i.

The first time I see it it's late afternoon, a Saturday in early autumn, and (according to the sudden drop in air pressure and steadily increasing winds) it's about to storm. John is beaming at me, his face flushed and his breath heavy (as well it should be, considering we've just run twenty-three blocks). His knee is pressed into the back of the man we've been hunting for days, the man he's just tackled to the ground, the man who is squirming and protesting his innocence (falsely, says the overwhelming evidence) and saying things about John's mother that don't bear repeating. John doesn't seem to mind at all; he looks immensely pleased with himself. The thrill of the chase.

But I'm not beaming back at John, even though I'm hugely satisfied with the outcome of our labours. I'm not beaming at John because instead I'm looking at Lestrade. Lestrade, with his arms folded and his mouth twisted as though to hold in the words that are written all over his face. Lestrade, with his broken marriage and his drinking (which cannot yet be classified as a problem, not quite, though we both know he's been toeing the line of late). Lestrade, who is looking at John- my John- with unbearable concern.

How have I missed this?

I look back at John, watching him relinquish control of the criminal beneath him to one of the Yarders. He straightens up, takes a deep breath, and tugs at his jumper. "Got him," John smiles, and I put my thoughts about Lestrade away for awhile.

"Yes," I say, looking only at John. "We did."

ii.

The next time it happens, I almost laugh.

John is sitting on the back of an ambulance, silly orange blanket wrapped around his shoulders, his face wavering between a wince and a grin as one of the technicians dabs at the oozing wound tucked up against his hairline. I'm some feet away, my breath curling like smoke in front of me, and trying not to think about the cigarettes John thinks he's hidden in the flat. (They're under a loose board in his bedroom, three strides in, two strides to the right, four feet from his wardrobe. I've known that for three weeks and two days, but I've yet to be tempted and thus yet to alert John to my knowledge.) I look back up at John, who is trying very hard to sit still and not laugh at something the EMT has said to him as she gives his forehead a few quick stitches. Lestrade is saying something to me, something about paperwork, but the case is solved and I don't care what happens next. That's his problem, not mine.

Lestrade follows my gaze and I stiffen at the slow breath he lets out. I give him a sideways glance and note the clench of his jaw and the bob of his Adam's apple. I almost laugh.

But then he hisses, "Christ," and the laughter spoils in my stomach.

"What?" I snap, gesturing towards John. "He's fine. Clearly."

The laugh Lestrade gives me is more of a release of air, a frustrated noise that makes my eyes narrow. "Christ," Lestrade says again. "You should be more careful with him. It's isn't safe-"

"John doesn't like safe," I growl, and when his eyes meet mine it's with perfect clarity. He knows I know. For a moment I think he might hit me (his hand is clenching, arm almost telegraphing the movement of muscles that would bring his fist upwards) but then he slumps and takes a step back, shaking his head.

"Not my place," he says, holding up his hands. (The motion suggests surrender; the glint in his eyes says defiance. I suspect these outwardly conflicting signs reflect some sort of inner conflict, though how there can be any confusion in his mind I'm not sure. Lestrade is an idiot, yes, but he's less of an idiot than most people. Surely he realizes that John is mine.)

"Got something right for once," I snarl, petty but still the victor of this little bout, and I go to collect my spoils, wandering over to John with my hands in my pocket.

"You and Lestrade having a little tiff?" he asks, smiling at me. I search his eyes for some sign that this would bother him, that he's worried about Lestrade's feelings in some awful, reciprocal way, and when I don't find any I smile back.

"Who cares about Lestrade?" I say softly, slipping my hand under his chin. "Let's go home."

iii.

The next time is infinitely worse.

John is hurt again, but this time the reason is much more innocuous. We're at a company picnic (my attendance having been secured by John's willingness to go to the symphony with me the month before, the sneak) with half of Scotland Yard milling about in their plain clothes. I haven't seen this many pale-skinned, tired-eyed alcoholics in one place since rehab but supposedly this is a "good time" and so everyone is smiling cheerily between bites of disgusting, overcooked pork products and crisps.

Despite his shoulder and a slight case of seasonal allergies, John has been playing football with "the boys" all afternoon. "The boys" consist of several middle-aged men, most of whom are overweight and easily winded, and one broad-shouldered woman by the name of Robin who, if her self-satisfied smile and the fit of her grass-stained jeans are to be trusted, has no issue whatsoever with the group's mildly sexist nickname. Also among "the boys": Lestrade, who is dressed far too casually for my liking and has been insisting that everyone call him "Greg".

When John gets hurt, someone (a short little man with a twitchy moustache and penchant for relish on crisps, disgustingly) blows a whistle and all the football players stop, some of them quickly huddling around him. I half-stand, but when I catch sight of John's face- pink with exertion but also embarrassment; jaw set; eyes apologetic- I sit back down. It won't be serious, not with him looking like that, and I'm hardly the type for reassurances.

Lestrade helps him off the "field" with a helpful arm looped around his waist, and John hobbles along beside him, gritting his teeth a little at the pain in his ankle (not sprained, just wrenched) even as he tries to brush away everyone's concern. Little soldier. I can't help but let my lips twitch into a semblance of a smile at him, my John.

But he doesn't catch my smile. Lestrade is easing him down into a foldaway chair and John is half-heartedly shooing him away, begging him to go back to the game. I read John's lips (go, really, I'm fine, our team will be two players down if you don't go) but it's his body language that interests me. He's leaning towards Lestrade almost imperceptibly, and his hands are still on the DI's forearms, his grip loose but still there. His body is saying: stay.

Lestrade eases down to his knees in front of John (something is unfurling in my chest, something with teeth and claws) and touches his ankle lightly, his eyes on John's. He's saying something but I can't read his lips from this angle. John shakes his head slightly, half-smiles, but his eyes don't leave Lestrade's.

I don't like that. I don't like that at all.

iv.

"You were flirting with him," I say, my tone carefully free of emotion or intonation. My face is a bland mask; my eyes are fixed on the streets that scroll past our black cab's window. It's been a week since the football game, but I still expect John to keep up.

He doesn't. "Who, Brent?" Charles Brent is the main suspect in our current case, despite the fact that the man is clearly innocent, and I can see why John made the intuitive leap as that's who we've just left. Still, a touch of annoyance scatters across my features, and I sweep it away.

"No," I say, my voice even. "Lestrade. At the picnic. You were flirting with him."

"Les…" John trails off and shakes his head, a small echo his movements as he spoke with Lestrade last week, and I'm suddenly irrationally angry, much more so than I expect to be. "Sherlock, don't be ridiculous."

"Is it ridiculous?" I can't keep the anger out of my voice and that makes it somehow worse. In an instant I've turned and grabbed his shirt, twisting the fabric in my fist and yanking him so that our eyes are only inches apart. He can't lie to me, not this close. No one can. "Is it?"

"Yes," he breathes, his face flush and his eyes dark. This isn't what I expected, either. I thought I would see anger, or guilt. Perhaps even fear. I didn't think I'd look into John's eyes and see arousal. Does he like this? Is that why he was flirting with Lestrade? To make me angry? Why? "Sherlock," John gasps, and suddenly I don't care why he wanted this. That he wanted it is enough. I close the distance between us, crushing our mouths together and ignoring the fact that I'm trembling, that my hands have scrabbled their way up under his tee-shirt and are scratching at his skin, that I'm mumbling over and over as I trail my mouth down his neck and bite at his flesh: you're mine, you're mine, you're mine.

"Oi, lovebirds," calls the cabbie, and reality rushes back so quickly I'm dizzy with it. "Baker Street. Now kindly get yer arses out me cab."

John laughs, loud and happy, and it's all right. We're all right.

v.

The sentiment holds until Lestrade touches him again.

It's a small thing, a trifle, but I make my business in trifles. We're circled around an empty display case at a jeweler's, and my mind is racing. Surveillance shows the diamonds there one minute, gone the next. No sign of forced entry into either the store or the case. I suspect an inside job, and yet…

Maybe Lestrade assumes I'm lost in my thoughts (I never get lost; my thoughts are as familiar and organized to me as the streets of London) or maybe he thinks I'm not paying attention (we're at a crime scene; I'm seeing everything). Either way, he looks at John for a long moment (oblivious John, foolish John, John who is looking carefully around and missing everything of consequence) before grinning and chummily bumping him with his shoulder, sing-songing something about an Arsenal game that makes John bristle with feigned indignity. The touch lasts less than three seconds. I've already considered several ways to incapacitate him before he moves away. I slit my eyes back over to the case (literal, figurative) and then straighten, passing a hand over the line of my suit jacket. "False bottom," I say, and to Lestrade's bewildered glance I gesture impatiently at the case before grabbing John's hand and tugging him out of the shop and into the street.

"Sherlock!" He's tripping along, trying to match my pace, and I force myself to slow down. I don't, however, loosen the grip I have on his hand. "What…Sherlock, did I miss something?"

"You miss everything." I look around and then step forward, using my free hand to hail a cab.

John pulls his way out of my grip and staggers a step back, scowling at me. "What in the hell, Sherlock? What's gotten into you?"

The cab eases up beside us. I grab the handle without looking, my eyes still on John and a snarl on my lips. "We're going home."

"Like hell we are!" John's furious, his hand passing down his face. "You can't just…just…" Some of the fight goes out of him. "Christ, Sherlock, I'm not a toy that you can snatch away when you don't feel like sharing."

"Oh, is that what you want?" My voice is deadly low. I let go of the door handle and step right up to John until we're nearly touching, my eyes narrowed. "Do you want to be shared, John?"

"Sherlock…" John licks his lips, his eyes darting nervously. Whatever he sees in my face seems to break him, and he puts his hands on my wrists lightly, cautiously. "You know better than that."

"I don't," I say flatly, pulling away from him. I want to be alone, to play my violin in peace. I want to lie on the sofa with my eyes closed and the world silent; I want to put something, anything in my veins: cocaine, nicotine, I don't care.

"Then you should," John insists, coming up close to me again. He isn't like this in public, normally. The habits of a straight man. His gentle touch, fingers trailing along the blue lines in my forearms, is soothing. "Come on," he says softly, his eyes still worried but also a bit teasing, a bit playful. "Take me home. I'll prove it to you."

I watch him for a long moment, deciding. Finally I settle on, "Okay." I let him take my hand and I raise my free one, drawing us another cab, and when it sidles up to the kerb I examine our reflections in the window before I open the door. John looks desperate, worried; I look like a man possessed.

We get in the cab.

vi.

I know it's bad idea as soon as I think of it, but that doesn't stop me considering it. John is kissing me frantically, painfully, our mingled breaths coming out in gasps and broken moans. My back is pressed against the kitchen door; my knees are getting stiff from the awkward angle at which I'm holding them. I bite John's lower lip, hard, and he groans beautifully. Quickly, I stand up straight and pull him into my arms, lifting him a few inches off the floor. He makes a startled little noise as I push him down onto the kitchen table, my nimble fingers making fast work of his zipper. "God, Sherlock," he pants as my fingers brush his erection, but his need- for the first time- isn't the sole focus of my attention. I'm plotting, quietly. Should I? Shouldn't I?

"Stay here," I hiss, giving his cock a rough squeeze, and John nods messily. I like seeing him this way, usually, his cheeks rosy and his eyes dark, lips swollen and glistening. Debauched: for me, by me. Right now, though…I walk at a normal pace to my room and slide open the bedside table's drawer, withdrawing a small bottle of water-based lubricant, which I pocket. My fingers circle my mobile and I hesitate. Should I? Shouldn't I? I pull the phone out, tap out a text.

John would like me to apologize for rushing off. Come to Baker Street at once and I can fill in the details. SH

I don't send it right away. But then I do, my thumb pushing the button down decisively, and I'm immediately sure that it was the wrong thing to do and that I'm glad to have done it. Lestrade's response is swift:

Thank God. Be there in ten.

I slip the mobile back into my pocket slowly, my mouth small, and then I clear my throat and walk back into the kitchen.

John's still sitting at the table, his jeans hanging around his ankles and the flush fading from his face. "Get lost?" he jokes nervously, but I cross the room quickly and kiss his nerves away. I press him down against the table, grinding my hips into him and relishing the unsteady noises he's making beneath me. Lestrade will be here in nine minutes; what will he think when he hears those sounds?

"John," I rumble, my face against his neck, "can I?" My hands have wandered low, cupping his arse. It's normally better for us the other way, with John taking me (either because I'm feeling lazy and just want to lie back and let him manhandle me, or because I'm filled with manic energy that can't be satisfied by mere mindless thrusting and feels better suited to bouncing and circling my hips), but he nods, slightly, and then whispers, "Yes, yes, of course," and I wonder if this is what he's been wanting all along.

John's tight, so tight, around first one finger and then two. We have nearly eight minutes, by my approximation, until our guest arrives. I need John to last, need him to perform exactly as planned when the time comes, so I don't touch his prostrate and I use my free hand not to stroke him but to hold him still against the table. Even so he's moaning, sighing, twitching beneath me, and I feel the first spark of real arousal settle low and warm in my guts. My hips are rocking of their own accord; my mouth has found its way to his stomach and is kissing, sucking, my breath ragged. I take my free hand away from his hip and fumble with my trousers, nearly forgetting my plan as I curl my fingers around my achingly stiff penis and jerk once, twice, before remembering myself and stopping with a frustrated groan.

"Now, Sherlock," John whines, squirming, bucking against my hand, echoing my frustration. "Please. God, now."

Five minutes. I think we both can last that long, and if Lestrade happens to hear us orgasm then all the better. "Okay," I gasp, drawing my fingers out of him and eliciting a little hiss. "Okay."

More lubricant; careful, measured strokes. I worry my lower lip with my teeth and try not to look at John, at his hazy eyes and the flush that covers every visible inch of his body. Careful, careful. Even if we finish too soon I'll get a small reward; there won't be any hiding what we've been up to. But I want Lestrade to hear it, and for that I have to be careful. My breathing has slowed, somewhat, and I drop my head and kiss John almost chastely as I line our bodies up, pressing against him but not into him, not yet. "Patience," I murmur against his lips as his hips twitch, and I can't help but smile at the way he screws up his face and grits out a small groan, his hands tightening on my shoulders.

Four minutes. Suppose there's been a delay in traffic? But I don't want to wait until he's on the stair, for God's sake. I need John loud and close, almost ruined but not quite. I shift, press. John is hot and pliant, his body working with mine to bring us together, and I have to pull away from him slightly and put both my hands on his hips to slow things down.

"Please," John cries, his hands scratching at mine as I sink slowly, impossibly slow, into his heat. I draw back out; I push in again. Slow strokes. Gentle. John is fidgeting miserably beneath me, his hips fighting against my hands and his back arching, but I keep the pace even though my heart is racing and I'm gasping for air and all I want is to fuck him desperately, roughly, until we're both spent.

Patience. One minute. I pull him a little further towards the edge of the table and increase my pace minutely, enough that John is moaning and giving a renewed effort towards his attempts at pushing back. "God, Sherlock, please," John sobs, his eyes screwed tightly shut. "Please, please, this is torture, please…" His words are dancing along my skin like electricity, making me ache for him. If Lestrade doesn't come soon I'll forgo the plan altogether; already it's growing distant in my mind and my hips are beginning to snap faster, harder.

There: thank God. The outside door. Muffled voices, but I can make out Mrs. Hudson's soft lilt and Lestrade's gravelly growl. Just knowing he's down there- knowing what he's about to hear- almost brings me to the edge and I start fucking John in earnest, all wild abandon now, slamming our bodies together painfully, urgently. "John," I gasp, dipping down again so that our lips are brushing-not kissing him, just letting the motion of my thrusting graze our mouths together. "Tell me."

"Anything, anything," he sighs, his hands pressed against my stomach and his legs wrapped around me, shifting with each slam of my hips.

"Tell me you're mine," I breathe. There are footsteps on the stairwell now, quick at first but slowing as they climb higher. The sounds we're making are unmistakable, I'm sure, but I trust Lestrade's curiosity will bring him close enough to hear John say it. "Tell me, John." I bite at his throat, drawing a low, loud moan from his lips. "Say it."

"Christ!" John slides one of his hands down and I can feel him tugging at his cock in wobbly little strokes. He must be close, so close. He has to say it.

I yank his hand away and replace it with my own, stroking him too roughly, too quickly. "Say it!" I hiss, driving into him, pulling at him, making him hurt.

"God, Sherlock, I'm yours!" John shouts, and then, more loudly: "I'm yours! I'm yours! Yes!"

I come without quite expecting to, the familiar warning tug behind my bellybutton oddly absent. I stiffen, tighten, and then release in a rush of warmth and chemicals, my body slumping against John's pitifully. The world is a haze of ambient noise and a lack of colour. It takes awhile, too long, for me to realize that John has come too, that he's made a mess against my stomach and is shuddering, whimpering beneath me, his whole body twitching. For a moment it's just us, there's nothing else but our broken breaths and John's heartbeat pulsing frantically against my cheek, and then I remember Lestrade. Has he gone? I'm certain he heard what I meant him to hear, but did he hastily retreat or is he still foolishly lingering in the hall, waiting for us to collect ourselves so that he can get the details of his stupid case and refuse to meet either of our eyes?

"Jesus, Sherlock," John sighs, a touch of incredulity in his voice. "That was…" He laughs and runs a hand up my sweat-slick back. "Amazing. Completely amazing."

I never tire of John's praise. Smiling against his chest, I manage, "Mmm. Good?"

"So far beyond good it's unreal," John grins, and I feel…guilt? No, certainly not. Why guilt? Lestrade needed to be put in his place; John needed the same, but in a different way. Both needs are satisfied now, so why guilt?

"Sherlock?" John slips his hands between us and pushes me back from him a little so he can see my face. I don't fight him; I don't have the strength. "Hey, it's fine. I'm fine. You didn't hurt me." Like he so often does, John has missed the point entirely, but that's all right. I ease away from him gently, treating him tenderly now, and drop a soft kiss on his forehead.

"I need a shower," I say, cupping his hand as he strokes my cheek. "And I think you could even talk me into eating something, if you were very persistent." I kiss him again, this time on the lips, a whisper of a kiss. "But you shower first. I cannot and will not have you fussing at me about the lack of hot water, not tonight."

"I'm not sure I'll ever fuss at you again," John lies, grinning, but he goes, shucking off the remainder of his clothes on the way and uncharacteristically shedding them all over the sitting room.

When I hear the water running I pull up my trousers, grimacing in discomfort at the slickness as I tuck myself back in, and try to collect myself as thoroughly as possible. Then I pull open the kitchen door and fix an unpleasant smile on my face. "Hello, Lestrade."

As I expected, he's still there. Frozen on the top step, his hand clenched around the banister railing. He does meet my eyes, at least, and what I see there makes me smirk horribly.

"You are an unbelievable bastard," Lestrade whispers, proving that he's not a total imbecile. I had wondered if he'd catch on right away or if he'd think he stumbled upon some impromptu indecency. Oddly, I feel a tinge of pride.

"Yes," I say, still smirking. "But a clever one. I trust I've made my point?"

"When John finds out-" he starts, but I give him such a dark look that he falters and his eyes grow distant, sad. "He deserves better," Lestrade says softly.

It feels like punch.

"John's a big boy," I drawl, locking my anger away and replacing it with cool indifference. "He's capable of making his own choices. And he chose me."

Lestrade laughs, that empty laugh of his that's more of a breath than anything. "What choice did he have? Even if he wanted something else you'd just yank him away and convince him he didn't."

"Go away, Lestrade, you've played your part now," I sigh, shutting the door. I lean my back against it and listen until I hear him finally clomp back down the stairs, his footfalls slow and uncertain. When he's gone, I close my eyes and tip my head back. John will find out, and he will be incredibly displeased. This was, indeed, a very bad idea. And all the satisfaction it gave me earlier has washed away in the slow drain of post-coital fatigue. I promised John I'd eat, and I'm supposed to be blissed out from sex right now. But I don't feel like acting. I just want to go to bed.

"Sherlock?" John pads out, scrubbing at his hair with a towel, my too-big dressing gown (the spare one that he likes because it's worn thin and soft from age) tied loosely around his tiny frame. "Okay? I thought I heard the door close."

I straighten, give him my best you-know-how-it-is smile/shrug combination and yawn, "Lestrade. Came to ask about the case."

"Oh." John's mouth twitches into a frown and then straightens, an enigma. "Right. Takeaway?"

I let him choose the restaurant, let him order, let him answer the door and bring up the food and switch on the telly. And he lets me be.