Sherlock stood in front of the mirror on top of the fireplace staring at the photographs from the crime scene. There was something bothering him about the shoe print; how it was exactly the same, and in nearly the same place at both scenes. The dry cleaners were only a matter of minutes away from each other by foot, so it was likely that the killer could have killed the first twin, and then rushed to kill the second; but why? And why was everything identical?

He heard the door open downstairs, and the unmistakable sound of John's sad footsteps. He glanced at the time on his phone; it was nearing two in the morning. Sherlock hadn't expected John home once midnight came and passed; he was always home before midnight if a date didn't go well.

"Just where I left you." He heard John say upon entering the flat.

Sherlock mumbled something in response; he knew John wasn't expecting even that, so he didn't bother to tear his thoughts away. He felt John slide behind him so that his reflection was visible to the detective in the mirror. Sherlock granted him a small glance and then went back to his photographs.

"Learn anything new? "John asked.

"No, and it's quite maddening."

"Maybe if I stare too." He rested his chin on Sherlock's shoulder, and squinted his eyes so hard that they nearly closed.

Sherlock wanted to laugh, but he kept his composure, and stared straight ahead, trying to keep his thoughts on the task at hand rather than the close proximity of John. Tried to focus on the facts he needed instead of the facts of John; he smelled of beer rather than wine, so the date had gone bad. The cold London wind was trapped in his hair, so the date had gone very bad in fact leaving John to walk home rather than take a cab.

They were always closer than they needed to be really, usually it was Sherlock invading John's personal space and hardly ever the other way around. John had assumed early on that Sherlock didn't like to be touched or be close to at all really, and had formed a small respect for sticking to that assumption; truthfully, Sherlock didn't mind being touched so long as he understood the purpose behind it, but he let John think what he wanted anyway.

John finally shifted away and sat himself down in his chair, and let out a loud sigh.

"Did you need to talk about tonight then?" Sherlock asked.

"What? No, I don't want to disturb you."

"Too late for that now isn't it? Just get it out so you can have your tea and go to bed and leave me alone" Sherlock turned around from the mirror and leaned against the mantle, and started the conversation.

"Do her roommates not like waking up to strange people in the morning, so she kicked you out?"

"I wouldn't know; I never made it home with her; never even had the date with her."

Sherlock was already aware of this; he had figured it out by the time John took his sixth step up the stairs, but he knew that John liked to tell his stories, so that was another thing Sherlock let him get away with.

"So, you went to the pub until two in the morning?"

"No, I was only there until about midnight; spent the last two hours walking around."

"I see. Well, her loss then right?"

John laughed, "I suppose so." He pushed himself up from the chair and started to the kitchen to make the tea that Sherlock had mentioned. Sherlock had already brought his attention back to what he was doing preciously, but he felt John stop behind him once again.

"Thank you." John said.

"For?"

"Taking a minute to listen to me."

"Yes, well, I-I never would have been able to concentrate with you sighing about the living room; I just needed to shut you up."

John didn't move from where he was standing just behind Sherlock, half of his face, his eyes mostly, visible in the mirror. Sherlock tried to ignore him, hoping that John would tire from standing and continue with the mission for tea that he had abandoned, but he didn't seem to be going anywhere. Sherlock caught a glimpse of John's eyes and how they had risen on his face; he was smiling underneath the detective shoulder.

"I know something that you don't know." John finally said, breaking the silence.

"I doubt that."

"Would you like to know what it is that I know?"

"If I say yes will you then leave me be?"

John nodded and then opened his mouth to speak, "You want me."

Sherlock's body freeze and for a moment all the thoughts left his brain, as if his Mind Palace had been burglarized by John's words.

"It's okay Sherlock," John said, and then he felt John's height shift as he rose to the tip of his toes, his body running against his own, "Because I know something else you don't know."

"Wha-what's that?" Sherlock managed to ask.

"I want you too." John whispered into his ear.

"That uh- that's quite flattering John, but-"

His words trailed off and his mind started to work again.

John wants me, and he assumes, quite correctly that I want him; want is not the same as love, it's not even the same thing as like or need. Want is desire; it comes from an animalistic place of taking and having; keeping is just an option. John is vulnerable right now; his third failed date in a matter of two weeks. He's feeling the effects of middle-aged bachelorhood, and has likely formed a physical attraction to me out of a confusion with his sexuality that started when he was a teenager and has come back again looking to be resolved; he'll regret this in the morning. But I will regret not taking my chance in the morning.

Sherlock wasn't a reasonable man, but he was logical, and John was not a logical man, but he was reasonable; if in the morning one or either of them deemed it a mistake they would be able to work past it and continue on as they always had, shoving the mistake underneath the rug where it belonged.

"To hell with it" Sherlock exclaimed and turned so that his lips crashed into John's.

John must not have been expecting that reaction, because he stumbled backwards a bit and Sherlock had to forcefully grab at his arm to keep him on balance. Neither man asked permission from the other as their tongues found station in the other's mouth; cataloguing the different tastes and textures. John's hands gripped at the side of Sherlock's face, his fingers just dusting against his hairline trying to pull the detective closer, but there wasn't anywhere else for him to go; they were already pressed so close together, Sherlock could feel John's body heat nearly melting through his shirt. In and effort to appease John, Sherlock pulled him to the nearest chair, pushed him down and straddled hi long leg over the doctor's thighs; not stopping for a moment to break the kiss.

John' mouth was wonderful; it was a cacophony of malt and hops and the coarse salt from the crisps he ate at the pub. Sherlock broke their mouths free when he was sure he had collected a sufficient amount of data (for the moment; he suspected there would never be enough data collected on John Watson) and pressed his lips along other parts of John; his jawline, the lobes of ear, and then down to his neck. He nibbled his teeth into the skin just masking John's pulse and took note of the moan that it produced from the depths of the older man's throat.

Sherlock was so busy tucking away information he didn't even notice John's fingers had slid open the buttons of Sherlock's shirt and his hands were now running up and down the length of his chest. Sherlock managed to pull his lips off from John and steadied his hands against the arm of the chair, and arched his back, pushing his torso nearer to John. John finished removing Sherlock's shirt, letting it fall to the floor and immediately connected his mouth to Sherlock's milky skin, exploring the planes of his chest and his stomach. The sensations John's lips and tongue elicited made Sherlock groan in response; there were no words to describe the multitude of pleasure he was feeling; the anticipation of wondering where John's mouth and hands would travel to next on his oft neglected body.

Sherlock leaned back into John, reached his finger hurriedly at the hem of John's striped jumper and the shirt underneath it, John raised his arms to allow for the shirts to come off, but as soon as John's body was exposed to the air Sherlock caught the first look of hesitation in his eyes. Was he starting to doubt this already? The same look of passion was still there, hidden underneath the unsure shake of his irises. Sherlock noticed that John had angled his body so that his left shoulder was slightly behind the rest of his body. In the years that they had known each other John had never purposefully showed Sherlock his scar; he never came down from bed or out of the bathroom from a shower without a t-shirt on. There were a few accidental moments where Sherlock had caught John without his shirt, but they always ended as quickly as he had stumbled into them. Sherlock gently put his hand on John's shoulder and urged it out from hiding. He traced his fingers lightly over the puckered scar tissue, following the starburst lines out from the center.

From the corner of his eye he watched as John tentatively watched him, wincing slightly as Sherlock explored.

"John; it's beautiful." Sherlock said, pressing his lips against the scar, "you're beautiful."

He claimed John's lips once again for a brief moment; teasing at his lips slowly and gently; much different from the heat and the passion that they had started with.

Sherlock kissed and bit at John's neck and shoulder while John did the same to Sherlock. Their hips began to rock into one another; Sherlock rutting down and John pushing up creating the perfect friction.

"Oh, Christ." John exclaimed when Sherlock pushed down into him rather hard.

It was beautiful the way Sherlock could make John come undone. John was just as rigid and controlled as Sherlock was; keeping most of himself reserved behind a thin wall, but underneath the detective that wall had disappeared as he panted heavy, short breaths, as his eyes flickered closed and his hands moved frantically across Sherlock's body from the soft mess of his curls to the clothed perfection of his arse.

"John, I-"Sherlock said, feeling the warmth begin to spread in the pit of his stomach.

They had been so busy trying not think about what they were doing that neither of them had bothered to take their trousers off, but the strain that the fabric and the metal zippers put on them only made the experience that much more intense.

"Me too, Sherlock. We'll cum together." John said, barely above a whisper.

The rush of sweet release came over both men as each called out the others name until they blended together into just one sound. Sherlock collapsed onto John, his forehead against the doctor's shoulder as they both attempted to regain the skill to breathe. Sherlock breathed in this new scent of John; all the familiar smells that he had come to know, but now with the faint scent of Sherlock intermingled as well.