr. Tiddles." He indicated the plunger in his other hand, that had once been another cat.

"Sherlock-"

"I think it would be best if you went upstairs to your room, John."

"Please let me explain-"

"There is no need to explain. I already know what you did. And in doing so, you have revealed to me a great and grievous error on my part. One that will not be repeated in the future."

John held his breath. This was it. This was when it was going to happen. This was when it would end. He would be lucky if the man didn't hex his balls off. He'd be lucky if he didn't snap and leave John Watson as the next corpse in a crime scene. Oh God. Why did he drink the whisky? He should have known better! He knew what happened to himself when… No. He shouldn't blame the alcohol. This was his fault. This was…

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but it was the only outward sign of anything but indifference that he exuded. "I will not hex you. I will not harm you. Why is everyone assuming I'm going to do bodily harm today?" He pushed past John with a sigh. "Wait in your room until I am ready to discuss our problem like adults. I need to sort out the cats first."

---

STAGE 10 – DECISIONS

John had hesitated in the doorway, debating whether or not to go up to his room or to go down the stairs.

"I've sent Mrs. Hudson out," Sherlock said calmly from somewhere behind him. John gave a small nod and trudged up the steps.

The moment Sherlock heard his door close, he sprung to action. The cats were turned back into cats (he'd only done it to buy himself just a little more time) to see that Mr. Tiddles was clearly very much still awake. But Gladstone was still asleep. He'd planned to lure a third cat home for a more sound analysis of the results but two would have to do. Leaving him with a 50 percent chance of putting himself to sleep with the potion he had brewed the night before.

Once he'd gone down stairs to put the cats out, he hurried back up and went straight to his bedroom. In the drawer by the bed, he found a small, seemingly unimportant green bottle. Then tearing through drawers trying to find another flask of his brew from the night before. Carding fingers through his hair in frustration, he snapped aloud two summoning charms. One for a flask, the other for his wand.

Both items, as well as a book on cross-species genetics, came to him. The book he tossed into his chair as he passed through the flat, leaving the two potions on the kitchen table. First he would deal with John. Then, depending on what took place, he would drink. One… or the other.

And make sure this never, EVER happened to them again.

Next he cast as many silencing charms as he could think of over every window, and even the door downstairs leading to the street.

Then, he shouted out the door for John, and seated himself on the sofa. He did not stretch out. He did not relax. He sat, leaning forward with his wand on the coffee table. His hands pressed together beneath his chin. Yes, that should give the correct message. Showing he was serious, but willing to open a dialogue.

John appeared fifteen minutes later, and Sherlock watched from the corner of his eye. Noting the cautious manner in which he carried himself.

"Sherlock?"

"Sit," he said, motioning to the chair that had been turned to face him. John's chair. Chosen of the two as a means of offering a familiar comfort, but also to provide a sense of loss should that comfort be taken from him.

"Tea?"

"Not every problem can be solved with tea," he replied. Then pointed to the chair and repeated. "Sit."

John stood a few feet away, eyeing the length of silver cased wood on the table in front of Sherlock.

"I assure you, I will not use it to harm you."

"You'll use it for something else then."

"If I must, I will use it to place you in that damnable chair. I would prefer not to do so, as my magic has been affected by the… shift in my concentration. And has once more become difficult to control."

John seemed to consider his situation a moment, told himself he was being childish, and took his place in the chair. "Sherlock-"

"You left for Sarah's after our argument. Once leaving there, you proceeded, as per usual, to the Shield & Gun for your Thursday pub quiz night with the Yarders. You had your usual four pints, but being in a particularly bad mood due to our argument, youd hard liquor. Due to the nature of our argument, I must assume it was whisky. Am I correct?"

"You know you are."

"I need to hear it from you," Sherlock said flatly. "Am I correct?"

"Yeah. You're right. As always," John replied, his heightened level of discomfort only made worse by the fact he was being deduced. And by the look on Sherlock's face, the pompous bastard knew exactly how much more uncomfortable he was making the doctor. Bastard was playing his own kink against him.

"Your low tollerance for hard liquor is the reason you only resort to it when you are so angry you want to forget what it is you are angry about. It also must be noted that it lowers your inhibitions, and allows you to communicate, though with much less eloquence than what is normal for you, exactly what you are thinking. You hate this about yourself because of guilt over your sister. But that isn't the point here. You drank the whisky with a specific purpose in mind. Am I correct?"

John nodded. Sherlock sat up straighter, hands pressed together beneath his chin. "In your inebriated state, you were aproached by a woman. I am told she was rather… distinct looking."

John looked away. Though drunk, he knew, vaguely what the woman had looked like. He nodded again. "Curly black hair. Pale eyes. Pale skin. Her heels made her taller, too."

"Precisely your type," Sherlock replied sussinctly.

"Even the damn cheekbones." And he loathed himself.

"You left early," Sherlock continued, "Around midnight. You went to her flat. Am I correct?"

"Sherlock-"

"Am I correct!" John winced at the sudden, but brief flash of anger in the otherwise calm voice. His chest clenched, his stomach turned. He loathed himself.

"Yes," he said, releasing a shaky breath. "I did."

"Where you proceeded to do what?"

"Nothing."

The voice was hard. Colder than he'd ever heard it, and that was including their most recent argument. And he could hear the hurt behind it. "Do not lie to me John Watson."

Not you cannot. Not an outright accusation. A warning. One that implied that John could actually get a lie past him. No one but Moriarty had ever gotten one over on Sherlock before. John's blue eyes turned, suddenly, to lock with Sherlock's ash. His heart beat faster before he realized this small admission of weakness… Sherlock was giving him a chance to come clean. To tell the truth. Everything he had said before, he'd said it himself to get it out of the way. And when John thought about it quickly, that too was carefully placed evidence. It wasn't WHAT he'd said that mattered. It was the fact that he had said it at all.

Sherlock still trusted him to tell the truth.

"I'm not lying," John said, keeping his gaze as steady as he could. "Nothing happened."

"Something happened."

"No, Sherlock. Nothing happened. I couldn't."

"Wouldn't?" he challenged, still in that cold, wounded voice.

"Couldn't. Physically could not."

"Explain." He narrowed his eyes, keeping them trained on John. This was not an anticipated answer. From the data presented to him throughout the day, as well as John's avoidance behaviour, and the confirmation of his deductions that the woman had indeed physically resembled himself, he had drawn the conclusion that John had completed the act that hours before he had been shouting at Sherlock about.

"You don't want to hear the details."

"I do," he said. "I want to know precisely what prevented you from having intercourse with that… woman. And do not attempt to joke about not having enough money to cover it."

"I wasn't-"

"You were thinking it," the detective said, still waiting.

John frowned. Then sighed. Yes, he would explain it. And he would get through this. And then… Well… The ball would be in Sherlock's court then. "We went back to her place. I was drunk. She was drunk. It was clear we were both… interrested." He winced at his own word. "We began to- Look, do I really have to go through every-"

"Yes."

"Fine," John snapped. "She tried to steer me to her sofa, but insisted a bed."

"Even inebriated as you were, your conscience would not allow you to befoul something to which you had attatched sentiment."

"So she took me to her bed. We were kissing. And I knew I should have… I knew I should have been able to, and when I didn't I thought it was probably because of all the alcohol."

"You were unable to achieve erection, despite presentation with an attractive and more than willing partner."

John finally looked away, but he could still feel Sherlock's eyes on him. Digging into his very soul to rip the information directly from him. "However, it is clear that this is not a persistent problem."

"Damn you," John said quietly, still not looking at him.

"I'm sorry, John," he said, and the muggle could clearly hear the sincerity in his voice. It threw him off guard, forcing him to look back at Sherlock, trying to see the emotion he heard written on the man's face. All he could see was that cold, indifferent mask.

"What?" Guilt. And he was angry at himself for feeling it. "No. You're not doing this to me. You're not turning this back around and saying it's your fault!"

"But it is," Sherlock said as if declaring that the sky was blue, grass was green, and the weather was sunny today. "My continued dismissal of your desire to progress further upset you. You felt taken advantage of, and that I was only using you as a means to an end. Before I could explain my reasoning to you, however, you left. I had hoped you would return home once you had come to your senses. Clearly, you did not. As a result of your frustration, you sought out a substitute for your sexual frustration."

"And it clearly didn't work! You've even messed THAT up for me!"

"The data with which I have worked for the last 65 years stated that only full intercourse would yield that result. However, this new information has forced me to re-evaluate this notion. It appears that while I have refrained from a complete mating, what we have engaged in already was enough to bind you to me." John watched as the mask fell away, and Sherlock was clearly troubled by this fact. "I am most sincerely sorry, John."

John almost rose from his chair, wanting in that moment to just hold him. But then he remembered he was supposed to be angry and upset.

Sherlock watched the conflicting emotions fighting across John's features. The anger. The concern. Confusion. Pity. Worry. Anger again. Over and over. And he couldn't take it. "I will find a way to break it," Sherlock said finally into the silence that had fallen heavily between them. "Until I do, it will be… difficult. We will be unable to live apart from one another due to the newness of the bond, and your… sexual difficulties will remain. I will return to a strict regime of suppressants, which will once again supress my magical ability and inhibit my baser instincts."

"No."

"John, it will be easier for the both of us."

"Says you."

"I do not wish to cause you any more distress. I should never have encouraged you, and for that, I am sorry."

"No." John waited. Sherlock stared at him. Searching his face for further explanation and finding very little. "You always decide what's best for the both of us," he said. "At first, you decided to take things slow because of my comfort. It was considerate, and I appreciated it. Then you held back. When I started to initiate, you decided whether or not it was time to move forward."

"Jo-"

"I'm not finished, Sherlock," he said firmly; as evenly as he could. "You decided when to allow me to take the lead. You decided what I did and didn't need to know." John knew the wizard would pick up on the specific instance he was reffering to. The incident of their first real relationship row. "You also decided, without explaining your reasons and concerns to me, where exactly the boundries lay. Do you know what all of this tells me Sherlock?" He didn't give him time to answer, despite the opening mouth across from him. "It says to me that you don't trust me to respect you. If you say jump, I don't even stop to ask how high. If you say run, I'm already looking for the nearest exit and the closest cab. For Christ's sakes, Sherlock, I killed a man for you before I really even knew you. How could you even think that if you said no, that I wouldn't respect that? How could you not respect me by explaining exactly what this is for you?"

"Are you finished now?" Sherlock asked, a brow raised in an attempt to reclaim his dominance over the conversation.

"Not quite," John said. "Because I know once you get going, I won't have a chance to say much else. I made a mistake. I know I made a mistake. Bloody hell, all of London probably knows I made a mistake. But that mistake was leaving that pub with that woman last night. And I'm lucky that you were wrong about… whatever the hell's been done to me now. Because if it hadn't happened, I'd have gone through with it. And don't you give me that look, Sherlock Holmes. Because you know I would have. I'm only human. Non-magical, unimportant, perfectly average nothing happens to me human. And I'm flawed." He paused, but Sherlock didn't seem to have an answer. If he did, he didn't say a thing. "This doesn't mean it's okay what I did. But it does mean that we've got to decide, together this time, exactly what we're going to do about this so that I don't fuck this up again. And you deciding what's best for us both is not going to work."

"Done now?"

John thought for a moment longer, then nodded and gave a wave of his hand, mimicking Sherlock's oft used dismissive gesture. "I think I am, yeah."

Sherlock stood quietly from the sofa. He gave John a curt nod and swept away into the kitchen. He took out a large glass, poured himself some milk, and sat down on his stool at the table. Staring hard at the two potions. One would, as he had claimed, return him to the state in which he existed prior to his relationship with John. The other would enable him to move forward with that relationship, hopefully risk-free.

Contraceptive potions weren't an exact science, no matter how much research and experimentation Sherlock had put into the effort.

As he listened to the sounds coming from the kitchen, John was unsure what would come next. Sherlock had every right to end things. He'd hurt him in the worst way imaginable. And knowing John was the other man's first lover in any sense of the word, and had done this to him, made it even worse. He would be the standard, the data, upon which all of Sherlock's further experiences in that area were based.

Finally, after what felt like excruciating hours of silence, which had only been a few minutes, Sherlock's voice called him from the kitchen. "John."

He got to his feet, starting that way but then stopped, hovering in the doorway. "Yeah?"

Sherlock didn't look at him. Instead, sitting, as he always did when he thought, with his fingertips beneath his chin. "If I had not allowed you to know all of what I am; wizard, creature, and heir to an imense fortune that puts Bill Gates to shame, would you still be standing there? If the only version of me you knew were the exact same as when we had first met, would you still have pursued me?"

John had to think about that. The answer was obvious to him the moment the first half of what the other had to say was put to him. He had to think because he didn't know how to articulate it. With the exception of the time he was with Mary (whom he now knew full well had manipulated him with love potions) John had not only been attracted to Sherlock, but had been in absolute denial. Unwilling to admit that he had, in fact, fallen so hard that when Sherlock didn't sabatage his relationships before, he would subconciously do it himself. Nothing he could think to say would be good enough. Nothing would…. And then he managed to work his lips into a very small, tentative smile.

"If you were a muggle, and didn't have all this extra wizardy stuff, would you still want a broken old soldier like me?"

One of Sherlock's hands went for the milk.

The other for the flask.

---

STAGE 11 – CLAIMED

It happened quickly.

One moment, Sherlock's tossing his head back.

The next, he has pinned John to the wall. Mouth on his and tongue agressively forcing its way in.

He tasted like milk. Milk and mint. It wasn't a bad combination. Something in that… Whatever that had-

John took Sherlock by both arms, pulling them off him before giving him a shove. "What- We can't go from- And then- What the hell did you just take? Super wizard viagra?"

"Contraceptive," Sherlock said before attacking him again. All hands and teeth and… growls. "You don't smell right. Haven't smelled right," he said almost angrily. "Fix that."

"Slow down!"

"No. Fix this now."

"Sherlock!" he shouted, shoving him again. "Sherlock, for fuck's sake! I-"

Hard, ashen eyes bore into blue with a predator's gaze. John compared the feeling of being under such intense a stare to the mental undressing of a person. Only much more thorough. He watched Sherlock's mind at work behind those eyes. Scanning. Searching. Logging. Making notes and bullet points. Evaluating him. Processing him. Stripping away every detail, every noun and verb and adjective. Stripping away everything that made up John Hamish Watson and laying him bare. Without a single word and sound.

And they both knew what it did to him. What it had always done and would continue to do.

"You bastard," John snapped before reaching and pulling Sherlock close again. A hand taking hold of black curls and pulling that head down to meet his mouth again. Milk and mint fading and leaving onlythe heady taste of Sherlock.

Long fingers curled into John's shirt tightly, but briefly before he tried to undo the buttons which held it closed. Frustration took over, and as he bit into the man's lower lip he dug his fingers into the space between the buttons and pulled. Buttons popped and the holes ripped. John moaned as his body was pinned tightly between Sherlock and the wall. The other man sliding his knee between both of his. Thigh brushing against the buldge in his trousers where his aching cock remained trapped beneath thin layers of fabric.

Sherlock at last released his lip, tongue darting out to lick at the soreness before that voice came, low and rough and just shy of condescending. "You hate what I do to you," he said even as he pushed the shirt from John's shoulders. His right hand lingering, just a little longer, over the scar tissue on John's left. "You're angry. Guilty. Worried. Confused. Relieved. And you can't make heads or tails of it." He leaned down to press his face against John's neck, then turned it with tongue out to drag along his hot skin. As if wiping away the offending scent of John's mistake and marking him again with his own.

John twisted his head to the side when he felt Sherlock's tongue, giving him more access, more room. Submitting himself because he knew it was exactly what the wizard wanted. What he needed. To know that John still belonged to him.

"Sherlock," he forced out when those hands found the button at the top of John's slacks. His breaths came in pants, and his voice little more than a moan as he felt the pressure holding him imprisoned below released. Just a little, when the zip came down. "Sherlock wait."

"No," came the throaty response, right beside his ear as Sherlock palmed his erection through his pants. Quite smug in the fact that now only he could illicit such a response from John's body.

"Bed," John panted just when Sherlock had bitten his shoulder. The right one. The undamaged one. Marking it. Marking him as claimed.

"Mine."

"Yeah-"

"Not a question."

"Demand?"

"Declaration," he replied, biting him again before willing himself to pull back. To stand away and to hold off or he'd have the man right there against the wall. "My room. Move."

[GRAPHIC SCENE REMOVED FOR FANFICTION DOT NET]

"Sher?"

"Silence."

"You can let go now."

"No."

"Sherlock, just for a minute."

"Absolutely not. You are mine."

John couldn't help but laugh at the childish tone to his lover's voice. "My briefs are caught around my knees, and I'm getting a cramp in my leg."

"Not my problem," Sherlock replied, but did maneuver one of his feet awkwardly to the back of John's knees, attempting to remove the last article of clothing with his toes. It only caused John to laugh a bit harder.

"John, you are being highly inappropriate. I am trying to cuddle with you, and you are laughing at me."

John had had enough. It took some doing, but he managed to finally untangle himself from Sherlock long enough to get his briefs the rest of the way off his legs. Much to Sherlock's annoyance at losing physical contact so soon. But he wasn't left alone for long, as John had stretched out beside him, grateful for the change in position. Sherlock eyed him closely, suspicious that he might leave the bed.

"We can continue to cuddle if you want you crazy bastard."

Sherlock's lips twitched into that small, special smile John had worried he would never get the chance to see again. John opened his arms, and Sherlock settled against him. Front to front, his cheek pressed against the pillow and his eyes staring directly into John's blue ones. He held in a sigh as he felt arms wrap around him and a hand rubbing his back along his spine.

"That was over too quickly."

"Because it was a hard, fast shag," John replied sleepily. "We got too worked up before."

"So once you have recovered, we will begin again so that I may compare data. This time, we will-"

"Sher, love?"

"Yes John?"

"Go to sleep."

Sherlock was quiet, thinking as he lay in John's arms. Silently replaying the events in his mind and extrapolating the data necessary to recreate the event in a much more enjoyable manner. He was just thinking of a new position when he felt lips press gently against the tip of his nose. "Go to sleep," John's tired voice repeated.

With an exasperated sigh, as if it were too much to ask of him, Sherlock closed his eyes and pressed closer against John, tucking his head beneath his chin and closing his eyes.

He was asleep before John, for which the muggle was quite grateful. He didn't think he'd be able to have another go for a few hours yet.

---

BONUS STAGE: EPILOGUE AND SALLY

It was difficult at first. As with every new experience (an opportunity to gain more insight and data) Sherlock was insatiable. He was also… posessive.

John thought it was cute at first. Then annoying. Then a bit scary how posessive Sherlock had become. Though, after having to read through all of those wizard books about the sort of creature his lover was, he shouldn't have been surprised.

Over the period of a few weeks, things started to settle down again. Mainly because of the sudden flood of cases. What little spare time they did have was spent either catching up on sleep, or testing the limits (at Sherlock's insistance) of the magical aspects of their binding. Such as could John still achieve an erection without any influence from Sherlock whatsoever? (John found this particular exercise embarassing and didn't want to participate. But the promise of Sherlock's consent to a Doctor Who marathon of John's choice persuaded him otherwise.) The answer had been uncertain at first, but after further experimentation it became clear that yes, he could. However, if physically presented with someone else, absolutely nothing would happen.

John was a bit angry, having something as intimate (and something he should have complete mastery over) as his libido messed with.

Sherlock wrote it off as ridiculous, and reminded John that at least he hadn't lived most of his life without a single arousal only to be caught unawares in a morgue.

John had laughed for days about that. Sherlock made him sleep on the sofa.

It didn't help matters that after they'd broken the bed (and a table) Mrs. Hudson couldn't look John in the eye. Every time she did, her wrinkled face would turn red and she'd start babbling about having to go make some sort of cake or pie or, in a few instances, take an herbal soother and go have a lie down.

It wasn't until news of Sherlock's round-about marriage proposal that she was able to look John in the eye again. Her main comment had been that they'd best be careful not to go breaking something else in the flat or she'd take it out of their rent. Sherlock had retaliated by storing some of his more… strange potions ingredients in the fridge. Along with a few human feet. John was displeased and cleaned the ensuite bathroom in their now shared bedroom, and made it fit for human use.

Sherlock was annoyed. John made it plain that each time Sherlock broke the fridge rules, he'd decontaminate another part of the flat.

Sherlock bought a mini-fridge, claiming it was a belated engagement present, for use of overflow body parts. It was kept in the upstairs laboratory.

John filled the door of the mini-fridge with jars of jam to see if Sherlock would say something. The only complaint he received was that they had run out of the black currant jam, and there would be no snogging until John had purchased more.

Despite the domestic changes, and the added perks of post-case sex, their professional partnership remained firmly unchanged (with the exception of a few looks at a crime scene, or the subtle public displays of affection that lingered since the beginning stage of their relationship). The only comments ever made would be from John or Lestrade, usually during unusually long cases. And they would only be quick moments of muggle comradere.

"Spending too much time with the mistress?" Lestrade would say, meaning The Work.

John would nod in confirmation, and reply, "He'll be out cold for two days before he'll even be coherent enough for a snog."

Sometimes it would be Lestrade who was put out, though. And John would offer to buy him a drink so the man could complain about Queen and Country stealing away his own little piece of the British Government for weeks at a time.

Things were not, however, always pleasant. Word swept quickly in the criminal underground about Sherlock Holmes and John Watson's redefined partnership. And it was used against them at times. John had worried when they learned this, and had pointed out that it was bad enough before (what with the Tong first, then Moriarty and Moran, even his previous fiance Mary all out to kill him because of Sherlock). Despite assurances, he would never get used to it. So would compensate by being overzealous (at times) in his defense of his fiance. Sherlock found it endearing. Mycroft found it amusing. Lestrade's opinion was that finally someone had some goddamn common sense about him.

Most of the Yarders, during the pre-wedding period knew Sherlock and John were together. Only Lestrade and Dimmock knew they were actually engaged (Dimmock having found out by accident when Lily had come in search of her brother at the Yard, and had let it slip that she didn't know what to get the happy couple as a gift, as she didn't quite know much about what they would like or need). At St. Barts, Molly knew of course, after having received the wedding invitation. And Mike Stamford found out when Molly invited him along as her plus one. A day later he received a separate invitation to a luncheon to be held by Mrs. Hudson for her Baker Street boys two days after the date of the wedding.

Sally and Anderson were not meant to find out until after the wedding, and the month-long hiatus from work Sherlock had promised John as a wedding gift.

Unfortunately, things didn't quite turn out that way, as Sally, it should be noted, wasn't quite as muggle as she appeared…

o0o

It was the first day of June, which meant Sally Donovan, formerly disgraced Auror Sally Price, was reporting for her once every six months appearance at the Ministry of Magic's Law Enforcement office. Then, as she was always ordered to do, reported to the Misuse of Magic department so that they could remind her why she had been stripped of her magic, and what she could do to earn the privledge back. Then she would be ushered to financial for her primisary note to take to Gringotts.

If it weren't for the fact that the Ministry would withhold the twice yearly payments from her aunt's inheritance fund, she wouldn't even bother to show up. She hated to be reminded of her mistakes and failures. She hated even more to be reminded of the world she had grown up in and lived in for most of her life had chucked her out on her ear without a wand and magic. Leaving her to the muggles.

If it weren't for the money…

She was just thinking this as she was passing through the lobby of Gringotts, intending to leave and spend the rest of her miserable day off at home. Maybe call Anderson and see if the wife was gone.

As luck would have it, some insufferable ginger girl bumped her from behind in haste to leave ahead of her.

"Sorry!" the girl had called, then stopped to turn back and have a look. Green eyes wide. "Sally?"

Not wanting to be recognized, she promptly ignored her, trying to step around. "Excuse me," she finally said when the girl would not move out of her way.

"Bludger Price! I can't believe it!" the girl chattered excitedly. Sally groaned, finally giving the girl her full attention. Before she could get a word in edge wise, the girl continued. "You were the only person to ever knock me off a broom! You broke my team's 6 year winning streak!"

Sally blinked at the girl, trying to think. It had been years since she'd been put out like the garbage. She hadn't touched a riding broom since. Then, it dawned on her. "Gryffindor Malfoy!" She was more than surprised by the excitement in her own voice.

Lily's smile took up her entire face. "It's been ages! How are you? What have you been up to?"

Without meaning to, Sally accepted an invitation to lunch at Lily's favorite restaurant in Diagon Alley. A tiny little Italian place. They talked as if they were old friends rather than former Quiddich rivals. Lily had indeed heard about the scandal that had landed Sally in hot water, and was sympathetic. Mentioning that she couldn't understand how her brothers could choose to live like muggles. She had her own fascination with them, but that's where it ended.

Sally had to agree that muggle life wasn't exactly pleasant. It was hard work. But sometimes just a little bit rewarding. She told Lily about working with the police. Lily had been very interrested, mentioning a few things she said she'd learned from her older brother about muggle police work. More and more she found herself intrigued by the red head's brother. Having grown up a witch, of course Sally knew about Lily's older brothers. But by the time she'd gotten to Hogwarts, the younger of the two had just graduated. Neither brother seemed to be in the public eye much, as the family as a whole was very private and somehow none had ever gotten clear pictures of any of the children before. And then the scandal surrounding the middle Potter-Malfoy child…

"How is he, your brother then? Still on the run from the ministry?"

"Didn't you hear?" Lily asked, setting down her drink, then flushing slightly at her mistake. "No… Sorry. I forgot… Well, it turns out that he was framed. Though, knowing him it was probably a set up from the beginning. See, he hadn't wanted to marry the woman father was trying to arrange for him. Being what he is and all, it would have made sense."

Sally nodded, remembering hearing rumours of the younger Potter-Malfoy son having to register with the Department of Magical Creatures. Though she never did find out what sort of creature he'd turned out to be.

"The chances of him actually finding his mate were.. Well, how many muggles are there in London? Or the whole world?" Lily asked rhetorically. Then added excitedly, "I don't like the idea of arranged marriages either, and mum has always been very firm in his opinion on the matter. It's the main reason father hasn't tried to marry me off next. He gave up on Scorp though."

"So let me get this straight… Your brother Sev went to all that trouble to what? Get out of a wedding? I'm sure your father must have been angry about that."

"Oh yes. Mum was proud of him though. Said he was called in that night with the rest of the aurors to try and track him down, but he'd refused to go. Told the minister after he was turned back to normal that it was a conflict of interest or something. Had to word it so he couldn't get in trouble."

Sally picked at the remains of her lunch. "Of course. Though, being Harry Potter probably also had something to do with why he didn't get reprimanded for disobeying direct orders."

"Anyway, it's all cleared up now. And thank goodness, too. Mum's been over the moon since he came back to us. And then after Sev's latest scandal… Well, hopefully now that he's found his mate he'll settle down and stop-"

"What latest scandal?" Sally found herself asking.

"Well," Lily said, leaning forward and glancing around conspiratorially. "Well, I'm not sure of exactly what happened, but Sev got into some serious trouble in the muggle world. So bad that the only thing he could do was fake his death so they wouldn't kill his mate. And then…"

Sally's eyes grew wide as Lily kept talking. Her heart beat faster as she connected the dots threaded throughout their entire meal.

"…three whole years! It's all terribly romantic. I mean, I can't imagine being devoted to someone so entirely. I don't think I've ever seen a more perfect couple, either. And now mum's so busy with the wedding on top of every thing else that it's just so overwhelming!" Lily sat back in her chair with a broad smile still on her face. "Wish I could find someone like that… Most blokes I meet are so star struck. It's terrible sometimes being the only daughter of famous wizards. It can be so tiring!"

She couldn't take it any more. Not wanting to offend the woman, Sally politely excused herself, claiming she had a rather important appointment for the evening that she'd put off for months because of work. It was a lie, of course, but Lily had laughed and thanked her for letting her prattle on, claiming she hardly ever got the chance to just sit and be herself with people.

The moment she arrived home, Sally Donovan was overwhelmed with so much information. She had paced her flat, started to call Anderson numerous times only to stop before hitting the send button. What would she tell the man, anyway? I was out in this hidden magical alleyway because my wizard probation officer wouldn't let me have my allowance unless I showed up and sat through another boring lecture or two. And I bumped into a girl I went to wizard school with. Oh yeah, Harry Potter's actually real and the Freak's his son.

She threw herself to her sofa with a loud groan. Then, she got angry. She didn't know why she was angry. But she was. So she picked up her phone and called Lestrade, demanding John's phone number. It took some twisting to get it, but finally, she had it.

And she called.

Unexpectedly, Sherlock had answered, sounding tired and groggy. She chewed him out for a few minutes before he said, "Good work detective. Now if you're quite done, I was about to go have fantastic shower sex with my fiance before you felt the desire to call us and ruin my pleasant mood. When you see John tomorrow, do feel free to apologize to him for being the reason I am now going to be far more aggressive a participant in today's activities."

Then the line was dead.

Indeed, Sally Donovan apologized to John the next day when she noticing him wincing just a bit when he sat down in Lestrade's office.

---

AN1 - For deleted scenes, go to the Sherlock!Wizardverse tumblr - sherlockmalfoy . tumblr . com

AN2 - Uh... Yeah. This sort of... yeah. I'm not even... Well, please review?