Sherlock had chain-smoked clean through two packs of fags and the building twitchiness in every muscle fiber in his body was only increasing to the point where he felt he was going to scream. He tried to force his body to relax and was powerless to stop the rush of blood in his ears. Unbidden images flashed through his mind, dark demons rearing their ugly heads as they quickly fought to tear down the last of the ever so carefully constructed barriers Sherlock had put in place. He saw the images of his dream as clearly as if the whole thing had been an actual memory. The sounds of John forcefully rutting into him from behind assaulted his imagination along with the wanton and experienced reactions he knew his body was more than capable of making. And just as soon as he found himself halfway to a true erection he would shove the image out of his mind through sheer force of will and think about preparing a line of cocaine on the table and snorting up, filling a syringe of heroine and tying the tourniquet around his arm with practiced efficiency, of grinding narcotic painkillers into a lovely little powder and pouring them into a glass of green absinthe.

His arm tightened spasmodically on the cushions beneath him and he shuddered violently. Unsteadily, he rose to his feet and stumbled to the shower. After quickly stripping down he forced himself to stand beneath a numbingly cold stream of water. He trembled, but it hardly had anything to do with the temperature of the water. He laid a forearm on the tile and leaned his forehead against his wrist.

He closed his eyes and hunched his shoulders, wishing for it all to disappear and go away. When the first full tear fell, there was a sudden pain in his chest that penetrated the depths of his psyche. He hadn't cried since he was seven or eight years old. It was a shock that he was even capable of the act. Another tear fell, hot against the chilled skin of his cheek.

What a fool he'd been. Had he really deluded himself into thinking he could succeed in living in the normal world? That he could cage his true nature and parade around masquerading as a man who possessed what some might call a soul? No, it was all becoming clear now, he could pretend all he liked . . . but he could no more live in civilized society than a wild tiger could live as a housecat. Sooner or later, someone would get hurt, even killed.

Sherlock let out a shaky exhalation.

He'd never told Lestrade why he'd been so quick to throw his life away after he'd graduated from university. He could have done anything he liked . . . he had advanced degrees in both microbiology and chemistry. He could have gotten a very high paying job at a lab and gotten himself a husband, and a house in the country with a few horses.

Mechanically, he shut the water off and wrapped a towel around his body as he stepped out of the shower. He raised his gaze to the mirror. He watched in detached disgust as tears slowly trailed down his cheeks. He squeezed his eyes shut and splashed water on his face from the faucet.

It seemed that he, Sherlock Holmes, was good for two things, sex and solving crime. He snorted at his red-eyed reflection. That wasn't strictly true. For if it was, he'd have simply been a first rate forensic specialist with a very satisfied boyfriend.

No, there was something that lived within his psyche that sometimes brushed against him like the whisper of a lover that beckoned him to jump into the depths of darkness and become a master criminal like Jim Moriarty.

That was the reason he'd turned to drugs and pornography. They'd been satisfying enough to keep him from acting on whatever dark desires lay buried within his mind. If his sexual appetites had been even half of what they were, there was no doubt in his mind that he would have entered the world of high crime and would now be standing in Moriarty's place.

He swallowed hard. He should have stuck to a life of hedonistic debauchery.

At least then, he'd only be harming himself. And he could make himself forget the pain that came with possessing one of the sharpest intellects the world had ever seen. He'd left that life as a sort of experiment, to see if he could make it in the real world. Sherlock had made a valiant effort at leaving his familiar world of darkness behind. Yet he found that he, like Icarus, had flown a little too close to the sun and was now plummeting to the earth. He didn't have much farther to fall.

He wiped his face and dressed. When he returned to the sitting room he could hear movement on the stairs.

John.His chest tightened in an unfamiliar sensation. A sudden thud punctuated the rhythm of John's footsteps.

"Fuck," Sherlock heard the doctor mutter. The consulting detective blinked. Though he'd known John for nearly two years he'd not once heard the man utter that particular word. When John finally reached the top of the steps, Sherlock's stomach dropped. He could almost smell the alcohol coming off the doctor's breath from nearly three meters away. John stopped in the doorway, slight surprise showing in his eyes at having found Sherlock in the flat.

"S'all your fault, you know," John said as he stumbled into the room.

"Did you actually go see the therapist or have you been at the pub all this time?" Sherlock asked emotionlessly.

"Oh I went to see the bloody shrink all right, Sherlock. Prob'ly gave her enough info to write an entire fucking novel."

"You're angry with me." It wasn't a question.

"I'm a lot of things at you, anger's just one o' them."

"How much have you had to drink, John?"

The doctor snorted in an uncharacteristic display of insolence. He gazed at Sherlock defiantly and it was all Sherlock could do not to physically recoil.

"Apparently, not nearly enough," John said as if that meant something.

Sherlock turned his head, beginning to feel sick at the thought of asking John to elaborate but knowing he had no other choice.

"And what is that supposed to mean?" he asked.

John rolled his eyes and stepped further into the room.

"Shall I spell it out for you? Let's see, how about this? I've known you for what, almost two years? I signed on as your flat mate and somehow over the course of time learnt how to become your closest friend. Try as I might I can't seem to get any romantic relationships to stick because I'm always helping you stay out of trouble whilst capturing criminals that even the top DI at Scotland Yard can't track on his own. Not only that, but strangers seem to have taken a great liking to assuming that I'm gay when they see me with you. You know what that does to me, Sherlock?! No, you couldn't possibly because that means you'd actually have the capacity to think about other's feelings in that genius brain of yours! Let me tell you this, you aren't they only one who has dreams! Fucking Christ! I've even had a waking fantasy a time or two, but you know what? I told myself it was just a harmless Freudian crush because we've both saved each others lives over the years and have grown to know each other so well. Of course that was when I was convinced you were an honest to God asexual. That made any thoughts of the two of us together automatically ridiculous, even laughable! But that reality's all gone to shit, because this morning you set me right about your sexual history. And now, my brain doesn't know what to think about you anymore because the man I thought you were doesn't happen to actually exist, does he?! You were a fucking porn star for Christ sakes! I've been drinking for the past three hours hoping I'd be able to get all the thoughts of you out of my head! Yet apparently I'm not nearly intoxicated enough because even now all I can think about is fucking you!"

Sherlock was numb. He wasn't sure he could speak.

"You lied by omission!" John shouted. "All it would have taken on that first night would have been, 'Actually I'm quite gay but not looking to pursue any relationships at this time.' Not whatever bullshit you spouted about being married to your work."

"Well John, you never out and out asked if I was gay did you?"

John simply stared at him.

"Asking if you had a boyfriend damn well implies it, I'd say."

Sherlock sighed, forcing himself to hold the doctor's gaze. John narrowed his gaze. "Oh God, even Moriarty knew."

Sherlock didn't respond. He watched as John's eyes widened in realization. "That's what he meant that night by the pool, when he asked if you enjoyed him pretending to be gay. It was so subtle, I didn't really think about it until now. Hell, that's why he called you The Virgin when talking to that Adler woman. You've never done it with a woman and in his mind doing it with a man didn't actually count."

"Shall I conclude that you hate me now?" Sherlock asked.

"My brain's a little too fuzzy at the moment to think of a suitable adjective for my feelings about you, but I don't think it's hate," John said. He moved until he was just standing at the edge of Sherlock's personal space. "I just don't understand why you misled me," he said softly.

"I . . . I didn't think it mattered," Sherlock said. "John, you must understand that I haven't felt anything even remotely resembling true physical lust for over eight years. It didn't even occur to me that I might develop a desire . . ." he trailed off unable to bring himself to finish his sentence.

"A desire for what?" John prompted. The doctor reached out and laid a hand on Sherlock's arm and Sherlock couldn't help but twitch at the physical contact of John's warm strong hand against his shirt.

"For you, John," Sherlock told him his voice barely audible. Sherlock trembled as John moved his hand to Sherlock's collar and gave a forceful tug, making the detective bow his head. John then met his lips with his in a hard and scorching kiss. Sherlock was at the doctor's mercy, opening his mouth as John's mouth forced his lips apart. For a man who'd never kissed another man, John was being unexpectedly brazen. Perhaps it was all because of the alcohol, but somehow the deliberate measure of his actions told Sherlock that the man had envisioned this scenario more than once before. John's kiss was quickly escalated into a near brutal assault of Sherlock's mouth. The doctor's hand that wasn't presently holding onto Sherlock's collar buried itself in Sherlock's mass of damp curls. John thrust his tongue against Sherlock's, tasting every part of Sherlock's mouth.

Sherlock opened his mouth wider, welcoming the harsh assault. John drove Sherlock backwards with the weight of his body until Sherlock's back hit the wall with a resounding thump. The friction of their lips dragging against each other was soon joined with the friction of their bodies as John planted a knee between Sherlock's legs. A pleading moan of desperation escaped Sherlock's throat. John snapped his hips forward, meeting Sherlock's quickly growing erection with one of his own. John broke the kiss, and stepped back, his dark blue eyes searching Sherlock's lighter ones. Both men were flushed and panting.

"Despite what you might see as evidence to the contrary, I'm not gay, Sherlock. However, I might have to create a new label for myself seeing how you aren't a woman and I'm more attracted to you than I've ever been to anyone. What do you think of the term, Sherlocksexual? You see, I never have been nor will I ever be attracted to a man who isn't you. It's as if I've fallen under your spell, and even now I half expect you to tell me you possess some kind of magical power."

"Oh John, you are properly pissed, aren't you? I can almost taste the whiskey on your tongue. We shouldn't be doing this."

"I'm sober enough to know what I'm doing, Sherlock." The doctor's words were ever so slightly slurred.

Sherlock forced his brain to come back online. John might not be exactly falling over himself in a drunken stupor, but he was frighteningly close to it. He had to make a decision he could live with. As Sherlock was stone cold sober, he had to be responsible for John's actions. If he let things go too far now . . . he couldn't bring himself to think about what the doctor would say or do when he finally sobered up.

"Can you walk a straight line for me, John?" Sherlock asked.

The doctor made a face. "Why on Earth would I want to do that?"

"You're legally drunk, John. I will not have you intoxicated in my bed."

John suddenly smirked. "Bed? Who said anything about a bed? The sofa or floor right here should do just fine I should think."

Sherlock mentally kicked himself. A not so small part of himself screamed that he was overreacting and should take the man at his word that he knew what he wanted. But somehow the more rational part of his brain won out. He'd hate himself forever if he took advantage of John being in such a state.

"No!" Sherlock said firmly, shaking John by the shoulders a little.

"Don't you want me, Sherlock?" the doctor asked. The timbre of the blonde man's voice was nearly his undoing. Sherlock briefly shut his eyes to compose himself. When he opened them, they were shining and full of unspoken emotion.

"More than you can possibly know, John," he said softly. "Just not like this."

"I s'pose I did drink more than I should have."

Sherlock nodded. "The best thing for you to do now is to go upstairs and sleep it off."'

"Not sure if stairs are the best thing for me right now. I already tripped once coming up here."

"Fine. I'll sleep upstairs, take my room. I'd say you'll feel better when you wake up, but I'm sure you'll have a nasty headache later."

Sherlock gently turned John in the direction of the downstairs bedroom and sent him on his way. Apparently he turned John a little too quickly, because the doctor grabbed at the wall and looked like he was about to retch onto the floor. Sherlock sighed. It was quite obvious he'd made the right decision.

Once John made it into the room and onto the bed, Sherlock closed the bedroom door. Then he turned his back to it and sunk down onto the floor.

He had no idea what John's mood would be like when he awoke. There was a good chance he wouldn't even remember the kiss.

And despite everything, Sherlock found himself hoping that he would.

A/N: Well my darlings, I suppose this chapter proves I am a bit of a sadist. Don't be too upset with me though, the fic's not over yet!