A/N: This was written at the request of mimamia on fanfiction. She asked me if I might one day write a fic depicting a Demon John as I have a Demon Sherlock, but one who can wear out Sherlock. So to speak:D I hope this is okay. It's a little different than I thought it might be as I didn't want to repeat a type of story, and well a story kind of has a mind of its own:D

Thanks once more to the lovely johnsarmylady and the equally lovely mattsloved1 who looked over, Britpicked and gently corrected my mistakes:D Any left over are mine!

A Certain Kind of Hunger

Every year around John's birthday, John would begin to lose weight.

Of course, Sherlock noticed. He noticed everything.

"John."

"Hmmm? What?"

"You have lost 4 pounds in the last week, and you lost 3 pounds the week before. You haven't increased your exercise nor have you cut back on your caloric intake. Your usual level of energy appears lowered, and you are sleeping more. You have not had the stomach flu. I would suspect a tapeworm but as you are a qualified medical doctor, I would think you would look into that yourself. I have also noted in my file on you that this is an annual event. You regularly lose the weight in the weeks leading up to your birthday and gain it back following. Is there something you wish to disclose?"

There was a faint note of panic in Sherlock's voice as if he imagined the worse possible disease.

"No Sherlock, I don't have cancer." John turned the page of the newspaper. He paused, "What do mean you have a file on me? No, wait. Forget I said that. Of course you do." He resumed perusing the sports page.

"I didn't say that you did. Have cancer, I mean."

"I know you didn't. I can hear it in your voice."

Sherlock fiddled with the violin bow. He didn't look at John or not quite, sort of out the corner of his eye.

"Sherlock, I'm fine."

"You're not."

John put down the paper, folded his hands and looked at Sherlock, who was now using the bow to scratch at his head. "All right, I'm not fine, but I will survive. It's just a condition I have. You needn't worry." He picked up the paper again and continued to read, ignoring the steam kettle noises coming from the area of Sherlock's chair.

"It's not something I want to share with you. All right?"

"No."

"Sherlock."

"No John. You can't hold back information from me."

"You really mustn't pry."

"Ha. Now you are just waving a red flag in front of a bull."

"Please, Sherlock. Please do not do this. It will go away soon, and life will go on." John gave him a stern look, a warning that always made Sherlock wish to reassess their relationship. He did feel deep down inside that having sex would slow down his thought process. There was also his addictive personality, and he had some concern that if he liked sex, he'd really like sex, and he wouldn't want to do anything else. Especially if he had sex with John. He had thought about it a lot, every day in fact. Imagining John. His firm body naked…

Sherlock stood up, adjusted his pyjama bottoms slightly, hoping John wouldn't notice. He scooped up his laptop on the way to his bedroom.

A few hours later he came out with a list.

"Hyperthyroidism?"

"No."

"Unexpected and intermittent Crohn's disease?"

"No."

"Hypercalcemia."

"No."

"HIV or Aids?"

"Sherlock…"

"Tuberculosis?"

"Okay, that's enough. Stop searching medical websites on the Internet. I have no other symptoms. It's something that I was born with. It becomes bothersome about once a year and…"

"Aha!"

"No, just no. Sherlock, please promise me you will stop this…whatever this is you are doing. You can't help me." John looked pensive for a moment. "It will go away soon." John stood up and said. "I'm going to bed." Sherlock was sure he heard him mutter something under his breath that sounded like, "All I need is to find someone." But it could have been "I'm going to get my gun," so Sherlock decided to let it be.

For now.

oOo

After another week of watching John lose weight and the once tight jeans sat loosely on his hips, Sherlock decided he would follow John through the course of the day and hoped he would discover something. Maybe he was bulimic. He certainly didn't shun from eating heartily but what if he was secreting laxatives or throwing up when Sherlock was not around?

Sherlock refused to admit it, even to himself, that he was seriously worried. At night, when he couldn't sleep, he would toss around agitated thoughts and an endless stream of 'what if's' would dance across his mind; What if John was just putting on a brave face? What if he was gravely ill, and he was sparing Sherlock's feelings?

The next night Sherlock watched as John readied himself to go out (freshly showered, new toothbrush, close shave, that cologne that makes me think about ripping his shirt open with my teeth), put on his coat and shoes (his lucky shoes) and said, "don't wait up for me, meeting friends, boring stuff really. Night!" As soon as the flat door was shut, Sherlock hurriedly removed the housecoat he'd been wearing over his trousers and shirt, threw on his coat and followed.

It was easy to tail John. The man was totally oblivious. He wandered the street to the Baker Street Underground station, neither looking to the left or the right. He certainly didn't check his surroundings, and he never glanced up. No wonder the man was always being kidnapped, thought Sherlock. For a trained army doctor, he was terribly unobservant.

John did not meet friends. He slunk away, furtively, into the night and came to the part of London Sherlock knew, quite well, in fact, but he had been certain John did not. It was the area of London where all of the clubs were, but not just any ordinary club, clubs that specialized in different forms of sexual entertainment and release. More specifically for the crowd that ran with Irene Adler. Yes, John was a soldier, and he certainly had a very high sex drive but Sherlock had not thought he was into that. He certainly had not approved of Miss Adler. Interesting. There was always, always something new to discover about John.

Sherlock hung about, secret and silent, as he watched John go through an evening at a club unimaginatively christened Spank Me. He watched, with a relief he did not want to exam, as John met, danced and drank with an assortment of young, healthy, male partners. He did not appear to make plans with any of them. Any woman that came up to him was politely turned away. Intriguing. He watched, wishing he were closer, as John would engage in a discussion with the different partners and that he could hear what exactly it was John was looking for, what his kink was. Sherlock frowned as he realised he could not deduce it.

It was also not leading him any closer to discovering what was causing John's weight loss. Frustration growled inside him. He plotted different ways he could rig up a hidden camera in the flat and the medical centre where John was working this month, to observe his movements. There was no remorse, no worry that he might be violating John's patients' confidentiality. This was John. He would stop at nothing to do whatever he needed to do to ensure John's safety.

And then it happened. If he hadn't have been watching carefully, he might have missed it.

It was a little thing. John was chatting up a very handsome young man. Watching with a taste of sawdust in his mouth, Sherlock saw John reach over and touch the man on arm. The young man paled momentarily, seemed glassy-eyed for a second or two and then John shook his head and walked away. There was a look of utter longing on the man's face and with heaviness to his steps, he left the club.

There had appeared to be an opportunity for John to take up with the young man, but something about him wasn't right, wasn't compatible. Sherlock didn't want to examine the relief he felt when he watched John leave the building and head home empty handed and alone.

Sherlock followed behind but felt the loss of a wasted evening. Except for that odd interaction, there had been nothing unusual about John's activity except that John was apparently more interested in experimenting than Sherlock had known.

Before he knew it, they had returned to the flat.

Letting John enter first and waiting a few minutes so as not to appear to be right on John's heels, Sherlock followed behind. He raced up the stairs in his usual helter-skelter fashion and found John already in the kitchen, fridge door open, looking through it for something to eat.

"Evening, Sherlock. Out tonight?"

"Yes, interesting case, at least an eight maybe a ten."

"Oh?"

"Yes, I'm quite excited. You're off in two days?"

"Yes, but Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"Stop following me around. You're not as stealthy as you think you are." John stood there; arms crossed and a look on his face that probably made his men quiver a bit. It was indeed making Sherlock quiver but not necessarily with fear. There was a certain anticipation that seemed to be thrumming through him tonight.

"I mean it. This is none of your business."

"But John…"

"No. Look," he ran a hand through his hair, "there's nothing you can do, it will go away in a few days, and you need to leave it alone." There was an almost desperate look on his face. Sherlock's heart shifted a bit.

"Okay, John."

"Just like that?"

"Yes"

"No more following me or spying?"

"No."

"Right. Good. Okay. I'm turning in then. I'm suddenly not that hungry. Night." John paused. The shifting line of his shoulders suggested he didn't want to go and that he had something more to say, but that he was reluctant to broach.

"Um, Sherlock, since there is no case, and you won't require my help, I will be going away this weekend. Out of town. Just a head's up. So try to stay out of trouble."

"That's a bit sudden."

"Well I was hoping it wouldn't have to happen but it looks like I must, so, um, yeah."

"All right."

John nodded once and then left.

"John," Sherlock whispered to him, "what are you hiding?"

oOo

The club was loud, smelled of stale beer, sweat and hormones. There was a large press of half-naked men dancing around, but John's heart just wasn't in it. Quite a few rather attractive male specimens had wandered over, offered to buy him a drink, give him their phone number and/or perform a number of energetic acts on his body.

They were all so lovely and tempting, but none of them fit. None of them were quite right. If only that young man he'd chatted up in London had been just a little more malleable. Sadly he would have put up too much of a fight, and there might have been questions.

He took another sip of his beer and brooded. Why did the one person who was so incredibly compatible have to be sitting back at home in their flat, possibly playing the violin, probably destroying their flat with his boredom? Sherlock fit in so many ways, except one. He was not attracted to John, and he did not engage in sexual activities, and he was his friend, one of few John had trusted himself to be around. Other than that…

Other than that he was perfect.

"Is this seat taken?"

"Oh no, you did not follow me here!"

"As I am standing beside you, waiting for you ask me to sit down, I most obviously did indeed follow you. John, you must learn to pay more attention to your surroundings."

"Just stop. Right there. Enough. I specifically asked you not to monitor me, stop spying on me and to stop whatever this is and here you are. What is wrong with you?"

"Far too many things to get into at the moment. I would have, but you forgot one thing."

"What Sherlock? What was it I forgot in asking you to cease all of your bloody interfering?"

"You forgot to make me promise.

"Arg! If I had would you have? Really Sherlock, would you have left me alone?"

"Of course not. Don't be ridiculous. And as I am here now, perhaps you would care to explain why you are at a gay bar, a gay bar with the fetching moniker of Tie Me Up, which implies a particular type of clientele peruses their beer inventory, obviously attractive and lonely, turning down numerous offers of questionable companionship? Is that not why you left for the weekend? To, what is the phrase, 'get some'?"

"Oh for god's sake! Fine! Fine, I will explain, only just not here." John threw down some money on the table put his jacket back on and stormed out of the club. He stopped part way, looked at Sherlock over his shoulder and barked, "Well? Are you coming?"

"Wouldn't miss it for the world."

Later, back at the hotel where John was staying, Sherlock watched as John paced the room. It wasn't a very large room, but it was a fairly well-constructed hotel, and the walls were thick. Sherlock was also interested to note when he had checked on John's movements, that he had registered under a false name and had paid cash. The room he was in was on a ground floor at the rear of the hotel and the window overlooked a densely wooded area.

"Planning to commit murder? I would have helped you with that."

That stopped John in his tracks, and he looked at Sherlock, speechless.

"There, got your attention. Do sit down and tell me what is happening."

"Fine, but you aren't going to believe me, you aren't going to trust me, and you will either have to have me sectioned or thrown in prison."

"Interesting."

"Of course you would think so. Probably why I'm…"

"Why you're what? Attracted to me?"

"That's…no...no, just no!"

"Oh come on, John, stop and just spit it out. You know you want to."

John's left hand clenched a bit, but then he nodded and sat on the end of the bed. A nice big bed.

"All right, but you have to promise not to interrupt and please hold onto your disbelief until the end."

"Carry on."

He took a deep breath and said, probably the last thing Sherlock had expected, "Do you know what an incubus is?"

"According to the Oxford Dictionary, an incubus is, and I quote, 'A male demon believed to have sexual intercourse with sleeping women'. The origin is Latin incubo or 'nightmare' and from incubare or 'lie on'."

"Uh…"

"I required the information for a case a few years back; a young woman believed she was being visited by a demon who had sexual relations with her while she slept. Turned out to be a rapist with access to Rohypnol. Open and shut case. Obviously I did not delete that definition."

"Obviously. Right, well then, that definition is mostly correct. "

"And you believe yourself to be an incubus, John?"

"Please don't, just listen. I am not an incubus, but my dad is. Nice guy. Doesn't appear to be an evil, soul-sucking demon. He's a trucker. Being a supernatural being means he doesn't need sleep, and it's convenient in his line of work. He and mum have been married for almost forty years now. Long story that. My sister is normal but apparently female offspring don't inherit this, disease or whatever you want to call it, just the male line. He passed this awful thing onto me. He's sad about it, but what are you going to do."

"And that is?"

"In order to survive, once a year I have to have sex with someone, who is pliant, lies still and lets me have my way with them but doesn't mind losing part of their essence, part of what makes them alive, their soul if you will. It's why I go to BDSM clubs where the people there…"

"Are less inclined to question your needs."

"Yes."

"You require their essence to feed your demonic side?"

"Yes."

"You pick male partners in order to avoid procreation and passing on this trait to your offspring?"

"God, Sherlock, yes."

"Without this form of sex you will die."

"Yes, eventually. I'll just waste away. Sort of like starving to death."

"Very well." Sherlock stood, took off his jacket and began unbuttoning his shirt.

"Umm, Sherlock, what are you doing?"

"John, you obviously need to have someone. I am available; I am willing, and I do not wish to see you die a slow and lingering death. Besides it mitigates the risk of you picking up an STI or getting involved in the possibility of having a rape charge laid against you. Do keep up."

"But you're not interested. You said so yourself; you're married to your work."

Sherlock stopped, walked over to John with his shirt half open, put his hands on either side of John's face and kissed him. Not any kiss. It was unhurried, deep and with his usual focus and concentration. Sherlock was very, very good at this. He expertly licked his way into John's mouth, sucked on his lips slowly, maddeningly, pulled at his lips with his own lush mouth and then he explored every tooth John had in his head. After a thorough and quite a spectacular snog, he proceeded to nibble his way up John's chin to his ear where he breathed low and rich, "Who says I'm not interested?"

"Oh my god!" John whispered back. "Are you sure? It's not what you think."

"I very much do think it is exactly what I think. You need me to be still; you need me to be pliant and not move in order to harvest my life source. I happen to have a very strong kink in this area, John. Some would call what you will do to me somnophilia or Sleeping Beauty syndrome, but I will be a willing participant, so the name doesn't fit, does it? That is for a particular type of pedophile or rapist, which you are not. I am not a victim in this, John. I want it. I can take it. I can take you, lying on top of me, and I will be perfectly still. You will kiss me and caress me and do wicked things with your mouth and tongue. There will be penetrative sex. You will enter into me as slowly as you can, teasing your way in. I must lie perfectly still while you do this. You will thrust into me, hard and fast. I must not make a sound. You may wish to tie me to the bedpost. Yes, I did notice the bedposts, and I will not even mention the fact that I know you have a good length of proper BDSM rope in your overnight bag. Do you wish to gag me as well? Or blindfold me? I am more than willing to explore all of the possibilities. There is so much about me you have never guessed, and this is just the beginning of what we could have together."

John's pupils could not be anymore dilated. His breathing was rapid and hoarse. He grabbed Sherlock at the back of his neck, wound his hands in the luxuriant hair and kissed him hard.

He broke off the kiss and asked the one question, which haunted him, which had always haunted him. "What about your soul, Sherlock? I will be stealing your soul."

"Have any of your other partners died from this?"

"No, but…"

"So it is not injurious to an individual if they are willing, and you are careful. Furthermore, you know that I do not believe in the existence of a soul. If I did I would postulate that a soul would be formed of some sort of organic, biochemical compound, an organism would be capable of regenerating. If you were to take some over time, it would grow back. Besides if I do have a soul there is only one person in the world I would be willing to share it with and that, John, is you. It is not like you have a choice. Did your other partners know what they were getting into?"

"Yes, sort of, it was hard to explain, and I can make people forget what happened to them which always made me feel like I was committing some kind of rape…"

"You will not be doing that with me. I want to remember every detail," he kissed John's cheek, "every moan you make," he kissed John's closed eyelid. Every caress and thrust." And he kissed John on the mouth.

John lifted his hands and finished undoing Sherlock's buttons awhile Sherlock worked at John's.

In what felt like an impossibly long time and was also over far too soon they were naked and standing pressed against each other. John moaned as their cocks rubbed against one another. He took Sherlock by the hand and led him to the bed. Laying him down upon it, he kissed him firmly and went to his bag and pulled out a good length of rope. He proceeded to expertly tie Sherlock's hands to the posts. He positioned and tied his legs and feet bent upright and propped a pillow under his bum.

"All right?"

Sherlock nodded.

After he had brushed the fringe back from Sherlock's forehead and kissed him again, he took Sherlock's own scarf, rubbed it up against his body and over his erection, which was beautifully impressive and was standing at complete attention. Sherlock felt his mouth water at the sight of it. He had always suspected from the way John walked that there was more than met the eye under those jumpers and tight jeans. John turned off the overhead light and then lovingly tied the scarf over Sherlock's eyes.

"I want this over your eyes not to create the illusion of sleep but because," Sherlock could hear the anguish in John's voice, "but because I change, a little, when I am feeding. It's not something I'm ready to show you yet."

"I understand, but John no matter what you look like you will always be beautiful to me."

A strange noise came from John and Sherlock momentarily wished he could see what was happening.

Then there was no sound, no sensation for a number of heartbeats.

Sherlock felt a slight movement at the foot of the bed.

He knew John was climbing onto it and in his mind he could see John perched on the end, he could feel John's eyes as they swept over him. The sensation caused the hairs on his arms and legs to stand up; goose fleshed painted. He knew that this was not mere bed-play or sport, that John was releasing a hunter, and it was now in the room with him, one who if he wanted to could drain him of his entire life force. Sherlock had never felt so horny in his life.

A hand brushed against his ankle, and there was a soft a sigh. Lips touched his foot on the top, and he flexed his foot by instinct and John's tongue came out and swept across his toes.

"Shhh," he heard. "You are just dreaming. You are not awake. Lie still."

John's voice sounded different. Deeper, husky and there was a slight sibilance to the words. Sherlock wondered if John's face and physical form had changed. Something brushed against his leg, something that was long and thin, definitely not John's penis. He has a tail! Sherlock's erection, which had been slowly enlarging over the course of the festive snogging, was becoming strained, and he wondered if he would be able to last throughout the procedure.

A hand brushed against his leg, calming and gentling him. It crept up and brushed across his inner thigh. Sherlock lay as still as possible, taking deep, relaxed breaths to appear as if he were asleep. It was harder than he had thought it would be, in spite of what he had told John. It had been years since he'd done this sort of thing. It was even harder when an eager and seemingly long tongue replaced the hand. The heart beating in Sherlock's chest sped up a bit, and the hand came and lay on his chest, caressing.

"You are doing very well. Lay still, Sherlock. It will feel more incredible than you can ever know."

The hand moved down, down across his abdomen, it stopped and caressed the short hairs around the base of his cock. Fingers he knew to be short and blunt, rasped gently through his pubic hair and curled around them, tugging. He quivered a bit as they came close, so very close to touching his hard cock.

John's other hand was sliding up his leg on the outside and across and started very lightly brushing against his perineum. Fingers carefully touched his scrotum. He felt a kiss on his thigh again and then, oh then the tongue on his ball sack, licking at it. He arched a bit as it was tugged into a hot mouth. John's tongue seemed much longer than before, and he could feel the edge of his teeth, which were sharper. The tongue and mouth rolled his balls, and he trembled again. Then it began lapping at his perineum, and he could feel it as it came closer and closer to his anus.

A slight brush and it was there warm and wet. Little kitten laps and it was coaxing his tight hole open. John stayed there, worked at his hole for a very long time, flicked in and out, opening it wider, getting it ready for accepting what he had to offer. There was a click of a bottle, and he could feel cool, viscous liquid drip onto his anus. A finger and a touch, light rubbing and then in it went, and Sherlock breathed a deep sigh of longing. He tried very hard not to groan.

"Sherlock, if you can't be quiet, I shall have to gag your lovely mouth, and that would be a horrible thing to have to do to you. Perhaps I should gag you another way, for a bit, just to shut you up.

There was a wicked chuckle and Sherlock felt John shift on the bed. He felt John's weight settle on his chest, and there was the almost snake like movement of the tail as it swept across his belly and around his aching cock. Sherlock could feel the tail as it moved up and down his cock, stroking. It unwrapped and then, oh then it brushed against his opening and poked in and out on the very edge, the tip of it just entering a bit, enough to tease. At the same time felt the head of John's penis brush across his lips and he opened his mouth, eagerly, accepting it. John's penis was indeed larger than average; it seemed to have grown larger since Sherlock had removed his clothes. It was hot, very hot and heavy on his tongue as John pushed it, carefully at first, in and out of his mouth. The taste was unusual, salty but sweet too. Odd.

He worked his tongue around the head and shaft, giving up all pretence of being asleep as he heard John groan with want and need.

"Oh Sherlock, you are utterly perfect for this. You were made for this. Oh, I wish, I wish I could come down your pretty throat. I wish I could make you gag with it, and my come decorate your tongue. But not tonight. Tonight I have other needs, much more dark, much more sinful." He sounded like he had entirely given over to his demonic side. There was no more hesitation or uncertainty.

John's mouth was at his ear and that gloriously long tongue flicked out and licked the edge of it before returning to the task at hand. More movement and he felt John's mouth teasing the head of his penis. His tongue licked and licked his shaft, up and down and swirled around. The tail returned to his anus and popped back in, easily. It played there for a bit and was joined by one of John's fingers. In and out they slid. Sherlock lay as still as he could, his only sign of movement was the clenching of his muscles in his anus.

Another finger joined the first, and the marvellous tail and John said. "I wish you could see this. I wish you could see how beautifully stretched you are around my tail." The fingers came out, and the tongue went back in licking with the same skill as he had licked into his mouth, he was thoroughly fucked by John's tongue.

John shifted again and Sherlock could imagine him lining up his cock, and he felt the press of it at his entrance. There was a short pause, and then John thrust in, full hilt. He had prepared Sherlock so well and carefully that he was able to go in, flush against his balls.

John pulled back out again all the way and in again, fast and hard. He heard John's full-throated groan, almost animalistic, a roar that shook him to his bones. John squirmed a bit, thrust in again, and he fell on top of Sherlock, his arms swept up his sides and his hands wrapped around his throat, not squeezing not choking, gentle. Loving. The hands moved to his hair and fingers wrapped through his curls. John lay completely on top, and the weight felt good and grounding. Sherlock was filled completely by John, body and soul. He couldn't move because of the ropes and John on top of him.

"You are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. You are the most exquisite. I am beyond ravenous for you Sherlock. I could eat you whole. I am so very hungry for you, deeply hungry. I wouldn't ever, ever hurt you, but at this moment, your life is in my hands. I could crush every drop of it from you and rend your very flesh."

Sherlock's heart thumped a little, and he felt the rush of adrenalin flood his system. Danger was in the room with him tonight, but it was a danger he knew and was comfortable with. It was John, and he knew John would not hurt him.

John, still balls deep in him, lifted Sherlock's head so he could reach him. There must have been a bit of strain, but John was able to seal Sherlock's mouth with his own, and then he kissed him and he filled him with his full, hard, hot cock, at the same time.

Hard and hard and hard. Sherlock grunted with the movement and motion. His breath was forced out and into John's mouth. John's tongue was wrapping around Sherlock's, licking and chasing it, and he was breathing in Sherlock's air, Sherlock's life. He began to feel a little lightheaded, and he thought he might lose consciousness, which was a bit not good because he didn't want to miss any of this. He also felt incredibly close to coming himself, and he knew he would not be able to hold off much longer. John broke off the kiss, pulled out of Sherlock and locked his mouth on Sherlock's cock. Sherlock clenched his teeth so as not to make any sound and shuddered for forever as he came, came harder than he ever had before, into John's eager mouth. Thrust after thrust.

Sherlock lay spent, unable to move, as John entered him once more and began sliding back and forth, faster and faster. John yelled in his deep guttural voice and pulsed into Sherlock's still body. His come was hot and molten, and Sherlock felt it throughout his body as if it were searing his very bones, turning them liquid, hot and fiery and almost unbearable. He lost consciousness but came around with John collapsed on him.

"Are you all right?"

Sherlock groaned bit. "Yes, yes John. That was…indescribable."

"Go to sleep Sherlock, it will be okay." A loving hand traced across his cheek, shaky and tender. Sherlock slipped into sleep, deeper and more restful than anything he'd ever had.

oOo

Morning light woke him. He was lying in a strange room upon a strange bed. It took him a moment to remember what had happened and how he had arrived there. He felt a heavy, but not uncomfortable heaviness across his chest, and he turned his head slightly. John was lying curled up next to him; his arm flung possessively across his chest, and his long tail curled possessively around his right leg. He was pleased he hadn't imagined it, and he hoped John would let him examine it more carefully. At some point in the night, John had untied him, removed the scarf and had cleaned him up. Sherlock glanced down his body and could see various bruises and scratches up and down his torso. They weren't painful, exactly, but ached pleasantly. It left a hedonistic sensation, made him feel claimed and owned.

John stirred beside him and when Sherlock looked at him it was to see bright blue eyes looking back at him warily.

"You all right?"

In reply, Sherlock leaned over to John and kissed him as thoroughly as he had the night before.

"I am more than all right. I am feeling wonderful and desired and thoroughly and utterly shagged out. You, John, were incredible."

"Are you tired?"

"A bit. Weary, but not worse than after a good chase around London. No ill effects."

"You're a bit pale, and there are dark circles under your eyes." A thumb ran under his eyes, caressed them and then across his cheeks. John lifted his hand and ran it through Sherlock's fringe and kissed him back almost chastely.

"John. I'm all right. Tired but that's understandable. You look fantastic, and it appears as if all the weight you've lost has returned. Whatever ill effects I may have suffered were worth what it had done for you."

"All right, but you'll tell me if you feel any different. Okay?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes a. "Naturally. Oh, my. I feel lighter because my soul has been diminished."

"Not funny."

"I know," and slightly chastened, he kissed John again. Kissing John made things that he thought might be worn out from all the workings of the night before stir, and he moved his hips up and down and pushed against John's leg. John's tail flicked up and waved around in the air, a sign Sherlock took to mean that John was feeling rather frisky as well. John relaxed into Sherlock's kiss and moved his hand down to clasp Sherlock's ample rear end.

"So only once a year? Too bad."

John smirked a wee bit evilly, the demon peeking through momentarily. "I may not be able to do the whole demon thing more than once a year, but I'm sure we can arrange something."

"I could spend the day in bed with you."

"I could spend the rest of my life with you," John smiled, a beautiful, warm, John smile without any hint of the demon.

"Let's get dressed, head back to Baker Street and see what happens."

"Let's. Only one thing, can we stop for breakfast?"

"Starving?"

"Ravenous."