These characters do not belong to me, but I promise they're not doing anything they won't thoroughly enjoy ;)

Far warning: drug references and men pleasuring each other. Sorry I'm not sorry.

It had been two weeks. Most people would not characterize Sherlock Holmes as a patient man, but he'd sat in 221B Baker street, and shot up the wall, and microwaved eyeballs, and he hadn't sent John a single text.

He'd almost laughed aloud when the day after, the incident, John had walked into the living room, announcing that he was going to New Zealand with Sarah for a vacation.

Of course he hadn't protested. No. He'd smiled and said, "have fun," and that had been the end of things. It was a natural step in the game.

Supposed "straight" men were all so boringly similar. After the first advance, they'd run away screaming, only to be dragged back by curiosity. It wasn't a thing to be worried over. No, it was always best to let them go without a word. That way, when they came back, it was their idea. And that made all the difference in the world.

John was due back from the airport within the hour and the tension was building.

Under no circumstances would he make another move until John initiated it. But that didn't mean he couldn't nudge the good doctor in certain directions. Tone of voice, eye contact, body language—Sherlock could tell John exactly what to think without using anything so threatening as spoken words. He could plant ideas, and of course, they would seem entirely organic.

Sherlock sighed slightly.

He leaned back into the sofa cushion and wondered how long it would be. Another week? Another month? The memories he had were already worn out. Played on repeat in every spare moment. John moaning. John licking his lips. John's erection pressing into his leg as they kissed without breathing.

Breathing was boring.

A Holmes man would never stoop to something so pedestrian as masturbation, but the thoughts. Oh the thoughts. Just enough to get him keyed up, anxious, on the edge. Like slapping nicotine patches all up his inner thigh and ripping them off just before he fainted.

But just as he was really beginning to wallow in those over-played, indulgent scenarios—the voice of doubt piped up.

What if he refuses?

It was like a deluge of cold water.

True, John's flesh was more than willing. But the man was stubborn. It was one of the things Sherlock admired about him. However, in such a situation, it could prove detrimental to any further progress.

And so, his over-stimulated brain circled round to the same place it had started. Repeating over and over again that John was a bad idea. That he should just leave it alone. Let it all fade to background noise, and pretend like nothing happened.

After all, the possible loss to gain ratio in this particular situation was disturbingly drastic. John was the only roommate that had ever lasted more than a month. Doing anything to scare him off seemed like an unwise financial decision, if nothing else.

Besides, he wasn't entirely annoyed by John's company. That was rare. In fact, he rather enjoyed having the army doctor puttering around the flat. It would be stupid to waste such a good working relationship on the sins of the flesh.

For a brief moment, he thought about the small mint tin he kept hidden underneath John's floorboards. Now would be the time to get it. He'd be wonderfully numb. Completely checked out by the time John arrived.

It had been what had saved him from himself in university—all though nobody else seemed to see it that way. He'd swapped out his sexuality for a mild cocaine habit. A fair trade. Much less collateral damage.

Nobody feels like fucking when they have a floppy dick from railing lines all night long.

Sherlock sighed and slapped a fresh nicotine patch on his arm. That brought it up to four. If the John situation was having this much of an effect on him, clearly it was an experiment better left half-finished.

He stood and walked over to the window, watching the street intently. He stared blankly at the abyss, as the minutes trickled by. After what seemed like forever, a cab finally pulled up. He watched John pay the cab driver, then heard the door swing open downstairs.

He quickly situated himself on the couch and brought his fingers together in front of his chin in a reverent atheist's prayer. The stairs creaked as John struggled up them, carrying his over-packed bag. Clearly Mrs. Hudson wasn't home, or she would be making a fuss.

"Hello, John," Sherlock commented offhandedly as the doctor panted at the top of the stairs.

"Hello. Miss me?"

"You were gone?"

John was slightly taken aback. Though really, he supposed he shouldn't be surprised. It was far from the first time he'd left without Sherlock noticing. Even when he'd distinctly stated that he was going on vacation, he'd had a vague feeling that Sherlock didn't hear him.

"I've been in New Zealand, Sherlock," John sighed.

"Oh, really? Should have realized something was wrong. We're out of food."

"Of course we are," John shook his head.

There were some new bullet holes in the wall, but other than that the flat seemed relatively unchanged. Sherlock must be deep in a case, or some new experiment. He was in the middle of the couch in his classic thinking pose.

"I suppose we'll be getting take away then tonight. I can go shopping in the morning." John said it more to himself than anything. Sherlock was already staring off into space again, immersed in thought.

It was just as well, really.

John hadn't been entirely certain what to expect upon his arrival home, but this was by far the least unsettling scenario that could have unfolded. He'd been slightly worried about opening the door to a naked detective holding a dog collar out for him to try on.

As he dragged his suitcase into his bedroom, part of him felt a bit silly about all the anxiety he'd been feeding ever since his rather hasty departure. Poor Sarah. She'd sounded excited on the phone when he'd suggested the little whirlwind romantic vacation/escape from Sherlock. But she'd gotten into a mood the second she saw the sizeable bruise on his neck, and stayed that way the entire trip.

They'd only had sex twice. Then she'd broken up with him when they still had a week left on the hotel reservations.

All in all, it had rather been a disaster.

John made his way to the kitchen, thinking about a nice cup of tea and possibly a glass of whiskey. He could certainly use it, after traveling with such an unhappy companion for a fortnight. And Sherlock seemed safely occupied in his own brain.

He put the kettle on and got his bottle down from the cupboard. He poured quite a reasonable sized glass, then splashed a bit more in for good measure.

"So she dumped you, then?"

John nearly jumped out of his skin. Sherlock was leaning in the kitchen doorway, staring at him innocently.

"I saw the cab drive away without her in it. Our flat is much closer to the airport. So she declined to share one with you."

"Excellent deduction, as always," John raised his glass sarcastically and took a large swig.

"You should order from the Cantonese place. I'm not in the mood for curry."

And with that, the detective disappeared again. Presumably to resume whatever grand thoughts he'd been having before John arrived.

"Would you like anything particular?" John called to the vacated doorway.

"Surprise me. And you should probably phone it in before you get too drunk." Sherlock's voice drifted smugly from the living room.

"I won't get drunk," John muttered.

But even as he said it, it tasted like a lie.

He rooted around in the kitchen drawer until he found the old crumpled takeout menu and phoned in for two orders of shrimp fried rice. Even though he knew Sherlock probably wouldn't eat, he also ordered soup and egg rolls—because it saddened him to see the refrigerator so empty.

Usually Mrs. Hudson intervened when things got so drastic. But perhaps Sherlock had been in a particularly nasty mood and rejected her attempts to re-stock the cupboards.

After he'd finished phoning in the order, the kettle was boiling. John fixed himself a nice cuppa, and carried it, along with his whiskey, out into the living room. Sherlock was staring at the ceiling, applying more nicotine patches to his arm.

Perhaps things were simply back to normal.

After John had gotten a bit more into his glass of whiskey, he even went to fetch his computer, and began to half-heartedly type his thoughts about the country of New Zealand. Not much good to say, considering how miserable he'd been for most of the trip. But the countryside was quite lovely. And the Kiwi accents had been charming.

"It's nice to have you back, John," Sherlock commented quietly.

"Good to be back."

Yes. Everything back to normal, John sighed and relaxed into his chair. But then he made the mistake of glancing up. Sherlock was staring at him with a positively wicked gleam in his eye.

Bugger.

Of course, there were no interesting cases when Sherlock called down to Scotland Yard for the third day in a row.

After sharing an extremely awkward and mostly silent dinner his first night back, John had been avoiding Sherlock thoroughly. And of course, Sherlock hadn't pressed the issue. It was difficult, but necessary.

Clearly John was sore over being dumped at a time when he needed his heterosexuality affirmed more than ever. So he'd resorted to going out on long walks whenever possible and watching TV shows he knew Sherlock couldn't stand whenever he had to leave his room to eat.

It was probably for the best.

Sherlock wasn't particularly confident in his ability to keep himself under control. The second John had walked into the flat again, it seemed like all his nerves were on fire with the intoxication of fantasy.

He hadn't said anything.

But John had seen or sensed it. Because he immediately became flustered, and then defensive.

Sherlock had tried to make him feel more comfortable, by asking irrelevant questions about the vacation. But that only seemed to make John more agitated. Usually he liked talking about irrelevant things, like football and crap telly.

However, any word that Sherlock breathed seemed to hit a raw nerve. So he'd reverted to silence fairly quickly.

Sherlock had taken to pacing in front of the window frantically, unable to find any decent thoughts to occupy his mind with. Things inevitably deteriorated to thoughts of calling up old drug dealers, or storming into John's bedroom and ordering him out of his clothes.

That would be lovely, if not entirely ill-advised.

The poor detective had gone through far too many boxes of nicotine patches in the past seventy-two hours. He was going to send himself into a sickly kind of overdose if he kept up at such a rate.

Something had to break.

John or drugs.

Body or brain.

Sherlock was already pulling out his mobile. Dialing a number he'd sworn so many times he'd never call again.

It picked up on the third ring.

"Dalton. Who's this?"

"Meet me on the corner in twenty minutes."

"Ah, Sherlock. Of course, dear fellow. Anything for you."

And Sherlock hung up quickly. He'd thought about the mint tin under John's floorboards, certainly. But the situation required something far more drastic than a bit of cocaine.

Black tar heroin was the only thing for it.

John was sitting on the couch, eating pizza, and watching Top Gear when he heard to front door slam open.

He was slightly embarrassed to admit that for once, he'd been the one who hadn't noticed Sherlock leave.

"Alright?" John called as he heard Sherlock bound up the stairs.

"Fine."

Sherlock whirled through the living room and into the kitchen. John heard him rummaging around in all the drawers, making a mess.

Obviously he found what he was looking for fairly quickly. Because he was stomping back through the living room and locking himself into the bathroom before John could so much as blink

He supposed it was nothing to worry about. After all, Sherlock acting strangely was more normal than him trying to instigate mundane conversations about the weather, or god forbid, football.

No, John actually felt himself relax for a moment, before he heard awful retching sounds coming from behind the closed door of the bathroom.

Sherlock was unmistakably vomiting.

He was on his feet and knocking on the bathroom door before he even thought about it. John the Doctor had fully taken the reins up in his brain.

"Sherlock, are you ok?"

No reply. Just the toilet flushing. Running water.

Then John almost tumbled forward directly into him when the door swung open.

He was staring into constricted pupils. Flushed cheeks. The detective's mouth was hanging open. And his chest was rising and falling at a rapid rate.

Sherlock slumped against the side of the doorway, like he couldn't bear to stay standing much longer.

"Can I get by?" His words drawled like water dripping out of a tap.

Panic suddenly bloomed in John's chest. He saw the spoon with lighter burns on it sitting by the sink. Sherlock's sleeves were rolled down, but the cuff was unbuttoned on the left side. Sherlock's belt was sitting on the floor in the far corner of the bathroom, still looped, the perfect size for a tourniquet.

"Sherlock, are you high?" John could feel his heart pounding in his ears.

The detective said nothing. Just stared at John vacantly.

He only reacted when John pulled out his mobile and began dialing a number.

"If you tell Mycroft, I will hurt you," the words still came out slow, and heavy. But John got the feeling that Sherlock meant them wholeheartedly. "It will be at least a few minutes before he gets anyone over here. More if he comes himself. Plenty of time to do something nasty."

And then, Sherlock pushed past John and stumbled towards the couch. He slumped onto it lengthwise, and stared up at the ceiling for a moment before his eyes fluttered shut.

Top Gear was still flickering in the background. John took a few paces towards the couch, and then just stood in the middle of the room, utterly lost.

He hadn't even noticed.

Usually Mycroft warned him when he suspected a danger night. They made appropriate preparations. Watched Sherlock closely. But this… this had come out of nowhere and smacked him in the face.

He looked back down at his mobile. What could Sherlock really do in his current state? John could probably fight him off. Despite being smaller, he had a lot more combat training on his side.

"Give the phone to me." Sherlock was holding out a long, thin hand, his eyes still closed. "I'm not going to enjoy this at all if I have to worry about you calling somebody and causing a fuss."

John stood his ground.

"Give the phone to me," Sherlock was instantly in a seated position, glaring at him.

"No, I can't do that."

"I've asked you nicely twice. Make me ask again, and I'll take it from you."

John held up the mobile defiantly and pressed the 6 key to scroll down to M in his contact list.

For a moment, it was almost like Sherlock was flying. Sailing towards him at an incredible speed. But the illusion was shattered when Sherlock grabbed him around the waist and dragged him to the ground in a tangled heap.

It was quite a struggle.

First Sherlock had John pinned, his wrists above his head, pressing him down with the full length of his body. But somehow, John managed to get one foot flat on the floor, and he arched up, rolling Sherlock onto his back. But before John could pin him all the way, Sherlock wrestled the phone out of his hand, and tossed it across the room.

John tried to stand up, but Sherlock grabbed him around the waist again. Wrapping his two lanky arms around the smaller man like a straight jacket. It was a death grip. John struggled violently, but Sherlock didn't let go.

And of course, the more John struggled, the more friction in caused. The situation was quickly deteriorating. There were intoxicating jolts of arousal shooting through his body. Being this close to Sherlock. Feeling Sherlock's breath against his own face.

Feeling Sherlock's hard dick pressing into his thigh.

John wasn't sure if he was struggling any more, or simply moving because it felt good. It was so dreadfully wrong. But all the blood flow that should have gone to his brain was rushing down into a throbbing erection.

And moving. Thrusting against Sherlock's taught stomach. It was heavenly.

Those dangerous eyes were looking up at him. Pupils dilated. Searching. Waiting. Wet lips. John closed the distance.

He tasted like… cinnamon?

Wait, hadn't he just been throwing up?

John pulled back abruptly. Sherlock was smiling. Oh, fuck.

"Really, John, taking advantage of me while I'm high," the detective bit his lip slightly, "I thought better of you."

"You're not high," John said flatly.

"You're really too easy."

"But how…?"

"Anybody can make retching sounds. Hands over the eyes, when you lift them, your pupils are constricted. Hot water causes the skin to flush…. Shall I go on? Honestly, John. If I were really doing drugs in the bathroom, do you think I'd be so obvious about it?"

John sat back so he was straddling Sherlock's chest.

"Why did you do it?" The good doctor crossed his arms.

"I thought that part was fairly clear. You're only comfortable with your attraction to me in moments of crisis, so I created one."

John let out a long groan and buried his face in both hands.

It had been rather a dirty trick. With delicious results. But a dirty trick, nonetheless. True, he had called Dalton. He'd even started to walk down to the corner. But he hadn't been able to go through with it. No… not when a better idea crossed his mind the second he'd stepped out the door.

John lowered his hands and tried to stand up. Sherlock tightened his grip.

"Come on, John, are you really angry with me? You were clearly enjoying yourself. After all, I didn't make you kiss me."

John let out a long sigh, and avoided eye contact. He was obviously struggling with what to do next.

"Of course I won't force anything," Sherlock said quickly. Upon further reflection about the incident he'd decided that even though John had a blatant submissive streak, it was something he was embarrassed about. It was off limits for now. Or at least until Sherlock could handcuff him to something, so that easy escape wasn't an option.

"In fact," Sherlock released the grip he'd been holding John in so tightly, "I'll just lie here. You can do whatever you want. You can even run away. I won't stop you."

Sherlock stretched his arms out to the side like he was lying on an invisible crucifix, and he waited. Not moving. Barely breathing. Just staring up at John.

John continued to sit on his chest for a few minutes, just taking deep breaths. Probably trying to will his erection away. But it didn't seem to be working out too well for him. He was still obviously very aroused.

"John—"

"Shut up, Sherlock. Just shut up," John barked.

The good doctor was still breathing rather heavily.

"So let me get this straight. You pretended to have a relapse, so you'd have an excuse to tackle me, and… what? Press up against me until I did something stupid? Is that about right?"

"Well it sounds bad when you say it like that," Sherlock offered coyly.

"Do you understand why I'm angry? That's not at all an appropriate—or even rational thing to do. In fact, that might be the most insane thing I've ever heard of."

Sherlock shrugged.

"Do you know what normal people do, Sherlock? They go out to dinner. They go to a cinema. They don't pretend to do drugs in the bathroom and then tackle their flat mates."

Sherlock barely bit back his retort. We're not normal John. Would you really rather I ask you out to the cinema? Don't lie. You loved this.

John stood up.

The game was on.

Sherlock got to his knees, and gazed up at John from that level. He knew exactly how attractive he looked, with his clothes all rumpled. His moist lips parted into a small O. Kneeling right the level of John's cock. Close enough for John to feel the heat of his breath.

"Come on!" John groaned.

Slowly, sensuously, Sherlock ran his tongue along his bottom lip. Never breaking eye contact.

John's breath caught.

He was hooked. Struggling, with the very last dregs of self-control. It was too much. He folded.

His fingers dug into Sherlock's curls, as the detective swiftly loosed John's belt buckle. Button undone, zipper down, long fingers reaching into John's pants.

Oh hello.

Sherlock pulled John's cock out into the cool air of the flat. Not too long, but quite thick. It seemed oddly appropriate.

He flicked his tongue out, just to barely taste the dribble of pre-cum pooling at the tip of John's cock. And the good doctor shuddered. Bit back a small moan.

Sherlock engulfed him entirely, so his nose was pressed into John's sweater. He smelled vaguely like PG Tips.

But there wasn't time to linger.

Sherlock hollowed his cheeks, and sucked hard. The tip of John's cock was hitting the back of his throat. He swallowed around it and John gasp-cried.

John's fingers tugged on Sherlock's hair. Sharply. His hips jerking unconsciously. Sherlock surrendered. Allowing John to fuck his mouth. Wildly. There would be other times to show off. Right at that moment, it was more important to push John as close to the edge as possible without actually letting him fall.

Manipulation by a seeming act of supplication. Classic. Basic. But damn it all if it wasn't effective.

By the way John was breathing—nearly hyperventilating—Sherlock knew it wouldn't take very long.

"Fuck," John moaned. "Sherlock, I'm going to—"

And Sherlock pulled back instantly.

John let out a small whine.

He tried to wrap his fingers around his throbbing erection to finish the job, but Sherlock swatted his hand away.

The detective was pulling John down to the floor. Gently, but insistently.

John didn't have a single ounce of energy left to put up a struggle. In fact, he almost sighed with relief as Sherlock sprawled out on top of him once again. This time with his trousers around his thighs.

He shivered as the heat of Sherlock's pulsing cock made contact with his own. It felt so good. How was that possible? It should never, ever stop.

Before he had more than a millisecond to think about the state of things, Sherlock's tongue was in his mouth. Fucking him. There was no other word for it. Completely and utterly dominating the kiss, violating him in the best ways possible.

Sherlock's teeth grazing against John's bottom lip.

Sherlock's long fingers wrapped around both of their cocks. And oh, the feverish thrusting. John was miles away from coherent. He probably should have been thankful Sherlock was kissing him so sinfully. Otherwise he might have been babbling something idiotic.

He felt the heat coiling in his belly. The static electricity building up through his entire body.

Dear, sweet, lord in heaven.

Sherlock bit down violently on John's neck and that did it.

John was coming. He was the embodiment of orgasm. Every single muscle contracted and released at the same time. He jerked, and shuddered, and then he was incapable of any motion whatsoever.

He just lay there as Sherlock panted for a few more moments before letting out a quiet grunt and collapsing halfway on top of him.

His jumper was covered in jizz now, wasn't it?

Brilliant.

"Well, shit," John exhaled on a vague whisper.

"Indeed."

"Don't think this gets you out of anything. I'm still angry at you."

"For what?"

"Bloody hell if I remember. Can't I just be generally cross? You do a lot of upsetting things."

"I suppose."

"I need a shower."

"I'll join you."

"No. Get off me."

"I think you got those words in the wrong order."

"What?" John spluttered.

"I think you meant, get me off again. Please, Sherlock. That was so good." The detective had already fallen into his normal sarcastic tone.

"I'll hit you."

"That would make things much more interesting."

John sighed and pushed Sherlock off. He did not, however, stand up right away. He lay on the floor for a few minutes. Soaking in the afterglow.

"John?"

"Yes?"

"I'm glad we're speaking again."

John snorted and rolled his eyes.

"Well, you are quite persistent."

"You like it."

"Shut up."

Once again, I send out numerous thanks to wholockian729 for being my second pair of eyes.

Your reviews, follows and favorites make me exceedingly happy inside. This is shaping up to be a weekly serial. Tune in next Wednesday for a guest appearance from Sherlock's Riding Crop. Also, I solemnly promise that John Watson will get handcuffed to a bed :D

Want a say in what happens? Audience participation is always fun, isn't it?

This week's contest: Decide what Sherlock and John's safe word is. So far, my favorites are Marzipan and Chamomile. But it's up to you. Tell me what you want in the reveiws. You can suggest anything that strikes your fancy. The safe word that gets the most votes by Tuesday evening will appear in next week's update.