So I was discussing with someone how we both hate it when Holmes and Watson (movie verse, obviously) are called Sherlock and John in fanfiction. Because that's just wrong, Sherlock and John are BBC. Then they told me about reading a hot sex scene and suddenly... well, all I can say is that what they described as happening was so hilarious that I had to write it.

I apologize for Sherlock probably being OOC, I haven't watched the BBC show. On to the crack!

The hotness inside him kept building and building, until it was near the point of being unbearable. Strong hands kept touching him, touching his muscles and his hair and everything.

Watson's vision was getting blurred as Holmes continued his actions. He couldn't see his face, but Watson could feel him smirking at the attention that he couldn't keep himself from giving him.

His eyes drifted shut as that exciting bliss was threatening to overcome him and then there it was – that white light blinding him as he felt himself giving way.

That experience of muscles tensing, then relaxing, was so familiar but yet he kept craving it. Kept craving Holmes. No matter how many times they did this, it was always yet another dream coming true.

His hand slipped from Holmes' head, falling limp to his side as he was drained of all strength, all resistance. Panting heavily – it weren't even his own efforts that made him feel this way – he fell back into the pillows, the whole world a haze.

He was already missing the warmth, the closeness of the detective, so – eyes still lidded – he reached out for him.

"Come here, Sherlock," he mumbled, not even registering that he used his first name in the process.

Suddenly he jerked up, noticing something odd – which was pretty impressive, considering his current state.

The weight in the bed had shifted and felt strange. Off. Almost as if…

His eyes flung open and he stared in horror at the intruder in his bed. His hand immediately seized the gun on his nightstand – he only put it there out of habit, never expecting to need it – and he aimed it at the intruder, covering himself up – like a shy virgin, Holmes would've said.

Only Holmes wasn't the one sitting in his bed at this very moment.

Instead, there was an unknown, tall, fully dressed – weirdly dressed, he found himself thinking – man occupying the spot where Holmes had been just now.

An equal look of abhorrence on his face.

"WHAT THE BLOODY HELL!"

The man looked rather confused – possibly more surprised by his confusion than because of sudden events. Watson, however, suddenly felt very naked. Pulling up the covers to his chin he eyed him suspiciously, trying to assess whether he was a villain. Surely there was no other reason for strange people to suddenly appear in his bedroom…

"What happened?"

Wait, he was actually asking him to tell him what was going on? Did he look like he knew what was going on? Sure, he always invited strange men over in his bed while he was naked.

Who the hell was he anyway?

"Can you put the gun down please."

"Not until you tell me who you are and what you're doing here."

The dark haired man stared at the firearm for a few seconds before sighing, like he found the entire situation not very interesting.

"Fine. My name's Sherlock. Holmes."

Watson almost laughed. Almost. If he'd had any clue about what was going on and knew what had happened to his detective, he might've.

"Don't flatter yourself."

The man raised an eyebrow, not bothering to move from his position very close to the doctor – who still wasn't wearing any clothes, and he wasn't getting up to dress with him in the room.

"I'm not sure what you mean. You asked for my name, I gave it. What's yours?"

"Not until you tell me your real name."

"I told you. It's Sherlock Holmes."

"Where do you live?"

"London."

"Street?"

"Baker Street."

He continued to stare at him, gun still pointed in his face, mouth slightly agape. Could someone really be this stupid?

"You wouldn't happen to live at 221B, would you?"

Now it was his turn to look suspicious. "How did you know?" he asked coldly, seemingly more alert now.

"Look around, do you recognize anything?"

The man's – he refused to refer to him as Holmes, even mentally – eyes travelled across the room.

"No."

"That's strange. Because this is 221B Baker Street. I am John Watson, and you are not Sherlock Holmes."

"You're not John."

"I'm pretty sure I am."

The two kept their eyes locked while both their minds were racing to reach a conclusion – perhaps even racing against each other.

"You're Holmes."

"And you're John."

"Does that mean…"

"I don't know how or why, but it seems I have landed in a parallel universe of some sorts."

"If that's true… any ideas on how to get you back?"

"How would I know? I didn't do anything, you brought me here."

"Oh really." Watson was already getting annoyed by this guy – which had no doubt started with his sudden appearance right as Holmes and he had been having some personal time together but was increasing with every second he talked to him – and he didn't bother holding back a sneer when he asked him, "What were you doing before you ended up here? Working on an important case, seeing as you are obviously the great Sherlock Holmes?"

"I wouldn't say the case was that important, but yes, John and I were at home discussing the possible suspects. And what were you doing?"

He felt his cheeks slightly reddening and was in no way going to answer that question honestly. "I was talking to Holmes. The real one."

He raised that eyebrow again – Holmes or not, he really had a way of working on his nerves – and simply said, "Naked?"

"I was just about to go to sleep."

"Alright… you know, I really have no interest in any of your business, right now I just want to get back to my own dimension. Any thoughts on how we're going to do that?"

"I told you, I don't know! One second I was with Holmes, and the next he was gone and you were here!"

"Hm."

"Hm? That's going to bring him back?"

"Why don't you calm down already? It's not like this is my fault."

"Oh, back to this again…"

"I'm simply saying this because we need to meticulously trace back our steps. What exactly were you doing before –"

"I'm not telling you that."

"Fine. In the meantime you're stuck with me."

Watson felt the muscles in his arm starting to protest. He became aware of the fact that he was still holding his gun and he lowered it, convinced that however crazy this man may be – parallel universe? Even though Holmes had disappeared within less than a second only to be replaced by this figure, he was sure there was a more satisfying explanation – he didn't pose a real threat.

He started replaying the last events in his head, finding nothing strange – nothing they hadn't done before, well, except for that but it had happened minutes before this weird encounter and he couldn't figure out how it possibly could've led to this – until right before it all happened.

Come here, Sherlock.

"I need to ask you something."

"What?"

Watson took a deep breath, afraid that this might not work – after all, why would it – but then again, the why didn't matter as long as it did, and there wasn't any logical explanation as to why things had gone down this way so why would there be now.

"Listen, Holmes…"

And right before him, in the blink of an eye, there suddenly was a very naked – very familiar – body on top of the sheets, looking around wildly until his eyes settled on Watson, relief gushing from his face.

"Watson! Oh thank goodness I'm home. I think I just travelled to the future!"

He sighed. What was with people named Holmes who were so quick to assume that there was any other world than this? He figured the best way to deal with things – Holmes seemed way too excited about his apparent time travel and would no doubt try again – would be to prevent anything like this ever happening a second time around.

"Look at you, you're exhausted. You've been here the whole time, you just fell asleep."

"Really? It doesn't feel like it. Not at all."

"It's true."

"Hm." He sounded disappointed, even if it meant that he hadn't ended up in the future while stark naked.

"Guess we should go to sleep then. I really am awfully tired."

"Good."

Holmes crawled over to him and Watson lifted the covers, allowing him to slip under them and press himself against his warm body, resting his head against his shoulder.

"Holmes…"

"Yes?" He sounded like he was already drifting off to sleep. Apparently time travelling was very energy consuming – even if he'd probably spent most of it before he disappeared.

"Promise me you'll never, ever call me John."

He could feel him smiling against his chest. An arm snuck across his abdomen and he placed a light kiss on his neck.

"Of course not. You'll always be my Watson."