A/N: A Sherlock fic, I can't really tell you how or why I came about this concept, it's very far from my normal "Sherlock and John are perfect" thing I have, but I guess i wanted to see the flaw and the cracks, the misunderstanding and enlightenment that follows. R&R. Enjoy.

It was 9:30 and I was sitting in my armchair reading the paper while Sherlock was tapping away at my laptop. We'd been on back-to-back cases for a little over a month and we were now in a lull, a bit bored and winding down from the intense day we had.

After Sherlock brilliantly pieced together something about the clay on a pair of boots and a certain type of parchment only made in the 18th century, we chased down two of our three criminals halfway across London, while Lestrade got the third. We just had gotten back to the flat half an hour ago; after rounding up the thieves, we ate at a small Thai place near Scotland Yard. When we returned, I figured Sherlock would have immediately cornered me and gotten all the pent up energy of the day out of his system, like he usually does after a case. But he didn't. Instead, he came in, took off his shoes and suit jacket, and started working on his website and digging for a new case, I assumed. He was in a bad mood. And so was I.

Sherlock and I were developing a flexible routine that consisted of very quick and, more often than not, passionless sex in the hallway after dinner, over the kitchen sink before breakfast, or in a back alley of London in the middle of clue-hunting. Kisses were harsh and greedy, hands were scratching and grabbing anything they can find, it wasn't romantic at all, and Sherlock acted as if nothing had changed, when in fact, things were nowhere near they once were between us.

I was almost done with the paper when Sherlock snapped my laptop closed and retreated to the bedroom. I waited for the tell-tale slam, but none came. I looked over to see he'd left the door wide open; curious that, he usually doesn't go to his room this early unless he is in need of concentration or he is angry, but he'd never leave the door open if either were the case.

"Are you coming or not?" His voice called, starling me. I put down the paper and walked briskly into the bedroom, closing the door behind me. I stood in the dim light that bled through the slotted shades of our bedroom, seeing Sherlock already under the covers, and my side having the covered pulled back, waiting for me.

"Well?" He asked. I couldn't make out his facial expression, but his tone was on the verge of annoyed. I mumble something along the lines of, 'Right, yeah. Coming,' as I slipped off my shoes, and stripped down to my shorts, climbing into bed alongside Sherlock.

At this point my heart was racing; even if I didn't like the heated frenzies Sherlock called love-making, I was growing used to them, and it always got me nervous, scared of how intense it might get or how rough it would be. But I took solace in the fact that when a case was over, Sherlock didn't turn to nicotine patches, shooting the wall, or worse, rummaged for that little brown box buried in the bookshelf, he turned to me. It made me feel needed, even if it was just another fix. Just a way to get off and move on.

Nothing was happening. There was just silence as we lay there awkwardly, not speaking or moving. Sherlock turned his body, facing me, propped up on his elbow, looking at me. I mimicked the action and was facing him. My eyes had adjusted to the dim light and I saw that his face wasn't as haggard or scowling as I imagined it was in moments prior. He breathed out heavily through his nose and laid back, staring at the ceiling. I followed suit, playing his game. Just as with every pass he makes at me, every barked order, or, worse, the silent ones burning in his eyes.

One of his hands reached down and took mine, holding there between us for what seemed like ages. He just laid there, rubbing his thumb over mine. I was willing to bet he was just trying to keep me in anticipation; he made the conditioned stimulus, and now he was watching me drool to the bell, my stomach churned at the thought of being his pet, to control and command.

When we were somewhere between asleep and awake, I felt him pull our laced fingers to his cheek. I untangled our fingers and traced my fingers along his cheek, thumb tucked under his chin. On his pale face, my fingertips picked up the slightest traces of stubble. Sherlock had forgotten to shave this morning. His facial hair doesn't grow very fast, but it was still detectable that he has forgotten. I wondered how I didn't notice it earlier. He pulled my hand away from his face and took one of his to mine. I figured by his touch to my stubble, he knew I was thinking about his moments ago.

My stubble, which does grow fast, was quick thick, and was shaping up to be a bit of a stubble beard. We'd been at this case for a while and I'd been barely making an effort to look pretty or presentable, not that that was something Sherlock demanded, but I could always tell when he appreciated a smooth face between his legs.

He was still facing the ceiling when he rotated his hand, the back of it now against my skin as he gently rubbed his knuckles under my chin and over my jaw line. When he added a little pressure to the junction between my neck and the hinge of my jaw, I let out a sigh, relaxing under this hand. I didn't remember closing my eyes, but they were as he continued tracing my chin with his knuckles.

I was drifting for a bit until he stalled out and rested the back of his hand at the base of my neck. My eyes were still closed but I could feel Sherlock shift positions, now facing me. I open my eyes to find his, grey and soft, looking back at me. He lips were tugging at one side into a half smile. Not a smirk, or a grin that pull in front the boys at the Yard or any passing stranger, but a content, lazy smile. It had been sometime since Sherlock smiled at me like that. I can recollect that during the 'honeymoon,' as I call it, was the only time when he smiled the most, our relationship still fresh and new and exciting. I wondered what I had done to deserve this much attention. It wasn't my birthday and this case hadn't been much different than any other one that I could recall. We'd been at each other's throat for the past few weeks and this change of pace was rather alarming, now that I thought about it.

In my thoughts, I hadn't felt Sherlock slide his hips over mine, but the newfound pressure was a good indicator. I watched him gingerly cupping his hands around my face, like he didn't want to break me, or something. His eyes were fixed and focused. This was so different, I was beginning to panic.

I could tell by the look in his eyes that something was bothering him too, but, before I could ask, his lips were adjoined to mine, soft and pale. We hadn't kiss like this in a long time. Before we'd actually slept together for the first time, we'd sit on the couch for hours, kissing, exploring, and learning each other. But when the sex started, the kissing got harsh and became just another part of the process, the machine.

He dug his hips into mine, both of us growing hard against the other. His heart was pounding against my chest, and mine to his. As his mouth worked on mine, licking and sucking at my lips until they opened, everything was getting hazy and heated. The atmosphere of the room was growing warmer, radiating from the bed.

I could feel the warmth flooding from Sherlock into me, over every muscle and seeping into every pore. It was like electricity zapping between the two of us, and all the energy was getting to Sherlock. He started to shake and I could tell it was too much for him. He pulled his swollen lips from mine and rested his forehead in the gap between my head and shoulder, his hot breath grazing my scarred shoulder.

It seemed the tables were turning; Sherlock had been the one to push for the physical stuff, and now that he was showing resistance and patience, I was growing hungry and greedy for him.

Gripping the back of his ribcage, I rolled my hips up into his, gaining a nice, full-body shiver and moan from him. I couldn't help but relish in it. Before I could even put two thoughts together, my mouth was at his ear, harsh and gravelly, I whispered, "Fuck me, Sherlock," my arms quickly snaked down to his sides and I started pull his knickers off, he grabbed my hands and pull up to look at me, his eyes mapping my face, wheels turning; he was noticing the change, but quickly bashed it out. He leaned down and kissed him again, finishing what I started and tossing his underwear to the floor before taking a hand to me.

His hand kneaded the front of my shorts, and I gasped a little, the pulse of the action scattering along the nerves in my lower body. His fingertips danced down further, pressing through the cotton over my opening, his thumb still rubbing against the base of my weeping cock. I cursed under my breath, feeling the sweat pool at my brow, I knew now he wanted this to last and would go as painfully slow as his own desire would allow, no matter how much I pleaded, or begged, or cried; it wasn't going to be like it had been in months prior.

In moments, I felt the fabric over my swollen member being ripped off, and tossed aside. Sherlock leaned over to the bedside table, and rummaged through the drawer, but when he pulled back up, bottle and condom in hand, I took the condom and hurriedly put it on him; I couldn't wait. I took the bottle of lube from his other hand and gave him a few good tugs, his breath hitches as I did, making me want him even more. He took the bottle back; unlike any other time after the first few, he took the time to lubricate his fingers and ready me. He slowly worked on me, opening me, agonizingly slow. On any other day I would savor this rare ritual, but I grew tired of it and growled at Sherlock again, repeating my order. For that, he gave my arse a nice slap and aligned himself. Finally, I thought angrily.

But, as much as his desire and mine were peaking at the almost unbearable precipice of no-return, when he looked into my eyes again, there was something in them that tore me from my frustration. It seemed to melt my stinging, fiery passion in the pit of my stomach into a glowing, wet flame, a flame that he stoked as he plunged deeper in me. The passion that I'd been so used to not having was there in his eyes, that's what was new.

Sherlock ducked his head down, knowing what I saw, and tried to distract from it by biting and sucking at my scar, and while I was gasping and moaning at his quickening pace and the sensation of Sherlock's teeth against the scar tissue on my shoulder, I still wanted to look into eyes.

We were both very close, the crushing sensation on my hard member between the two of us with every stick and pull, he was right on my sweet spot and I clenched around him as I climaxed, cursing loudly and openly as it shook through me. But before he could meet his release, I took his face in my hands.

"I want to see you, Sherlock." My voice was wavering but he heard me quite clearly, eyes widening and not turning from my gaze as he hit his peak. A shallow, labored cry—with some choice words—resonated in the space between us and out between the walls of the room. With the last muscle spasms and thrusts, there was a sense of confusion in his eyes, something fleeting across his mind that was quickly tucked away as he pulled out, discarded the condom and rolled on his back, taking deep breaths.

I found my head on his chest, listening to his heart slow with every breath. I could tell he was almost gone, but I had to talk to him.

"I heard that, you know." I said, knowing exactly the words that spilled from his mouth in that cry.

I could feel him tense up under me, but calmly he asked, "Heard what?"

"You said them. You said those words you hate so much."

"Which, I'm sure there are—"

"You said you love me."

His eyes searched for answers, down at my face, up at the ceiling, to the window, back to my face. Before I could reciprocate the gesture and thank him for the newfound passion, he spoke.

"It seems that when I'm in the thralls of an orgasm, my mind shuts down a bit. A mental stall of my normal cognitive functions and my judgment is compromised." He stopped, and looked down at my disappointed scowl, growing frustrated and angry with him; it was all a game, all of it. It was just another fuck, like all the rest, just another means of release, just so he could go back to his perfect mind and his work. He could feel the rage boiling up in me.

"John, I'm sorry, that's not...I didn't…"

"It's fine Sherlock, it's all fine, remember?" I wanted to shout, and rage and leave him; I wanted to get away from him. I was about to get up from the bed and retreat to the second bedroom or the couch, but he pulled me back down onto him.

"No, it isn't John," he laid a hand on my chest, right over my heart, "I meant it, but…it's—I'm sorry, John. But it's just…difficult for me." I could hear the misery in voice, unlike anything I've ever heard him say before. Pain and hurt, like a wounded animal, or a child who has done wrong.

And at that moment, I understood. I misjudged Sherlock all along. Since the light in our relationship dimmed some time ago, I was thoroughly convinced that Sherlock didn't really love me. I was so sure that he used his infatuation with me to get his sexual urges out, like I was some toy to be played with as he pleased. I genuinely thought that whatever love for me I thought he had fizzled out into mindless sex, to get back to the work and not have any distractions. But, that wasn't what it was at all.

Sherlock had been all for quick and rampant sex, but it was so that he didn't have to deal with his emotions. It all made sense now. It was so empty because he was afraid of his own emotions, not because he didn't care. He cared and it would have been too much for him to handle. Was tonight a means of forgiveness? If it was, he did it in those three little words, and I was certain he needed to say them, he needed that catharsis.

"Why now?" I asked, looking up at him with eyes full of questions. He picked up on every one in an instant.

He sighed, and smiled wryly.

"I knew for sometime the indifference I put upon you was taking its toll. And it hit me today, like lightning. I saw it today; I really saw it, in your eyes."

"Saw what in my eyes, exactly?" I was curious.

"When you took out that thief, before he could shoot me, you looked at me. I saw just how much you loved me, John. And I knew at that moment that you always gave me that look. Whenever I saved you, or you saved me, it was there. It was always there, and I never reciprocated."

He paused, mulling his thoughts a bit more, choosing the right words for what he wanted to say. "I never told you how much you really meant to me. And for that I'm truly sorry, John. I've been a fool trying to choose. I thought that choosing my work over you would be easy, since I'd done it with every other person in my life. But, you, John, you are different. You got under my skin, you make things exciting. I seem to have lost sight of that in these past few months, and I promise," he paused and looked at me with the utmost sincerity, "I will never take you for granted again. You are too important. You will always be important. What would I be without my blogger?"

"Nothing, that's what." We laughed a bit, and when it died down, I leaned up and kissed his lips gingerly.

"Thank you." I whispered. "I forgive you."

He kissed me back and all was well. There was a bit of a silence, comfortable though, this burden lifted from both our shoulders. He'd have to adjust to being open about his feeling, it was going to be tough, it was going to take time, but I'd be there for every challenge and every turn. We'd be right by each other's side just as we've always done it, but in a whole new playground. Sherlock's low rumble of a voice ripped me from my thoughts.

"I think I'd like to get a dog." Sherlock said, eyes closed and hand playing with my curls.

"A dog?"

"Are you still going to do that thing you do, the repetition?"

I tilted my head down and darted my eyes away, but he pulled me back into his gaze.

"Yes, a dog, for experiments and such."

"You are not going to get a dog to experiment on."

"I wouldn't do anything to it that I wouldn't do to myself."

"Exactly, you'd be better off just putting it out of its misery before you even had the chance to do anything to it. Why not start out with a plant or something. Work your way up to a dog."

"A plant? Like what, a fern?"

"No, not a fern, something interesting. Perhaps a Venus flytrap. I think I'd like to watch you feed it, pretend they're Donovan or Anderson...or Mycroft." He grinned at that.

"I think having a John is better than any plant, or dog. And I promise I won't experiment on you unless it involves romantic and/or sexual interactions, in which case, I think we'd both benefit from that."

We laughed some more and settle back into the comfortable silence.

My Sherlock, how I've misjudged you, I would hope you can forgive me as well.

"I do." He whispered before quickly succumbing to sleep.