John was fuming; his mind whirling with thoughts and feelings and burning rage that no rational thought can douse. He had stared at Sherlock for the last twenty minutes before getting up and storming out of the living room and down to the local pub, checking his wallet and finding just enough for a pint of bitter which tasted flat and tasteless in his mouth.

Sherlock fucking Holmes was an arsehole.

Their most recent case was supposed to have been simple. Find some missing valuables and return them to a posh bloke in a big country manor who wore too much tweed and had teeth that were too large for his mouth. Simple. Easy.

Except that with Sherlock bloody Holmes, nothing was simple. The man had showed off his talents, sparkling in the summer sunshine like a dazzling peacock as he reeled off deductions that led them to an old factory on the docks. There was a quick chase which ended with a bullet flying that had narrowly missed Sherlock's main artery in his right thigh. It had turned out to mostly be a flesh wound, but it was too close, too scary and now John was utterly terrified that after all this time, Sherlock was going to be taken away from him for good.

"I thought I'd find you here," a familiar voice uttered as a warm hand fell on his right shoulder.

"Did Mycroft send you?" John asked, sighing into his pint, "He can fuck off as well."

"Easy mate," Greg's voice was soft but forceful, "He's - we're - well, you know…it doesn't change anything. Me and him but - yeah," he finished a bit awkwardly as he made a subtle hand gesture to the bartender.

"Mmm," John agreed, hunching over, "just because you're shagging him doesn't make him less of a prick."

"He was only trying to help," Greg said gently, ordering a half pint and sitting beside John, "he didn't mean to be abrupt."

"Abrupt?" John practically growled, his eyebrow raised, "He was rude . Overly harsh. Does he really think that I would enjoy letting Sherlock almost die? That it's pleasant for me?"

"He panicked," Greg explained, rubbing a hand through his hair tiredly; it had been almost 48 hours since he had last slept and he couldn't really be arsed fighting with his mate over Mycroft and his hostility, "Sherlock was...well...he looked so pale."

"I know," John hissed, "Don't you think I know? Don't you think I looked at his charts and saw his vitals and immediately panicked that I would lose him?"

"We weren't suggesting you didn't…" Greg sighed heavily, "Mycroft is...well, you know what they're like. Mycroft feels like he needs to protect his brother."

"Not from me," John said sadly, tipping his head forward and sighing, "never from me."

"Do you need somewhere to stay tonight?" Greg suggested carefully.

"No. I'm going home," John promised, giving a weak smile, "I just needed - to be away. For a moment."

Greg nodded twice and sighed, "You know where I am."

John nodded in reply and stood up, the adrenaline wearing off and leaving him bone tired and weary as he downed the last of his pint, "Night, mate."

"Watch yourself," Greg said in response, watching as John left the pub towards home.


"Indulging in alcohol intoxication? That's a bit cliche," Sherlock sighed from his chair with his right leg propped up on John's, looking over at the older man as he walked into the living room and chucked his coat on the sofa.

"I love you," John whispered, eyes bright with tears as he blinked towards Sherlock, tracks running down his cheeks, "I love you and I don't ever want to feel like I'm going to lose you. Not for diamonds, not for money, not for fame. I don't want you to leave me," he admitted. Both men hear the 'again' that hangs heavy in the air between them, unspoken.

Blinking rapidly, Sherlock was obviously thrown off-balance by John's outburst, "John..."

"Shut up," John insisted, moving across the room to kneel at Sherlock's side, "Without you, I have nothing; you can't leave me. Especially not for some posh wanker named Tarquin."

Sherlock chuckled, his eyes wet with unshed tears as he took John's hand into his own, larger ones, "I'm sorry I scared you. That wasn't the plan."

"Oh, you had a plan?" John asked, eyebrow raised, "And what was that?"

"It was just the basic outline of a plan. It...well...it mostly revolved around not being shot," Sherlock admitted with an embarrassed shrug.

"Well, then you failed," the smaller man laughed to take the bite out of the words, putting his head down to rest on Sherlock's good leg, feeling the moment Sherlock's fingers dug into his short hair, "I was so scared, you dick."

"I know," he whispered with a touch of remorse, "I apologise."

John took a deep breath before standing again. He closed the distance to his own chair - closer than typical to Sherlock's for easy resting access - and gently lifted the long leg to seat himself below it. Sherlock hummed in contentment as John began to massage his foot.

"You are, by far, the most frustrating person I have ever dated."

Sherlock snorted in disbelief, "That is categorically untrue. Do try to remember that I had to meet some of the women you dated after we had met."

"Yes, but they never frustrated me like this," John insisted, choosing to ignore Sherlock's indignant face at the statement, "I expected them to be a bit self-centered, unaware, and - in a few cases - uneducated. But you …" he trailed off as his eyes took in every detail of the face he almost lost. Again, "you're supposed to be a genius."

"Geniuses wish they were as intelligent as I am," he smirked before turning serious, "You always did hold me in too high of a regard for either of our well beings. I'm not perfect, John."

"No, but you're so close to being perfect for me ," he stressed, "if only you'd stop nearly getting yourself killed."

"Oh, is that all?" Sherlock chuckled, "What about the body parts in the fridge?"

"Oh, we'll still argue over that, make no mistake," John promised, happier now, "but it's not something that I need you to change. You've started to label them…so there's less chance of me spreading human liver pate on my toast."

Sherlock looked into John's eyes with an emotion that very much resembled love but still remained unnamed before he spoke again, "I obviously can't promise anything concrete since I can't see into the future and, after all, everyone dies at some point, but," he paused for effect, "I will endeavor to be more conscientious of your preference for my state of sentient existence henceforth."

John rolled his eyes, fighting a bright smile at how utterly Sherlockian the response was, "You just had to show off how brilliant you are, didn't you?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Sherlock sniffed and turned his head towards the sofa to hide his smile.

They relaxed into silence, and eventually John's hands stopped moving on the sole of Sherlock's foot. Without thinking or intending, he insistently pushed his right foot into John's hands and lap to encourage further attention. What he did not expect to encourage was a hiss of air and a raising of John's hips towards the contact.

"Oh," Sherlock practically breathed in understanding, his mind working to renovate John's wing of his mind palace once more to accommodate this new information.

"I didn't mean...of course we don't…" John stammered past the heat rising in his cheeks at the contact. It had been almost a week since they had shared a bed with intimate intent, and his cock could only think to remind him how much he'd missed Sherlock's touch.

"Don't we?" Sherlock asked innocently as his foot moved firmer over the clothed cock, adoring the feeling of it hardening under his attention.

"You're injured," John countered. Always the good doctor.

"I was injured last time, too; didn't stop you then," he argued with a smirk. Truthfully, his thigh was screaming at him in protest at his use of the muscles, but it was easy enough to quiet them.

"This time you're actually injured," John fought back against the words, his body nearly losing its own battle, "you could cause further damage to your muscles or start bleeding again."

"Then take me to bed, doctor," he purred in his lowest, most tempting timbre.

"Goddammit," John swore, his only verbal admit of defeat. John gently moving Sherlock's leg so that he could stand and help the lankier man to the downstairs bedroom was confirmation enough that Sherlock had won.

John helped Sherlock through to the bedroom, small steps shuffled towards the bed and the promise of intimacy. Taking off the younger man's clothing was a struggle; taking Sherlock's weight onto himself whilst Sherlock kicked off his pants was challenging but hilarious as Sherlock wiggled and finally stripped himself bare.

"Good lord, I've got a sweat on," Sherlock grumbled under his breath, watching as John looked up and down his lithe body. Sherlock's grazed leg had been stitched tidily and John checked the area under the dressing before nodding that Sherlock could lay down - something which, judging by the heavy sigh Sherlock gave, had been too long coming.

John stripped himself down to his pants before climbing in beside Sherlock, kissing his shoulder as he turned and wrapped an arm around Sherlock's waist, "Okay?"

"Hmm," Sherlock nodded, "Perfect."

"We can't -" John gave a vague hand motion but carefully coaxed Sherlock onto his side, the side which was unaffected by the graze, "but there are other things."

"Other things?" Sherlock grinned, turning his head to look over his shoulder seductively.

Shimmying his pants down to below his buttocks, John rubbed his erection up and down Sherlock's buttocks, moaning and nipping at Sherlock's ear as he dipped his hands into Sherlock's underwear, wrapping a hand around the stiff prick inside whilst he rutted.

"Are you going to penetrate me?" Sherlock asked nervously.

"No," John promised, kissing Sherlock's shoulder, "but it's the next closest thing."

Sherlock sighed a breath of relief and nodded as John carefully slid Sherlock's pants off and then reached to his bedside table, pulling out the small tube of lube he kept there. Uncapping the bottle, John slicked up his left hand before gently tapping Sherlock's leg, pushing it forward so he could rub it across the hot skin of Sherlock's upper thigh. The detective seemed intrigued by John's movements before suddenly shouting, "Intercrural!"

"Y-yeah," John giggled, rolling his eyes as he slicked up his cock and pushed it into place, pulling Sherlock's leg back over to create the tunnel for him to thrust into.

"It's often seen on Ancient Greek ceramics," Sherlock explained breathily.

"I love having a discussion about Ancient Greece while I'm having sex," John chuckled, nosing at Sherlock's hairline, "really lifts the mood."

"Oh. That's a peculiar sensation," Sherlock admitted, attempting to crane his neck to see if he could see John's cock between his legs. Unfortunately for him, his scrotum was in the way.

"I'll…do this," John moaned, kissing Sherlock's shoulder blade as he thrust forward gently and tentatively, actively aware of Sherlock's sore leg and how the jostling may hurt the other man, "and then I'll use my hand on you."

"Yes," Sherlock moaned, his hand apparently already agreeing to the arrangement as he stroked himself off.

John smiled, using his lubed hand to slap Sherlock's hand away from his cock. Stroking Sherlock softly, John ran his thumb across the man's tip, loving the groan which was ripped from Sherlock as his testicles were stimulated by John's thrusting cock. Sherlock was swimming in sensation, drowning in the scent of John who was wrapped around him, sweating and groaning with each thrust as his other, clean hand tangled into Sherlock's hair and pulled him back, "Next time…maybe I'll finger you."

"Oh God," Sherlock groaned out, hands clamped into the bedding as he rocked his hips to fuck against John and his hand.

"Would you like that?" John asked, voice deep and velvet.

"Yes. Yes John," Sherlock nodded, eyes fluttering, "Yes, I want that."

"What about me inside you? Like this, but inside you," John asked, head resting between Sherlock's shoulders, "Would you want that?"

"Mm. Yes. John, please! I'm - it's close. I can feel it," Sherlock was whining now, voice wavering as he barrelled towards his orgasm.

"I love you, Sherlock," John grunted, hand speeding up as he stroked Sherlock, "You're mine."

"Yes, John. Yes…YES!" Sherlock cried, arching his back and clenching down on John's cock as he came, his come spurting out over the covers with an audible shrick noise.

John moaned and bucked his hips once, twice, and then he was tipping over the edge with a harsh breath and a groan, his semen adding to the slick on Sherlock's legs and dripping up his scrotum and down his thighs.

Shaking slightly, John slowed his hips, enjoying the sensation of his orgasm as it passed too quickly. He kissed Sherlock's neck before dropping Sherlock's prick, wiping his hand on his boxer shorts before cautiously pulling from the clench of Sherlock's thighs, "Stay there; I need to clean you up."

"Hnnmmm," Sherlock smiled giddily.

"Lazy git," John chuckled, full of adoration for the lanky sod. The all too familiar wash of love spreading through him as he ran a hand along Sherlock's calve as he got up, pulling on his pants and pottering to the bathroom.

John used the toilet, washed his hands and his cock (too much lube and semen to ignore) before walking to the sink to wet a flannel with warm water. Bringing it back to Sherlock, he noticed the man was already dozing with a fluttering of his eyes. John walked to his side and carefully began cleaning Sherlock as best he could, ensuring that nothing got close to the dressing before he pulled up Sherlock's pants and wiped off the semen-covered duvet.

"In you get," John whispered, awkwardly manhandling Sherlock into the bed and covering him with the duvet, "Get some rest. I love you."

"Wuv yew," Sherlock grumbled sleepily before nuzzling into the pillow, reaching out for John's hand to pull him down to cuddle into him, "Stay."

"I was going to clean up. The flat's a tip," John explained half-heartedly, blinking out of the door for just a moment before rolling his eyes, "Fine, but you're helping tomorrow," he ordered while admitting defeat.

"No," Sherlock responded petulantly as he smirked before nuzzling into John's chest.

John lightly hit him on the arm before affectionately scolding him, "Brat."

Sherlock simply hummed contently before snuggling in further with a happy sigh. John pulled him close, placing a kiss against the outrageous mop of hair he hated to admire. Just as he had closed his eyes and was about to allow himself to submit to his will to sleep, Sherlock whispered to him. John wasn't even sure he was meant to hear it at that volume.

"I do, you know."

"What's that?" He asked sleepily, unwilling to open his eyes but intrigued by the increased heart rate he could feel thrumming against his side where Sherlock's body met his own.

"Love you," Sherlock clarified, just as quiet as the first part.

When John couldn't process the information fast enough and didn't supply a ready response, Sherlock became nervous and began rambling: "I mean, it's hardly an adequate enough term; far too simplified for the subtle nuances that exist in loving you. But you said the words and you've been so patient with me over everything and I just felt that it was time I told you and I do, I really do…" Sherlock had no idea how he came to be looking into John's eyes as he trailed off at the end, too caught up in his embarrassment to have registered that John had moved them, "I love you," Sherlock finished a bit breathlessly, nervous eyes flitting between John's solid, calming ones.

John's smile was too much, his chest threatening to burst open with the absolute adoration he felt for the man in front of him. The Consulting Detective who could never turn his brain off without the aid of drugs had been reduced to this bumbling mess simply because of him. John couldn't possibly have been more ecstatic by the discovery.

John leaned in to kiss Sherlock hard, affirming what they both knew to be true.

"I know," John assured him before admitting: "but it's amazing to hear you say it."

"Don't get too used to it," Sherlock smirked, snuggling into John's arms again, "You'll become one of those loved-up imbeciles you see on television. I refuse to let that happen."

"Too late, I'm already a loved-up imbecile," John grumbled, laughing.

"If you buy me kitsch teddy bears or hearts, I'm going to murder you in your sleep," Sherlock warned good-naturedly.

"Deal."