A/N: Ok, so I am completely new to Sherlock fan fiction but I just couldn't resist the whole idea of Sherlock and John! I wrote here a long time ago under a different name, but this time I intend to do more. I hope everyone is able to enjoy this as much as I'm enjoying writing it! I do not own these characters, but I promise to try my best to be very kind to them! Lol

Chapter 1

The streets of London bustled down below, the city sounds echoing up to the main floor of 221B Baker Street. Sherlock stood facing one of the large floor-to-ceiling windows. His eyes were closed; his violin drawn up between his chin and shoulder as he drew the bow across the strings in a fluid motion. Lost in thought, he played to ease his mind. Sherlock was a master of many things; he could solve the most complex puzzles and mysteries in under twenty-four hours, he could rattle off a person's entire life history with just a single glance. But, relationships and "feelings" were something else entirely. Sherlock considered himself to be above such nonsense. He didn't have time for those things. Until... John.

Ever since John Watson had moved in, Sherlock couldn't take his mind off of his new flat mate. He was used to people being impressed by him, but the first time he had demonstrated his deduction skills to John - first, in the lab at St. Bart's; then, in the cab - the ex-army doctor had been completely in awe of him. Absolutely enamored. His heart rate had quickened, a sheen of sweat had risen up along his hairline, and he had licked his lips... Yes... those lips. Sherlock's brilliant blue eyes flew open, snatching the bow down to his side sharply, and he bit down hard on his bottom lip to pry himself away from the thought before he spiraled into oblivion. No, no, no. He wouldn't lose control of himself. His mind was a fortress filled with the most extraordinary thoughts and observations in the history of the human mind. He couldn't let himself be consumed by such ordinary desires. Yes, Sherlock had had many sexual encounters in the past, both male and female, but nothing sentimental. Mostly, Sherlock had first viewed sex as the ultimate human experiment. It had effected each person differently to some degree and his findings had been exhilarating at first. Then, he began to grow increasingly bored with it after achieving the same results for himself time and time again. He charmed his test subjects, seduced them into intercourse, and ended in swift release. Terrifyingly monotonous. The whole ordeal was very boring and Sherlock Holmes did not like getting bored.

But... John Watson's lips...

"Sherlock?"

The sound of John's voice coming from the stairwell snapped Sherlock out of his thoughts. He turned to see John clambering up the stairs carrying a paper grocery sack. He was dressed in a tight-fitting pair of jeans, a button down shirt, and his usual black jacket. He must have taken a cab to visit his sister more than an hour away, judging by the creases in the front of his jeans. And, oh, did those creases frame John's crotch in just the right way...

"I tried to message you, but you never answered your mobile. I picked up some milk and sugar while I was out," John said, sitting the bag down on the kitchen counter.

Sherlock, who swallowed slowly in order to regain his self-control, merely nodded as he watched John set to putting the grocery items away. A small smile spread across his face at the way John had to stretch himself up to place the sugar in the cupboard above the stove. Ah, he wondered what it must be like to be as normal as John Watson. Then, that's when it happened: the short, quiet moan that escaped the good doctor's lips as he overstretched his injured shoulder. As John rotated his shoulder to soothe his old war wound, Sherlock felt the irritating tingle of arousal spreading throughout his body. Dear. God. What was happening?

(Switch to John's POV)

John turned, taking a step toward Sherlock, but froze before he could approach his flat mate any further. Sherlock was gaping at him; his lips parted slightly with a feverish look in his captivating blue eyes as the violin dangled at his side. Suddenly, John felt extremely exposed and uncomfortable. What on earth was he doing? Was this normal behavior for a sociopath? John cleared his throat rather loudly, "Um... Sherlock, is everything ok?"

The detective blinked his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose as he held up a pale, thin hand. "Uh, yes. Yes, of course," he answered, finally looking John in the face again. His face was as emotionless as usual. "Nice to have you back, John. I'm sorry, but I'm terribly busy at the moment. You know, puzzles don't solve themselves," he said as he placed the violin back in its case, then turned on his heel and headed for the couch. He dropped gracefully onto the well-worn couch, lying flat on his back, his head propped on the arm. His eyes closed with his hands pressed together just under his chin.

John stared after him for only a moment before crossing over to the counter to make a cup of tea. He was slightly tired from his trip, but always found it best to unwind with a nice cup of tea before bed. He had gone to his sister's today to check in on her as her divorce had been finalized the week before. She was doing well, but was overly curious about John's new living situation. He had finally had something to write about in his blog and it had become quite the popular read all across the country, which came as quite a surprise to him really. You see, it was no longer just an account of the daily happenings in the life of John Watson, but had evolved into the ever-interesting adventures of Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. Yes, Harry had been keeping up on it and, even though they didn't always get on very well, she was very intrigued by his new lifestyle. For the first time in a long time, they had had something pleasant to talk about. She had remained sober for 6 months and John could tell a great deal of difference in her already. Not to mention, she was extremely interested in finding out all she could about Sherlock. However, some of her assumptions had caught him off guard. "So, how long have you been seeing him?" she had asked, causing John to choke on his own air. Did people really think that they were-? That he and Sherlock were...? He had almost shouted as he exclaimed that he was not in a relationship with Sherlock Holmes. It was an absolutely ridiculous assumption and he couldn't understand where the thought had even originated. His sister had laughed aloud, eventually explaining that she believed him, but still John wondered.

As he finished making his tea, John grabbed a saucer and made his way into the small living room. As Sherlock was taking up the entire couch, John sat his cup and saucer on the end table then retrieved his computer from the desk before he sunk to the floor. He lazily began checking his emails and getting caught up on his usual correspondence with followers of his blog. Taking his cup and saucer down from the end table close to Sherlock's head, he leaned his back against the front of the couch while he read the comments off of his computer screen.

(Switch to Sherlock's POV)

Sherlock felt John's body rest against the couch and he stiffened. His senses felt heightened as the collar of John's jacket brushed against the shoulder of his blazer. As he opened his eyes to glance at John, he found that his face was almost even with the back of John's head. The temptation to touch him was almost unbearable. He could even deduce exactly what shampoo - and just how much of it - John had used in his shower that morning based on the small traces of the scent that remained on the back of his neck if he had wanted. But, before Sherlock had made up his mind on what to do, John pushed his body up and leaned his head back slowly, stretching the muscles in his neck, accidentally pushing the nape of his neck into Sherlock's face.

And that was all the detective could take.

Sherlock felt John's entire body freeze at the realization of what he had just done, but Sherlock was too far gone. He closed his eyes and pressed a chaste, burning kiss into the soft skin on the back of John's neck. He heard a short gasp escape his flat mate's lips and he couldn't resist the urge to kiss John again. This time, he leaned just over John's shoulder, licking his lips before he pressed them against the exposed skin above his collarbone allowing himself to nip at the skin playfully. This elicited a small yelp from the ex-army doctor and Sherlock felt his entire body spring to life. Oh... the game is on.

As John shifted awkwardly in his position on the floor, he turned to look at Sherlock with a very apprehensive look in his eyes. Sherlock stared back at him blankly, waiting for him to speak. Though his flat mate's mouth opened, no words formed, so Sherlock spoke first. "Yes, John? Is something wrong?" he asked, his velvety voice sounding deeper than usual. It was intriguing to see John look so... so innocent. So vulnerable. He eyed the good doctor hungrily as he tried to find the will to speak.

(Switch to John's POV)

John half-coughed, half-choked as his brain finally remembered how to form words. "Sherlock-... er, Sherlock, just what in the devil do you think you're doing??" His voice boomed shakily, but Sherlock only raised an eyebrow. This exasperated John to no end. "What the hell was all that about??" he shouted, causing a sly smile to creep across the detective's face.

"Oh, Doctor, I think you know exactly what that was. You can't be that daft. However, I'm not sure I understand your verbal frustrations. Your elevated heart rate and shortness of breath tell me you rather enjoy the feeling of my lips on your neck," Sherlock answered, giving John a very meaningful look as he licked his bottom lip.

John couldn't believe this was actually happening. He wanted to punch Sherlock straight in the face. Yet, at the same time, he felt oddly relaxed and relieved. What on earth had Sherlock done to him? Before he could give it anymore thought, Sherlock had closed the distance between their faces. "Beg me to kiss you..." he breathed against John's lips. His eyes were raking over John's expression, searching for something. He could feel Sherlock's warm breath on his face and he swallowed hard. "We can't do this..." he said, breathily. John could feel all of his will-power draining from his body. He closed his eyes as Sherlock angled his chin toward him and brushed those perfect lips against his own. For God's sake... The moment Sherlock's lips met his, John's mind exploded into sensory overload.

Yes... oh God, yes!

(Switch to Sherlock's POV)

Sherlock pressed the kiss deeper as he felt John's hands come up to close around the lapels of his blazer. He gripped the detective hard and Sherlock felt himself being pulled to the floor. Careful not to fall directly on top of John, he broke their kiss briefly as he slid off the couch and positioned himself between John's knees. He quickly dove back down to capture John's lips once more, this time running his tongue along John's bottom lip, begging him to let him explore his mouth. Within seconds, the good doctor parted his lips in a quiet moan granting Sherlock access. The detective ran the tip of his tongue over John's lips before pressing into his mouth and swirling his tongue around John's. He felt his flat mate go limp beneath him as he caught his tongue and hollowed out his cheeks in a sucking motion. John writhed beneath the taller man and Sherlock noticed the bulge in the front of John's jeans. It thrilled him to know that he, Sherlock Holmes, had given John Watson an erection. It was just too good. Sherlock had been stifling erections of his own not long after John had moved in. He wasn't one to pleasure himself, so he had spent more time than usual escaping to his mind palace in order to will his desires away. This time, however, he wanted John to know exactly what he did to him. His own erection was straining in the front of his trousers and he positioned his hips so that he was rubbing it against John's inner thigh.

Bloody fucking hell...

Sherlock broke their kisses and threw his head back with a guttural moan. How had he let himself break so easily? If it felt this good to dry hump John, he didn't know if he would actually survive fucking him. It may very well be the death of him. He glanced down at John who was staring up at him wantonly. His lips were parted and his eyes were wide, staring straight into Sherlock's handsome face. Willing himself back down to John's level, he brought his hand up and traced a long, lanky finger along John's jaw line. He felt a shudder run through the good doctor's body and he cupped his hand under his chin, leaning down to kiss him hungrily. He swiped his tongue over the smaller man's lips once again and bit down on his bottom lip.

Even though John moaned into Sherlock's mouth, this time the detective felt him pulling his body back slightly. Breaking their kiss once more, Sherlock's eyes fluttered open. John's face was flushed and his breathing was ragged. His lips were swollen and pouty-looking, driving Sherlock absolutely crazy. But, his eyes. Sherlock saw a mixture of emotions in the dark blue eyes staring back at him - desire, fear, arousal, anxiety? He was staring at Sherlock like it was the first time he'd ever gotten a proper look at him.

Pulling back to sit on his knees, Sherlock reached out a hand to brush the sweaty mess of blonde hair away from John's forehead, but the good doctor turned away from the touch, his eyes closing. Interesting...

"Are you alright, John? I was under the impression that you were enjoying yourself," Sherlock assessed, pushing for John to respond to him. He wasn't quite sure exactly what had happened between them.

(Switch to John's POV)

What was happening? Had he really just pulled Sherlock down on top of him on the floor of their flat...?

John was lying on his back with his eyes closed, willing himself to steady his breath. He could still feel Sherlock's body between his knees and he realized the detective was tracing wide circular patterns, soothingly, on his inner thigh with his right hand. He heard Sherlock's voice, but was unable to wrap his mind around the words he was saying. The good doctor struggled to relay words from his brain to his mouth, but he blinked open his eyes to look up at his flat mate. Sherlock was the sexiest human being he had ever laid eyes on - his bright blue eyes, black curly hair, and chiseled cheekbones made him look like a god. His tall, thin but muscular frame made John's mouth water and he couldn't help but lick his bottom lip ever so slightly.

Shit.

Sherlock saw it - the intensity in his eyes deepened and John felt helpless. He stayed still as Sherlock brushed a hand across his forehead, sweeping his hair back from his head. The thin, long fingers ghosted down the side of his face coming to rest on his chin once again, Sherlock's thumb playing at his bottom lip.

"Are you alright, John?" Sherlock asked once more.

John thought for a moment. Was he alright? Was this really something he was going to be ok with? "Maybe..." he finally answered, "I just - I don't really understand all of this. What are you doing?".

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "What am I doing? I believe you are the one that pulled me down here," he answered, matter of factly. Well, he wasn't wrong... John had dragged Sherlock off the couch.

The good doctor cleared his throat again, "Ah yes, quite right. I'm sorry - what are we doing? However, you instigated this - this - I don't even know what to call it. And I would very much like an explanation, because if this is another one of your experiments, Sherlock Holmes, so help me I will kill you,". John felt his frustration mounting at this point and was trying his best to remain calm.

Sherlock stared at him thoughtfully. The corner of his mouth twitched in a cheeky manner and his voice was a velvety purr, "Well, John, I believe we were kissing - French kissing to be exact. I was trying to pleasure you. Now, the more appropriate question would be were you being pleasured? Was. I. Doing. It. Right,".

John couldn't imagine just how inexplicably stupid he must have looked staring up at the detective with such a dumbfounded expression. Only Sherlock Holmes could do this - push the weight of the whole situation back onto him. John would never understand the constant struggle going on his brain; halfway wanting to strangle Sherlock and halfway wishing he would kiss him again. "Sherlock, I'm not gay," was all that fell out of his mouth and he instantly regretted it.

A deep, growl of a chuckle filled the living room as Sherlock began to laugh. If John hadn't been in this particular situation, he may have thought it to be one of the most wonderful sounds he had ever heard. But, the look of satisfaction on the detective's face was worrisome. "The nature of a guilty man is to avoid the original question therefore providing me an answer to a question I never asked. Oh, John, you are trying to be difficult, aren't you? How interesting it must be inside your mind, never knowing what you truly want, being conditioned into one way or another based on a society you don't even participate in. It really is fascinating, John, brilliantly fascinating," his words were sharp as he smiled wickedly. Sherlock placed a hand on John's knee and pushed himself up off the floor. Still smirking, he held a hand out to help the doctor up, but John ignored it and stood on his own.

(Switch to Sherlock's POV) _

Sherlock stared at his own outstretched hand and then glanced at John who had turned away from him, busying himself with his mobile phone. Deep down, he knew John knew what was happening between them and sooner or later he would come to terms with it all. He brushed his hands against the front of his blazer, absentmindedly dusting himself off as his own phone let out a chime. Crossing the room to the desk, he picked it up to review a text message from Lestrade. Ah…. A case.

"John, grab your coat. We're going out,".

(Break)*

Stepping back into the entryway of 221B, Sherlock was elated. It had been a simple case, but a case nonetheless. It was only 2am and, for the first time, he was actually pleased to be returning home. John had gone with him as usual and the tension from before had faded. He was coming up the stairs behind Sherlock and sounded quite tired. It was usually the same routine when they returned home: John would get a shower and then make himself a cup of tea which he would then drink in the living room while he watched some television before heading off to bed. It was the little things like this – the routine of it all – that made Sherlock glad to be home for the night. He liked having John there doing his mundane routine. It was almost as if it grounded Sherlock in a way he had never felt before. John was his own personal little piece of the normal world.

As they reached the living room, Sherlock went over to the window and picked up his violin once again. This was one of the few times he had wanted to play just for the sake of it. Sometimes, it was just a nice way to unwind after a night out. Like he expected, John headed up to go get his clothes, but he brushed past him on his way to the stairs. Sherlock pushed back into the touch and John shied away.

"Sorry, just going to get a shower," he muttered, seeming slightly embarrassed.

God, John made this too easy. His footsteps shuffled behind him and within minutes he made his way back across the room and the bathroom door closed behind him. Sherlock listened for the sound of water running from the shower head as he fought the urge to slip in and join John while he showered. It would be absolutely breath taking to see John like that, but somehow he just didn't think now was a good time. Oh, Sherlock would join him at some point, just not this time. If he was going to go through with this, he was going to have to wait for John to initiate contact and certain situations. However, with the way John seemed to crave having Sherlock close to him, he didn't think that would take very long at all.

(Switch to John's POV) _

John stepped into the shower and let the steaming hot water wash over him. As bad as his muscles ached, he had to admit that he enjoyed running wildly through the streets of London, right on Sherlock's heels, as they followed whatever crazy idea popped into his head. It was exciting. The thrill of the chase, the draw of the game. It gave John a rush he hadn't experienced since he'd returned from the war. Perhaps Mycroft had been right – he did miss this. He finally felt like he had a purpose again. No matter how crazy Sherlock might be.

Yes, Sherlock was borderline insane; John was sure of it. He had no idea what the crazy bastard had been up to before they had left the flat today, but he was very suspicious. Sherlock Holmes did not do "feelings" and "emotions". He wasn't that sort of man. Sherlock was strictly business – 'married to his work' as he had said when they first met. There was nothing about him that said otherwise. He wasn't close to his brother, Mycroft, he didn't have close contact with other relatives, and he did not have friends outside of John and Lestrade – if you could even count him at all. So, the whole idea of Sherlock trying to start something with John was completely absurd. He was almost positive that he was only running experiments on him. The only thing that John really wanted to know was why? Why must he do these things to him?

The doctor sighed and let his shoulders slump as he bathed himself off and rinsed the soap from his body. There was no hope of ever figuring out what Sherlock was thinking unless he wanted you to. If Sherlock wanted John to know what was going on, he'd find a way to tell him. On a side note, John had to wonder to himself. Did he really feel attracted to his flat mate? Surely not! However, when Sherlock had kissed him, it was like nothing he had ever experienced before. It was almost as if Sherlock somehow already knew exactly what John liked and didn't like. Like he knew where to touch him and how. Like he knew John's entire body. Could Sherlock deduce those things to? Could he work out someone's sexual desires just by looking at them? Jesus…. If that was the case, John was doomed.

Turning the water off and pulling a towel off the rack just outside the shower, John dried himself off from head to foot and wrapped the towel around his waist. He glanced at himself in the mirror as he fixed his hair. Wait. Why was he fixing his hair? God, this is insane. He stopped messing with his hair and turned to dress himself instead, catching the soothing, graceful sound of Sherlock's violin.

Vivaldi. He always favored Vivaldi when he was in a good mood. And John loved listening to him play. On nights like this, he would make his tea and sit on the couch pretending to read instead of turning on the telly. Some nights, John would fall asleep just listening to Sherlock play. It was oddly intimate. The last time that had happened, he had woken up in the middle of the night alone, but he had a blanket draped over him and tucked around his shoulders. Maybe there was more to that than he had originally thought. Could Sherlock really care?

Shaking the thought from his head, John threw his t-shirt on and hung up his towel to dry. He walked across the room without Sherlock even turning around. In the kitchen, he made his tea and took up his usual spot on the couch. He set his cup down on the end table, picked up his book, and listened to Sherlock play. Before he knew it, he drifted off to sleep.