All at once, John's hands were gripping Sherlock's face, pulling him down into a passionate kiss. Their lips crashed into each other over and over again. Sherlock eagerly returned John's kisses and held him in place with both of his hands at the small of his back. In an instant, John was certain that nothing he'd ever previously experienced could be compared to the exquisite bliss of Sherlock's mouth on his. Before his brain went out of focus with desire, he wondered if anything he'd already encountered could even be classified as kissing anymore – this was redefining the whole bloody thing for him, second by second. Longing to feel more of Sherlock's skin John untucked his pristinely tailored shirt, and dug his fingertips into the soft flesh on either side of his spine.

Their hearts pounding in their ears, John took Sherlock's bottom lip in his mouth and gently sucked, eliciting a soft moan from the detective. Sherlock jerked his head back and nudged John's cheek to one side with his own, exposing his neck. John feverishly travelled the contours of Sherlock's jawline with his mouth. Sherlock watched the soldier's pulse throb near his carotid artery and gave in to the overwhelming desire to taste the salt of his skin. How many times had he looked down at John while on a case and thought about the delightfully inviting indentation of his clavicle? When Sherlock's tongue made contact, John grabbed a fistful of dark brown tendrils and pulled. Sherlock's fervor only grew listening to John's breathy groans humming in his ear as he further explored his neck. John loosened his grip on Sherlock, certain that if he continued to hold on that tightly, he'd unintentionally bruise the detective's pale skin.

It was all happening too fast for John's brain to compute. Every one of his nerve endings was screaming like hell; he couldn't tell if his body was beseeching Sherlock for attention or warning him to stop. He felt his legs begin to wobble and he leveraged himself using Sherlock's hips to stay vertical. A momentary thrust forward revealed to them both just how alive they were when their mutual erections brushed against each other. There were all at once too many and too few layers of fabric between them. John dared take a step forward, pushing his thigh between Sherlock's legs, allowing even more of their bodies to touch. Sherlock countered by cupping the considerable bulge in John's boxers.

"Oh Jesus Christ…" John moaned and it was all he could do to stop himself from grinding his groin against Sherlock's hand. Taking another fistful of the detective's hair, John pulled Sherlock's attention from his neck, back to his mouth. He felt Sherlock's fingers undoing the button securing his fly. He could only take short anticipatory breaths while he explored the inside of Sherlock's mouth with his tongue. John felt Sherlock's thumb slip between the folds of the fabric and brush against him for a moment, then retreated.

It was enough to drive John to despair. While he would eventually appreciate Sherlock's qualms about going too far, too fast but in the moment, John was nervous and wanted Sherlock to take the lead.

As the detective pushed his tongue past John's teeth, he eagerly groaned and doubled down on his grip of Sherlock's hips with both hands. Sherlock ripped at John's dressing gown and it fell to the floor. He moved his mouth back down John's neck and nestled in his collarbone. Fumbling with the buttons on Sherlock's shirt, he eventually gave up and tugged the last two buttons open. He proceeded to lick his collarbone and kissed down his chest, daring to flick a nipple with his pointed tongue. He felt long fingers in his hair and short fingernails scrape against his scalp.

Around the time he was registering the feeling the soft down of Sherlock's sparse chest hair rubbing on his face, John realized something very real and thoroughly terrifying – this wasn't a fever dream or a fantasy in the shower – this was real. He and Sherlock were giving in to the tension that had always existed between them, mutually acknowledging what they'd never spoken about. Regardless of where this went, things would be forever altered between them.

John swallowed back hard against the sudden lump of fear in his throat. It was too real. An alarm bell that was commanding him to retreat, escape; to run like hell and take cover began to sound so loudly in his ears, his temples began to throb. He squinted his eyes against the pain and his hands began to tremble. As if Sherlock were able to hear the resounding panic alert that was taking over John's body against his will, he put both of his hands on John's face, his thumbs gently brushing the short, slightly greying sideburns. John was able to center himself by staring into Sherlock's eyes. He saw the full spectrum of color in Sherlock's swirling irises – several nuanced shades of pale blue, gold and seaglass green.

"It's ok, breathe. We'll slow down. Stay with me. Please…" His lips parted and pull him in for a deep, tender kiss.

John pressed his forehead to Sherlock's and he exhaled heavily. "I will."

They were both panting, chests heaving with anticipation. John touched the tip of his tongue to the delicate Cupid's bow of Sherlock's lips. The detective groaned softly.

John swallowed hard and after a brief period of hesitation, began to rub the back of his fingers along Sherlock's zip. He teased by changing the pressure and speed of his hand, enjoying the gradation of arousal on Sherlock's face. John's hand was so close, yet so far. He chewed his lower lip, working up the courage to unfasten the button on Sherlock's trousers.

"Yoohoo! Boys!" Mrs. Hudson's voice called them from downstairs. Sherlock and John broke apart as if doused with ice water.

"Fuck me." John said grabbing the footboard for leverage.

"I had every intention…" Sherlock said panting.

A choked moan escaped John's throat and he wiped his brow on the back of his arm.

"Boys? I've brought tea! And the Vicar is here, there's been vandalism at the church and he'd like you to investigate…"

Sherlock bit his lower lip as his mosaic eyes examined John's naked torso. John pulled a t-shirt out of a dresser drawer and slowly lowered it over his head as if doing a reverse strip-tease.

"Good thing I didn't rip the buttons off…I was about to." He touched his fingertip to Sherlock's chest.

"That would have been an entertaining thing to explain to the Vicar." Sherlock replied, a smile hinting on lips, still swollen from John's passion. He began doing the buttons back up, starting at the bottom. John could almost trace where his mouth had just been, trails of pink flesh stood out against Sherlock's paleness.

"Sherlock – we've going to have to figure this out." John flicked his wrist between them. "You and me. If this is a thing that's going to happen…"

"Don't you want it to?" Sherlock said sounding wounded.

"Yes – No, yes of course I do!" John said lifting his hand to Sherlock's cheek. "This is all very…new to me. In more ways than the obvious. I don't have the first clue what I'm doing- I mean, I know but...shit."

Sherlock grinned and kissed John tenderly, the shorter man's eyes were still closed when Sherlock pulled away to speak. "It's ok. I know what you mean. We've all the time in the world."

John licked his lower lip. Pandora's Box had been ripped open; the wall separating friends from lovers had been all but demolished and there was no going back now. He'd thought about this moment more often than he cared to recall. His heart pounded against his ribcage so loudly he was sure that Sherlock would be able to hear it. He used the middle finger of his left hand to brush a curl out of Sherlock's eyes.

"I think the Vicar needs to sod off so I can have you all to myself." John said bringing a wry smile to Sherlock's face. He took a gentle hold of the back of Sherlock's neck and pulled his mouth down to his own. They kissed again, slowly, deeply. John felt a tingling sensation erupt in his aching groin when the detective dared to let a whisper of his fingers dip beneath the band of John's boxers.

Sherlock's tongue found its way past John's teeth again and together they moaned hungrily, each fighting for dominance. This was what marked the difference between kissing Sherlock and kissing any woman he'd ever taken to bed. The strength, the need, the desperation he felt every time their mouths met. When Sherlock began to softly suck on his lower lip, John grabbed Sherlock by the hips and pulled him, walking backward until he felt the mattress hit the back of his knees.

Noticing that he had John at a distinct disadvantage, Sherlock twisted John's wrist behind his back and gave him an unexpected, forceful shove by the shoulders and they collapsed backward onto the bed. John tried to scramble out from underneath but Sherlock had trapped him under his weight. John spread his legs in a flood of lustful longing for even more contact and he began to rut against him.

"I want…fuck…Sherlock…I want…" John begged.

Sherlock's hand reached between them and suddenly there were strong fingers wrapped around John's shaft, stroking him from the base to the head. John pushed his head back into the mattress, moaning. The sensation was just as familiar as it was alien. Sherlock's skilled violinists' hands knew exactly how much pressure to apply.

"Wait...wait..." John moaned and he tugged at his boxers. Sherlock yanked them the rest of the way down and tossed them off the side of the bed. That done, Sherlock picked up where he'd left off sliding his fist up and down John's length, stroking his thumb over the glans. John's cheeks burned pink and he began thrusting his hips in time with Sherlock's rhythm. Due to the combination of the heat of the moment, Sherlock's unexpected proficiency and the fact that no one had given John a handjob in longer than he could remember, he was certain he wouldn't last long. Keeping a steady pace, Sherlock relished every last sound that escaped from John's throat. Feeling himself about to climax, he gripped Sherlock by the back of the neck.

"I'm going to cum…" His voice was almost a whisper.

"I certainly hope so."

Sherlock tightened his grip and stroked him faster, hot streams of milky precum flowed freely over his fist. John's breathing quickened further. He wrapped his arm around Sherlock's back and held him closely. He buried his tongue in Sherlock's mouth, teeth clashing while desperate, gasping moans erupted out of him. Various muscle groups all over his body were contracting as John attempted to delay what was turning into the most intense non-intercourse he'd experienced in his life. Sherlock's frantic pace sent him over the edge and he came spectacularly all over himself and the detective, who kept stroking him gradually more and more slowly as John rode out the wave of his orgasm. His moan softened to a whimper and he released his vice-like grip on Sherlock.

"John, what a mess you've made of us…" Sherlock said in a mock-scolding tone. John grinned and chuckled with what little energy he still had. Looking down, he realized that Sherlock was quite right, there was an astonishing amount of semen all over Sherlock's black trousers, the bed and himself.

Sherlock indelicately wiped his hand on the bedsheet. He caught John's eye and as a smirk hinted at the corners of his mouth and he licked each one of his fingers.

"Ooooh you are a bad, bad man," John laughed.

"John? Are you in there? I can't find Sherlock." Mrs. Hudson was suddenly knocking.

"Not a convenient time, Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock yelled, sitting up. "Tell the Vicar to come back. In a month or so." John chuckled and tweaked Sherlock's nipple, eliciting both a yelp of pain and a delightful deep-throated laugh from Sherlock.

"Sherlock? Oh – I…" The pregnant pause gave John the collywobbles – the chances that she'd heard what was going on were slim. If she had heard them, she'd have hardly proceeded to knock. He sincerely hoped that the Vicar hadn't heard – John wouldn't be able to look the man in the eye ever again. Sherlock nipped and sucked at his neck which was making it increasingly difficult for him not to moan obscenely.

Mrs. Hudson's voice returned in a conspiratorial whisper. "Well it's about bloody time, you two. Not to worry, I'll get rid of him." They held on to each other as Sherlock turned his eyes to the closed door, intently listening as her heels clip-clopped back down the stairs and a short time later, the front door clicked shut.

They both snickered and Sherlock tilted John's chin up for a soft kiss. He saw the faint worry lines around John's eyes wrinkle and he nodded, somehow he was usually able to tell what John was thinking.

"It's fine. She sort of…spoilt the moment for me." Sherlock frowned, Mrs. Hudson's jarring voice was the ultimate hard-on repellent.

"I want to though. Are you going to let me?"

"I'm disinclined to stop you, John. Just not at this moment."

He felt a little bit guilty for not reciprocating straightaway but at the same time he highly doubted his personal masturbatory practices had prepared him sufficiently to get another man off, particularly one as intimidatingly perfect as the one he was staring at. He was out of his depth and he knew it. Sherlock nuzzled the tip of John's nose with his own and they smirked at each other. John knelt up on the bed and moved back, giving Sherlock room. They positioned themselves to face each other while laying on their sides. They both leaned up on their elbows.

"I've wanted this."

"So have I. Very much."

Pressing his palm to John's face, Sherlock leaned in and kissed him. He used his thumb to caress John's throat and John could smell his own sweat and semen on his hand.

"Have you…ever… Before now, I mean?" John asked. Even as he asked, he wasn't thoroughly convinced that he wanted the answer. His own nudity in contrast to all of the clothing Sherlock was still wearing was beginning to make him self-conscious.

"Yes, but not like this. Minor, awkward, teenaged fumbling with classmates at school. Slightly less awkward encounters with men and women at university, no one serious. Nothing worth mentioning lately. As I've said, I'm married to my work and until I met you, my work was my only passion." The corner of his mouth curled into a grin and he arched an eyebrow. "You?"

John quickly looked down at the mattress and lifted his eyes back up again, he seemed to be making an effort not to make eye contact. "No. I mean, women, obviously, yes but…" Sherlock saw some secret lurking behind John's eyes and he ventured a deduction.

"You're lying."

John blenched and his jaw went slack, he never had much of a poker face when it came to Sherlock. He cleared his throat and swallowed hard. He felt small beads of sweat beginning to form at his temples. He suddenly felt the need to defenestrate himself.

"Yeah. I am…a bit." He became deeply interested in the thin grey pinstripes in his navy sheets.

"Who was it?"

John felt the blush rise in his cheeks and he smiled. Sherlock studied him with intensity.

"It was nothing, really."

"Surely it was slightly more than nothing." John cleared his throat again. "Who was he?"

Still avoiding Sherlock's eyes at all costs, John was beginning to squirm. "I am far too sober for this conversation," he joked.

"I can fix that." Sherlock was on his feet in a flash and halfway down the stairs before John could call him back.

He flopped onto his back and exhaled deeply, wiping the sweat from his forehead on the back of his arm. "Ok. Well, shit. This is really happening," he thought to himself. While waiting for Sherlock to return, he tugged his t-shirt up over his head and wiped off quickly before tossing it to the floor.

"Pants...I need pants..." He thought to himself. He leaned over the edge of his bed and saw the boxers he'd been wearing on the floor. He retrieved them and pulled them on quickly. He was still attempting to gain composure when Sherlock reappeared, barefoot in his heather grey cotton pyjama bottoms with a bottle in one hand and two glasses in the other. He was carrying them in a pincer grip, his fingers inside the glasses, each of which held one single, solitary cube of ice.

John shook his head, "Could you possibly put your spunk covered fingers any deeper into my glass?" he joked.

Sherlock scoffed, "I washed my hands." He plopped the glasses down on the night stand and cracked the bottle open. He poured two fingers' worth of rust-colored liquor in each glass, replaced the cap and carefully placed the bottle on the floor next to the bed.

He handed John his drink and laid back down on the bed. John dipped his nose into the glass and breathed deeply. The aroma made him slightly dizzy. His nostrils burned as the various scents mixing together set his olfactory sense ablaze. Sherlock held his own glass in front of him but hadn't tasted it yet.

John felt an excess of saliva in his mouth and took a sip, the warmth smoothly spreading over his tongue. He was detected a hint of chocolate and vanilla in the amazingly complex scotch Sherlock had brought him. Appropriate, considering the complexity of the man himself.

"Glenmorangie Single Malt." Sherlock offered, without being asked. "18 years old. Sebastian sent me the bottle after that business at the bank."

"It's…erm- it's good." John coughed as the liquor warmed him from the inside. Sherlock settled next to John on the bed, glass in hand.

"I know you probably prefer a g and t, but I've been saving this. Besides that, we're out of that Earl Grey syrup you're so fond of. " Sherlock dipped his nose in his own glass, breathed deeply and took a long drag of his drink.

John cocked his head to one side, "You know how I take my gin and tonic?"

Sherlock grinned. "Obviously. If I may confess, I used to take it an entirely different way until I took a quick taste of yours. It's delicious; bergamot and juniper are a perfect pairing."

Still slightly confused but nonetheless astounded John spoke again, "But when did you taste it?"

Sherlock took another sip and John delighted in the bob of his Adam's apple as he swallowed. "That case with the…the…you know, the severed…damn…what clever name did you call it on your blog?" He thought a moment with his eyes closed and John took the opportunity to study his long, thick lashes as he delighted his palate with another taste of scotch.

"The Tumultuous, Tortuous, Trickery of Thomas." Sherlock said at last opening his eyes wide, signaling he'd had a successful visit to his Mind Palace.

"Oh, right. Right." John nodded, remembering. The assailant found out that the famous detective from the newspapers was tracking him and he began taunting Sherlock and John by dropping severed body parts at their door each morning. The night they caught him in the act of breaking into the mortuary to collect more limbs, Lestrade insisted on treating them both to drinks at the Black Horse, a pub not far from the center of the West End theater district. Sherlock had nursed a beer for most of the night and it wasn't until this moment that he confessed to getting curious and sampling John's cocktail when he went to the gents.

John pouted his lower lip out and nodded, impressed.

"I had no idea you paid attention. There's a bit of fresh lemon juice and an orange peel garnish in the recipe too, but yeah. Bergamot and juniper belong together. Just a tick," John pointed a finger at him. "I believe you just called me clever." He grinned and took a larger sip than the previous two. It burnt his chest but wasn't entirely unpleasant.

"So I did. You can be quite clever, John. I freely admit that I rather enjoy some of the case names you've come up with. I can see why the plebeians read the blog."

John rolled his eyes, he knew the compliment would only stretch so far. "And by that comment, you fancy yourself of the patrician class then?"

"Obviously."

John smiled and shook his head. "What have you been saving it for?"

Sherlock's eyebrows came together asking a question that his voice didn't need to participate in.

"The bottle of scotch – you said Sebastian sent it to you and you've been saving it. Anything in particular?"

Sherlock looked away and downed the rest of what was in his glass. He squeezed his eyes shut and sucked air in between his teeth. He reached behind his back and felt around for the bottle. Once he retrieved it, he poured two more fingers and held it up to John.

"Top up?"

"Sure, why not?" John's drink was nearly gone anyway. Sherlock grinned and poured, then placed the uncapped bottle back on the floor. He cleared his throat, appearing to be carefully selecting his words.

"For this." He said simply.

It was John's eyebrows' turn to ask a question. Sherlock chuckled.

"This." His touched his forefinger to his own chest, then John's chest and then let it come to rest on the bed.

"You knew this would happen?" John dared to ask before taking a drink. He was starting to feel lightheaded and he knew it wasn't entirely due to the liquor.

"I…hoped."

John felt his mouth run dry. His heart started pounding again against his rib cage, rattling his bones. He switched the glass to his opposite hand and he reached out to Sherlock and as they stared into each other's eyes, they pressed their palms together. Sherlock's fingers were thinner and longer, his cuticles were red and raw from gnawing on them. John's hands were softer with slightly stubby fingers. It was, in many ways, more intimate than either of them planned.

"Palm to palm is Holy Palmer's kiss." Sherlock quoted.

"My thoughts exactly." John said with a smirk. There was a brief pause while they let their fingers stroke each other, gently interlacing and caressing.

"That was my first foray into acting when I was at school." Sherlock reminisced.

John chuckled and interlaced his fingers with Sherlock's, the heels of their hands still touching. "Oh? Do tell…" He leaned forward and took a long sip. He wanted to know every last detail about the man lying in front of him.

Sherlock nodded. "I was very young. I played Capulet Number Six. I was firmly relegated to the background; a skinny, awkwardly lanky 12 year old, too shy to speak."

"So, not Juliet, then?" John joked and lifted his glass to his lips.

"No indeed. The Board of Governors voted against a boy playing the female lead so the Headmaster's daughter was given the part; she went to a co-ed academy not terribly far away. It caused quite a stir at the time. She was the one female on the school campus young enough to have a functioning uterus. It was a feeding frenzy, every heterosexual male was trying to get in her knickers."

He grinned at another memory. "Mycroft played Juliet's nursemaid. He didn't need padding to have tits back then."

It was a comment he didn't expect, nor was he ready for it. John struggled to keep the burning liquid in his mouth and not permit it to spray from his nose. He choked it back, desperate to avoid spraying it in Sherlock's face. He sputtered slightly and coughed as some of the scotch found its way down his windpipe. He beat his fist against his own chest. His laughter eventually broke through and together they shook the entire bed laughing at Mycroft's expense. John pulled his hand from Sherlock's grip to wipe his eyes.

"I believe our mother has photographs in a box somewhere. I've often considered blowing one up and sending them out as Christmas cards." He smirked to himself and took a drink. His eyelids were growing heavier by the minute.

"Now I'd love to see those someday." John said laughing. "So you were in other plays then? You said Romeo and Juliet was your first."

Sherlock nodded. John watched him dip his finger in his scotch and trace around the rim of the glass before he took another sip. "Yes. Again, minor roles without any lines, until I was 17. I worked up the nerve and got the lead in Henry the Fifth."

John snapped to attention. "You played Henry the Fifth?!"

"Obviously."

John gulped down the remainder of the scotch left in his glass, which left him feeling woozy. "So you did that speech? The St. Crispin's Day speech?!"

Sherlock grinned and nodded. He took what was left of the ice in his glass into his mouth and crushed it between his molars.

"Then do it! Do it now! I know you must still remember it!"

"John I never knew you were so theatrically minded." Sherlock grinned and drained his glass. He took half a pour more for himself and John before they spoke again.

"I always liked Shakespeare. He wrote about death and murder and sex and war – what's not to love? But the Henry Five speech Sherlock – please…I kept a copy of it folded inside my helmet when I was in Afghanistan…"

Sherlock cleared his throat and began.

"By Jove, I am not covetous for gold…"

As Sherlock delivered a tempered and passionate rendition of the speech (which of course he remembered as clearly as if he'd just performed it with the Royal Shakespeare Company,) John was enraptured. He mouthed the words to the sections he could remember and closed his eyes from time to time, relishing the words that made his soldier's heart thrive. He was gulping his drink down far too quickly and felt his arms and head get desperately heavy. Sherlock grinned wide when John began to recite it with him, even if he was slurring:

"This story shall the good man teach his son;

And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by,
From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be remembered—
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
For he today that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother…"

Sherlock leaned over and kissed John deeply and they came apart again.

"You didn't finish..."

"Another time, perhaps." Sherlock waved him off.

John smiled and rolled over. He tucked his hand behind his head and crossed one ankle over the other. He rested the bottom of his glass on his bare chest and sighed contentedly.

"Have we avoided the conversation long enough?" Sherlock asked.

John sighed again and sipped. "I suppose."

The detective finished his drink and unceremoniously dropped the glass by the side of the bed. They heard it roll on its side underneath them. He then shifted onto his stomach and pulled his torso partially up on top of John's, the skin of their chests created friction that made John's inebriated brain temporarily short circuit.

Exhausting the liquor in his glass for supplemental bravery, John cleared his throat and gingerly set it to rest on the nightstand between the bed and the wall.

"So. Who was he?" Sherlock asked as he tucked both of his hands under his chin.

"A friend, Simon. His father was the Head of Sixth at our school." He frowned but didn't turn away.

"And?"

"Well, it was like you said, 'minor fumblings with classmates'. That's all it amounted to, really. We were mates, we revised for exams together, traded comics. I went fishing with him and his grand-dad once or twice."

"Until?" Sherlock was struggling with balancing his impatient curiosity against letting John recount his story at his own pace.

"We…well. Shit. This is hard." John sighed. "We kissed, just a couple of times. He had a really nice back garden where we would set up a tent and a telescope - he was mad about the stars. He most definitely knew the earth goes round the sun." He winked at Sherlock, grasping at any and all straws to avoid the inevitable discomfort of the rest of the story.

"We were sleeping rough one Friday night – there was supposed to be a meteor shower – and one second we were laughing about something, the next second he kissed me. I didn't know what to do. I just sort of froze, until he did it again..." his voice trailed off as if he was watching his younger self in his mind's eye.

Sherlock thought sensed where the story was going so he took John's hand in an attempt to mimic the most supportive manner he could muster.

"And that was it. A few kisses in the tent. We stayed up reading comics with torches until 2 in the morning, watched the meteor shower and fell asleep. When we woke up, it was like it never happened."

Sherlock studied John's face, he could see there was more to be said.

"And then…?"

John coughed. "You have to understand my father, Sherlock. He was not a nice man. Not a warm man. He was a drinker and well, he didn't like Simon from the start. He said he was 'too soft'. He called him names. I mostly ignored it."

"How old were you at this point?"

"15, 16. Not long after the night in the tent - about a month later, Harry got caught making out with a girl at school and dad was…less than pleased about it. Our mother kept silent while he ranted and raved about her being an embarrassment to the family and she'd better 'get over this whole phase'. By that point, any part of me that ever wanted to, or was curious about kissing Simon again crawled into the fetal position and turned to stone. I stood up to him – god, he was so angry. I was afraid he was going to hit my little sister. I screamed at him to leave her alone and I put myself in between them. Dad was also military man. I'm bigger and stronger now than I was and I know how to fight, but at 16, I was…nothing. He backhanded me and said 'and don't ever let me hear that you're a faggot!'" John grit his teeth and tightened his jaw before swallowing hard. Sherlock closed his eyes and exhaled deeply. If he could bring John's father back to life, only to kill him again straightaway, he would have done it.

"I knew I wasn't really gay. I knew I fancied girls but from then on, even the memory of kissing Simon made a guilty, hollow place inside my chest hurt. If I was ever going to explore any sort of bisexual curiosity, I certainly wasn't after that. "

He took a deep breath and pushed the air from his lungs hard. Sherlock sniffled slightly and placed a soft kiss on his stomach.

"I'm sorry, John. Truly."

"It was a long time ago." John was actively avoiding eye contact now.

"Yes but…it hurts you to talk about it."

John nodded. "I've never told anyone that story. Not my therapist, not anyone. Harry and I never even talked about that night. It's why she drinks, you know. Self-loathing on behalf of our dear, old dad."

"Well…thank you for trusting me." Sherlock whispered.

John's lips curled into a smile, "If I can't trust you, who can I trust, eh?"

"Rhetorical question?"

John chuckled. "Yes, god dammit. Rhetorical as all get out." He leaned forward and kissed Sherlock on the mouth with a handful of his messy curls.

They lay there in silence, looking into each other's eyes. Sherlock was tapping out a musical rhythm on John's bicep.

"It's late." Sherlock finally said looking at the clock on the nightstand. John turned to look.

"Oh, yeah it is."

Sherlock didn't move, he waited for instructions though he wasn't completely positive they'd be forthcoming.

"Don't…don't go. Please stay." John said at last.

"Obviously."

John's shoulders shuddered with a laugh and he wiggled under the duvet. Sherlock stood and slid in between the sheets.

"So how's this meant to go?" John asked.

"Hmm?" Sherlock had closed his eyes, burrowing slightly into the pillow.

"Am I the big one, or the small?" He asked sleepily.

"Pardon?" Sherlock opened one eye. John laughed again.

"The big or the small spoon, you git."

"I'd go either way."

"It seems we have that in common." John quipped and they both chuckled a bit. "Come here." John lay on his side and held his arms open. Sherlock nodded and turned over. He moved backward until his back was flush with John's front and a strong arm was tucked under his head. He lightly kissed the inside of John's elbow. John slid his thigh between Sherlock's legs and rested his hand on his hip.

He burrowed his face in the back of Sherlock's neck and gently kissed along his hairline. Their breathing was in unison and it slowed as they drifted off to sleep locked in each other's arms.