The Virgin and Prostitute

by cheshirecat101

Falling in love with a prostitute always ends badly, but Sherlock Holmes can't help falling in love with Preferred Escort John Watson. It's only when a mystery client named RB gets involved that things get complicated.

AN: The song used for Jim's ringtone is 'Lovegame' by Lady Gaga. The name 'Priapus Services' comes from the Greek god, Priapus, who was essentially the god of lust and a dick all around. A variation of his name is also used for the angel of lust in certain mythologies.

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"Hold on, I have to call you back, a tall drink of something cool just walked out of my elevator." The blonde receptionist at the desk hung up the phone and turned to the man who'd practically swept out of the elevator, plastering on a flirtatious smile that he didn't respond to in the slightest.

"Welcome to Priapus Services, how may I help you?" the woman practically purred, doing her best to lean forward so her already low cut shirt would slip forward more.

"Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. I'm here about the murder," the man responded, not even sparing her a glance, and she tried again.

"Oh, consulting detective! That sounds so important," she said, leaning her head against her hand with a smile.

Sherlock cast her a glance before looking away again and saying, "If I were you I would stop seeing the younger man and focus on the older one since it's really only money that you're interested in. The murder?"

She pointed in a direction, looking as if she'd been slapped in the face, and Sherlock breezed off, striding with purpose through the halls of the rather large offices of Priapus Services' headquarters and collecting information as he went along. Everything in this building seemed to be red, from the elevator interior to the secretary's lipstick to the lights that softly pulsed behind the lit hallway walls and columns. It was all very sleek, very modern, and very red. Of course, the color of passion and desire that was said to psychologically make someone appear more attractive. In a high-end escort service, he supposed appearances were everything. But honestly, did they think that a little mood lighting and a secretary that could be considered aesthetically pleasing were going to be enough to draw people in?

He found the room he needed with little trouble once he saw the dozens of police officers swimming around it, darting in and out and occasionally consulting with each other. There was no small amount of animosity directed at him as he went through, but he ignored each and every glare, slipping under the yellow tape to enter the actually important room, eyes darting about as he filed away and catalogued. Well, the body was obvious, slumped over the desk at the opposite end of the room. Middle-aged man, no doubt in his own office, which would make him Mike Stamford by the name on the door, a rather portly fellow with a bullet to the head—execution, then, no personal touch, this was all business—though there was a surprisingly small amount of blood on the desk around him. Transported then, and staged? They were sending a message with the body—

His line of thought was cut off as the least annoying—barely—member of NSY came over, in the form of Detective Inspector Lestrade. "Glad you could make it," Lestrade said with a smile that no doubt was a stab at friendliness. The answering slightly impatient look from Sherlock produced a sigh and more important words. "The victim's name is Mike Stamford. He's 39, a senior supervisor for Priapus Services. What do you know about them?"

"Priapus Services, a high-end escort service that claims to pay employees to simply go on dates with the clientele. The Yard hasn't been able to charge them with anything because they haven't been able to prove that the employees are required to sleep with their clients at the end of every date. As such they're a sore spot because they're obscenely profitable, most certainly criminal, and entirely untouchable," Sherlock rattled off, the stone-faced look on Lestrade's face growing with every word.

"Yeah, basically," he said. "Stamford has worked here for several years now and is supposedly responsible for looking after a certain set of the—fuck, let's just call them what they are—escorts that work for the company. It appears he was killed by a shot to the head—"

"More like blunt force trauma…"

Sherlock almost didn't pick up on the voice when he heard it, but when he did he located its source in a second, looking past Lestrade to see the short blonde man he hadn't noticed before. The man seemed innocuous enough at first glance—well, to anyone who wasn't Sherlock, at least—around 5'6", average weight for his height, blonde hair, blue eyes—unless you noted the details everyone else missed. The tan that didn't extend above his cuffs or under his neckline, the tight, controlled posture, the short and well-maintained haircut…

"Oh, sorry, this is John Watson. He's the one who found the body," Lestrade said, noticing where Sherlock's gaze was fixed.

John smiled politely but didn't move from his spot with his back nearly against the wall—able to see the door and no chance of attack from behind—or offer his hand to Sherlock. Sherlock, who temporarily disregarded the information Lestrade had provided, preferring to rely on his own observations.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" he asked after just a moment, and John's face went slack with shock.

"I'm sorry—how did—"

"Sherlock, what are you on about?" Lestrade asked, giving the detective the look that he usually did when Sherlock wasn't behaving in what he considered an acceptable fashion at a crime scene.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" Sherlock repeated, his intense blue-green gaze focused on John, and only John.

"Afghanistan," John answered after a second, his brow heavily furrowed over blue eyes.

"Army doctor?" Sherlock asked, though it was less of a question by his tone. John opened his mouth, no doubt to stammer out questions again, and Sherlock rolled his eyes and said, "You said he died of blunt force trauma, you must have some medical training and if you served in Afghanistan the most likely position for you would be as a medical officer. Why did you say blunt force trauma?"

"His head," John said, tilting his head to the side to indicate the body. "Yes, there's a bullet in it, but he also has signs of blunt force trauma. Could have been part of a struggle, true, but that blow was what killed him and the bullet was fired post mortem to cover the actual cause of death."

"Anderson said the bullet killed him," Lestrade said with a certain measure of doubt in his voice, and Sherlock swept over to the body to look for himself. He straightened up after a minute, turning back to the two men whose attention he held.

"I'm inclined to believe Dr. Watson in this case. I'm sure Anderson will find his mistake in the autopsy, unless he wants to once again prove how absolutely inept he is at his job," Sherlock said, and turned back to John, who was much more interesting at the moment than unfortunate NSY employees he didn't get along with. "Tell me, Dr. Watson, what's an army doctor like you doing in a place like this?"

"You can call me John, really, and that's what I went over with Detective Inspector Lestrade before you got here," John said, his tone slightly amused.

Lestrade sounded positively exasperated as he said, "I was trying to tell you, Sherlock, he's the one that discovered the body. He works here."

John stretched his hand out to Sherlock with a friendly smile. "John Watson, Preferred Escort, at your service. Well, not unless you're willing to pay me."

"They actually call you escorts?" Lestrade asked, frowning at him, and John replied, "I escort people on dates, so, ah, I am technically an escort."

"Dates," Sherlock said, drawing the word out with some disdain. John's eyes went back to him, cerulean instantly turning defensive.

"Yes, dates," he replied. "Contrary to popular belief, that is what I'm paid to do. That and that alone."

"So you sleep with them for fun, then?" Sherlock asked, and Lestrade instantly admonished, "Sherlock!"

But John was chuckling, an unexpected reaction that had Sherlock changing the tilt of his head. "I hardly think it's appropriate for me to discuss my sex life when there's a dead body in the room," he answered.
Ah, yes, the case. Sherlock had nearly forgotten because of the interesting introduction to Dr. John Watson. "How did you know the victim?" he asked, effortlessly slipping back into his natural state of consulting detective. The corners of John's mouth lifted just slightly at the change, a motion Sherlock caught, but that disappeared as he said, "He used to be my supervisor. Until just about a week ago, actually, when I received a new one."

"Why the switch?" Sherlock asked, his gaze sharp.

"Because I moved up from Escort to Preferred Escort. That means I work under Sebastian Moran now, the Executive Supervisor."

"What's the difference between the two positions?"

"Sherlock, is this really necessary?" Lestrade asked, but John was already responding, "Preferred Escort means I'm a top earner. More requested than someone who's just an Escort." Interesting, John didn't seem to show any shame over his choice of employment. This couldn't have been his first opportunity though.

Sherlock's lips quirked up with no humor. "You must be very good at the job then. Does the PTSD make it difficult at all?"

"How did you know about that?" John asked, his brow furrowed. "Did you read up on me?"

Sherlock opened his mouth to answer but Lestrade cut in with, "Okay, interrogation officially over. Thank you, Dr. Watson, you've been very helpful."

It took a moment for John to drag his eyes away from Sherlock, but then he turned to the DI and offered him a smile. "Of course. Here's my card in case you need anything else," he said, adding a wink at the end of his sentence that had Lestrade nearly blushing at the suggestion in his voice. He held out the card to Lestrade—slight tremors in his hand, no doubt from the PTSD, ah, so he couldn't perform surgery anymore, that was important—but Sherlock plucked it out of his hand before the DI could take it.

"I don't think Detective Lestrade is quite in the income bracket that your services require," Sherlock said coolly, causing John to raise his eyebrows.

His tone was amused as he asked, "And you are?"

"I'm not interested in your 'services', Dr. Watson, I'm looking for a flatmate. Interested?"

"I have been looking for a new flat, but most people usually ask me if I take my clients home, first. Or don't ask and just assume."

Sherlock scoffed. "Of course you don't take them home, they pay for a rather expensive hotel room. That is, if you decide to have a sleepover with them of your own volition. Certainly not at the company's urging." His lips twisted up wryly.

"Right. Then I am interested," John said, matching Sherlock's smile.

"Then I'll see you tomorrow at nine. Until then, I have an investigation to continue and you have a superior to talk to," Sherlock said, inclining his head towards the doorway that a tall, well-built blonde was standing in, practically staring a hole into John's head. "Sebastian Moran, I presume. I'd like to speak to him as well, Lestrade."

"Yeah, after I do," Lestrade said with a small amount of animosity in his voice, and Sherlock turned on his heel to continue towards the body.

"Sorry, where is it I'm meeting you?" John called after him, and Sherlock turned.

"The address is 221B Baker Street, and the name is Sherlock Holmes. Don't be late," he said, and with that turned again, though he surreptitiously watched John go over to the rather imposing figure of Sebastian Moran and begin conversing with him in low tones, interrupted after a few moments by Lestrade's presence. Both Moran and John had a distinctly military bearing to their posture; interesting to see that Moran, also a military man, had ended up in the same place as John.

And wasn't John interesting? An army doctor who wasn't doing anything close to being an army doctor, who'd chosen—and Sherlock was sure it was a choice—to be an escort instead. What would have prevented him from working at an emergency clinic or something? Why work here and sell himself to pay the rent? It didn't make any sense; John seemed to be of at least average intelligence, and while Sherlock supposed he was at least moderately attractive, he certainly didn't have the usual appearance of an escort, far from it. John looked very average, very normal, and he was the most interesting person Sherlock had talked to in quite a while. Which merited an invitation to be his flatmate. John's chosen profession didn't faze Sherlock; it was surprising at first, certainly, but not off-putting. Besides, the fact that John showed absolutely no shame about it was actually refreshing. If he had blushed or acted like the receptionist on Sherlock's way in, Sherlock would have instantly dismissed him. Instead, he acted matter-of-fact about the whole thing, not drawing any attention to it or putting it on display, just acknowledging it as his profession. Sherlock could only hope that John didn't prove to be dull underneath the veneer of interest he displayed.

xxx

John didn't disappoint in the slightest. No, he absolutely exceeded expectations. To start with, there was the fact that he seemed absolutely incapable of stopping himself from saying that Sherlock was either 'brilliant', 'amazing', or 'fantastic', even when Sherlock ran through his rather simple line of reasoning to explain how he'd known the things he knew about John. Then there was the fact that even though he'd known Sherlock for a few days at most, John shot someone dead to protect him, and thrived on the danger that surrounded Sherlock. John was the best flatmate that Sherlock could have asked for. Especially considering the fact that aside from some slight complaining about body parts in the fridge, John wasn't bothered by Sherlock's quirks. It was fine if Sherlock was silent for days—though strangely that happened rarely when John was around—or if he played violin at odd hours of the night, because John wasn't there most nights. He'd go out in the evenings, dressed much better than he did in his day to day life—though Sherlock preferred the soft cardigans and button-ups to the suits and evening wear—and wouldn't return until the next morning, sometimes later. Occasionally he'd leave at a time other than the evening, but those instances were few and far between. The implications of where he went and what he did weren't lost on Sherlock, and John always came back with discernible signs of where he'd been that usually told Sherlock more than he wanted to know, but he still hadn't divined how John had become involved in this business in the first place. So one day, he conceded and just asked.

"Why an escort?" the detective asked, sitting in his chair in the living room with his fingers steepled under his chin, his gaze fixed on a wall.

"I'm sorry?" John asked, brow furrowed as he came back out from the kitchen with the tea he'd been making.

"Why. An. Escort?" Sherlock drawled out as John sat down across from him.

John gave an almost resigned look that said he'd been expecting this question for a long time and took a sip of tea before answering. "Really, couldn't deduce it from my clothes or the way I part my hair or something?" he asked, amused, and Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Alright, alright. If you must know, it sort of started in the army. Just a little here and there, trading favors for, well, favors. Not my proudest moment, I'll admit. Then of course I got shot and came home, and that's when the tremors started in my hands. No one wants a shaky surgeon, so I took up work at a clinic instead. I'm sure you can imagine exactly how well that paid." He smiled at Sherlock, whose pale blue eyes had flicked over to him as soon as he sat down. "Anyway, a few weeks after I came back I ran into an old friend, and he happened to be working for Priapus Services. Recommended it to me, and I decided, hey, why not give it a go. Prostitution pays a lot better than emergency clinics, I can tell you that. So I applied, and I didn't think they'd hire me, but they did."

"How exactly does the application process work?" Sherlock asked, eyes narrowing in on John slightly.

John snorted. "For one thing, it's a joke. You knew they meant 'have sex with' every time they said 'date'. But the application itself is first; once that's submitted, if they're considering hiring you they call you in for an interview. If that goes well, it's on to test dates. Well, a singular date for some people if they're only willing to 'date' one gender, but those people are few and far between in the company. Nearly everyone's flexible on that count. The dates are supposed to be actual clients, but it's obvious that they work for the company. You go out, wine and dine, whatever else, and they report back about your 'performance' afterwards. Then they make a decision. I must have made good enough impressions on both of my dates because I was hired only a few days later. After that, I started working. At first, it was part time, a few clients here and there, and I kept working at the clinic to supplement my income. Then things started to pick up as I built up a reputation and received more good reviews and regular clients, and then I got here. One of the top earners, or so I'm told. I'm not as pretty as some of the younger escorts, but I've been told as a date, I'm much better because I'm more polite and actually know what I'm talking about when I open my mouth. And in bed…" He chuckled. "Well, I can certainly hold my own at the end of the night. So there you go. I don't have some sad story about desperation forcing me to sell my body for money, it's all very above board and the whole thing is very high class. I mean, if I hadn't been doing this, I wouldn't have met you, and I can't really complain about that or about the obscene amount of money I've been making. And of course, there are downsides, and I have to work to keep myself in this condition, but in my mind, it's worth it. And it's not for the rest of my life. When I'm ready to leave, I'll be able to leave. No one's going to force me to stay."

He stopped there, taking a sip of his tea, and there were a few minutes of contemplative silence on Sherlock's part before John asked, "Why do you ask? Interested in applying?"

Sherlock pulled a face that made the other man smile. "No, of course not. I find the thought of sexual intercourse to be extremely distasteful."

"So are you asexual then?" John asked with a slight furrowing of his brow.

"If by definition you mean asexual as in experiencing no sexual attraction towards anyone whatsoever then yes, I could be classified as such. Please, go ahead and tell me it's a phase, or I won't know unless I try it, or that I just haven't found the right person yet."

"I'm not going to tell you any of those things."

"Why, too polite?"

"No, it's your sexual orientation, I don't have any right to comment on it. If you say you don't have any sexual attraction towards anyone, then fine, you don't. Why would I try to tell you how you feel?" John asked, and gave him an inquiring glance. "Tea?"

Sherlock nodded and the doctor got up to go and fix him a cup, Sherlock taking the opportunity to cast an appraising glance over his flatmate. John was the only person aside from Mycroft (though Mycroft had also said, "Mummy will be so disappointed about a lack of grandchildren", to which Sherlock replied that Mycroft was more than welcome to have them himself, enjoying the look of displeasure on his brother's face as he considered the thought of copulating with a woman. He'd really only said it because the burgeoning relationship between his brother and DI Lestrade hadn't escaped his notice and thoroughly disturbed him) who hadn't tried to argue with him, hadn't questioned him or shown a beyond infuriating ignorance on the subject, and had simply accepted him at his word and not made a big deal out of it. Sherlock continued to study the small army doctor as he made a cup of tea for Sherlock, thinking once again that he wasn't what he appeared to be at all. By all rights, a professional escort should have been the person most likely to disagree with him. Instead, he was the most tolerant.

xxx

It was only a week or two after that conversation that John's profession started to bother him. It wasn't the profession itself; no, he accepted it just as easily as John did, now that he understood why John had done it. Money was always such a good motivation for ordinary people. What did bother him, however, was the fact that it took John away from him. John would have to leave in the middle of investigation or skip going to a crime scene because he had a date, or he'd be gone for nearly an entire day and come back exhausted, passing out in his armchair in the middle of Sherlock using him as a sounding board. John made Sherlock's genius shine brighter, and Sherlock needed that. John could elegantly conduct the chaotic symphonies of Sherlock's mind, and Sherlock found that more and more these days he needed the quiet that just John's presence could bring to an otherwise turbulent mind. But John had other obligations, other duties, and his time was being divided to the point that he seemed to be having trouble keeping himself together. He'd often take naps in the cab rides on the way to crime scenes, his head against Sherlock's shoulder, because he'd gotten back too early this morning and hadn't exactly slept the night before. Sherlock actually liked those moments, because the feel of John against him, softly breathing, was so incredibly comforting that he almost wanted to stay in the back of that cab forever, just so John could sleep and Sherlock could watch him do it. But then they'd get to the crime scene and John would sit up and rub his eyes and smile tiredly at Sherlock. And Sherlock would smile back and pretend he couldn't feel that little flutter in his chest, coupled with that painful little twinge at the fact that their contact had to end.

And then, there was that unfortunate, ever growing jealousy. Sherlock hadn't been able to identify it at first; it was just a sick sort of anger in his stomach that appeared whenever John came home with the signs of his trysts plastered all over his clothing, or when John disappeared from a case to see yet another rich prick with too much money to spend. He wasn't able to name the actual emotion until they were investigating a murder involving strangulation, a spool of thread, and a mistress. He was rattling off his solution to the case, and named the motive as jealousy on the part of the man's secretary, and nearly broke off in the middle of his diatribe as he realized with a start that that was what he was feeling. Jealousy. Oh god, he was honestly jealous of John's clients. Not because he wanted to sleep with John, because no, that wasn't something he was interested in with anyone, but because they were taking John's time. Because he wanted John's time, wanted John's attention, and wanted his affections. He liked John. This revelation produced a marked change in behavior, though John didn't seem to notice anything. Sherlock spent a significant amount of time now observing the army doctor, cataloguing John's behaviors, emotions, and expressions, taking notes of what he found from the evidence of John's job on his clothing, and above all, watching for signs of reciprocation.

It was just so very hard to tell with John, though, because aside from when he handed DI Lestrade his card, he hadn't actually seen John in action as an escort. Not that he wanted to—no, he just wanted to see what John was like when he flirted, when he was trying to charm someone.

"How do you do it?" he asked one day, pausing in the middle of a rather animated rendition of Seitz Concerto #3 in g minor.

"How do I do what?" John asked, not looking up from his paper. The slight downward turn of his lips told Sherlock that he'd been enjoying the music and didn't know where this conversation was going. Another reason to like John; he actually appreciated Sherlock's mad violin playing.

"How do you seduce your clients?"

John's brow instantly furrowed, though it was a moment before he pursed his lips and folded his paper down to look at Sherlock. "Why do you ask?"

"Curiosity."

"Sure it won't clutter up your mind palace?" John said with a slight smile on his lips, and Sherlock tsked though he wanted to smile back.

"I'm certain it's more important than other information that could be there," he answered, and John shook his head with a smile and turned his head away.

The silence dragged on long enough that Sherlock thought he wasn't going to answer, but then John said, "Honestly, there isn't much seducing to do. We both know exactly why I'm there, and a good percentage of them want to get straight to the point as soon as we're behind closed doors. Well, that's mostly men, though some women. And foreplay is really just a personal preference in general."

"But you go on dates with them. Surely you act flirtatious with them during that time."

John cast him a glance, amused. "Flirtatious as long as it's not too overt. They're the only ones who know I'm an escort. If we're at a high-class function, I'm not John Watson, preferred escort, I'm John Watson, their date for the evening and sometimes something more if they feel like explaining my existence. I've been a boyfriend, a neighbor, a Uni classmate, a coworker…whatever they want, I become. So yes, I do flirt with them as appropriate."

"How," was the only word Sherlock said, too flat for it to be a question.

John's brow furrowed again. "What, you want me to demonstrate?" he asked, and Sherlock considered for a moment before nodding. John sighed slightly and motioned him over. "Alright, put the violin down and sit down on the couch." As Sherlock complied John moved to the couch as well, and then suddenly he was sitting close to Sherlock and Sherlock could smell the clean, fresh scent of John and couldn't quite breathe.

"First of all," John said, seeming completely oblivious to Sherlock's sudden lack of oxygen, "there's personal space to consider. The distance that I am away from you right now is closer than what's usually just friendly, but not too close. Then, there's where my hands are. If I put a hand on your knee, it's not quite flirtatious enough. If I put it too high up your thigh—" his hand only hovered over Sherlock's leg for the second touch, but Sherlock still watched it intently "—then I seem like a pervert. I have to put it in the middle, here." He placed his hand down on a point slightly above Sherlock's knee and Sherlock could feel the warm weight of it through the fabric of his trousers. "Of course, if we're standing, they might have their arm around my waist, or I could have mine around theirs. If we're sitting, though, my hand on their leg is acceptable, or I could touch their arm, or do other casual things."

"Like what?" Sherlock asked, his eyes keen, and John didn't even seem to notice the look of focus in the other man's eyes. Or maybe he did and attributed it to the unhealthy curiosity Sherlock had about everything.

"Like…this, for example," John said, reaching up to brush a few curls away from Sherlock's forehead. Sherlock's heart stopped. "For women I tuck their hair behind their ears. I could also lean in to whisper something—" he demonstrated, his breath warm against Sherlock's ear "—just for them to hear." The smile he gave Sherlock when he pulled back was purposely flirtatious, holding a hint of something closer to seduction in his eyes. Then he dropped right back into regular John, in the middle of explaining flirting to his asexual flatmate. Sherlock, of course, already knew how to flirt, but he wanted to see how John specifically did it. "Really, flirting is a lot of smiling, laughing at their jokes, and casually touching them. Some people take it a step beyond that and I've stopped caring about my arse being grabbed in public, but for the most part it's that. Understand all of that?"

His cerulean eyes were fixed on Sherlock, who nodded. "Yes, thank you, that was very…helpful. It may come in handy someday."

John chuckled, flopping back where he sat on the couch, though he didn't do anything to make the space between himself and Sherlock go back to what was considered just friendly. "Yeah, in case you need to chat up a client."

"It seems…intimate," Sherlock said after a moment.

John instantly shook his head, drawing Sherlock's eyes back to his face to catalogue his expressions. "It's all fake," he said, his tone serious. "There's no real intimacy with any of my clients, we both always know that we're pretending it's about anything more than sex. Intimacy in real life can be entirely separate from sex. It's trusting someone and knowing they trust you, being allowed behind people's thickest walls in their minds. Sex doesn't mean intimacy, and intimacy doesn't mean sex." He sighed slightly, and Sherlock noticed a subtle shift in his eyes. "Though some people confuse the two." He was silent for a moment before shaking himself out of it and turning to smile at Sherlock. "Does that make sense?"

"More sense than most people make," Sherlock replied, and earned a sincere smile before John got up to go back to his armchair and pick up the paper once again. After a minute Sherlock returned to his violin, playing a softer, slower piece that had the corners of John's mouth lifting up unconsciously, Sherlock turning to face the window so John wouldn't notice the smile that had spread over his features as well.

xxx

"I don't bloody care, I'm not going to see him again!"

"John, you need to calm down and think about this."

There was another case, a rather exciting one, and Sherlock had texted John to make sure he was still available for it. John had texted back to tell him to meet him at Priapus Services' offices, they could leave from there after he was done with his meeting with his supervisor, Sebastian Moran. The meeting that Sherlock was currently eavesdropping on.

"I am perfectly calm, Sebastian, but I am not going to see that madman again. I can't." It was clear from John's voice that he was beyond agitated; there was a note of something in there that Sherlock couldn't quite identify underneath the anger. John sounded deeply upset about this, in a way that was being masked by his raised voice and agitation.

Sebastian's voice, on the other hand, was cool and collected. "Did he hurt you?"

"Not physically, no," came John's clipped answer.
"Then there's nothing I can do about it. If he physically harms you then we can go through the legal steps. But he is one of our biggest clients, John, and he's taken quite the shine to you. You know he pays you more than he's supposed to, and unless I'm mistaken, you told Mike Stamford that you actually enjoyed sleeping with him. That he was the best out of your clients?"

Sherlock could only picture John's flush at this, and he himself was trying to ignore the jealousy sinking its claws into the lining of his stomach. "That's what I thought," Moran continued. "Now, of course, we can't force you to continue to see him. If you're dead-set against it, then fine. You can stop seeing him anytime you'd like." The implication was clear in his words; but you won't have a job for long if you do. "However, I will remind you that he's extremely important to this company, and he's your biggest regular customer. You could do much worse than having his attention fixed on you. And who knows; he gets bored easily, maybe this will only last for a few more weeks. So, what do you want to do?"

There was a minute of breathless silence, but Sherlock already knew John's answer. "No, it's fine, I'll keep seeing him." The resignation in his tone was nearly painful to Sherlock.

"Glad to hear it. If you have any more issues or if he does anything I can actually act on, let me know. He's already requested you again for Friday night, will that be a problem?"

"No."

"Excellent, I'll book it. If there isn't anything else, you can go and we'll talk again soon. I am sorry to hear that you're having trouble, John."

"No, you're not," John answered shortly, and a few seconds later he was striding forcefully out the door and nearly running into Sherlock. Able to actually see John for himself, Sherlock could see that something deeper was wrong than John just being frustrated about a particularly irritating client. Whatever this man had done, it had shaken John, something dark flickering through those blue eyes before John realized who he'd run into and caught himself.

"Problem?" Sherlock asked, his brow furrowed slightly in actual concern, and John shook his head, leading the taller man down the hall with surprisingly quick strides.

"Just my least favorite client," he answered, taking a turn that led them past the desk of the less than appealing secretary, who shot Sherlock a glare.

"Why least favorite?" And better question, did that mean that John had a favorite client? No, that was a bad road to go down mentally.

"He's just…never mind, doesn't matter. What's this case you were talking about?" John asked, and the quick deflection off the subject didn't escape Sherlock's attention. He'd have to dig into this in more depth, figure out exactly what it was that had John so wound up. For the time being, though, he was content to lay out the details of his latest case to John, enjoying how the other man slowly relaxed, the spark coming back into his eyes as he listened to Sherlock. At least Sherlock could do this much, help get John back into the right mood and draw him out of whatever dark thoughts he seemed to have slipped into.

But all he could think of were John's words in response to Moran's question; "Not physically, no." There were more kinds of harm, just as dangerous ones, that were not precluded by that statement. And judging from the look he'd seen in John's eyes before John dropped his veil again, that was almost certainly the case. Something hot and sick rose in Sherlock's throat when he thought about it on Friday night, lying on the couch with two nicotine patches on his arm as he thought about what John was doing at this very moment, what this possible client could do to damage someone who was usually so strong. He didn't sleep at all that night, which turned out to be a good thing because John stumbled in sometime after four, looking the worst Sherlock had ever seen him. Sherlock instantly sat up on the couch, eyes sharp as they rapidly flicked up and down John's form, trying to figure out what had happened without asking. John's clothing was disheveled, his jacket off and his tie undone, hanging loose around his neck, the top buttons of his shirt undone underneath his waistcoat. His hair was mussed as well, all of it indicating that John had slept with his client and had dressed in something of a hurry. The hurry could perhaps be explained by the fact that John looked sick, his face pallid as he slumped against the doorframe, barely able to keep himself up, hardly seeming aware of his surroundings.

"John," Sherlock said, his voice the closest it could get to fear, but John didn't look up, his eyes slipping shut instead. Sherlock was on his feet in a second, and in front of John a moment later, taking hold of the doctor's shoulders. John didn't move, and Sherlock noticed that he was breathing shallowly, and instantly commanded, "John. Open your eyes."

After a few seconds John obeyed, and Sherlock could see that though they were a little hazy with whatever was causing John to look so sick, they didn't indicate that he was under the influence of anything or had anything seriously wrong with him. But still, he seemed unable to stand up entirely by himself and there was that sick look over his features, like he was in danger of either passing out or vomiting at any second. Something in his blue eyes seemed to recognize Sherlock, and before the detective knew it John was leaning forward and resting his head on Sherlock's chest just beneath his shoulder, his eyes slipping shut again. He tried to speak, mumbling something, but Sherlock couldn't make out distinct words and he slowly maneuvered them both towards the couch, finally laying John down on it on his back and taking the other man's wrist in hand to check his pulse. Racing, but slowing back down as he took it, which was a good sign. John was still breathing shallowly but hopefully that would change with the change in his pulse, and Sherlock quickly went to the kitchen to get a glass of water before returning and sitting on the edge of the couch by John's torso, placing the glass on the floor. The other man still hadn't opened his eyes, and Sherlock placed a hand on John's shoulder and said, "John, can you hear me?"

A moment's pause, then a nod, the movement of his head altogether too small. "I'm going to take some of this off of you to make it so you can breathe more easily, alright?" Another nod.

Sherlock's quick fingers went to work, flicking open the buttons on John's waistcoat and lifting the other man enough to take it off entirely, discarding it somewhere behind him in the sitting room. The tie was pretty much off already but it went the way of the waistcoat anyway, and then he was undoing the rest of the buttons on John's shirt so he could press a hand to the other man's chest. John's pulse fluttered underneath his fingers, his chest rising and falling rapidly with the short breaths he was taking. His skin was hot to the touch, coated in a light sheen of sweat, and Sherlock felt an emotion that was extremely rare for him; panic. John was sick, John was damaged somehow, and he had absolutely no idea why he was this way and no idea how to fix it. "John," he said again, his voice slightly strained, "I need you to take deeper breaths. Can you do that for me?"

John didn't give any indication that he'd heard him, but there was a hitch in his breathing and then a slow, stuttered breath. His lungs stuttered like that for a minute, struggling to take longer breaths before finally, finally, he managed his way into a mostly normal if somewhat strained breathing pattern, and some of the panic Sherlock had been feeling faded, though his stomach clenched with anxiety when John's eyes fluttered open again.

They were much clearer now, mostly cognizant, and he seemed to have regained a little of his color though he still looked fairly sick. Sherlock offered the glass of water and he accepted, sitting up enough to drink the entire thing quickly before handing it back. Sherlock set the glass on the floor, and when he straightened up John was struggling to sit up. "John, I don't—" he tried to warn, but John was patting the couch and saying with some difficulty, "Lie down."

Slightly puzzled but more than willing to do whatever he could for the other man, Sherlock complied, lying on his back on the couch. A moment later John laid down on top of him, resting his head against Sherlock's chest and closing his eyes. It was Sherlock's turn to have his pulse race as he moved an arm to start carding fingers through John's hair, his touch soft and soothing. They lay like that for a few minutes, neither speaking, and then Sherlock asked softly, "What happened?"

John shook his head against his chest.

"John."

A moment of silence.
"My least favorite client," John said, his voice overflowing with exhaustion, resignation, and something akin to desperation.

Something tightened in Sherlock's chest, and it was an effort to ask with an even voice, "Did he hurt you?"

John nodded and Sherlock felt something wet against his chest, realizing with a start that it meant the other man was crying.
"Are you going to tell Moran?"

It took John a minute to answer, and when he did his voice was strained. "I can't. He didn't physically harm me, so there's nothing Sebastian can do."

"John, you stumbled into the flat and could barely hold yourself up, not to mention your elevated pulse and the fact that you couldn't take a full breath. If that's not physical harm, I don't know what is."
John shook his head again, and Sherlock repressed a sigh and tried again. "John, this clearly isn't healthy for you. Whatever this man is doing to you, it's causing irreparable harm."

There was no answer from John, and Sherlock realized a minute later that that was because the damaged man had fallen asleep. He continued to comb his fingers through John's hair as the other man slept, mind whirring away at the speed of light. There had to be some way to stop this, it needed to be stopped, and John certainly wasn't going to do it on his own. John…John, John, John. John, who was asleep against Sherlock's chest, John, who made his heart flutter, John, who would rather suffer stoically than admit defeat. John, who'd come home tonight and managed to both panic and scare Sherlock Holmes, something that wasn't usually easily accomplished. He had to do something about this, or he'd never forgive himself. John deserved as much.

He was surprised by a chime from John's pocket, having entirely forgotten that John even owned a mobile and that he'd deduced his relationship with Harry from it, though he did get the gender wrong. He carefully reached into John's pocket to pull it out, flicking the lock symbol up so he could read the latest message.

Hey sexy. Miss you already, same time next week? ;) xoxo –RB

RB. No doubt the mystery client from tonight that had somehow broken John. Sherlock had to restrain himself from chucking the phone across the room, instead locking it again and slipping it back into John's pocket. The urge to delete the text message from the phone was powerful, but he knew that John would be upset if he found out, and if he didn't make another appointment with the client, the fallout would make things that much worse. Jealousy was rising sickly in his stomach and he had to remind himself that RB, whoever he was, had John a night or two a week, and even then, he was only getting John's false intimacy, not anything that could be considered real. Sherlock had John here the majority of the time, had John's sincere smiles and laughs and general easy air. John didn't pretend anything with him, and they were close to the type of intimacy that John said was the real kind. And Sherlock was the one who currently had John in his arms, at the behest of the other man, no less. The thought soothed him, as did the feel of John's warmth against him, of John's chest rising and falling, and of the hair underneath his hand. RB might have John occasionally, but he certainly didn't have him like this.

And then Sherlock's eyes flew open as he realized exactly how to solve this problem. It was such a simple solution, he couldn't believe he hadn't considered it before; he would just start paying John to go to crime scenes with him. The company's policy clearly stated that the escorts didn't have to sleep with their clients, and as long as John was getting paid, what was the difference between a date and a friendly outing in their eyes? He could keep John busy enough to make sure that RB wouldn't be able to get his hands on him, John would continue to get paid, and that constricting jealousy in Sherlock's chest would disappear. Money wasn't an issue here; just because Sherlock chose not to tap into the vast Holmes family fortune didn't mean that he couldn't. This was the only reason he'd really had up until now to want to.

He didn't sleep for the rest of the night—though it was a waste of time anyway—too busy setting up appointments through email with Priapus. The escort service basically had someone available at all hours of the day and night, which made sense, considering the hours the escorts themselves kept, and so it was a small matter to start buying chunks of John Watson's time for himself, starting with next Friday night, as that seemed to be the time RB usually had free. Once that was done, he relaxed again, drawing light circles on John's back with his fingertips and listening to the other man's breathing pattern. Eventually, he knew, John was going to wake up and this lovely contact was going to end and they were going to have to have a conversation about what happened last night that John was going to fight every step of the way, but for now he could enjoy how this felt, how soft John's hair was and how his warm weight against Sherlock felt. He stayed underneath John, his hand moving between John's hair and back the entire time John stayed asleep, the other man waking up some time after nine. Not as much sleep as Sherlock wanted him to get, but he supposed it couldn't be helped; military men were so very bad at sleeping in. He supposed escorts must be as well.

John looked completely disoriented when he woke up, blue eyes blinking open languidly, only to grow confused as his brow dipped and his lips pursed in his confusion upon finding himself against his flatmate's chest, in the same clothes as the night before. Sherlock could pinpoint the exact moment when John regained himself, because John tensed against him, though he didn't make any move to get up or shift away from Sherlock. In fact, his eyes closed again, his head dropping back to Sherlock's chest. Sherlock waited patiently, knowing John needed some time to sort things out before he'd be able to speak about it. Eventually, words did come, but they weren't the ones that Sherlock had been expecting to hear.

"I'm sorry," John said after a minute of silence, his head moving slightly with Sherlock's chest at every steady inhale and slow exhale.

"What for?" Sherlock's voice was impassive, with a touch of confusion.

"For last night." John shook his head. "God, I was such a mess…"

"John, that's not something to apologize for," Sherlock said, and John didn't answer. "What happened?"

"It doesn't matter," John said, and then was startled as Sherlock sat up suddenly, forcing John up as well so he could fix the other man with an intense gaze.

"It matters to me," Sherlock said, and John seemed nearly stunned by his actions and the way he was currently looking at him.

It was a moment before John sighed, rubbing his forehead with one hand as he closed his eyes. "My least favorite client happened," he said.

"You already told me that."

"That's all you need to know."

"John."

John opened his eyes to look at Sherlock in a way that showed the full force of the aftereffects of last night; exhaustion, trepidation, and a hint of fear at the edges. Sherlock wanted to strangle RB.

"Look, it's just—" He broke off, looking away again. His voice was slightly firmer when he continued. "He didn't hurt me. I mean, I know how I was last night but he didn't…He didn't hurt me. Just exhausted me. He wanted to go at it again, and again, and again, and the things he said to me…" He shook his head.

Sherlock's eyes were sharp, focused entirely on John. "What did he say?"

John shook his head, eyes on his hands. "He does it every time. Somehow he just knows things about me, almost like you do, without asking, and he uses them against me. He must be a sadist, or a psychopath, or something, because he delights in tearing me apart, it gets him off. But he doesn't physically hurt me, and that means that I can't do anything to stop him. It doesn't matter what I do when I'm with him, he always does it anyway." He paused, and his voice was slightly strained when he continued. "And he's fine other than that. He loves to take me out on expensive dates, and he acts perfectly fine then. Puts his hand on the small of my back—" Sherlock's stomach twisted sickly "—smiles genuinely at me, seems to really enjoy my company. He pays me more than any of my other clients, and he sees me every Friday night like clockwork, and only rarely sees me other times of the week. He's given me gifts, he'll buy me evening clothes if we need to go to a specific event…but then he gets me into bed and he's an entirely different person. I want to stop seeing him but despite what Sebastian claims, we all know that'd be the end of my job." His eyes finally lifted to Sherlock's, and Sherlock saw the truth behind everything John had said, and the toll this all was taking on him. There was a silence between them, interrupted a minute later by the chime of John's mobile.

He sighed heavily before pulling it out of his pocket, unlocking it to see the message. "Fuck, I have an appointment at ten. With—Sherlock Holmes?" He looked up from his phone, brow furrowed, and Sherlock responded, "I'm going to start paying you to go to crime scenes with me. I already booked you for Friday night, your client won't be able to see you then."

John's pretty blue eyes went wide, and the corners of Sherlock's mouth lifted up slightly. "Sherlock, I can't ask you to do this for me," he said.

"You're not asking me, John, I'm doing it of my own accord," Sherlock said, and John stared at him for a minute before throwing his arms around his neck and pulling him into a tight hug. Sherlock tensed for a moment, surprised by the sudden and close contact. When he'd sufficiently recovered from his shock, he hugged John back, his pulse fluttering in his chest. So much close contact with John in such a short period of time was addictive, and he thought overdosing on this would be the greatest high he'd ever experienced.

"Thank you," John said, his voice slightly muffled against Sherlock. "I don't even know how I can pay you back for this, it's just—god, Sherlock."

"There's no need to repay anything, John. I just don't want to see you stumbling into the flat again on Friday night."

John shook his head against him and Sherlock closed his eyes, taking a moment to breathe in the scent of John—milky tea, a hint of strawberry (no doubt from his affinity with the jam), something clean and fresh and manly that was reminiscent of his body wash. It shouldn't have all worked together but it did and Sherlock had to remind himself to breathe normally so John wouldn't realize he was getting high off of the other man's scent. John was far from innocent, but he was a good man, a kind man, a wonderful man. Why anyone (or specifically RB) would want to destroy someone like that was beyond him. If there was anything that Sherlock had learned in his life, though, it was that people liked to tear apart the things that were different, that were better than them, and some people were just needlessly cruel. Whatever RB's reasons were, it was clear that he was cut from a different cloth than John, and 'got off', as John had said, on affecting the other man deeply. Creating scars in his psyche, all while taking everything he wanted from John's body and paying for it. He was paying to hurt John, in a way, and the thought made Sherlock so sick that he almost pulled back from John, but ended up holding the other man more tightly.

Finally, unfortunately, John pulled away with a smile at him, such a sense of relief in his eyes that Sherlock heart tightened as something swelled in his chest. "Cuppa?" John asked, and Sherlock nodded with a slight smile back, the other man laying a hand on his knee before getting up and going into the kitchen. Sherlock watched him discreetly, nearly choked by the amount of sentiment that this one man produced in him. John…John was a paradox. He was ordinary, but at the same time he was different from every other person that Sherlock had ever met. He was extraordinary. Fantastic. Unique. And so Sherlock was going to save him from the demon he was currently battling on his own. If the Devil was forced to stay in Hell, he couldn't torment anyone, and Sherlock certainly wasn't going to let him get his hands on anyone. Least of all John.

Sherlock noted it as John smiled nearly gleefully as he typed a message, no doubt to RB to tell him that he was unavailable this Friday night. That smile didn't fade as he continued around the kitchen, positively delighted that Sherlock was helping. That Sherlock even wanted to help in the first place. Sherlock smiled at the sight, though it was dampened some by the fact that John was still in his clothes from the night before, though he'd rebuttoned his shirt when he stood up from the couch. Maybe that was why Sherlock liked John's jumpers and button-ups so much; his expensive clothes were a relic from his other life, another sign of all the people, including RB, who had a stake on John's time, had some piece of him for themselves when they were willing to pay for it. Sherlock wanted to burn all of his evening clothes, but John probably wouldn't appreciate that. Oh well. For now he'd just have to be satisfied with the fact that now, John's Friday nights no longer belonged to RB. Sherlock had them now, and that meant that he could spend more time with John, and that was rapidly becoming a priority.

xxx

Sebastian Moran was not prepared for Jim Moriarty to come breezing into his office, but as soon as he did he was on his feet, standing almost at attention but stopping short of saluting his boss.

"Jim, didn't know you were coming in today," he said, but Jim didn't even give him a faux smile, and that was a terrible sign. Jim didn't say anything, in fact, merely wandering around the office, looking at the sparse, modern decorations Seb had put up. Sebastian stayed standing, a sign of respect that wouldn't do him any fucking good if Jim was in as ill a temper as he seemed to be.

"Seb," Jim started after a few minutes, still looking at the silkscreen, redesigned movie poster for Psycho that was on Sebastian's wall, "why is it that every time I've tried to book John Watson for the past three weeks, he's been unavailable?"

Ah, fuck. Yes, his mood was just as bad as Sebastian had predicted. Maybe worse. "Someone else has been booking every Friday night with him a week or two ahead of time. Sir."

Jim's dark eyes went to his, and Sebastian tried not to shiver. Jim was fucking scary in this mood. Not that he wasn't scary normally; but usually that threat was masked by a layer of enthusiastic smiles and a sing-song lilt and pet names. "Who?" he asked, still unsmiling. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

"Sherlock Holmes," Sebastian said, and there was that delighted smile that Jim could just pop back into.

"The Iceman's little brother?" Sebastian nodded. "Ohhhh, I never thought the Virgin would be the type. At least he's not trying to destroy my business like his posh brother." He sniffed.

Sebastian hesitated a moment. "He's not paying to take him out on dates. He's paying him to visit crime scenes with him. They're flatmates already."

Jim started giggling, and the line of Sebastian's shoulders relaxed slightly. "Oh, that's darling," Jim said, smiling gleefully. "The poor, lonely detective paying to keep his friendship. Dear me, Mr. Holmes, dear me." Suddenly his eyes turned sharp, but they were focused on the poster, not on Seb. "But John must have told him what night to book." He made a slight face. "How sad, that Johnny boy doesn't want to see me. Though I suppose I did do quite the number on him the last time we saw each other." Sebastian remembered that week very well; three blackmailing operations shut down by Mycroft Holmes and the loss of one of their Preferred Escorts who had apparently been using her entire salary on cocaine and had finally had a tad bit too much. It had been a hell of a week for Jim and anyone who dared to upset him, so Sebastian wasn't really surprised that Jim had destroyed his favorite form of stress relief. He knew from his conversations with John that Jim was already bad enough during an ordinary week, and no doubt that was multiplied tenfold when Jim had a hellish week like that one. He almost felt sorry for the man. Of course, John also didn't actually know who he was sleeping with. Richard Brook was quite the convenient alias.

"Is this Friday booked already?" Jim asked, his gaze focused on Seb again.
Sebastian opened up the schedule on his computer, looking at it for a minute before shaking his head. "It's Saturday, he usually books it on Sunday. Probably because you try to book it on Mondays."

"Book him, now," Jim ordered, and Sebastian nodded and put it into the computer before picking up his mobile to text John. "I want you to put surveillance on John Watson and Sherlock Holmes, and I want their address. I believe I owe Sherlock a visit."

xxx

Sherlock saw it coming. He knew what was going to happen as soon as John received the text, his face falling and going pale as he read it. RB had managed to secure him for this Friday night, and he wasn't happy about this entire situation. Which meant that a visit was to be expected. Excellent, he could meet the monster in person.

"Sherlock, I—"

"I know, John. It's alright."

"No, it's not him. I have a meeting with Jim Moriarty, the head of the company."

Oh. That was unexpected. Though, he supposed, also logical. John was very good for business, and if RB wasn't getting what he wanted, the company was in danger of losing their most valuable client. And this certainly didn't bode well for John.

"It'll be alright, John," Sherlock assured, and the other man looked at him with a trust in his eyes, a sliver of hope that he could believe his words.

But it wasn't alright, because John was shaking slightly and leaning against the back of his chair for support. They'd had three perfect weeks with this plan, and now was the time to see who would win out; RB, or Sherlock. The meeting between Jim Moriarty and Sherlock that Sherlock expected wasn't quite what he'd anticipated, and it wasn't really a meeting at all. It was the battle that would determine the outcome of the war. And Sherlock couldn't afford to lose it, solely for John's sake.

The days leading up to Friday were more subdued than usual, John's typically brilliant light shining just a little dimmer. Sherlock slipped up on a case and a murderer nearly got away, Lestrade watching both Sherlock and John afterwards as if he knew that there was something darker going on. But he didn't try to ask Sherlock anything, and though he talked to John Sherlock knew that the doctor wouldn't give a single thing away because he didn't want anyone else to see the weakness that lay underneath the stoicism. Sherlock had only been allowed to see it because—well, partially because John couldn't hide much from him, but mostly because he'd caught John in a moment of weakness when he couldn't hide it anymore. This was only between the three of them, though Jim represented a fourth; John, Sherlock, and RB, and this Friday would determine the outcome.

When Friday did come, John came downstairs in a well-cut evening suit, black with a white shirt and electric blue tie with a pocket square to match. He looked great in it, and Sherlock's chest went painfully tight. RB didn't deserve to see John like this. RB didn't deserve the effort John was putting into this. RB didn't deserve John at all. And yet he could very well get him again John paused in the sitting room, fixing his tie in the mirror and taking breaths in through his nose and out through his mouth.

"Alright?" Sherlock asked from his position standing by the couch, voice even despite the way his stomach was roiling at the moment.

John gave a smile, just a twist of his lips with no humor in it. "As alright as I'm going to be." He paused, smoothing his lapels unnecessarily. "He's not going to be happy."

"I know."

"I might not be alright when I come back."

"I'll be here."

John nodded, eyes flicking to Sherlock's reflection in the mirror before going back to his own reflection. He took another deep breath and then turned, offering a slight smile to Sherlock before moving to the door, pausing at it and turning to the detective. "Thank you. For trying for me."

Sherlock wanted to say that he would do anything for John, that he was just upset that he couldn't do more, that he was going to try to fix this, but nothing would come out, something constricting painfully around his heart. So instead he nodded, and John paused, then nodded as well and left. And Sherlock had to put a hand to his own wrist to make sure his pulse wasn't fast enough to warrant a hospital trip. No, everything hurt, but he was fine. So he went to the kitchen, and set about making tea. It wasn't long before the step in the hall and the creak of the stairs, and then Jim Moriarty was standing in his living room with a look of slight distaste and an apple in his hand, dressed to kill in a beige suit that spoke of wealth and good taste.

Sherlock smiled slightly at him, a polite distance in it. "I don't believe we've had the pleasure," he said, and Jim smiled, an off kilter expression that told Sherlock that he wasn't dealing with someone normal or entirely stable.

"Jim Moriarty. Hiiii!" The last word was a lilted sing-song, and Sherlock's expression didn't waver. "And you're the famous Sherlock Holmes. World class consulting detective, or so I'm told. How's your brother?"

Of course, Jim would have more than one illegal operation and Mycroft would be involved in going after all of them. "I wouldn't know, I discourage him from dropping by as much as possible." Jim smiled at this, and Sherlock said politely, "Please, have a seat," and gestured to John's chair. Jim immediately sat in what was considered Sherlock's chair. Power play.

"Tea?" Sherlock asked.

"Please," Jim said, both of them adopting faux politeness that barely covered the animosity under the surface. Jim, he could already tell, was more like him than he'd like to admit. Of a different caliber, a higher intellect. It nearly excited him at the same time as it made him realize that this was quite possibly the worst person that John could be caught by.

He served Jim tea and sat in John's chair with his own, both of them taking obligatory sips before setting their cups down. Jim was left-handed—not an important detail, but one noted all the same. "To what do I owe this pleasure?" Sherlock asked after a moment of silence that Jim clearly wasn't going to break. "I was informed that you have a meeting with John."

Jim waved a hand dismissively after putting his cup down from taking another sip of his tea. "John won't spoil if I keep him waiting for a little while. Heightens the suspense." He smiled at Sherlock, a sick pleasure in it, and then put his tea down on the side table, taking a knife out of his pocket and picking up the apple before turning to face Sherlock again. "I'm here to give you a friendly warning…my dear. Back off." He paused a moment, the smile sliding off his lips as easily as it had popped up. "I own John Watson. I could fuck him any day of the week and he'd be happy to do it because pleasing the boss gets you ahead." The innuendo wasn't lost on Sherlock, though he didn't provide a reaction to it. "I could make him my personal courtesan if I really wanted to, because John and I speak the same language, the one you never bothered to learn." He crossed his legs one over the other, eyes positively burning as he looked at Sherlock. "You, the Virgin, have nothing to offer him. But me?" A smile spread over his lips, as thin and sharp as a knife's edge. "I'm Mr. Sex. I can make all of his fantasies come true. So back off, before someone gets hurt."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed slightly as he parsed Jim's words for the double meaning he knew was present, then suddenly opened fully again as he came to a realization. "You're John's mystery client. 'RB'."

Jim smiled, cutting into his apple with the knife, his eyes on his movements while Sherlock's eyes were on him. "Every fairytale needs a good old-fashioned villain. And I need John."

"Why?" was Sherlock's question, the word fired out a second after Jim's words.

"Because we're just alike, you and I. Except you're boring. You're on the side of the angels." His nose wrinkled slightly as this. "But you're not ordinary, neither of us are. John makes us feel normal. John makes us feel wanted. And he makes us better." He put a slice of apple in his mouth, chewing it over before he continued, "Everyone else that works for me is the same. 'Daddy loves me best!', aren't ordinary people adorable? John doesn't sit at my feet like a good little lap-dog and pant every time I look at him. No, John sees what's underneath and shies away until I coax him back."

He paused to take another slice of apple from the edge of his knife, and Sherlock's brow furrowed slightly. "What is it all for?"

"How hard do you find it, having to say 'I don't know'?"

"I dunno," Sherlock said, turning to place his cup and saucer on the side table.

"Oh, that's clever, that's very clever," Jim said with a slight smile. "Is it the naivety or the abstinence that makes it so hard for you to understand my motives?"

"Neither, it's an absence of sadism."

Jim smiled, looking down at his apple as he peeled out another sliver. "I want John. He's the least boring ordinary person I've met, and it's oh so fun to strip him down to bones in bed. He always manages to clear my mind." He paused with the knife at his mouth, smiling madly at Sherlock. "You could say he's my muse." The apple piece went into his mouth, though he paused in the middle of eating it with a contemplative look. "It must be so fun, having him here every day. If I were you, I would have christened every inch of this flat already. Want to know what he's like in bed?" Jim asked, his eyes flicking back to Sherlock's, the smile back.

He was met with an icy stare, and Jim said somewhat mournfully, "No, I suppose not. It's a shame; I'm sure if you'd had him you would understand why I want him better. Though you wouldn't be able to take full advantage anyway. Wouldn't be able to see that lovely little heartbroken expression he makes when you take a stab at what happened in his childhood. It's delicious, the way he moans in pleasure at the same time as he breaks inside. Addictive, even." He smiled again and Sherlock's face remained impassive despite the fact that he'd passed the point from sickness into burning anger and it was taking some effort to keep his breathing even. And to not take the knife out of Jim's hand and see what it would look like when blood spread across the front of that suit. Luckily Jim's eyes were off of him, focused on the apple in his hands as he simply played with it with his knife, abandoning eating it.

"But it's not my decision to make," he said after a moment, and then pouted slightly. "And Johnny boy doesn't seem to want to play with me anymore. But he's going to have to choose, Sherlock, and I'm afraid I'll have the last word with him." He looked up to smile at Sherlock, and then stuck the knife through the apple and placed it next to his abandoned tea before standing. Sherlock rose as well, buttoning the single button at the front of his suit jacket, and he was about to speak when a sound interrupted.

Let's have some fun

This beat is sick

I wanna take a ride on your disco stick

"So sorry," Jim said, pulling his mobile from his pocket and answering it with, "Yes, Seb?" A pause. "I'll be there soon." He hung up and put it away again, turning to smile at Sherlock. "Johnny boy's waiting for me, I'm afraid. Thank you for the tea." And there was that false politeness again, even though he'd basically just admitted to emotional and psychological abuse of the man that Sherlock was in love with and who he was on his way to fuck into a mattress again. But Sherlock smiled back, icy as it was, and Jim moved to the door as Sherlock said slowly, "Catch you later."

"No you won't!" Jim sang, and then he was gone, and Sherlock was left looking after where he'd disappeared to. After a minute he went to pick up Jim's discarded apple, turning it to see that he'd carved the initials 'JM + JW' into it like a preteen drawing hearts on their binder.

xxx

Most people liked to pretend not to have favorites. Jim openly admitted to it. Seb was a favorite because he'd been with Jim from the beginning, helped him shape his enterprises into what they were today. Irene was a favorite, which was why he'd given her her very own branch of the company, an exclusive side business that he didn't collect profits from in return for blackmail material. And John Watson was certainly a favorite, because he was special. Most people held Jim's interest for a night, a few days, maybe a week or two, but that was all. John had passed all of those mile marks and continued on, continuing to further entertain Jim every time he saw him. John quieted the turmoil of Jim's mind and enhanced his abilities, making him better at what he did, better in general. And he was oh so very fun to tear apart. If Jim had a bad week—or if he had a good week and wanted to celebrate—one little trip was all it took to turn his mood around. Because Johnny was so pretty when he cried, and a tiger in bed. So of course he saw the same appeal that Sherlock Holmes saw. That also meant that he very much was not prepared to give John up. And he knew that he could keep him.

It was obvious from the moment that Jim walked into the hotel suite that John had had no idea about his double identity. His face went slack with shock, his eyes widening as his mouth tried to form words. Jim paused in front of where he was sitting at the foot of the bed, smiling encouragingly as he waited for the other man to regain the ability to speak.

"R-Richard," John stuttered, and Jim shook his head and tsked.

"I'm afraid I haven't been entirely honest with you, Johnny boy," he said. "I had to lie to you to avoid a potentially difficult situation. My real name is Jim Moriarty, and I own Priapus Services."

John's face went pale, and Jim waved him away when he opened his mouth to speak again. "Yes, I know, I know, you're sorry, you had no idea it was me, you have no idea what to say. It's all alright, Johnny boy. I'm sure you can understand why revealing that I've been tasting my own merchandise would be bad for the company." He paused long enough for John to nod, still looking somewhat dazed, and his smile widened. He paced slowly for a minute in front of John, rubbing his mouth with one hand, the smile staying fixed on in a way that seemed to unsettle John. "You've been avoiding me, Johnny boy," he finally said, a touch of reproach in his voice and a slight pout on his lips as he stopped again in front of John.

"I've been busy," John said, his face set in a certain grim determination. Oh, so he was going to be difficult tonight, how fun! Sherlock must have really done a number on him.

Jim put his hands into his pockets, stretching his neck to either side before turning that fixed smile back on John. John restrained himself from recoiling. "But you're mine tonight. You can leave, but you won't get paid. So what will you do, John? Willing to play for one last night?"

And there was this lovely fear in John's eyes, a variation of trepidation that Jim delighted in bringing out in him. Those blue eyes looked lovely when frightened, and even better when the stoic little soldier was trying not to cry. Finally, though, Jim's prediction was proved correct when John nodded, a short, confirming, no doubt military motion.

Jim smiled broadly; this was the fun part. "Take off your jacket," he ordered, and John complied, tossing it onto the nearest chair. He slipped his legs apart slightly as Jim moved to the edge of the bed, standing between them and leaning down to kiss him, starting to undo his tie with slow fingers that showed the same patience his lips did as they methodically worked against John's, his tongue darting out to just barely touch John's lips before retreating back again. He took his time before drawing his tongue along John's bottom lip, John's mouth instantly slipping open on instinct, and then it was a matter of slow, long sweeps, dominating but not particularly harsh until he managed to coax John into reciprocating, as reluctant as the other man seemed tonight. The poor dear was probably still a little dazed from realizing he'd been fucking the owner of the company he worked for for months. Well, Jim was about to kiss it and make it better.

The tie was haphazardly discarded somewhere behind him on the floor, and Jim broke off the kiss as he began to unbutton John's shirt. John, seeming to remember his role in this, starting laying kisses in neat rows along the line of Jim's jaw, his lips soft and the contact itself light, nearly teasing.

"Do you know why people like you so much, Johnny boy?" Jim asked, and John's lips paused at the juncture of his neck and jaw. He shook his head, just slightly, and then continued on his way down Jim's throat. "Because you don't make them feel like they're buying a whore." Jim cast a glance down to see John's expression at this, but the other man was determinedly burying himself in his 'work' to avoid the conversation. Jim finished with the buttons and slipped the shirt off with John's help, revealing the doctor's tanned, relatively muscular frame. It made Jim lick his lips, thinking once again that all of this was just his for the taking and he could play as much as he liked. John reached for Jim's jacket, no doubt to reciprocate the undressing, but Jim caught his hand, waggling his finger at him. John dropped his hands to the bed, and Jim ordered, "Lie back." John obeyed, his legs still bent over the edge of the bed but his back against the mattress. "Really," Jim continued as his fingers worked at John's belt buckle, "it's because you make them feel normal. You don't remind them that you're an escort at all. They see you as an ordinary, attainable person. Someone who they could actually have, if they wanted to. They don't feel bad about buying you, and they don't feel like they're paying for sex." His fingers moved to the button and zip. "So they don't see you as a whore. But Sherlock Holmes always will." Ah, finally, a change in Johnny boy's countenance, if a small one. Just a subtle shift of the eyes, but Jim caught it instantly. He smiled, pulling off John's trousers and revealing the pants underneath. "Ooh, I quite like those, Johnny boy." They were the next to go, discarded with the rest of John's clothing across the room. "Sherlock, poor, dear, virgin Sherlock, knows exactly what you are, pet, just like I do. He thinks that your life is something to be rescued from. Something you're running away from. But the people who promise to help you run away never do, do they?"

He motioned for John to scoot up the bed so his feet were flat on it, his knees bent. He reached over to the dresser for the bottle of lube waiting there with an unopened condom that he didn't need quite yet, and noticed John's face falling from the corner of his eye. Ohhh, hopefully he could actually bring out tears tonight. The only time he'd gotten John to actually start crying, rather than just have tears welling up, was on their first night together when John wasn't prepared for the demon Jim hid under affection and expensive dates. And the affection itself wasn't really false. He enjoyed having John on his arm, enjoyed the casual touches and easy smiles that he exchanged with the other man as if they were actually dates and not escort and employer. John made everyone he took out feel as if it was all real, and Jim was no exception. John provided him with a normalcy he couldn't find anywhere else, and Jim found it addictive. But as soon as the bedroom doors were closed, the monster worked itself out again and he found the other kind of high he needed in bringing a grown man, a soldier, to his knees with just the force of his words.

He paused when he turned back to John, putting on a mask of faux sympathy. "I'm sorry, honey, did that remind you of bad past experiences?" he asked, and when John insisted on playing stoic—which he should have learned by now would do worse than nothing for him—he focused on slicking up his fingers instead. John's legs instantly slipped wider from muscle memory, and when Jim leaned over him between them to put his free hand supporting his weight next to John's waist, the other man tilted his hips up slightly. Aside from the fact that John looked beyond distraught but not quite desperate, and that he had absolutely no signs of arousal, he did look so ready for it, an eager little whore. That was another reason Jim like John so much; aside from the last time they'd seen each other, when John had thrown his clothes on in a hurry and stumbled his way out of the room on shaky legs, John never broke character. "Like lovely Sarah Sawyer?" Jim asked, sliding his hand underneath John and seeking out the tight ring of muscle he was interested in, slipping the tip of a finger inside as soon as he found it. John didn't even flinch, any reaction to discomfort automatically suppressed by now. Besides, he would presumably prefer the physical discomfort to the words that were far more damaging and flowed so easily from Jim's lips. "Didn't she promise you so many things? She seemed so committed, so interested, and then she lost interest, grew tired of you, and moved on." He was starting to slowly work John open, his finger moving gently, coaxingly, the tenderness a contrast to what he was saying. "Or who was it, sweet Mary Morstan? Wasn't she going to take you away from all of this? 'Rescue you'? And then she was gone, and you were left to cry on my shoulder because everyone abandons you in the end." These last words were said in a tone layered with false pity and feigned melancholy, and Jim delighted in the way he could see the effect of his words on John, those pretty azure eyes losing more and more of their determination. Better, though, was the slight hitch in John's breathing as Jim's finger brushed against something vital, and Jim smiled and moved his finger back again. The next breath was a slight gasp, and though John was doing his damnedest to fight it, his body was beginning to stir as a result of Jim's ministrations. Jim took that as his cue to lick his free hand thoroughly before wrapping his fingers around John's length. His strokes were light, teasing at first, and that combined with the gentle contact with John's prostate finally managed to entice the other man into the arousal Jim was looking for. Smirking, Jim removed his hand from John's cock and used it to brace his weight by John's waist again, one knee going up on the bed between John's legs so he could lean in close, adding a second finger as he did so, John's hips shifting slightly, uncomfortably, beneath him. "Sherlock is just the same," he whispered in the ear of the man trapped beneath him, his fingers continuing their slow, methodical work. He didn't mind that it took this long to work John open properly; no, it gave him time with a clear head to fully savor the other man's expressions and slow descent into hopelessness, all while slowly working himself up until he was nearly aching with lust. "Worse, even, because he's a genius. He'll get bored of you, Johnny boy. He'll take what he wants from you and leave you, just like everyone else does."

"Sherlock—" a gasp here as Jim's fingers twisted "—doesn't want to sleep with me."

"Oh, sweetheart," Jim said in his best 'aren't you adorably sad for misunderstanding this' voice, pulling back to look at John with a sympathetic look. "That doesn't mean he doesn't want something from you. He wants your companionship, your friendship. But what about when he stops? When he decides he's bored with you and acts as icy towards you as he does towards everyone else? Sweetie, he's going to break your poor little heart."

There was already a hint of broken heartedness in John's gaze, a terrible sadness in the form of old insecurities that Jim was scratching at to make them bleed. It was wonderful, to see the sadness written across his face even as his body was expressing its interest. Jim enhanced the contrast with a few hard thrusts with his fingers at just the right angle, earning a keening cry from John, caught unawares as he was by the motion and without enough time to suppress his reactions. Jim smiled, leaning back down to kiss along John's jaw, enjoying the warmth of the doctor's skin and the slight flutter of his pulse under his lips. He added a third finger, enjoying the fleeting look of discomfort across John's features that the doctor didn't quite catch in time.

When John recovered, though, it was obvious that he still had some fight left in him. Jim would have to break him of that, though the slowly building smolder in his lower abdomen was making him somewhat impatient. "Sherlock isn't like that. He doesn't get anything out of helping me," John said, and Jim giggled slightly, John's brow furrowing at the reaction.

He patted John's cheek affectionately before his lips slipped down to the doctor's neck, teeth nipping at a patch of skin before sucking a rather dark, enthusiastic mark. John moaned, unable to stop the reaction when he was still being teased by Jim's fingers, his body adjusting to whatever Jim gave him, and Jim took it as a sign to continue in his path down John's chest, biting and sucking and kissing where he pleased.

"You're lucky you're cute," he said against John's skin, his voice a low, nearly dangerous purr. "Everybody does something for a reason, Johnny boy, with your job you should know that. Sherlock gets your attention in return for helping you, gets to hear you say sweet things and smile at him. He's paying for your affection, just like he's another one of your clients. And just like all of them, once he's bored he'll move on." Jim looked up from where he'd been kissing each of John's individual ribs. "It's not your fault, dearest. You can't give a heart to a man who doesn't have one. But you can stop trying to before you get your own broken." His mouth trailed back up, pausing to take one of John's nipples into his mouth to suck on it. A gasp escaped from John's mouth as his back arched up off the bed automatically, eager to press his chest against Jim's mouth in an effort to get him to continue. Instead, Jim nipped lightly, enjoying the shudder that ran through John, and moved back up again to write his ownership of John on his neck with his tongue and teeth and mouth, another dark mark against his skin left for Sherlock to see. He thrust his fingers into John, twisting them slightly as he tested to see how stretched the other man was, and was rewarded with a slight groan and the movement of John's hips back against his hand. Jim smirked as John bit back a whine when he removed his fingers, and laid a kiss on John's Adam apple before pulling back entirely, standing at the foot of the bed again. He beckoned to John, crooking his fingers, and John sat up and shifted forward to raise himself up on his knees on top of the mattress, obeying the unspoken command to undress Jim, fingers working at the other man's tie first. Jim always preferred to wait until John was aroused as well to have the man undress him, because it was the only way to make it feel genuine, to be sure that John wanted Jim as much as Jim wanted him.

"You see, John, most people think that I only think in the form of numbers, in terms of revenue and income and profits," Jim said as John stripped him of his jacket. "But I run a business that's entirely dependent on people, and so I think much more about human interactions, human nature. I've seen people like Sherlock Holmes before. Well, not exactly like him, the man is a teensy bit one of a kind, but the same in regards to you. They want affection, they want love instead of sex, but they treat it the same way all clients do. To them, you're an object, a desire." John's fingers paused halfway through Jim's shirt buttons, and then slowly continued. "It doesn't matter what they want from you, they all want something. And once they have it…well, Johnny boy, there's a reason most people don't stick around long."

John had just finished pulling off Jim's shirt but he pushed him away now, much to Jim's surprise. The doctor's face was determined, certainly, with a touch of animosity, but there was still that lovely hidden heartbreak just under the surface of his gaze. Gorgeous. "Then what do you want from me?" John asked, the words nearly accusatory. "You've been seeing me for far longer than any of my other clients and here you are again, doing the same things as always, only now I know you're my boss and not just another client. What do you want from me and how can I give it to you so you'll stop doing this?"

Oh god. Jim felt an insistent tug in his groin at the same time as an absurdly pleased smile spread over his lips. Just when he thought this was going to be too easy, John pushed back against him, and not very gently.

Jim leaned forward in response, fingers winding themselves through John's blonde hair as he kissed him heatedly, knowing it was a concentrated effort of will for John to not pull away. He kept up the near assault of John's mouth for a minute before breaking off and nuzzling along the side of John's face to his ear. "I want you," he breathed, and the shiver that worked its way down John's spine was absolutely delicious. "I want all of you to myself, Johnny boy. I want to make you permanently mine. I want to be able to fuck you into oblivion whenever I please, I want you to tell me I'm fantastic and brilliant and special, I want you to do that wonderful thing you do where you enhance my genius without even meaning to. You're special, John. And I want to keep you." Jim, at his very heart, was just like John's other clients, only much more honest about it. John was also an object to him, a desire, a pet. Something pretty to be kept and shown off. He needed what John provided, and that was why he had chased off every other client who tried to take John away. Oh yes, it was really all too easy. A few of the right words to someone like Sarah or Mary was all it took to make sure they left permanently. Sherlock Holmes, however, could not be that easily dissuaded, and so Jim had to try to get John to be the one to leave for once. Because Jim never lost something that belonged to him, and John was his. "I can offer you so many things, John, more than Sherlock ever could. What does he have to offer you? Oh, he's brilliant, and certainly very pretty, but he's nothing like you. You're ordinary, and he'll grow bored with you, or become thoroughly disgusted with you because of your profession and your natural urges." To demonstrate that point, Jim's hand slipped forward to take hold of John again, and though they were in the middle of a serious discussion and John was a tad upset, his body couldn't discriminate against the touch and those lovely pink lips parted in a gasp when Jim began to stroke him. Jim's breath was hot against John's ear as he continued, "I can give you anything and everything you want, love. Everything you've ever dreamed of. And all you have to do is be mine."

John opened his mouth, maybe to try and speak, maybe to just gasp more, but Jim cut him off with a bruising kiss, not allowing him a chance to answer. "I don't want—" another firm crush of their lips that was technically 'chaste' but still filthy "—an answer now. Later," Jim ordered, and then he was drowning in John Watson as he put his hands on either side of the former soldier's face and kissed him for all he was worth, his tongue dominating every inch of John's mouth until John couldn't help but kiss back, caught up in the sensation Jim was producing. John's hands found their way to Jim's belt buckle as the kiss continued, and Jim gave an appreciative groan as the other man managed to get his belt and trousers undone. He pushed John back on the bed to entirely remove his trousers and pants, then crawled up it to reach John, settling comfortably between the smaller man's legs as John dragged his face up needily for another kiss, Jim unable to stop himself from smirking against John's lips at the fact that the other man was finally giving in to sensation and surrendering as he was supposed to to Jim. That smirk evaporated as John ground his hips up against Jim, reminding him that they had much more important things to do than kiss. He fumbled around with his hand behind him, John's hand on the back of his neck preventing him from pulling away from the kiss he was too involved in to want to break anyway, and finally found the bottle of lube he'd discarded earlier.

"Condom," John reminded in between kisses, and Jim groaned and broke away long enough to retrieve one, tearing the package open with his teeth and quickly rolling it on, John watching with his chest moving quickly, his breathing labored on the edge of panting. Jim quickly slicked himself up, resisting the urge to continue that wonderful friction his hand provided, knowing he had something much better waiting for him. Finally, he was turning back to John and John was spreading his legs wide for him, and then Jim stopped, pulling up short as he changed his mind, much to John's confusion. He pulled John away from the headboard and sat up with his back against it, beckoning John over. John's confusion cleared and he quickly straddled Jim's lap, positioning his hips over Jim's length, his hands bracing his weight against the headboard as Jim placed his hands on either side of his hips. Slowly, slowly—and fucking finally—John lowered himself down onto Jim, Jim moaning at each millimeter of searing hot flesh he gained until John was seated flush against him, making a face of discomfort as he tried to adjust, and Jim was trying to remember how to breathe. "God," he finally managed to get out, because speaking distracted him from the fact that he wanted to thrust up into that delicious heat right now and couldn't because John wasn't ready yet. "Been keeping it tight for Daddy, huh, Johnny boy?"

John didn't answer and Jim's hand wrapped around his length again, causing a pronounced hitch in his breathing, though Jim merely kept his hand there, refusing to move it until John said, "O-Of course, Rich—Jim, anything for you." Anything else he might have said transformed into a groan as Jim drew his hand up slowly in reward, stroking the doctor almost lazily. John's head fell forward, onto one of the arms that was bracing his weight against the headboard, and as soon as his hips started moving up into Jim's hand, making him rock back on Jim's cock, Jim took it as an invitation to roll his hips up into John.

"Come on pet," he panted, his hips in a tortuously slow rhythm against John, "you can do better than this."

"So can you," John retorted, and Jim giggled, causing a grin to appear on John's lips.

"Better like this?" Jim asked, changing the angle of his hips and thrusting up again, and John fell forward against him, arms wrapping tightly around Jim's neck in a gesture of need that had Jim thrusting up faster and harder at the same angle, careful to aim for the same bulls-eye as John made the most delicious noises and whined against him until Jim took pity and began to pump him with his hand, bringing the man panting to the very edge, only to stop at the last second, thrusting again in a way that had John keening and gripping at the back of Jim's neck.

"What is it, love?" Jim purred, or at least purred as well as he could when the heat stretched tight in his abdomen was on the verge of snapping entirely.

"Please, god, Jim," John begged, and it was that final admission of need that caused Jim to push them both back so John was flat against the bed on his back, Jim positioned between his legs still. His hips and hand moved with the same frenetic energy, and he hardly noticed when John climaxed, coating his stomach and Jim's hand, because he was too busy riding the aftershocks of an orgasm that left him wracked and nearly senseless, all rational thought ceasing as he slumped against John. He became aware, after a minute, of John's fingertips brushing through the hairs at the nape of his neck, and oh thank god for John Watson. It didn't matter that Jim had torn him apart before this, the other man was still affectionate as always and knew just what to do for Jim. Another reason to keep him.

They lay there for a few minutes, both catching their breath, and then Jim patted John's arm and got up to get a washcloth from the bathroom. Once they were both cleaned up and the appropriate items either discarded or put away, Jim found John waiting for him with the covers pulled up to his waist, the doctor already knowing what Jim would want now. It was a beautiful system between them, now that they'd seen each other enough times to understand how the other worked. Intimacy, was what Jim would call it. Jim climbed under the covers to join him, John automatically shifting down so he could put his head on Jim's chest, curling closer to Jim as he lay down. Usually Jim wasn't into the whole 'cuddling' and 'afterglow' bit, but John was different. It was the same way he enjoyed having John on his arm; it was like he belonged that way, like they were both normal, like he belonged to Jim. And there was no one else Jim would rather own. He put one arm around John, toying with some of his blonde hair as John closed his eyes, evidently ready to go to sleep so he could avoid facing the reality of what had happened and the truth of Jim's words.

"You think I don't care about you," Jim said after a few minutes of silence, and he could feel the sigh that John just barely didn't let out.

John didn't open his eyes. "Can you blame me?"

Jim made an equivocating face that John couldn't see, knowing he couldn't really argue with that point. John didn't exactly have any reason to trust Jim, and even less to think Jim cared about him. Well, every possession required proper care and maintenance. "Then why do you think I'm fighting so hard to keep you?" he asked, and John didn't respond. "I want something more real than this with you."

"No you don't. You want the me that you see every time we're together, you don't want the real version of me. You don't even know that version of me," John said.

"Oh, Johnny boy," Jim said with a soft chuckle, "I've seen much more of the real you than Sherlock ever has. I've laid out all your insecurities and flaws out every time I see you. Has Sherlock seen those? Does he know about all the things you hide from him?" John didn't answer, though his fist was clenched against Jim's chest, and Jim's voice dropped down to an almost conspiratorial whisper. "I've seen everything you hide, sweetheart, all the darkness underneath the surface, and I love it. You'd scare Sherlock away if you ever let him see the other side of John Watson, the one that thrives on the danger and pain I give you." He leaned over to brush his lips against the top of John's head, his breath stirring the soft blonde hairs there. "You could never show that part of yourself to him. But me? I delight in that streak of masochism you won't admit to. So who really knows you better? Me, or Sherlock Holmes?"

John didn't answer for a minute, the only sound his breathing, carefully controlled to be soft and slow, though Jim could detect a hitch just before the other man spoke. "Okay," he said, and a thrill went through Jim. "I'll do it. I'll…be yours."

"Good boy," Jim purred, pressing a kiss to the top of John's head, John rewarding him with an affectionate nuzzle against his chest. It was really the best choice for John, in Jim's mind, and not just because he wanted John. Jim was an extremely powerful man, and there was more than one way to get what he wanted, many that required less effort than tonight had and that would scare John into submission much more easily. Though, of course, those could always be back-up plans in case John decided to stretch the leash Jim intended to have him on from now on.

John's breathing began to slow down gently, until Jim was sure that the doctor was asleep against his chest; another sign of trust, that John could fall asleep with Jim even though the other man wasn't exactly the kindest to him. At least not in bed. Content, self-satisfied, and more than a little triumphant, Jim let his eyes slip shut, his own usually elusive sleep easier to catch with the warm weight of John curled against him, silky blonde hair against his chest and his hand on John's waist. Jim fell asleep with John Watson in his arms, and when he woke up, he was alone.

A destroyed hotel room and a few calls later, forces were being set into motion that Jim couldn't stop even if he wanted to. And oh, until he had John back, he wasn't going to stop them.

Sherlock Holmes was going to BURN for this.

xxx

"Where is he?"

"Asleep."

"In your room, I presume?"

"…"

A sigh. "The next time you feel the urge to endanger yourself, perhaps try to avoid stealing from the most dangerous man in London."

"It's not stealing. John isn't some possession, he isn't owned by anyone."

"No, just rented out on many an occasion, I'm afraid."

"Mycroft."

Another sigh. "I'll do what I can, Sherlock. But if Jim Moriarty truly wants John, he will find a way to have him. And I will not allow you to get caught in the crossfire."

"Good day, Mycroft."

Finally, Mycroft moved to the door, swinging his brolly slightly as he did so. He paused, turning back to Sherlock, and Sherlock resisted—barely—the urge to throw something at him to make him leave entirely. The sympathetic look that his brother was giving him, eyebrows drawn together and lifted slightly, wasn't making it any easier to resist that urge. "Never fall in love with a prostitute, Sherlock. It always ends badly." His voice teetered on the line between sympathetic and admonishing. "Jealousy, I'm sure you know, will drive you mad." And then he was gone, and Sherlock threw a book at the door to let Mycroft know exactly how he felt about this little visit. After a few minutes muttering about 'cake eating bastard's, he stole into his bedroom, pausing in the doorway to look at the small man under his covers. John looked so peaceful like this, the perpetual worried wrinkles lining his face smoothed out, safe from the rest of the world that appeared to be trying to destroy him. He looked much better than he had when he came home last night, nearly in tears and unable to hide his fear, falling against Sherlock when the other man sprang up from where he'd nervously been waiting on the couch. At that point, Sherlock's arms wrapped around him, John had finally let himself cry, saying in between hitching breaths and sobs that made his voice rough that he was sorry, that he didn't know what to do, that Jim had—Jim had—it'd taken him a few minutes to finally get out the words. Jim had tried to buy his love and affection, nearly threatened him if he didn't give in, and John had had to trick him just to leave. And he wouldn't tell Sherlock the things that Jim had said to him, but with the way that John looked at him as if he was in danger of disappearing, Sherlock could guess for himself. No doubt Jim had ripped away at insecurities ruthlessly, making John believe, if only for a second, that Sherlock was going to leave him despite what he said. So Sherlock had soothed the other man, the words he actually wanted to say stuck somewhere in his throat, and eventually managed to calm John down enough to get him to sleep in Sherlock's bed after changing into something more appropriate for sleeping than evening clothes. The other man was exhausted after all, wrung-out emotionally, not to mention physically from the lack of sleep and unfortunate…activities with Jim. Sherlock's bedroom had just happened to be closer than John's and it made it easier to check up on him throughout the night and following morning, Sherlock finding himself hovering in the doorway frequently until Mycroft showed up at Sherlock's text:

I need your help. –S

Though it was as unpleasant as Sherlock had known it would be, he did need Mycroft. He couldn't protect John—and himself, really—entirely by himself, and Mycroft was so very good at being overprotective as well as overbearing. No doubt this 'favor' would cost Sherlock several of his own in return—and probably some governmental cases, how dull—but it was worth it. Anything was worth it for John.

Eventually, emboldened, he moved from the doorway to sit on the edge of the bed, one leg folded flat against the bed, the ankle supporting the weight of the leg that dangled over the edge of the bed. Watching John sleep calmed him down. Just knowing, seeing that John was safe here, that John had chosen him, that John trusted him, was more reassuring than Sherlock could ever say. He reached out, hesitated, and then put his hand on John's head, gently, lightly stroking his fine golden hair, though in this light it looked a little duller, the nearly gray-blonde showing more clearly. John stirred slightly, causing Sherlock's hand to freeze, and then his heart to race as John turned and nuzzled his face into Sherlock's palm. Blue eyes blinked open after a minute, John's head turning slightly so he could properly see Sherlock, the detective's heart stopping as a slow smile spread over the other man's lips at the sight of Sherlock.

"Morning," Sherlock said after a minute of silence, mostly because if he didn't say something his throat was going to close up.

"Morning," John said, but his smile didn't fade, and Sherlock couldn't find the energy to move his hand. That turned out to be a wonderful thing, because when John did stop smiling, it was just long enough to lay a soft kiss on Sherlock's palm before letting his head rest against the bed on its side again. Sherlock stared at him, positive that he'd misunderstood something or missed something, both of which were impossible. John chuckled at the blank look on the other man's face, turning his own into the bed as he closed his eyes, his laughter muffled. "Oh god," he said after a minute, turning to look at Sherlock again, his eyes sparkling. "You really had no idea, did you? God, you geniuses know nothing about emotions."

"Had no idea about what?" Sherlock asked, eyes narrowed at the implication that John was smarter than he was in some area. Even if John might have a point in this case.

John sat up in bed, shifting until he could sit up fully and rub his eyes, not immediately answering Sherlock's question, much to the detective's frustration. If John was going to make such inflammatory statements, he should explain them immediately. "John," Sherlock said a minute later—or maybe a few seconds, either way it felt like an eternity—when it seemed the eye rubbing wasn't going to stop anytime soon, "what did I have no idea about?"

John finally removed his hands from his eyes, that soft smile that made Sherlock go weak in the knees returning. "This," he said, and put his hand on Sherlock's cheek, leaning forward to kiss him. Sherlock could only blink for a minute, entirely caught off guard by the action and unsure of what to do in return. He'd never…well, he had kissed people before, but found the whole thing so disinteresting that he'd given it all up. Of course, later on he'd figured out why exactly that was, but this…he liked this. John was soft and sweet and gentle, and Sherlock found it in himself to kiss back, though it was a little stilted and accidentally a bit more forceful than he'd intended. But John smiled against his lips anyway, not pressing for anything less chaste from Sherlock, just a press of their lips together with John's hand cupping Sherlock's cheek and Sherlock's hand gripping the sheets to anchor himself and make sure he was still in reality. He found, however, that his fingers were gently being pried off of it one by one with a warm hand, and then John's hand was encompassing his own and his pulse was fluttering underneath the doctor's fingertips. John was the one to break it, because Sherlock would have been content to stay that way all day, but what he said next was so wonderful that he was glad John did break it; "I'm in love with you, you idiot."

There were no words. Rational thought ceased for a minute, and Sherlock had to remind himself how the process of breathing worked, all while John just chuckled at his obvious shock. "Now there's an emotion I never would have expected to see from Sherlock Holmes," he said gently, and moved the hand on Sherlock's cheek to brush a few curls away from Sherlock's face, a small shiver running through the other man at the contact. "But I knew you weren't going to say it first, so I had to."

Somehow, words managed their way out; "You knew."

John chuckled affectionately. "Yes, I knew. You did a pretty good job of hiding it, but you just didn't seem to know what to do with yourself," he said.

"Then why did you go to Jim?"

The smile disappeared without a trace from John's face, and he put his hand back in his lap, Sherlock missing the contact instantly. "I thought that maybe I could finally wrap things up with him. End it for good. Because if I just left the company with things the way they were, it would have never ended." He sighed slightly. "Of course, it ended up all a mess anyway, but I had to try. I did want to leave, though. And with your help, I thought I could. Jim just had other plans."

"I talked to Mycroft," Sherlock said after a moment, drawing John's gaze back to him. "He'll do what he can to protect you—protect us—from Jim Moriarty."

"That couldn't have come at a cheap price," John said, looking at Sherlock with something in his eyes that was reminiscent of when Sherlock had told him he was going to start paying him so Jim couldn't see him.

Sherlock shook his head slightly. "The price is worth it," he insisted. "At least when it comes to you."

And it was certainly all very much worth it to watch that smile spread over John's lips, his whole face lighting up in a way that nearly made Sherlock melt. God, was this how normal people felt in romantic relationships? How did they ever get anything done? "Because I'm in love with you too, John," Sherlock said, finally managing to get out the words that had been choking him for weeks now. He leaned forward cautiously, relieved when John met him over the last of the distance as he kissed the doctor again, some lessons already learned from the first time around. This would take some practice, he supposed, but everything did. And something about the way he felt about John made something stir in him, an urge to kiss the other man and touch him and experience him entirely. Something in that urge took him over, and he pressed into the kiss a little more forcefully, dabbing at John's lips with his tongue until they parted and his tongue swept in, free to roam as it pleased. John made a surprised noise at the intrusion but didn't pull away or challenge Sherlock; he just let the other man explore and experiment as he pleased, letting him catalogue anything he wanted to. When Sherlock finally pulled away, John looked at him with more than a bit of confusion and dazedness in his gaze.

"What was that?" he asked.

"I wanted more of you," Sherlock said simply, but that only made John stare at him more.

"I thought you were asexual," he said, and Sherlock tsked, rolling his eyes.
"Yes, and only experiencing sexual attraction after forming a deep emotional connection falls under the umbrella of asexuality. Do your research, John."

Surprisingly, John seemed thoroughly amused with this statement. "Usually that's referred to as demisexuality, and it's not technically a subset of asexuality, more like an offshoot. I did do my research," he said, and Sherlock could only look at him for a minute before John started chuckling and Sherlock quickly followed suit. After a minute, John had collected himself enough to say, "But really, Sherlock, if you're not okay with any of this or you want to take it slow or you don't ever want to do anything sexual, it's fine. It's all fine."

"I know, John," Sherlock said. After all, John was John. John would always be accommodatingly perfect. "But I do want this with you." Though the thought did set him to shaking slightly, and he found his next words a little difficult. "Though…I must warn you that you'd be the first."

John looked slightly surprised when Sherlock risked a glance at his expression. "I mean, I assumed, but I wasn't sure. You've really…never done anything with anyone?"

Sherlock shook his head, a pulse of nervous electricity going through him. After all, John was light years ahead of him in terms of experience, and though this was something Sherlock wanted, he knew John wanted it as well and feared letting the other man down. John must have read something of this in his expression, because there was a flick of his lips into a smile and then he was leaning forward to lay a soft kiss on Sherlock's cheek before pulling back slightly and placing his hand in the same spot as the kiss. "That's alright. We can take it as slow as you'd like, wait as long as you'd like, and do exactly what you're comfortable with. I'm not risking anything with you," he said, eyes firmly connected with Sherlock's, and the detective could read the well-meaning honesty there. God, John was wonderful. John smiled again and laid a soft, short kiss on Sherlock's lips before pulling back, though the hand still holding Sherlock's own stayed that way. "So what do we do now?" John asked, his expression shifting into something more serious. "About Jim and everything, I mean."

"Unfortunately there's not much we can do. Obviously your involvement with Priapus Services will have to cease immediately. Beyond that, we'll have Mycroft's protection as far as he can provide it."

"But he's going to come after me. Jim is. And there's a chance…" His voice trailed off, the implication clear.

"John."

John's gaze had slipped away and Sherlock put his hand on his chin to pull it back, his sea foam green eyes meeting John's anxious beryl gaze. "I'm not going to run away when things get dangerous," Sherlock said in his softest baritone. "I'm never going to leaving you, John, no matter what Moriarty might have told you."

Some type of tension seemed to ease out of John then, the line of his shoulders dropping slightly, his entire body seeming to relax as a relief appeared in his eyes. Trust. It took Sherlock a moment to recognize the emotion that John was practically exuding, but once he did it nearly bowled him over. To have that much faith and trust placed in him…It was, well, amazing. Astounding. Brilliant. Just like John. Sherlock leaned forward slowly, his heart still insisting on speeding up even though he wasn't nearly as nervous as he was before, and kissed John lightly, tenderly, his hand hesitantly going to the spot just above John's knee that John had shown him ages ago as the 'less-than-friendly-but still-acceptable-spot'. He could feel John smile against his lips and he couldn't fight the smile on his own, both of them grinning like idiots into a kiss that was sweet, and chaste, and absolutely perfect. And as much as Sherlock was sure that John hated the idea of ownership after his time spent in his profession, he couldn't help but think of the other man as his. Not that he owned him; no, John wasn't a possession at all. They just belonged to each other. He was John's, and John was his. And that was how it was going to stay.

xxx

"Sherlock, are you absolutely sure about this?"

"If you ask me one more time, John, I'll just start the whole thing off myself."

"No! No, no, you have to be very careful about this or you could be injured," John said, his brow low over his eyes in concern as he looked at Sherlock.

Sherlock could barely resist the urge to roll his eyes. "Yes, of course, I already know that," he said, already irritated by how many times the other man had asked him if he was sure, or certain, or ready, or any other synonym for prepared to have sex with John. Yes, he was ready, and John asking a dozen times wasn't going to change his mind. "But while your concern is very touching, I believe you've made your point."

John opened his mouth to say something, no doubt ask him again, and Sherlock seized the opportunity presented and kissed him, his tongue sweeping into John's open mouth while his arms wrapped around the smaller man, trapping him in the embrace. Though, really, John's struggling was hardly any at all, as it was only a few seconds before he was kissing back, his back arching so his chest was flush against Sherlock's as the other man's tongue moved just so. A moment later his arms were around Sherlock's neck and Sherlock hardly noticed when they fell to the bed until his back hit the mattress. There, the kiss broke off, and John was getting that worried look again.
"Oh for god's sake, John, I am not made out of glass," Sherlock said, his tone perhaps slightly more acerbic than necessary.

"I know you're not, Sherlock," John said defensively. "But you really don't have to bottom the first time around if you don't want to. It's probably better if you don't."

"I know I don't have to, I want to. So stop asking," Sherlock said, and John sighed, pausing a moment before nodding, and Sherlock dragged him down into another kiss. Truthfully, he really didn't want to at all; in fact, the thought set him to shaking and sent pure anxiety pounding through his veins. But John had been treated like an object, used for others' pleasure and forced to submit to men like Jim Moriarty. Sherlock didn't want to be another person to put John in that position, to use him. So he had chosen this instead, and he just happened to be good enough at lying to convince John that this was what he wanted, though the other man still didn't seem quite convinced. Luckily Sherlock's tongue was adequately distracting him for the moment, though he himself was distracted when John straddled his hips, sitting up slightly to begin unbuttoning Sherlock's shirt. Sherlock broke off the kiss entirely to watch John's sure hands as they quickly took care of each button until Sherlock's pale chest was exposed. Sherlock shivered slightly when John ran his warm hand up Sherlock's cooler exposed skin. John smiled, and Sherlock reached up with faintly trembling fingers to tug at John's jumper. John helped him get it off before helping Sherlock get his shirt the rest of the way off, tossing it in the same direction as his jumper. Then Sherlock was free to undo John's buttons, his hands slightly slower than John's, though he only fumbled with one of them. John was perfectly patient, too, and helped Sherlock take the shirt the rest of the way off before leaning down to kiss him again, the kiss starting off soft and growing more urgent. Sherlock's hands automatically slid up John's thighs to his hips, and he had to admit that he liked the position John was in currently, spread across his lap while still taking control. But no, that wasn't what he wanted for now, he was determined to see this through so John wouldn't have to submit this once. That determination waned some as John's hand ghosted over the waistband of Sherlock's trousers before he undid the button and the zip, and then his hand was against Sherlock's length through the thin fabric of his pants and Sherlock stopped thinking altogether. He'd already been about half hard, every shift of fabric against his steadily heating skin adding to the anticipation, but it couldn't compare to John's searing hot palm radiating heat through the fabric of his pants and applying much more direct friction exactly where it was needed. His hips moved up into the touch on instinct, causing him to groan when it made John's palm press more fully against him. Unfortunately, that wonderful hand was now being removed, and Sherlock's gaze went back to John, who was undoing his own trousers. Sherlock knocked his hand away to finish the process himself, much to John's amusement, though he let Sherlock do as he pleased. Then he climbed of Sherlock's lap to pull Sherlock's pants and trousers off, the detective feeling slightly uncomfortable and certainly exposed with them gone. That feeling disappeared, however, with the way John drank in the sight of him, raking an appreciative gaze down his entire body until Sherlock was thoroughly flushed, partly from the previous contact between his arousal and John's hand and partly because of that look. That look. God. But then John was stripping himself, taking his pants and trousers off quickly and efficiently with no time wasted for sensuality, and Sherlock found himself returning the look John had given him. He wanted every single inch of tanned skin the doctor exposed, and the thrilling thing was that he could have it. Whatever he wanted, he could have, and John would more than willingly give it over to him. It was more than a little heady, and Sherlock thought he was bound to float away on a high until something grounded him. Namely, the something between John's legs.

That…that was what was supposed to go inside him? No, there was no way that was going to fit. Not without hurting, certainly. Maybe he wasn't ready for this after all, maybe he should just do what John said—no. He had already made a decision and he wasn't going to go back on it. He could do this. John would be sure to take care of him, be perfectly gentle. It would be fine. But John seemed to see something in his look, pausing halfway to the bed and looking at him questioningly for a minute. "Sherlock, are you alright?" he asked, and Sherlock nodded, slipping a calm mask back on.

"Of course, John," he said, and though John didn't look convinced, he closed the gap to the bed, gently nudging Sherlock backwards to get him to move up on it. Sherlock lay back against the bed, watching John as the other man reached for the bottle and condom on the nightstand, dropping the condom on the sheets and placing the bottle down next to it after a moment's consideration. Sherlock was about to ask him what he was doing when John was kissing him again, softly slipping in between Sherlock's legs in a way that had Sherlock surprised when he realized he was there a few seconds later. John's lips moved again, trailing slowly along Sherlock's jawline, pausing on Sherlock's neck when the contact there made the detective's breath hitch. He stayed in that area for a minute, kissing and nipping before gently pulling some of Sherlock's skin into his mouth with his teeth and then sucking on it, drawing a short, stuttered gasp from Sherlock's lips. The skin was already beginning to redden when he pulled away, continuing his line of kisses along the plane of Sherlock's chest, though his tongue also swept over one of Sherlock's nipples, causing a shiver to run through the other man at the wet and hot sensation, John's hand brushing a thumb over his other nipple in a way that was certainly unfair and made Sherlock's back arch up off the bed slightly. He could feel John smiling against his skin as the doctor continued, his lips traveling to one of Sherlock's hips, nibbling at it with his teeth, before moving to the other one and sucking on that as well, causing a muffled groan from Sherlock. God, those teeth…but that didn't compare to the sudden stripe John licked up the sensitive juncture between Sherlock's groin and thigh, the detective's hips automatically moving towards the motion. It was torture, to have John go all around the most vital area and avoid just that one spot, not even accidentally brushing against Sherlock's arousal. "John," he groaned in protest, and John smiled cheekily up at him before taking a light hold of the base of Sherlock's length, moving his hand up in a slow stroke that had Sherlock's hips stuttering up towards his hand while his eyes closed. John's strokes were teasing and far too light, no matter how hard Sherlock pressed his hips against John's hand. His thigh muscles tensed, all of his attention focused on the sensation of John's hand moving on him, the heat and friction and slight pressure and the just overall sensation that was taking him over, his mind shutting off as he focused on what he was feeling. All too soon, however, John was removing his hand, having worked Sherlock into an appropriate state of breathlessness, and when Sherlock opened his eyes to look at him he saw John had sat back on his heels to slick up his fingers. A wave of anxiety drowned the pleasant haze Sherlock had been enjoying moments before as he remembered exactly where this all was headed, the beginnings of panic clawing up his throat as John knelt between his open legs again, pausing there.

"You're really sure about this, Sherlock?" he asked once again, and though everything else was screaming at him to turn back, Sherlock nodded, unable to speak. John hesitated just a moment more, seeming to waver, before his hand ghosted underneath Sherlock's hips, pausing when he found Sherlock's tight, puckered entrance. His fingertip circled it for a moment, a motion that might have been relaxing if Sherlock wasn't tensed like a coiled spring, his limbs nearly shaking with how tight his muscles were. That tension only increased when the tip of John's finger went in, that breach alone feeling uncomfortable and wrong. John, at least, was patient enough to stay that way for a while, not moving at all, until finally, he began to slowly work his finger in, millimeter by millimeter. Sherlock instantly clenched tight around him and the movements stopped as John said calmly, "Sherlock, you have to relax."

"I…I don't think I can, John," Sherlock said, the strain obvious in his voice, and then suddenly John was removing his finger and sitting back on his heels, Sherlock letting out a breath of relief.

"Okay, no, change of plans, you're not ready for that yet," John said, a firm determination in his gaze, and Sherlock sat up.
"John, I want to."

"Sherlock, you're tensed incredibly tightly and you were wincing the entire time, there's no way you want to do this," John said, fixing Sherlock with a look.
Sherlock's gaze didn't waver. "I want to. You've…you've submitted to so many people for your work and I want to give that control back to you."

John's entire face softened at this, though Sherlock couldn't fathom why it would. "Sherlock," he said, his voice gentle. "I'm really alright with it. You're not taking any control from me. I'm giving that to you, very willingly and very gladly." He used his clean hand to pick up one of Sherlock's, pressing a soft kiss to the back of it. "It's really okay for us to start this way and try things with you again later. I promise you I'm okay with it. This is absolutely nothing like anything with any of my clients. You can't even compare the two. Okay?"
It took a minute, Sherlock's eyes flicking over John's face to read him and make sure that he meant that, and then he nodded, causing John to smile and kiss his hand again. Then John was shifting to lie down, looking up at Sherlock where he sat and spreading his legs in an invitation that Sherlock couldn't resist. He knelt between John's legs, hovering nervously and unsure of what to do. Luckily, John did, and Sherlock watched in near amazement as John slid his own hand underneath himself, Sherlock able to pinpoint the exact moment that he breached himself. His cock twitched of its own accord as he watched John slowly work himself open, occasionally letting out a soft moan or taking in a sharp exhale as he no doubt hit his own prostate, the entire process incredibly erotic to Sherlock. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity and when Sherlock was feeling nearly painfully hard, John removed his hand and took Sherlock's to pull him closer. Sherlock pulled back just long enough to roll on the condom with shaky fingers and slick himself up before moving back to John, his hands ending up on either side of John's waist as he nervously waited while John shifted himself further underneath him.

"Just guide yourself into me," he said in a voice that was both breathy and reassuring. "Go slowly."

Sherlock nodded, nervousness and excitement bubbling up at the same time in his stomach as he took hold of his own length and slowly, slowly guided himself into John. Oh God. Oh God. He bit down on his lip, hard, in a desperate effort to keep himself from coming right then and there because John felt so. Fucking. Good. He was tight and hot and perfect and it was hard for Sherlock to keep his hips still once he was fully seated in him, but he knew that he had to from the expression on John's face as he adjusted to Sherlock. After a minute he nodded, encouraging Sherlock to continue, but Sherlock was too dazed to move. All it took, however, was John's legs wrapping around his waist to get him to move, gently rocking forward as both his hands went to support his weight on either side of John's head, and then he was drowning in sensation, every nerve overwhelmed by the feeling of being inside John, of every hot point of contact between their skin, of the sight of John underneath him, stroking himself as he gazed up at Sherlock with half lidded eyes. Sherlock was so oversensitive and inexperienced that it only took a few more rolls of his hips for him to climax, his body quickly crashing from the unbelievable high it had climbed to, his eyes fluttering shut as his head dropped forward, mouth stretched open in a silent moan. When he had recovered himself enough to really become aware of his surroundings again, he found John quickly stroking himself underneath him and took over for him, briskly stroking him in a way that made John's hips pulse up towards him in a delightful way until he climaxed, spilling over Sherlock's hand onto his own stomach. John's head collapsed back against the pillow, his breathing steadily slowing, and Sherlock pulled out of him, taking the condom off with some distaste and dropping it in the waste bin. He dropped down to the bed again, his own breathing still quickened and on its way back down to normal. After a minute John got up, and Sherlock was about to protest when he saw that John was getting a washcloth Sherlock hadn't even seen him lay out earlier, and a few minutes later they were both cleaned up and underneath the covers, John lying fully on top of Sherlock, their chests pressed together and John's head tucked under Sherlock's chin as Sherlock drew patterns on his back.

"That'll only get better with time," John said after a minute, his eyes closed.

"That was already pretty fantastic," Sherlock replied, because he had never experienced anything like that before. Hadn't even known sensations like that existed. It had actually been extremely good that John had caught onto his lie and forced them to trade places, because that had been so much better. He liked the feeling of being inside of John, of being that close to him, of John trusting him like that. He liked just having John.

"Trust me, it always gets better with time," John said, and pressed a soft kiss to Sherlock's chest before laying his head down again. He was beginning to sound sleepy, and Sherlock smiled.

"I love you, John," he said softly, and the murmured response came back; "I love you too." And then John was drifting off to sleep against Sherlock's chest, and Sherlock soon followed suit, easily slipping into sleep with John in his arms, where he belonged.

xxx