Dr John Watson climbed out of a cab and into the pouring rain. It was a wild and blustery evening in early November, and the rain had been lashing down for most of the day. He called a quick 'Ta!' to the cabbie and scurried across the road, squinting to stop the water from getting in his eyes. He paused on the step of 221B and rummaged through the pockets of his jeans, pulling out receipts and chewing gum before remembering that he'd put his keys in his jacket. When he got inside, he closed the door to the driving wind and wet, and ran a hand through his soaking hair. Cold water ran down his back and he left squeaky footprints on the tiles as he crossed the lobby and started up the stairs.

Sherlock was sitting by the window as usual, but rather than being slumped against the wall wearing his dressing gown as he'd expected, John noticed that he sat upright and was wearing suit trousers and a white shirt buttoned almost to the top. Sherlock surprised his friend further by actually acknowledging that he had returned. He turned his gaze from the street below and fixed John with a hard stare that made John feel terribly self-conscious.

"Sherlock!" John said, trying for the life of him to keep the uneasy feeling from twisting in his stomach, "Why are you dressed? Are we expecting company?"

Sherlock leaned forward in his chair and resting his elbows on this knees - he touched the tips of his fingers together under his chin and shook his head slowly. "Your first guess - because lets face it John, rather than putting some of the deductive skills you've picked up over the time we've known each other to some use, you have perhaps unsurprisingly reverted back to using that highly unproductive and frankly quite annoying guessing that you people cling to so ardently. Indeed, your first guess should have been that we have a case, not a guest."

"We have a case?" John shuffled into the room and nudged the door shut behind him.

"No John we do not have a case."

John shook his head incredulously and started to peel off his dripping jacket. "You just said that I should have guessed that we have a case! Now we don't have a case!" He sighed, exasperated, and looked at Sherlock expectantly.

"That is correct, I said that you should have guessed that we have a case because clearly that is the most logical explanation. When have you ever seen me bother to dress for a guest?" Without giving John the chance to answer he continued, "Never. I would not have expected any other man to notice my attire or for it to be the first thing they notice upon entering a room but you, John, are not any other man. Yes, your first guess should have been a case because we have been without one for two months now and the longer time goes by without the police requiring my help, the higher the chance that one will soon be coming our way, and secondly because you know as well as everyone that a case is the only thing that will rouse me . . ."

He paused and in that split second he took in John's drenched clothes and the damp

darkened hair plastered to his forehead. He turned away to look out of the window once again but kept talking. "There is also a case file sitting on the desk by your laptop. Mycroft brought it round earlier. I would have thought that would be the first thing you'd notice rather than what I happen to be wearing but no, despite all the evidence pointing to there being a case, there isn't, because I have already solved it. It was barely a case at all, in point of fact I suspect that Mycroft may have made it up as a poor excuse to come round and stick his nose in my business. I mean seriously, murdered: Ms Bridgette Aviary-Alcazar the mistress secretary with seven bullet wounds to the head, how boring! It reads as if co-written by two children who have not only never met, but also have no concept of tense continuity! And just in case you're wondering, no I did not dress myself for Mycroft's sake any more than I normally do for Mrs Hudson or Lestrade. They being the only people I ever associate with for whom I have any kind of regard, I wonder who in the world you thought might be coming round and why for that matter you automatically made my social plans your first line of questioning. Why does with whom I associate arouse such an interest?"

"Wh . . What?" John visibly cringed before shaking his head and scoffing "Believe me Sherlock what you wear and who you 'associate' with are of no concern to me."

John slunk off into the kitchen, hanging his dripping jacket on the back of a wooden chair and turning on the kettle. As steam began to rise from the only corner of the kitchen which wasn't covered in bits and pieces of Sherlock's experiments, a rack of test tubes here, a horribly serrated ornately decorated cleaver there, John tried to ignore what his brilliantly minded friend had said.

He was used to Sherlock going on his long and usually impossible to follow monologues about cases that really grabbed his interest. Normally John listened and watched his friend working over every precise detail with something like wonder, but today rather than being intrigued and impressed, John found himself feeling as though he'd been turned inside out. Maybe he just wasn't used to the bright light of Sherlock's intellect being shone directly at him; it made him feel strange and warm all over.

He sat down on the other wooden chair at their kitchen table and unfastened his shoes. Taking them off, he slid them back under the chair so they sat under the small electric heater to dry. Maybe it was just the heat coming from the radiator that was making him feel so warm.

John stood up and busied himself clattering about, trying to find two clean cups. The light on the kettle flickered from red to blue and John made the tea realizing that he was also hungry. He was still in his soggy jeans and damp shirt though and food could wait, he just needed to have this cup of tea and a normal conversation with Sherlock to sort out this awkward atmosphere first.

"Takeaway tonight?" he called through to the living room to break the ice.

"Obviously." The reply came from far closer than John expected. He looked up to see Sherlock standing beside the table facing him.

"Oh!" John couldn't hide the surprise in his voice.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow with just the tiniest glimmer of a smile. "Well, we're hardly going to go out to eat in this weather are we?" he stated, "and god knows it would be a terrible thing if either of us were to attempt to cook."

There it was - the smile. John felt immediate relief and let out a small chuckle. Sherlock sat down and accepted the cup, setting it down on the table in front of him to cool a little. John sat down opposite him and took a sip from his own cup, wincing as the scalding tea dripped and splashed his thigh. He rubbed at it through his jeans.

"You shouldn't worry about it," said Sherlock, ignoring John's spill, "She was boring

and shallow and she attempted to insult me by calling me 'Asinime' - you don't want to be with someone that stupid, or rude."

John's jaw dropped a little and he was about to argue that she had only attempted to call him 'asinine' because he had corrected her use of 'irregardless' but he decided against it and sighed.

"Go on then Sherlock," he rolled his eyes but with a half smile, "How did you know?"

Sherlock launched into another fast paced reel explaining in every detail how he had deduced that John and his now 'ex' girlfriend had decided to call things off that very evening. John listened with pained intrigue to his friend and watched with butterflies and increasing anxiety as those eyes fixed momentarily on his face, his collar, his bitten nails, his wet hair. John felt the temperature begin to rise again and sensed with some solace that Sherlock was nearing the end of his explanation.

"And finally . . ." Sherlock paused to take a breath, "you were wearing your nice jacket, because you wanted her to think that you respect her, which you don't, and it was you who finished it not her because you, John Watson, are a gentleman and you gave her your umbrella."

John flushed. Had Sherlock just complimented him? Twice? Wait. What? He had to push this - he went with the easier option.

"You think my jacket is nice?" John asked in complete disbelief. Sherlock was prone to wearing his bed sheet and little else around the flat it was true, but when Sherlock actually wanted to look presentable he did. and he did it well. In truth John was slightly envious of Sherlock's ability to look so damned good all the time, so this to him was praise indeed.

"Well . . yes, I mean . . yes it looks nice on you, I mean you look nice in it..." Sherlock frowned and stared down into his tea.

Rain lashed at the living room windows and the wind was whistling through the building. John's mouth had gone dry. The conversation had certainly taken and unexpected turn and he wasn't sure what it all meant but he had to find out. Something about the way Sherlock had suddenly gone quiet seemed to say more than all those words, those hundreds of words he'd spoken just a few moments ago. John coughed lightly and drank another mouthful of tea.

"And uh . . . you think I'm a gentleman?" John cursed the accidental break in his voice; it sounded like he was teasing. Sherlock scowled and maintained eye contact with his cup. Suddenly a clap of thunder rolled overhead startling both of them, then just as Sherlock raised his eyes from his cup and finally looked back at John, the lights went out.

It was only a second or two before the bulbs flickered back to life. John blinked. The clock on the oven timer was flashing zeros and Sherlock was now standing. Something about his posture, his whole person had changed and he stared with a look that John had never seen. The doctor stood, automatically mirroring him. John looked at his friend quickly, trying to decide what had changed. The detective stepped nimbly round the table to stand directly in front of John, his whole demeanour now revealing a confident, cocksure and expectant Sherlock. He was smiling but his eyes remained determinedly serious.

Sherlock was standing so close to him that John was breathing in his smell. He inhaled. Sherlock smelled clean, of something sweet but hard like green apples and soap, and heat radiated from his body. John realised that Sherlock couldn't have been long out of the shower when he'd arrived home. The thought of him naked, wet, and now his proximity . . . Shit, what was going on?

Sherlock's hands were on him, touching him, one on his shoulder and the other holding the back of his neck. The taller man pulled him closer and then leaned down and kissed him. John had no idea how this had happened but he didn't have time to question it now, he needed to kiss Sherlock back. The gentle fingers stroking the hairs on the back of John's neck and the warmth of Sherlock's lips pressing into his and his tongue now, holy fuck his tongue, it was sending tiny shocks of pleasure right through him.

Sherlock's kiss deepened and he pressed his body against John's; his hand slid from his shoulder to rest on his hip. When John responded by gripping the back of Sherlock's shirt in his fists to pull him in closer, the younger man was able to trace his finger over John's hipbone where his shirt had ridden up. John let out a shuddering little breath and totally lost himself in Sherlock. He could feel his friend's cock now hard and straining at the material of his trousers and without even pausing to question any of it, he found he was moving himself up against the other man deliberately, wanting more.

Suddenly, unbearably, Sherlock pulled away from him. John stared wide-eyed at his friend, realising he was breathing hard and that his own erection was painfully pressing against his cold wet jeans.

"You're no gentleman," Sherlock's voice was deep and almost menacing combined with the intense and hungry look in his eyes. John could feel the low vibrations of his voice and when he spoke again John felt it go right through him, "No, You're no gentleman after all Dr Watson," Sherlock grinned suddenly and glanced towards the living room.

"Whoo Whoo!" . . . Mrs Hudson's voice registered in John's muddled mind and her

pointless knocking on the now open door hit him with a stab of dismay. She was already in the flat, having let herself in as usual. Normally this didn't bother either of them but tonight John cursed internally and he shoved Sherlock away from him and hurriedly began to straighten up his clothes. Sherlock had staggered from John's push and now stood resting his hand on the edge of the sink he'd grabbed to stop himself from falling. The two men stared at each other. John's face was scarlet and his pulse was frantic; Sherlock appeared so calm and cool that John wondered for a second if he'd just imagined the whole thing!

"Boys!" Mrs Hudson chortled in a singsong voice, "I'm so glad you're here! I have some rather exciting news." She made her way into the kitchen and a brief expression of horror crossed her face. She knows John thought, just about dying inside, before realising just how ridiculous that was and that the actual reason for her reaction was the pile of dirty dishes that were stacked beside the sink. She shook her head and tried to ignore the rest of the mess in the flat as she continued on with her news.

"It's my cousin's decorator. She says that he left a message for her in code on the underside of the shelves he put up for her but I told her not to be so silly - she's been known to get a bit carried away sometimes. But then the boy was taken off the job apparently for no reason, and replaced with someone else. Anyway I suddenly thought that perhaps there really had been a message, just not for her, she can be rather fanciful at times. Comes from reading too many Mills and Boons. It's ludicrous - I mean the poor man is a third her age!"

She chuckled and looked quite pleased with herself. She grinned but with a hint of

confusion dawning in her eyes as she looked from one man to the other and back again. "What do you think then boys? A case! You've been complaining for ages of having nothing to do and I've found you a case." She brandished a slip of paper and held it out for Sherlock to take.

"A code. What kind of code?" Sherlock's voice, appearance and mannerisms were right back to normal and he and Mrs Hudson moved through to the living room and sat down.

"Just seems like random letters and numbers according to her. There are also brush strokes! In the gloss paint! Apparently he's normally very neat and professional but there are noticeable upwards brush strokes on the stairs, one on the third step and four on the fifth step and so on. It's all quite intriguing don't you think?"

Sherlock pushed himself back into his seat and glanced over to where John stood in the entrance to the kitchen. "Put the kettle on again will you John, we have a guest . . . And a case." His face gave nothing away.

"Ooh yes thank you love," John heard Mrs Hudson chime as he turned and trudged back to the sink to refill the kettle. He left them to talk about the details and he started on the dishes. His mind was like cotton wool. Thoughts were racing but he couldn't get a clear image of what he was even trying to think. What in the world had just happened? Somehow, his best friend, flat mate and the world's only consulting detective had just kissed him. Not just kissed though. John felt his pulse quicken as he replayed the moment as it had happened over again in his mind The feeling in the pit of his stomach, the excitement, the sheer ecstasy of being that close to Sherlock. Where had all that come from?

Okay so maybe he'd been a bit confused of late when it came to Sherlock. He knew he wasn't gay, that he was just having a little bit of a man crush - that can happen right? He'd just assumed that he would get over it soon and had tried to ignore it. He'd been seeing plenty of women, so that proved he wasn't gay. It came to him then that in the time he'd known Sherlock, not one of the women he'd been with had excited him, not in the way that Sherlock's slight pout did when the detective was concentrating. John groaned silently to himself and slumped down, resting his head in his hands. He could sit and try to work it out logically all night long but he knew that he didn't really want to. He wanted to be back with Sherlock, back in Sherlock's gaze, back where he could breath his smell and taste him. John felt his jeans tighten again.

Mrs Hudson appeared in the kitchen and John was awash with shame. Her excited chattering had barely registered with him in his flushed and confused state and he now wondered what she was even doing here at all? The kettle had boiled and he started to dry a cup but then, as if his prayers had been answered, she gave him a quick wave.

"Never mind about the tea my dear, I have to get back and call the old girl now before it gets too late!" She had already turned to leave and he heard her agreeing with Sherlock that she should get back in touch if any further examples of the code were found.

" - as many details as possible and then let us know in the morning."

John heard the door close and this time he made out the sound of the bolt being slid across too.

There was silence. Shit, he thought. What now? Was Sherlock going to come through and pick up where he'd left off? A thrill fired through him. He felt his cheeks redden. He stood up properly and straightened himself out. His heart beat loudly in his ears but there was no sign of Sherlock. After a moment he made his way into the living room. He was nervous now and had no idea what he might find. Sherlock looked up as John stepped towards him. He was sitting on the couch, leaning forward, a frown of concentration etched on his face as he studied the slip of paper.

"John!" he said, as though he was surprised to see him, "I need to borrow your phone." Sherlock slipped the folded paper into his trouser pocket and then glanced up as though questioning why John still standing there.

John's heart sank. This, he had not counted on. Was that it? Were they just going to leave it at that then . . . after what Sherlock had done? Well fine . . . it was probably for the best, he wasn't even gay so it was all just fine. Was what had happened just something to pass the time until they had another case? Something to ease the boredom?

"Right," he replied and unplugged his phone from where he had left it charging on the desk. As he held it out to Sherlock, the dark haired man fixed him with a stare but it was only for a split second. The moment had passed and Sherlock was busy tapping away at the phone. John didn't know what to do with himself. God why was he so stupid? He was behaving like a teenager!

"Shall I order the takeaway?" was all he could think of to say, even though he was so wound up that he wasn't really hungry any more. Sherlock didn't answer for a moment and then frowned again.

"No. . . well yes if you want," he snapped irritably. "Not for me though, I have to think," and then he was back concentrating on the screen in his hand.

"FINE!" John had had enough. "You always do this! I don't know how you've got this far, treating people like this. You said you wanted a takeaway so I offer you takeaway and you just shoot me down. Well I don't care, forget about it. No takeaway. GIT!" He sounded like a petulant child and he knew it but his anger seemed to have exploded from nowhere and it felt good to storm back through to the kitchen. He would have liked to storm all the way out of the flat and far away where he didn't have to think about Sherlock at all but the weather was still raging outside. The sound of the distant thunder claps had seemed to be dying down, but now a flash of lightening lit up the whole room for a second and a car alarm went off somewhere down the street.

John stood confused, hurt and sulking at the sink. He ran some more hot water and tried to distract himself with the piles of dirty dishes, and soon enough he was back in control. He relaxed a little and even thought a bit about the case. It seemed ludicrous that anyone would go to such extreme lengths to pass on a message. In a world so crammed with information it was possible to see other meanings and messages everywhere. Why would anyone communicate through jumbled letters on the underside of shelves, or brush strokes in the skirting board? Sherlock seemed to have taken it seriously though so maybe there was more to it than John could see.

A light cough brought John's attention back to the room . . . Sherlock was standing right behind him. John had no idea how long he had been there but now his presence was alarmingly obvious. Sherlock's habit of padding around the flat barefoot made it impossible to hear him moving around sometimes. John wanted to turn around but he was still a little indignant so he stubbornly kept scrubbing at the tea stained cup he held in his hand. Then John's world flipped upside down, sparks shot down his spine - Sherlock was kissing the back of his neck lightly and the warm breath on his sensitive skin gave John goosebumps.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?" John demanded, surprising himself with his harsh tone.

"I'm kissing your neck," Sherlock's matter of fact answer wound John up even more. The man was just playing with him, teasing him.

The detective slid his arms around John from behind and continued pressing his lips to his skin, now tickling the part just behind his ear. It was all John could do not to whip around and jump on Sherlock right there on the kitchen floor. He managed just a grunt and kept scrubbing the tea cup.

"Problem?" asked Sherlock, "I could have sworn you were enjoying this earlier." John could tell from the sound of his voice that he was smirking. "I thought this was what you normal people liked . . ." he murmured as he started slowly teasing John's ear with his teeth, nipping gently.

"If you're so different from us normal people then why are you doing it? Are you telling me you're not enjoying this? That you're doing this for my benefit? Is this another experiment?" John didn't sound angry any more but his body was hard and tense under Sherlock's hands which rested on his friend's toned ex army stomach.

"Would it make a difference?" Sherlock's smirk had widened into a grin, "Would you want me to stop?" He bit down on John's shoulder lightly and John finally responded with a low shudder. His whole body erupted with goosebumps and he let his head fall back giving Sherlock access to his throat.

"Tell me to stop right now John and I will . . ."

"No . . . Sherlock," was all John could manage to get out after a long moment.

"I don't do things I don't want to do John," was the tall man's matter of fact reply before his hand slid down to John's cock and he began slowly palming him through his jeans.

John heard Sherlock's breath catch in his throat as he felt just how turned on he was. The hand slid down further and he felt the heat of Sherlock's palm on his balls through his cold wet jeans and he let his head rest back on the tall man's shoulder, breathing him in once again. Sherlock's other hand was gripping his short sandy hair and he gently turned his head so their mouths were only centimetres apart. John felt Sherlock's hot breath on his lips and couldn't stop himself; he craned his neck upwards to meet Sherlock's mouth with his own and kissed him hungrily.

Suddenly with a low moan from Sherlock, John felt himself pushed forward and he was pinned against the counter by Sherlock's hips. There was no mistaking the hardness pressing against his arse as anything other than what it was. Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective, had a huge fucking hard on and it was for him. Fuck. His hands automatically went down to where Sherlock had a hold of his cock and started guiding his hand, making him move faster. John let out a whimper.

"Not yet!" Sherlock's voice was intense but controlled, and his actions made John sure that he wasn't going to allow this to be over quickly. "With me." Sherlock straightened and lead John through to the living room. He was heading for his bedroom when he paused, whipped round and shoved John hard up against the living room wall.

"Aah!" John cried out, his face pressed against the old fashioned brown patterned wallpaper. Sherlock's hips were grinding into his arse again and John pushed back in encouragement, his hands up against the wall for balance. He felt Sherlock tighten his grip on his shoulder as he held John where he was and his other hand squeezed John's arse having landed there with a swift stinging smack.

John bit down on his lip to stifle a yelp and brought his arm up to create a cushion between his face and the wall. There was no logical thought process any more, all John could think about was a desperate need to be as close to Sherlock as possible. It was like he had been starving this whole time they'd lived together and now suddenly, inexplicably was allowed to eat. He wasn't about to question it. Sherlock's breathing had become ragged as he pawed and played with his backside.

All of a sudden Sherlock's hand was snaking its way round to John's front again, he felt a quick but urgent kiss on the back of his neck as Sherlock began to unfasten his belt buckle. The detective unzipped John's jeans and found his way inside. Sherlock let out a gasp as his hand wrapped around John's rock hard erection. The doctor could barely breath as Sherlock pulled at his jeans and boxers enough to pull him out and began to stroke him slowly, kissing and biting him too. Sherlock let go, infuriatingly leaving John's hard cock straining for him. The detective had a hold of his flatmate's hips and motioned for John to turn around. When he did, Sherlock dropped to his knees and immediately had the head of John's cock in his mouth sucking and lapping hungrily at his already leaking tip.

"Holy . . Fuck . .. Sherlock!" John hissed under his breath as Sherlock managed to work all of him into his mouth and started massaging the underside of his cock with lavish sweeps of his tongue. It was more than John could take right then and he found his fingers tangled in the kneeling man's hair and he bucked his hip, urgently fucking Sherlock's mouth and letting out a long low "Aaaaaaaah Fuck!"

". . . .. . . .MH . .." was all he made out from the man at his feet before Sherlock sucked his cock all the way to the tip and let it pop out of his mouth with a ragged gasp for air. John thought he was going to stand up and walk out. With horror he realized that he might have been too rough, taken this too far, but Sherlock just looked up at him gave a devilish grin. His hands tugged at John's jeans, pulling them further down his thighs and he urgently nudged at his friend's knees, pushing John's legs as far apart as they would go with his trousers still clinging to him half way down his thighs.

The detective's left hand was slowly massaging John's cock and as John stared down into his brilliant, dark rimmed, pale blue eyes, Sherlock leaned in and without breaking eye contact, brought his warm lips to the base of the doctor's penis, his hot wet tongue slowly exploring first one testicle and then the other forcing a frustrated growl from the doctor's throat. Then Sherlock tilted his head back and John felt his friend take both of them into his mouth and gently begin to suck.

John's legs felt weak and he let out a whimper and closed his eyes. Before the doctor could regain his composure enough even to close his mouth, he felt Sherlock's right hand making its way up over his torso to his mouth where he was presented with the kneeling man's index and middle fingers. John couldn't let himself think too much about where this was going, if he did he knew he would freak out and run, or cum right there. He closed his eyes and took the detective's two digits into his mouth and swirled his tongue around them. He had barely tasted them when Sherlock pulled his fingers away, slick with saliva and before John could acknowledge his own apprehension, Sherlock had pushed his right hand between the doctor's legs and found his opening.

"Oh God . . ." John's fists clenched as his whole body tensed up. He couldn't open his eyes, not while he knew the detective had his gaze fixed on him. Sherlock had sat back slightly and looked up when he'd heard John's last exclamation but his hands hadn't stopped. John felt pressure for a moment at his tense tight hole and then Sherlock had pushed up inside him. He threw his head back and tried to relax but his breath caught in his throat as he felt the detective wriggle his finger further into him, up to the knuckle.

John had had girlfriends do this for him before, but it wasn't like this. They had acted like they were doing him a huge favour, but Sherlock didn't even seem to care, he was doing this because he wanted to. He curled his finger inside of the doctor and began to slowly pull out but not all the way. John let out a shuddering groan as he felt the dark haired man stretch him open and then push his knuckle back inside, this time to be joined by Sherlock's other slicked finger.

The detective took his friend's strangled mew as his cue and started vigorously finger

fucking him where he stood. John's knees almost buckled as he felt Sherlock suck his cock back into his mouth. Sherlock reached up and pressed his other hand into the doctor's chest to hold him upright. John was completely at his mercy. He was too far gone to reason any more.

Images of Sherlock raced through his mind. This was his Sherlock, his detective and he was on his knees pleasuring John in ways he'd only barely allowed himself to fantasize about. John had often wondered about the taller man's sex life and had come to assume that he was asexual, that he just wasn't interested in men or women. He'd even said that he considered himself to be 'married to his work'.

But now that John knew otherwise, the proof was right in front of him greedily trying to swallow his dick, John found himself picturing Sherlock in just about every sexual scenario he could imagine. Images flashed in his mind as he ran a hand once again through the thick black curls at the back of Sherlock's head. The detective had obviously done this before, there was no way he could be making John's head spin and his heart race like this if he hadn't. But when and with whom? He pictured Sherlock kneeling in front of some other guy, of someone else pleasuring Sherlock like he was being pleasured now, of Sherlock fucking someone, and being fucked.

John stared down at his friend and suddenly let out a cry as the detective curled his fingers and stroked the sweet spot inside him. He felt heat pooling in his stomach and tried to stop himself moaning aloud again. He bit his lip and realized that he couldn't take it any more. He couldn't let himself come yet, not in the detective's mouth, could he? Sherlock might swallow. As he thought this he arched his back and groaned like some kind of an animal. No - he wanted to wait, to make Sherlock feel exactly what he was feeling now. He wanted to make the other man buck and moan and grind into him, to make him cry out and beg for John to fuck him.

John used every ounce of his willpower and concentration to force his body to move. He took hold of the hand that Sherlock was resting on his chest and squeezed.

" . . .Wait, Sherlock, . . . Stop . . ."

The dark haired man at his feet looked up with the most adorably confused expression on his face. He was flushed and John could see in the light of the living room lamps and from the way he was kneeling, crotch thrust forward, that he was rock hard. Sherlock let his hands drop to his sides, glancing down then back up to meet John's gaze. He raised an eyebrow sceptically at his flatmate and the suddenly empty feeling in John, combined with the serious yet coy expression on Sherlock's face, sent shudders through him and his throbbing cock twitched achingly. Without giving Sherlock a chance to say anything, John pulled him to his feet, kissed his hot wet mouth and was marching him into the bedroom. He was half tripping over his jeans and Sherlock was having to hold him upright as they staggering and fumbled their way, bumping into the door frame of Sherlock's bedroom and clinging to one another for support.

John didn't have time to try and decipher what the grin spread across Sherlock's face meant because he had to get him out of those clothes. He started to unbutton the shirt that had started this whole thing, but he was in too much of a hurry and a button or two pinged off as he tore at the fabric. He was aware of the detective staring at him, analysing him, but he didn't feel awkward about it any more. That brilliant mind giving him all its attention was making him shiver with excitement. Sherlock's hands were on him again and his fingers moved deftly and precisely unbuttoning John's own shirt expertly with no loss of time or buttons. Sherlock peeled John's jeans and underwear off completely. His socks came off amid the frenzied tugging at his ankles and then there he was, totally naked and panting, standing in front of his beautiful friend feeling totally exposed but not even slightly ashamed any more.

He took hold of Sherlock by the belt loops and pulled him close. The detective's chest was milky white and although he was skinny as a rake, he was well toned and John could make out the slight definition of stomach muscles below his ribs. John let his fingers trace a line across Sherlock's stomach along where his trousers sat. He touched the detective's hip bones and savoured the feel of his soft skin. Sherlock was kissing him again, urgently this time and letting out an impossibly deep and reverberating groan. Could Sherlock really be so sensitive to his now playfully light and feathery touches? Apparently so. Without breaking the kiss, John unfastened the taller man's belt, and let his trousers drop to the floor exposing Sherlock's long legs and the fact that he wasn't wearing underwear at all.

John's hand went to Sherlock's cock and he'd barely wrapped his fingers around it when Sherlock let out a starved growl and bucked into his hand. John couldn't suppress the smile that spread across his lips as his friend made plain his need for more. John was in control now, though when the tables had turned he couldn't say. He teased Sherlock's cock, moving his hand gently and slowly over him. The agonized whimper that escaped his detective was like music to John, it went straight to his groin and tingled there. John's breathing came quickly at the sounds his friend was making. He had never thought these needful cries could physically come from the great Sherlock Holmes but they were doing unmentionable things to his imagination.

John grabbed Sherlock by the shoulders and roughly pushed him backwards onto the bed. Sherlock fell with a gasp and his light frame bounced slightly as he made contact with the sheets. John was on him in an instant, kissing and biting at Sherlock's neck and leaving little red marks against his pale smooth skin. The doctor let his hands roam over his friend's body as he straddled the detective, staring down at the man stretched out beneath him. Sherlock arched his back and tried to stifle a long loud moan as John's fingers brushed across his nipple. He tried to prop himself up on his elbow and reached forward to touch John's straining cock but John was having non of that, he was enjoying watching Sherlock squirm beneath him and the look of utter need and frustration on his face far too much.

He took Sherlock by the wrists and pinned the man's arms above his head, sliding their bodies together and lowering himself into a deeply passionate kiss. He laced his fingers through Sherlock's, squeezing their sweaty palms together. Their bodies moved rhythmically against eachother, sending little jolts of pure pleasure through them both. The doctor leaned down, eyes closed and rested his head beside Sherlock's, his nose buried in the taller man's hair taking in his scent. When he looked at Sherlock again he was panting heavily, eyes wide with a slight frown. What he said next was all it took to push Doctor Watson over into a whole new realm of lustful need.

"Fuck me . . . . John, please, I need to feel you . . . !"

Sherlock wriggled free of John's grasp and crawled up towards the head of the bed, reaching into his bedside drawer and bringing out a condom and a small bottle. John didn't need to be told what it was. He was going to fuck Sherlock senseless, there was no way he was going to be able to stop himself. Hearing Sherlock say it out loud, asking him to, pleading with him, it was incredible. John crawled towards his detective, he rolled the condom on quickly and taking the bottle, popped the cap open. He was shaking slightly with anticipation and yes, alright, he was a bit nervous to be doing something so exciting and new. Sherlock rolled onto his front and took hold of the metal bars of the headboard and as John knelt between his legs, the detective pushed his hips upwards, inhaling sharply as John's now slick fingers entered him.

John wasn't sure if he should be taking this more slowly . . . Sherlock had been gentle with him but he was working under the impression that Sherlock was used to this and would perhaps be frustrated or, heaven forbid, 'bored,' if John went too slowly. He wanted to please his friend badly and felt a deep-seated longing to see Sherlock lose himself completely.

Sherlock buried his face in his pillow to muffle his loud moans and John revelled in the feeling of Sherlock's muscles gripping his fingers and spasming as John discovered his sweet spot. John reached for the lube and without removing his busy fingers, he rotated his hand and squeezed a liberal amount of the clear liquid onto his upturned palm. He scooped up the wetness and covered his own erection and gave himself a firm squeeze for good measure. Sherlock raised his head, obviously realising what John was doing and when he met John's gaze over his shoulder, the look on his face was enough, he needn't have said what he said next.

"Please . . John. Now . . I can take it . . " the detective's voice was deeper than usual and thick with need. John already had his cock in his hand and he wasted no time in drawing his fingers out and positioning the head of his thick member at Sherlock's hot wet hole. He placed a hand on Sherlock's back and felt his friend take a sharp breath in. The doctor took this as his cue and pushed into him, feeling the other man shudder.

Sherlock let out a loud moan, no longer bothering to try and hide it, and John didn't know what pleased him more, the fact that Sherlock was crying out in pleasure because of him, or the feeling of being balls deep in this brilliant man and feeling the intense heat and pressure around his throbbing cock. He lost himself, thrusting into Sherlock again and again, grinding himself into his friend and moaning with each gasp and cry from the detective. John saw the other man reposition his hands, letting go of the headboard and giving himself leverage to push backwards. John took hold of Sherlock's hip with one hand and leaned in resting his other hand on the hot damp skin of the detective's back. Sherlock responded with a low growl and pushed his hips upwards. The doctor met him hard and gripped the younger man's hip as he fucked him.

Sherlock seemed to find the right angle for John to reach his prostate because he stopped squirming around and tensed before undulating with renewed vigour. The detective drove himself back, fucking himself on John's cock as best he could, eyes screwed tightly shut and he let out a long unashamed groan. John picked up his pace, angling deliberately for that bundle of nerves. He reached round to stroke Sherlock's leaking prick in time with his thrusts and heard his friend whine deep in his chest.

Sherlock's moans grew louder as John thrust into him faster and soon he had pushed himself up onto all fours and was throwing himself back with each grunt and cry from the doctor. John's hand found the detective's shoulder and he squeezed. Sherlock brought his hand up and grabbed the doctor's squeezing him back.

" . . . Ah, I'm going to . . . John I'm going to . . ." Sherlock didn't finish his sentence, he just let out another long low moan as John drilled into him faster. John felt the heat pooling in his stomach and still managing to maintain their rhythm, pulled the detective up so they were kneeling together. Sherlock balanced himself, reaching one long arm back to hold onto John's thigh and let go of John's hand to push aside his sweat soaked hair. John wrapped his free arm around his detective, holding him tightly in a desperate embrace and felt himself start to tip over the edge. He clawed at Sherlock's chest and when he felt his friend tense and shudder, moaning out John's name, and spilling over his hand, John came with him. He slowed his pace right down, letting Sherlock's contracting muscles take him all the way over.

They came together, clinging to each other, breathing so hard and moaning out so that neither one of them knew which sounds were coming from themselves or each other. They hung there, kneeling together, bodies pressed closely. John couldn't tell which of them moved first but they both seemed to disentangle together and both fell to the bed, still reeling and panting raggedly.

"Fuck . . ." John breathed and felt Sherlock settle beside him, his long limbs wrapping

around the doctor to pull him into a tight embrace. Bringing his knees up to curl in about John's backside, they lay together in a perfectly fitting spoon. They stayed there like that for a while with John's mind blissfully blank, feeling Sherlock's now calm and even breath tickling the hairs on the back of his neck.

"Emulsion!" said Sherlock, "If this decorator was suing an inappropriate medium for the priming coat, then the unexplained marks we're looking at might just have been caused by his sloppy application accentuated by a oil based gloss finish. Doesn't explain the code though . . we'll have to try a few experiments tomorrow. Do you think Mrs Hudson has any paint left from when she had her bathroom done? She probably does - never throws anything out - otherwise you'll have to go out and buy some." Sherlock's sudden outburst shouldn't have come as a surprise to John, as he was used to his flatmate changing the topic mid sentence but this was beyond ridiculous!

He snorted with laughter and twisted round to look at his friend incredulously. "Are you fucking serious Sherlock?"

The man's expression was expectant and engrossed and adorable. "Well . . . yes . . ." he looked annoyed at the doctor's subsequent splutter of laughter and was about to speak again when John closed the distance between them with a gentle kiss. Sherlock looked surprised and John managed to stop himself from chuckling at him again.

"Oh God Sherlock, you weren't thinking about that stupid case the whole time were you?" he grinned at his friend.

"No!" Sherlock rolled his eyes, now realizing why John was feigning offence, but there was colour spreading across his cheeks. "No, of course not, don't be ridiculous." He regained a small amount of composure and John raised an eyebrow. "Don't be offended it's just I was so wound up and tense before and I couldn't think properly and now . . well now, with a clear head it's . . ." he scowled, "I'm stupid, stupid!"

"Don't beat yourself up Sherlock, I get it, I'm just glad I could be of assistance." John

smiled at the detective again. The other man smiled back and pulled John round to hold him close.

"Tea?"

John was momentarily confused, was Sherlock requesting or offering? The taller man stood up on the bed, shook out the tangled bed sheet and wrapped it around himself, hopping gracefully down and padding through to the kitchen where John could hear him rummaging through the mess and filling the kettle.

"Ta!" John called through after him, stretching himself out on Sherlock's bed and settling back comfortably against the pillows. He could get used to this, he thought. Even if all that changed was that he'd found a new way to help Sherlock solve his cases, no matter how ridiculous, he would be happy. Heck, even if they went straight back to being flatmates who could barely even he called friends, he could be happy after tonight. As Sherlock shuffled back into the room, two steaming cups held awkwardly close to his chest as he struggled to hold his sheet in place, John knew that no matter what happened, this evening would stay with him forever.