A/N: Wow, you guys are amazing, you know that? Lovely reviews, and so much Favourite-ing and Alert-ing going on - honestly, warm fuzzies are busy snuggling with my ego right now. Makes me want to write ALL THE THINGS... but at the same time, makes me a little nervous, because I'm not quite sure how to proceed.

The plan was to write this as (let's be honest) fairly full-on porn... But now I know -people- actually exist to read this, I have this overwhelming desire to please. So, can you please REVIEW or PM or something and tell me.. Should I be writing this as full-on stuff, or should it be almost-crack? (Of course, either way, I'm keeping the same style of writing, so no panicking.)

ALSO: does anyone know how to make it so people don't have to log in to leave a review? I cannot find this option!

But yes. Thank you! You, dear readers, make me happy when skies are grey, and also when they're blue, orange, yellow and all those other good variations of Sky.

Forever yours,

The Plot Ninja

'You need to deal with that, you know.' John cut through the silence over the top of his book, not bothering to look up.

'Do not,' Sherlock panted back at him, gnashing his teeth as he rearranged himself on the sofa yet again in a futile attempt to get comfortable. 'Three hours, twenty-eight minutes.' His voice was strained.

John stole a glance at his watch. 'You're counting down the minutes?' he asked incredulously. 'These things don't run on a schedule – toxins and chemicals take different amounts of time to pass through different people's systems. It could be an extra hour, even.'

'Could be less,' Sherlock pointed out, attempting to stretch the elastic in his pyjama pants to relieve the pressure he was feeling in his genitals, though he knew it was unlikely to have any effect. John simply hummed in non-committal, turning the page.

Another silent minute dragged itself away. Sherlock shuffled again.

'For goodness' sake, man! Go have a wank, and it'll be over with!' John burst out with frustration, snapping his book shut and instantly regretting not noting what page he'd stopped at.

Sherlock shuddered in theatrical revulsion. 'If you must know, I find self-gratification a rather useless and primitive pursuit that I refuse to engage in, even under these circumstances. Should I require a partner to relieve certain...' He winced, though whether it was in discomfort of the idea or of his condition, John wasn't sure. '... Insuppressible urges, then I am most certainly capable of finding one. Not that those insuppressible urges are usually a problem.'

John found himself intrigued, and was disgusted in himself for being intrigued. 'Why? Because you can usually suppress them?'

Snorting out a laugh, Sherlock shifted again. 'No; because I find the act itself rather repulsive. And, yes, before you ask,' he added, running his gaze over John's face and finding the unasked question, 'I have had plenty enough experience to deem it so. University was, shall we say, a prosperous time for my scientific exploits.'

'Right...' John said, a faint blush creeping up his neck. Only Sherlock could make doing the rounds sound like a reasonable and logical hobby. 'And, just wondering...' Now seemed as good a time as ever to ask. 'If you were to pick up a "partner" to relieve those "insuppressible urges... Would they be male or female?'

Sherlock shot him a sharp look, and suddenly the blush ran all the way from John's neck to his hairline. 'Oh God, that makes it sound like I'm coming onto you, doesn't it? Sorry, forget I asked.'

The detective chuckled a little bark. 'Either. Bodies are all transport anyway, so what does it matter if one happens to have their parts here or there.'

He didn't accompany this statement with gestures, but John's cheeks still flushed a deeper pink when he thought about it. 'Right. That's... Right.' He awkwardly flicked his book open again, moving his eyes along the lines and quite forgetting to try to read at all, let alone trying to find where he'd left off.

Sherlock continued to twist and turn, his frustration growing as he searched for a way to get comfortable. 'This is rubbish!' he yelled suddenly, leaping to his feet. He picked up a mug and flung it at the wall, tea dregs and all. 'Gah!' With that, he spun around and placed a kick right in the centre of the sofa he'd been sitting on, obviously trying to knock it over. He failed; it was too heavy and well-centred, and so although it was pushed back about half a metre, it stayed upright.

'Hey! Sherlock!' John reproached as the tall man threw all his body weight into the cushions, causing the sofa to screech against the floor. 'Settle down; it's the toxin making your testosterone levels rise.' He moved closer to the man and grabbed hold of Sherlock's shoulders, trying to calm him by holding him still.

His plan failed quickly, however; Sherlock turned to face him, and with the extra strength found through the increased testosterone coursing through his system, he easily threw John down onto his back on the couch, pinning him there by his wrists. He looked into John's eyes for a moment, and John saw the chaos and confusion going on behind the silvery-grey.

Suddenly, Sherlock swooped in for a kiss, crushing and desperate.

When John would look back on the moment in the days to come, he would feel shame burning his insides; because, for someone who was arrow-straight like him, the crushing, powerful kiss should not have been as emotionally intense for him as it was. He shouldn't have felt the thrill of excitement, or enjoyed it as much as he did. He certainly shouldn't have moved into it, shouldn't have kissed back.

Finally, the need to breathe brought him back to himself, and he pulled away, drawing in a gulp of air. 'Get off! What are you doing?'

'You know you want this,' Sherlock retorted, leaning down to whisper in his ear. 'You have for a while, haven't you, John? No need to deny it; your body is perfectly capable of speaking for itself.' He lowered himself a bit, and suddenly he was grinding against John, uttering a low growl. John felt a jolt, as powerful as electricity, run along his spine up to his brain; no doubt his body's subtle way of saying that yes, it did in fact want this.

'You're not in your right mind, Sherlock!' John reminded him, trying to free his wrists. 'You wouldn't be doing this normally.'

'Of course I wouldn't,' Sherlock acknowledged, 'but you're the one who said I should do something about... this...' He pushed his crotch against John's again, extracting a low moan from them both. 'So, if I need this, and you want this, the next logical step is to do it, am I correct?'

John twisted and turned under the weight of his flatmate, trying to escape the shackle-like grip the long, wiry fingers had around his wrists. 'No,' he snarled, hoping that the roughness in his voice wouldn't be interpreted as arousal. It was arousal, but that was beside the point. 'Sherlock, I'm serious – get off.'

The man showed no signs of moving, besides the slow pattern of grinding then halting and moaning that he had begun. John made up his mind. He abruptly pushed himself up with all his might, sandwiching delicate parts between them roughly. Sherlock made a sound half way between a squeak and a yelp, pulling away just enough for John to slip from under him and make a frantic dash towards the door.

He almost got away, too.

However, he felt Sherlock's fingers grasp him in a hold as tightly as the spider that had bitten him would cocoon its prey; John could feel both their silky softness and their wrought-iron strength. 'I'm not done with you yet,' Sherlock's voice murmured behind him, speaking purely of testosterone and lust, and that's when John knew.

There's always the tiny bug that manages to get itself caught in exactly the middle of a spider's web, squarely bound by the sticky fibres, and yet somewhere in its little buggy brain it thinks that if it struggles hard enough it can break free, when really all its struggles do is enhance the spider's appetite, entice it closer.

And at this moment, that bug was him.