Disclaimer: I wrote this story with no intention of plagiarising the writers of the BBC 'Sherlock' series, or any previous Sherlock Holmes stories/adaptations.

Author's Notes: Here's Chapter Two then! It's been great to write up two complete chapters in such a short time: luckily, I had both parts of this planned out before I started writing, which helped a lot. More than that, I think I've just got a case of 'Sherlock' fever! This one's a little bit more explicit than the last – I'm sure you won't mind...
I could happily write about twenty more of these! We'll see if I get any more ideas ;P

Oh, and thanks so much to everyone for all the views/favourites/reviews already! All are greatly appreciated. (N.B. Chapter updated 04.11.10)

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Files:: Personal Documents:: Protected:: Dr John Watson: Private Journal

New Entry:

Once was enough. Well, once should've been enough. But here I am again, in front of the laptop – even worse for wear than last time, if that's possible. Not because of anything life-threatening or even potentially dangerous that's happened recently, mind. Just because my head feels stuffed with woolly rubbish and I can't think straight.
Hmm...maybe the journal was a bad idea. Maybe I should just sit here and slam my head into the keyboard instead. Potential concussion, risk of amnesia, definite loss of mental faculties for at least thirty seconds. The idea definitely appeals.

There won't be anything in this entry that I couldn't risk being seen – this time, the person involved is fully aware of my opinions and feelings. We've spoken about it – quite a few times, in fact. So, really, I shouldn't feel the need to write anything down at all. Or so you would think. Somehow, though, I still want to share my experiences and inner thoughts with someone (or in this case, something) totally impartial: someone who won't talk back, or interrupt, or start playing abrasive violin. Sherlock probably wishes he still had his skull to discuss it with; thankfully, I'm not quite as eccentric in my choice of sounding board.

Flicking back to my last entry, I might as well just carry on from where I left off. I'm going to talk about mine and Sherlock's fight (or at least a pathetic excuse for one), and everything that followed as a result. Don't know if it will help me. Probably not. But it's either this, or having a cup of tea with Mrs Hudson and having to listen to her talk about her blasted hip for 2 hours. God, I hate days off.

So – yeah, as I'd left it, Sherlock had just come in from a visit to Scotland Yard, looking pretty worn out. I'm used to seeing him like this, and it usually means good things for him: the most likely being that he has another case to obsess over.

"You look knackered, mate." I don't usually keep my thoughts to myself.
I made sure that my laptop was switched off, so that he wouldn't have the chance to see this journal. By the time he acknowledged that I was even in the room, I'd made a show of picking up the newspaper and pretending to read it.
"What is it this time, then?"

Sherlock flapped one hand idly, and started talking in fragmented sentences, as he usually does when his mind's working overtime, "Oh, multiple suspected murders in Soho. Killer only identifiable by a certain rare kind of poppy that he leaves on the bodies. Quite a wonderful case, really, but..."Giving up on his explanation, he gave a deep, theatrical sigh and flopped into the nearest armchair.

"Hmm." I was noncommittal, not taking my eyes from the newspaper. "Suppose we'll be pretty busy for the next few days at least, then."

Sherlock's head was resting on his chest, but I noticed his eyes snapping upwards to study me, from the blurred corner of my vision.

"Obviously," he answered, drawing out the word a little, which betrayed his curiosity at what I'd said. Not that I'd said anything particularly unusual. But he must have suspected something in my tone of voice. "I can't see how that would be a problem for you though, John, as pretending to read the newspaper must be the most frightfully boring pastime."

I folded the paper in half, looking over at Sherlock with a wry smile. "Now, Sherlock, why would I possibly pretend to read the newspaper?" I knew he wouldn't believe my bluff, but hoped he would take it with a sense of humour. Unfortunately, he was in one of those moods.

"Well, from the slight stiffness in both of your index fingers, the flashing standby button on your laptop, and the fact that you have the collar of your shirt turned up – which you always tend to do when you're agitated about something – I would suggest that you have just been writing or accessing a highly personal document on your PC; something that you wouldn't want me to read, even just the odd word accidentally. You pretended to read the paper in the hope that I might perhaps be distracted by the fact that our photograph is on the front page, and ask you about that article instead of what you were doing when I walked into the room."
I swallowed a large lump in my throat, and smiled grimly. I didn't need to say anything. Sherlock already knew he was right.
"I won't ask what the document was. It's none of my business, clearly. But then I am also inclined to wonder why you didn't shut off the laptop as soon as you heard me unlock the door downstairs, instead of waiting until I was already making my way into the room. That suggests to me that, whilst you really don't want me to see it, you are hoping that I will discover its themes or content in some other way, and save you the trouble of showing it to me."

I sighed, and nodded slowly. There's no point being evasive with Sherlock.
I realised then that he was giving me the opportunity to say what was in the document, without blatantly admitting that that was what I had been writing about. Much as the idea appealed to me, I couldn't help but think he would soon regret giving me the opportunity. He was right, though. I did want him to know what I'd written, deep down. I can be pretty belligerent, when it comes to letting people know how I feel. Being subtle isn't my forte.

"Sherlock..."

"Yes...?" Again, that slow drawl. I could tell he was almost enjoying this.

"I – I sort of want to ask you about – about where things are going, between us." I cringed as soon as the words had left my mouth. Sherlock pressed his fingertips together and brought his hands to his lips. "It's a bloody horrible question, I know. But I kind of feel that I need to know where I – I stand. You've given me no clues, at all. It's driving me a little bit mad, actually."

Sherlock stood, so I did too. We looked at each other from opposite sides of the room, Sherlock standing with his shoulders pulled back slightly and his head casually tilted, me standing slightly hunched like some cave-dweller, worried about how he might react. That fight or flight feeling started to kick in.

"John – I really can't talk about that right now. Especially with this new case on – though not because of that – but it definitely is a contributing factor. I really don't think I can spare any room in my head for..."

I should have expected what I was hearing, but it still stung like a bitch. Stung even more, because it was the sort of answer he gave to Mrs Hudson when she asked him what kind of biscuits he wanted buying in, or what time he wanted her to call the plumber round. I felt uncontrollable anger rising inside me, like some sort of virus. More than my own embarrassment and vulnerability, I was frightened by my overwhelming urge to inflict some damage on Sherlock. The volume of my own voice shocked me when it finally burst from my dry throat.

"DAMN YOU, SHERLOCK!" I couldn't mask the crack in my voice, as I turned around and stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind me. I rushed off to my bedroom, slamming that door in the same juvenile way, and laid on my bed, turning by back to the door in case Mrs Hudson decided to check in on me and saw the look of pure misery on my face.

That was her knocking, about half an hour later. I rolled my eyes, and folded my arms tightly. Truth was, the anger I felt was gone pretty much as soon as it had surfaced. At that moment, all I felt was stupid. I'd gotten so wrapped up in this bloody journal that I'd forgotten who I was dealing with, and what I was dealing with. To make myself clear: the who being Sherlock Holmes and the what being a potential romantic relationship that I still wasn't really sure that I wanted to commit myself to. When I first thought about asking the question, I hadn't cared very much about the answer. But hearing those words from Sherlock's lips, knowing that he was probably analysing every word I'd said, affected me in the strangeest way. I was considering packing my bags, staying in a local B&B for a couple of nights – until my bedroom door creaked open.

It wasn't Mrs Hudson.
It was Sherlock. I watched him slope into the room, close the door gently behind him and rest his back against it, tilting his chin skyward. His eyes were downcast; he had a grave frown on his face and wouldn't look at me.
I turned away from him, lying down on the bed again.

"Fuck off, would you? I really don't want to talk to you." My voice was slightly muffled by my upturned shirt collar.

I heard a soft rustle of fabric, felt a slight bump in the mattress as Sherlock sat down on the bed behind me, and heard that familiar sigh from his nostrils.

"You don't have to," he said, in a voice that was so soft it chilled me right through.

Then I felt his hand on my waist, squeezing slightly. The touch was hesitant, lacking his usual confidence. But his fingers were warm, and I felt the touch seeping into my skin, sending a small shudder through me. I couldn't keep up the show of anger, after that. Just the contact of his fingertips seemed to say so much. All my inhibitions and irrational fears just melted away.
Before I could stop myself, tears were pricking my eyes. My shoulders started to hitch as small, silent sobs moved through me. I covered my face with my arm, ashamed of showing weakness – especially in front of Sherlock. It felt so strange: I hadn't cried for months, not since coming back to England after the war, when flashbacks and nightmares had haunted me. When Icried those times, though, it was from frustration, from fear and paranoia. I worried that my life would never have that extreme sense of danger and purpose ever again, that I would be so bored, and more importantly: that I'd never feel important in quite the same way ever again. Now, I was feeling – well, just feeling scared, and stupid. I won't deny: it was a relief to let that sort of emotion out - like letting blood from an infected wound.

"It's like you don't feel anything, sometimes," I told Sherlock eventually, my voice slightly thick with emotion. I don't know why I said it – wasn't even sure that that was how I felt until the words had already left me.

"Get up, John," Sherlock demanded, his voice flat. "I want you to look at me."

I sat up, matching his posture almost identically, and watching him sheepishly from the corner of my eye. He was still frowning and the bridge of his nose was wrinkled; I wondered if he would suggest that I should leave.
He turned to face me, lifted his hands and gripped me tightly by both shoulders. I had no choice, then – I was forced look fully at him, but I felt slightly uncomfortable under his intense gaze. His eyes were fixed on me, without blinking, in a way that made me feel a bit light-headed.

"I do feel, John," he said, dragging out each word, his voice low but insistent. He raised his eyebrows, and peered into me even more, as if checking that I agreed with him. I couldn't really do anything else.

Then I lunged forward and pressed my mouth against his, needily, desperately, and I couldn't stop a soft moan coming from me as I did. His cheeks felt strangely dry against my damp ones, and I wondered if it was an unpleasant feeling for him; it definitely wasn't for me. Then again, I was enjoying lots of other sensations that outweighed that one. The sensation of Sherlock's tongue against mine, mainly. I forced his lips apart with one of my less nervous kisses and held his tongue as it came out instinctively, enjoying the unmistakeable taste of him all over again.
It felt good to know that I had earned this pleasure: that Sherlock owed it to me. I was almost sure that he was indulging every move that I made, trying to please me, and also trying to prove me wrong: to prove that he had plenty of feelings, many that he was more than willing to share with me. I was more than happy to let him.
One of my hands found the back of his neck, which was hot and felt slightly clammy beneath my fingers. This made it easier for me to pull him closer, making it a little difficult for him to stop for air between kisses. With my other hand, I started to rub his knee and outer thigh: a thigh that was firm and muscular from plenty of sprinting across rooftops, I assumed.
Sherlock's hands were quite busy too; they worried over my back, my shoulders and hips, struggling to maintain contact anywhere, as if he wasn't sure where to anchor his grip. His fingers stroked my lower back, hovering very close to my arse, and I let out a strangled gasp at the lewd images that started to blitz my thoughts as a result.
Sherlock broke away from me when he heard it, raising one eyebrow. The rest of his face was free from expression, but his mouth was raw and his breath left him in short, swift bursts.

I took the opportunity here to do something a bit risky, maybe a bit rash. I had a pretty good idea where I wanted to go with this now – but the problem was that Sherlock was still a closed book. I had no idea how he would react, and I started to think he might not know whatto do. He'd never been very talkative about his level of knowledge in – that subject area, before.
Seizing my chance without enough sensible thought, I put my hands on either side of Sherlock's chest and pressed him gently down onto the bed. He didn't protest, didn't look surprised at all. His face stayed pretty unreadable. Once he was on his back, with me above him, my knees either side of his hips, I took his wrists in my hands and raised his arms above his head, basically pinning him in position. Not because I was worried that he might reject me, or because I wanted him at my mercy, but because he'd seemed so unsure about where to put his hands earlier; I wanted him to know that it didn't matter that much to me.
Oddly enough, he just let me do it. I looked at him for a few seconds, trying to read any signs of discomfort from him. But there weren't any.
I brought my face towards him and kissed him – slowly, this time, deliberately. He was responding in his usual way, confident, but slightly passive, as if he wouldn't begrudge me if I got cold feet and decided to put an end to the whole thing. But now, because his movements were so restricted, I was getting some pretty delicious friction off of him: he was grinding his hips against mine, every time he switched the angle of his kiss. I felt myself getting hot and flustered, knowing that it wouldn't be long before my – appreciation of his movements started to show. But it this time, Sherlock looked like he was going to beat me to it. Only the smallest break in our kissing told me that he'd noticed at all, but it was pretty definite that he was starting to get a hard-on. The sensation was almost as subdued as he was, not the usual, firm 'stand to attention' that I was used to with my own body-part. I wondered if he was trying to conceal it from me, like I'd tried to all those nights ago. But I wanted him to know that, tonight, there was no need to conceal anything.

With a cool determination that surprised even me, I reached down between us, unzipped Sherlock's fly, and fetched his semi-hard cock from the rent in his trousers. Then I started to pump it gently with a half-closed fist. I could have laughed at how surreal it all was, but somehow, I didn't feel like laughing. Not one bit.
I wasn't sure how Sherlock would take it; whether he would welcome it, or enjoy it at all. The deep moan that rose from the back of his throat was so unexpected that I couldn't believe I'd heard it, but I saw the bleary look on Sherlock's face and the insides of my thighs started to ache; my heart moved up several notches, coming to rest somewhere in my windpipe.
I felt a strange kind of success at seeing Sherlock affected in this way; with a smile, I bent my head to him and covered his neck with slow, persistent kisses, keeping up the steady friction of my hand.
Looking up at him to see how he was coping, I was a bit miffed to him smiling. Not with pleasure – but as if I was doing something extremely funny. Apart from the sheen of sweat across his forehead, it was impossible to tell that I was doing anything even slightly kinky to him. I slowed my hand, hoping to get his attention.

"Are you enjoying this, Sherlock?" My tone was careful, but my voice was quite hoarse.

The smile was wiped from his face straight away. His eyes moved groggily to mine, and he cleared his throat softly.

"Why do you ask?" His voice was as calm and monotone as ever, which I was almost impressed by, considering what I was doing to him.

I felt stupid and vulnerable all over again, but I was determined not to let him think that I was. After all, if he wasn't as into this as I was, I wasn't going to let him think that it would bother me at all. I let myself smile a small smile as I replied, putting on a bit of a show of bravado.

"Well, I don't know – I just – well, I didn't think you were really capable of...this. This sort of enjoyment."

I was surprised when Sherlock didn't look offended by the comment at all. He had every right to, but he'd probably sensed how insecure I was and wanted to address that instead.

In a flat voice, he answered, "I am capable of just the right amount of any emotion – as appropriate to the particular situation. Including...'enjoyment.'"

The reply was so typical of Sherlock, and delivered so bluntly, that I couldn't help but believe him completely. I started to stroke him again, my enthusiasm renewed. And I felt like his kisses from then on were even more insistent. Maybe just because he was enjoying himself so much...

I eventually started to increase pace, as time slipped by in its humid blur. Sherlock's prick was fully hard by this point, and my movements were made easier by the coating of precum that was spilling from the tip. He was disguising his pleasure a lot less carefully now; his moans were more frequent, and his hips were jerking slightly beneath me. It was strangely satisfying to see him like this – even though I feel petty admitting that. It felt like I finally had a way to prove my usefulness against Sherlock's incredible genius; being able to appreciate pleasure and desire, I could actually teach him something, show him things he had never had the chance to witness first-hand (so to speak).
When I'd settled into beating out a steady rhythm on him, I could sense all the muscles in his body relaxing. His head dropped back against the bedcovers, as he started to get used to all the new sensations I was giving him. He gasped a little for air, but apart from that, he could have been enjoying a nice sunny stroll in the park.
Eventually, a few strained words left his mouth that took me slightly off-guard.

"Oh...Oh, John that feels so..."

"- Good?" I suggested, humour in my voice. My face was close to his; I was enjoying watching his changing expressions.

"Mm. Good. Yes. Very good," he panted, gripping the bed sheets tightly in his fists – which were still raised above his head.

I took this as a cue to switch the angle of my wrist, and to speed up the rhythm even more. Sherlock was even more enthusiastic, as I thought he would be. But after a while, he started to act kind of...strange.
The longer I continued, the more he seemed to be feeling the same tension that I noticed much earlier on. He was even biting down on the skin of the back of his hand at one point, his eyes closed, as if he was trying to keep as silent and controlled as possible. I wondered if he was starting to struggle with the waves of emotion that I was bringing out in him. It was odd to see him like this. Sort of thrilling.
I wondered if he would want to see this through to the end, seeing how uncomfortable he seemed to be - so I slowed down the pace of my wrist movements, and leant closer to him, trying to make my voice sound as gentle as I could.

"Do you want me to make you come?" I asked him.

Bizarre, I know. Even more so for me, because I've never had to ask anyone – let alone a man – that question before. It's sort of a given, right?
But I was pretty sure that Sherlock needed reassuring that I wouldn't force him into anything he wasn't comfortable with.
He didn't say anything. Just let out a small sigh and tilted his head back towards the bedcovers again. Rightly or wrongly, I took this as permission.
To be honest, I was quite keen to see this through to its end. After all the mind games and childish angst, it would be a relief for me to reach a point where I could be sure once and for all of where our relationship stood. At this moment, I didn't really care about any of the other 'what ifs', like what would happen after all this. Simpler times.
I was quite sure of what Sherlock wanted now, so I started a feverish pace with my wrist, grabbing at any free parts of his body I could reach to try and keep balance. Sherlock had one hand still tangled in the bed sheets, while his other gripped my arm tightly – so tightly that the pain almost put me off my stride. His eyes were squeezed shut; I thought he might snap at any moment, and wouldn't be able to go through with it because of his sociopathic nature, and not because of inexperience on either of our parts.
But as soon as these thoughts had entered my head, it was all over, and Sherlock was coming swift and hot into my palm. My God, but it was weird. Wonderfully weird. He hardly made a sound; I muffled the little noise he did make by covering his mouth with mine, seizing him in one last, passionate kiss.
Releasing him carefully, I laid beside him on the bed (with some difficulty, it only being a single). I watched Sherlock soundlessly, waiting for him to open his eyes. When he did, it was as if he had just woken up from a long hibernation: his vision was strangely clear, and he looked sort of bemused. He wiped the sweat from his face with the back of the hand he had been biting – it still carried pink tooth marks.
Even though his attention seemed to be fixed on the ceiling, I decided to break the silence.

"Was that...good?" I asked awkwardly, trying not to look as if I cared.

Sherlock's eyes moved to me, and he quirked an eyebrow as if to say, '"Was that good for you?" Bit of a cliché, John.'
What he actually did say was, "Very good." A bright smile spread across his face that made breath catch a little. He turned to face the ceiling again, folding his hands behind his head. "I think I may now be able to solve the case. Thanks to you in fact."

I laughed. Thought he was joking. "Who knew that sex was good for crime-solving?" I answered back, shaking my head.

Turns out he wasn't joking. Just two days later: case closed. I could have been insulted: that his thoughts weren't totally focused on me during those moments, and that, instead of thinking about the usual in that kind of situation, Sherlock was actually thinking about a psychotic, poppy-collecting killer and his methods.
He tried reassuring me later by saying that his mind was just as fixated on both. He seems to have a talent for it that he didn't know he had – multitasking. 'Synchronising my hard-drive', he calls it. It seemed that sex was actually just the thing Sherlock needed to get his thoughts together. I decided to keep that in mind for future cases.
I've been questioning myself over and over: about what might happen next for us, how we will be able to define the relationship we share. Even though I don't know if it can ever really last...I've been enjoying finding out.

It seemed like Sherlock was pretty pleased with himself about having potentially solved the case, laid there next to me on my bed, looking slightly messed-up and manhandled. I decided to go and clean up, realising that there would be no reaching him, now, until he had been to Scotland Yard and successfully undermined Lestrade enough to prove that he deserves to be called the police's most valuable asset.
Smiling to myself, I started to turn away, swinging my legs off the bed. I was buttoning up my shirt, which Sherlock had managed to crease and crumple a bit – when I was stopped by a hand on the small of my back.
I looked over my shoulder, to see that Sherlock was kneeling on the bed, his smile still there, but his eyes looking almost...I don't know. The best way I can describe it is – wicked.

"Your turn, Doctor." He said, grabbing me roughly by the waist.

Yours, Faithfully,

Dr. John Watson