Characters owned by the BBC, Messrs. Moffat and Gatiss. Love your work, guys. I don't own anything except perhaps the notion behind this story. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is strictly coincidental and unintentional.

Warning: M for adult themes. There is the start of a threesome in this one. You have been warned.

Well, updated twice in a week. Apologies to fans of Calling Doctor Jones btw, my Torchwood story. I will update sometime soon, but two WIPs (which, following on from Per Ardua's success, I hope to have published this year) and writer's block have stopped me. For now, I'm getting over it by writing this. Thanks to everyone who has reviewed and favorited.

"The features are given to man as the means by which he shall express his emotions, and yours are faithful servants."

The fact that John had hit on calling them soul mates of his own accord gave Sherlock that warm feeling in his gut again, a feeling that he was rapidly becoming familiar with. Unusually, he actually found that he was enjoying the experience. However, unlike previous instances when a thing had become familiar and therefore usual and therefore boring, this feeling had so far proved unwilling to follow a normal pattern. Being in love with John Watson was not a normal course of events.

Sherlock had never been one to follow social convention. He knew he was viewed by others as a crass, opinionated, socially inept boor and by a precious few as a loyal dependable friend, but either way, he had never been bothered by the opinions of others. He simply knew he was exceptional at what he did. Yet he was bothered about John's opinion of him. From the start, John had vocalized his amazement and—yes—awe, at Sherlock's skills of deduction. He was profoundly affected by Sherlock's mind and how he used it. Sherlock knew other people reacted the same way, but John actually let him know, he said it aloud, openly admiring for Sherlock's benefit. Somehow the action was both endearing and silly. Sherlock didn't require praise. He had arrogance to spare, the outward revelation to the world that Sherlock knew he was right, the supreme self-confidence that came from accuracy. The fact that John voiced his admiration was... well, it felt good, in a way Sherlock was having difficulty analyzing as to precisely why.

John brought him back down to earth, he grounded Sherlock with a bump, unafraid to show his soul mate the areas where Sherlock was lacking, and, moreover, John Watson expected Sherlock to follow his leadership there. He more than made up for Sherlock's lack of social graces. He was a gentleman; polite, kind, friendly, approachable and charming. Except when he was angry or in a hurry or frustrated, and those instances were mercifully rare. Something about John Watson made Sherlock want to do what he expected of him. The sign of a good leader, Sherlock thought, regarding the man as he slept beside him in the big bed. He must have been an exceptional army captain, never mind doctor. With a shock, Sherlock realized he knew little or nothing about John's life in the military, beyond the details of his being shot, invalided out and being an army surgeon. He had shown his own little bit of arrogance—confidence in his own abilities—to Sherlock's question concerning whether he was any good. The memory made him smile. John was a brave, loyal, slightly reckless man if given the opportunity. Mycroft had been right when he had neatly pinned down the fact that John's PTSD wasn't the result of what the war had done to him, it was the result of the fact that he missed it. He couldn't adjust back into civilian life very well, it was too tame. He missed the action, the adrenalin rush, of dealing with emergencies that relied on his split second actions to respond to, of life and death decisions made in the heat of battle. While John would not inflict unnecessary pain on anyone, while he wouldn't wish some of what he'd had to deal with on his worst enemy—with the possible exception of Moriarty—he missed being the one to deal with it. He missed being in the center of the danger. He missed the challenge it threw at him.

He wasn't irresponsible; Watson could never be accused of carelessness or actions that were completely rash and without forethought. Could he? To some degree his taking on Sherlock as a lover could be said to be rash, impetuous and ill conceived. Some people—Sherlock considered Mycroft might be one of them—were bound to think exactly that. On the whole, though, John Watson's decisions were based on careful consideration of the available facts, even though he might not have as many at his disposal as Sherlock.

John stirred, coming awake gradually, a process Sherlock found himself watching again. John was beautiful; tawny hair; skin that had faded a little now from the tan Sherlock remembered from their first meeting, but still a healthy tone; blue grey eyes; good muscle definition beneath those shirts and jumpers he habitually wore. He was very conventional in what he wore, he fitted in with an everyday ordinariness that Sherlock found amazing. John camouflaged very well. He hid himself in plain sight but no one could ever accuse him of being unfashionable. Somehow he just blended into the scenery. The perfect foil for Sherlock who knew he stuck out through shear inability to do anything else. When he disguised himself he did so as well as he did everything else. Thus, chameleon-like, he would be unrecognizable, but it was necessary for him to adopt a disguise to be rendered invisible. John seemed to be able to accomplish that anywhere and any time.

The eyes opened and took in the man sitting beside him—knees drawn up and laptop balanced upon them—recognition blossoming in the grey-blue depths.

"Morning," he murmured, then he moved, shuffling over to bury his face in the crook of Sherlock's leg at the top of his thigh. John inhaled deeply, sighing the breath out slowly, savoring the scent of the man beside him.

"John, what are you doing?" Sherlock stared down at him, impassive, but his eyes danced with curiosity.

"I love your scent," John replied simply. "You smell gorgeous. Didn't you know?"

"I do?"

"Yes. To me, you do."

"Oh. Right. Well..." Sherlock wasn't sure how to reply. "Sniff away, if you like. It's...rather nice, actually." He allowed a small smile to play on his lips.

John dragged himself into a sitting position and turned to face Sherlock. "Put that away," he ordered, voice gentle but manner brooking no argument. Sherlock flicked him a glance. "I won't tell you again." John was in command-mode. Sherlock obediently closed the laptop and slid it to the floor. Then he faced John with an exaggerated air of patience.

"What do you want, John?" he asked.

"You. I want you." John's voice was suddenly husky with desire, with need. He moved again, only faster this time, one hand snaking round Sherlock's neck to pull him in close, the other sliding up his chest to cup his throat and chin, holding him in place. Sherlock gasped at the domination behind John's actions but the gasp was swallowed as John's mouth closed over his, his tongue demanding entry. The move was aggressive and demanding, controlling, and Sherlock stiffened a little, slightly nervous of this new side to his lover, even as it aroused him.

A subtle shift in John's demeanor was all the evidence John gave that he had registered Sherlock's reaction. Even though he didn't let up in his approach, his hands relaxed their grip ever so slightly, the thumb on Sherlock's neck moved to soothe, stroking a little. He felt the man swallow, felt the Adam's apple move under his palm. Sherlock's eyes were darker, pupils so far dilated they were almost black. John dropped his hand to stroke down over the shoulder and arm, back across his chest, thumb nail raking over a peaked nipple. Sherlock gasped into the kiss, whole body jerking in response to the stimulus. His own hands came up, grabbing John's shoulders, pulling him close. John's hand dropped and found its goal. Sherlock moaned as John palmed his erection, strong fingers wrapping firmly around the shaft and drawing up, then down, thumb lingering on the tip, wiping the drip of pre-cum and slowly smoothing it across the glans. In his arms, Sherlock trembled, bit his bottom lip in a effort to control himself even as John's actions were making that increasingly difficult. Watching his lover, John reveled in Sherlock's responses, determined to pay him back in kind for the care he had shown the previous night. Disregarding himself, John focused on the man he now guided to lie down on the bed.

He bent low, inhaling the musk of Sherlock's warm skin, feeling as if he would never get enough of it. He nuzzled, kissing, working his way lower. He flicked occasional glances to Sherlock's face but the man had his eyes closed, head back on the pillow, arms above his head, gripping the bed frame. John smiled a small predatory smile, aware that his lover was about to find that his carefully constructed control was about to vanish. He slid his hands down, ignoring a warning twinge from his arm. It felt a lot better today but he was all too aware of it even as he vowed silently that it would not get in the way of what he was now about to do. He slid downward, repositioned himself between Sherlock's legs. Hands gripping the man's narrow hips, he closed his mouth on the head of Sherlock's cock and suckled. A loud moan, louder than John had been expecting, erupted from Sherlock's mouth and his hips bucked upward. Ruthlessly, John held him down, taking more of his length into his mouth, allowing it to hit the back of his throat. Another moan reached his ears. God, he hadn't anticipated how noisy Sherlock would be. He grinned and hummed and felt Sherlock jerk again. Looking up, he could see Sherlock's hands where they gripped the bed head were white-knuckled with tension. His eyes opened, dark and heavy lidded, lust-blown pupils regarding John with wonder in their depths.

John let him go with a final deep pull and repositioned himself closer. "Up for this?" he asked and received a mute nod in reply. "Promise I'll be gentle. Might hurt though..."

"Doesn't matter. I trust you, John." The simple assurance was like a slam in the gut. It took his breath away. Locking eyes with his soul mate, John nodded once and then reached for the lube on the bedside cabinet. "That must be a perk of being a doctor," Sherlock mused.

"What must?" John asked as he slicked himself up, aware that the punch line to Sherlock's thought would probably be an obtuse one.

"You know exactly where my prostate is." John laughed, he couldn't help himself. Might have known. "You could kill two birds with one stone and examine it for me, while you're there, you know, if you've got a minute..." For answer, John ran a slicked finger down the gluteal cleft, pressing gently. Sherlock's breath hitched, body stiffening.

"Relax," John ordered gently but firmly. Sherlock's hands returned to the bed head and his breathing deepened. "That's better," John encouraged. He laid one hand to Sherlock's skin above the pubic bone, pressing him gently to the bed. He slipped a finger inside and Sherlock moaned again, taken by surprise. A second followed the first when John felt he was ready, the doctor's training making him go slowly and carefully.

A jolt of pure pleasure went through Sherlock's whole self as he felt the touch inside his body. John was being so gentle and caring it nearly brought tears to his eyes. He wanted to move, to squirm, to take more and faster, the urge to be... taken, to be made to feel, almost too much. He tried to arch into it, but was held down. "John..." he gasped. "I need to... to move..."

"You need to relax. Take a deep breath... Go on, in...?" John received a glare but Sherlock complied, taking a deep breath. "And out... let it go, slowly. There. And again," John instructed, waiting while he was obeyed. "Now keep that up until I tell you otherwise."

"Yes, sir..." Sherlock muttered, slightly sullen, then gasped again as John's fingers moved, stroking him. This time, they kept moving, small circles inside, sending pleasure spiraling up his spine. He reached down, desperate to touch himself, only to have his hand slapped gently aside.

"Not yet," John said softly. The care in his voice nearly stopped Sherlock's breath. "Breathe," John murmured. "Don't forget to breathe." His smile was achingly sweet and tender. The look in his eyes...

"Marry me..." The whispered words were out of Sherlock's mouth before his head could put a break on his wildly swirling thoughts.

"What?" John paused, then chuckled. "Ask me again when we're done. Asking a bloke to marry you when he's got two fingers shoved up your arse is asking for trouble, don't you think?" Sherlock stared at the wonderful man above him for a heartbeat, then he laughed, tension breaking inside him. In that moment, John withdrew his hand, moved close, hefted one of Sherlock's legs higher, and pressed the advantage of surprise. The next moment, John breached him, sliding inside as easily as if they'd been doing it forever. Sherlock suddenly felt impossibly full, eyes raking down John's body to where they were joined, an unguarded expression of wonder and a little fear within them. John's hands were stroking down his thighs, soothing and arousing all at the same time. He pushed forward and Sherlock let out a stuttering breath.

"Alright?" John asked, watching him. Sherlock nodded, biting his lip again. "Good, because I aim to fuck you into this mattress until you forget your own name..." Sherlock groaned at the words, hips flexing upward. John smiled and pulled back, thrusting forwards almost immediately. He set up a rhythm, dropping forward to place his hands either side of Sherlock's shoulders, leaning in to kiss him softly at first, then more deeply. His hips snapped forward, driving deep, savoring Sherlock's answering moan. Christ, he thought, it isn't going to take long...

John was suddenly conscious of the subtle shift in Sherlock's awareness, aware that the man was losing himself to the moment. Judging by his face he wasn't going to last much longer either. Sherlock's hand had dropped down, taking himself in a firm grip, eyes on John's face as he did so. John smiled his approval and snapped his hips forward again, almost aggressively. Sherlock rose to the challenge, meeting each thrust with his own, driving back as John thrust forward. The pressure gradually built, intensified, and John watched Sherlock's carefully constructed control leave him, watched as he lost all semblance of command over his body, over his mind, moaning, crying out with the overwhelming assault on his senses. John's hand covered the long fingers, guiding and encouraging, bringing him to completion as he lost the ability to do so on his own. John could feel his own climax getting closer, the sight of Sherlock's back arching, his head flung back, muscles taut as bowstrings as he came was enough to finish him and he thrust hard, emptying himself into the man beneath him, the man he loved above all the rest of the world.

The door clicking shut alerted John, seconds later. Alarm coursed through him, wondering when the door had opened, how long whoever it was had been watching. Sherlock was blissfully unaware, drifting in a post-coital haze of endorphins. John padded to the door and peered out, in time to see Sherlock's bedroom door close. Ah. So that's who it had been. Relief flashed through him although, on balance, he wasn't sure who else it might have been. He was unbelievably glad it hadn't been Mycroft, on one of his impromptu visits, although with the CCTV in their flat, Mycroft probably already knew. John listened, aware of... something. He wasn't sure what he was hearing. Also aware that he wasn't in a fit state to go investigating, he retreated back into the room and to the sink in the corner, rinsing a facecloth out and wiping himself down, making himself half-way presentable. He dragged a robe on, hearing a murmur from the bed. Sherlock was drowsy but curious. "Where you going? Can't we... you know, cuddle?" John grinned, leaned over and kissed the sweaty forehead.

"We were watched. Greg..."

"Greg?" Sherlock roused at that revelation. "Why? What the fuck was he doing?"

"Not sure, that's what I'm going to find out." Sherlock nodded and collapsed again.

"Fine, bring him back and we'll cuddle together..."

The knocking roused Greg from a troubled doze. What he had seen... hot as hell and so... he shivered. Wished he could have joined them. He was frustrated, after a week without her. His heart felt like it was shrinking, shriveling; he was in pain, grieving, and lonely. He wanted closeness with someone, anyone, just to feel connected. He was scared out of his wits at facing life alone. He had no one to talk to, to offload his concerns with. Joan had been a sounding board, practical and wise, someone he could express his deepest fears to and who wouldn't turn away. But he had neglected her. He couldn't blame her for backing off. She had been there for him but he hadn't been there for her...and now... Oh God, those two. He had gone looking for someone to talk to, to ask advice, and hearing the noises... What had possessed him to open the door, to intrude?

Oh, he had entertained ideas of exploring his sexuality, now that he and his wife were separated, but he had absolutely no idea where to begin and the very idea terrified him. He could have gone looking for a prostitute but that would have been more than dangerous. If he was caught... No, not worth it. He could imagine the headlines. He was between a rock and a hard place with a hard-on to end all hard-ons now.

The knocking got louder. John's voice came through the door. "Greg? Let me in, please? We need to talk."

Levering himself off the bed, Greg walked on unsteady feet and opened the door. John Watson stared back, looking pissed as all hell.

"Were you watching us?" Greg cringed and retreated into the darkened room, seeking his bed for safety. John followed him in, frown deepening.

"Sorry," Greg offered, his voice rough.

"Why?"

"It wasn't...intentional. I was just looking... for you...someone to talk to..."

"Did you never hear of knocking?"

"It would have disturbed you..."

"Damn right it might, but this disturbed me more. What possessed you? How long were you there?"

"Not long... I... sorry, I'm sorry. I'll leave you be, I'll find somewhere else to sleep..."

"Like hell you will. Greg..." John exhaled and paused, working out what to say. "Greg, are you gay?"

"No... I…don't know..."

"Did you like what you saw?"

"Don't, John... I'm sorry, okay...?"

"It's not okay, Greg. Did it do anything for you?" John's voice softened.

"Yes... alright? Yes, it damn well did! I'm jealous of you both, you know that?" Anger surfaced, warring with the shame. "I'm scared, John. I don't know how to face the future without...someone... alone. I... can't..." his voice broke and he turned away. Hands, warm and firm, gripped the tops of his arms, spun him back. For a man on the short side, John Watson was surprisingly strong.

"Greg Lestrade, I am not sharing this house with two idiots. Come on." Greg found himself towed out of the room toward John's. He resisted.

"No... you..."

"Greg, relax. Nobody is about to hurt you, but you need company and I want my bed. If the mountain cannot come to Mohamed then Mohamed has to go to the bloody mountain." He opened the door. The bed was empty, covers turned down, but with no sign of Sherlock. The noises of someone washing reached John's ears. Sherlock was naked in front of the sink, sloshing water. He grinned. The curtains were still drawn but the side light was on, the room bathed in a soothing glow.

"Get into bed," John ordered.

"What? But..."

John pointed at the bed. "Get in," he ordered, brusquely. Greg shot him a helpless look and obeyed.

"I wouldn't argue," Sherlock said, applying the towel vigorously. "He's in soldier-mode. When he's like this, there's no reasoning with him." He and John grinned at each other and John made a move to get into bed beside Greg.

"What are you doing?" Greg was alarmed.

"Getting into bed with you. What does it look like? Sherlock, hurry up, I'm cold."

"Alright, I'm coming." He threw the towel onto a bentwood chair and walked unhurriedly to the bed, getting in the other side, Greg between them. Frankly, Sherlock thought, the poor man looked trapped.

"Now, lie still and relax," John said. "It's still too early in the morning to think. We all need sleep, and then we'll decide what to do with you." He wrapped a warm arm across Greg's midsection and hugged him close, his hand rubbing soothing circles.

"It's alright, Greg." Sherlock's warm breath tickled his neck. "We'll look after you. Just relax and sleep easy. We'll be here when you wake."

Reviews please. Thanks to all who favourited. Glad you like it. Hope you find the threesome alright. Friends in need and all that...