Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes belong to Sir ACD and in this reincarnation Moffat, Gatiss and the BBC. We own nothing and are only writing this for fun.

Warning: Violence, murders sexual tensions and relationships between males. Angst, and sexual happenings eventually.

Tales of a Feather.

Chapter Four.

Sherlock, for the first time in their acquaintance, felt sorry for Sally Donovan. The Sergeant was actually shaking at her post, her pallor and the slight residue at the corner of her mouth indicating she'd vomited.

Sally just waved them along, not even noticing that John did not look like John at the moment. She couldn't get the image of what was inside that house out of her mind. For once she was glad to have been put on guard dog duty by the police tape.

John looked around the manor as they walked inside, the place was huge. He couldn't wrap his head around the fact that there were people who actually lived like this. He didn't envy them though, especially since you only had to step a foot on the grounds to realize that something had gone horribly, horribly wrong here.

Sherlock found Lestrade and Mycroft glaring at each other outside what was likely a small storage room and he noticed that Lestrade wasn't wearing the blue anti-contamination suit, just the foot slip covers. Not very bloody then. He also took just a moment to wonder how his brother could honestly miss the fact that Lestrade was only glaring at him so fiercely to mask the desire to simply walk into him and lean. "Lestrade, victim?"

Greg turned his head to answer and frowned at the bright blond haired man behind Sherlock for just a moment, "Fucking hell is that you John?"

"What would you do if I said that it wasn't?" John replied but the humor was fleeting, this was not the place for jokes. "It seems that our killer was busy while we were out trying to bait her. But to repeat Sherlock's question, what can you tell us about the victim Greg?"

"Victims, plural." Mycroft twirled the umbrella handle in his grip, otherwise standing as straight and calm as usual. "Brilliant really, horrid of course but really quite brilliant." He looked up and met Sherlock's eyes. "Hercules."

Greg saw, for the first time since he'd known him, Sherlock's mask fall and the brief horror that crept into his expression and eyes before he regained control of himself and blanked it out, going so cold Lestrade would swear the temperature actually dropped.

"How old Lestrade?"

He didn't bother to ask how Sherlock knew, even with Mycroft's comment there were several other multiple deaths it could be but of course Sherlock had already hit on the right one, "Six, four, and two. The mother's twenty-eight, Jessamina Brix. Anderson's still in taking photographs."

Sherlock was setting his coat aside and slipping on the foot covers but he nodded in acknowledgement.

John stayed quiet, in fact he didn't know if he'd be able to speak even if he tried, his insides had frozen solid. How could anyone do this? The children couldn't have been guilty of anything; even this killer bitch must know that. Fuck, fuck it all. If he had been Sherlock he would have seen her for what she was at that first meeting. How many lives could have been saved then? John's shoulders drooped and he felt his leg start to ache as he went for the foot covers.

Mycroft watched the doctor get ready and follow Sherlock, taking a few steps closer to Lestrade. "This is exactly why my brother should have found an excuse to leave Watson at home."

The DI shook his head, shifting to avoid even an accidental brush against him, "John would never let him do that. They're always at every crime scene together, always. John refuses to let Sherlock work a case alone anymore. You know why." He then turned and headed back into the room. He still didn't know why he had to find Sherlock's brother so attractive and why he actually seemed to like the damned bastard but this was one case when Mycroft Holmes' presence was more of a nuisance than a pleasant surprise. He looked at the carnage of the three little broken bodies and their mother and knew that once this case was over he was going to get completely pissed just to get this out of his head.

"I do know why, that does not make it healthy. Being here will do nothing but hurt John." Mycroft gave DI Lestrade his version of a curious gaze, wondering why the detective always seemed so distant in his presence. As far as he knew Mycroft had not interfered in Lestrade's life or career, well not too much anyway.

Sherlock reached over before putting gloves on and gripped John's arm. He knew exactly what he was thinking so he only said one word softly, "Wrong."

"No, not wrong, not this time. I'll be alright though." John tried his best to sound sure of himself but even he could hear how phony it sounded. The sight of the broken, tiny bodies broke his heart. Children should never be that still, even in sleep children moved and fussed and breathed. This was so wrong on every level and it really, truly broke his heart.

Sherlock resolved to discuss it with John once they were back at Baker Street. He scanned the scene, aware of Anderson, still snapping the photographs despite his paler than usual face, giving him a nasty look. He didn't care, what mattered was the work now. He knelt beside the first body, the mother, her features frozen in horror, arms splayed wide, manicured nails torn and bloody, neck at an unnatural angle. "Snapped her neck but she fought before he did."

"He?" Lestrade looked at Sherlock.

"He. Where's the father's body?" He looked up at Lestrade.

"Out on the back lawn, burnt."

"Degraded then, but you'll probably find traces of some sort of drug in his system, likely PCP," he nodded at the door, "Door was barred from the outside, all five were locked in. He was dosed," Sherlock got up and pulled the door half closed to reveal small streaks of blood, "beat on the door trying to get out when the drugs started affecting him, until he lost all reason. Then he turned to his family." He walked back over to the mother, "The mother first, put her children behind her, wedged themselves into a corner, tried to look small, unnoticeable," he turned, his nitrile gloves touching the wall, himself facing outward, "she dug in, her nails scratching the wall at the first push. Then she fought, tried to keep him back, probably clawed at his face but it would have been like a bee stinging an angry bull. He hit her, snapped her neck. Then went for the children."

Sherlock moved to the eldest child, a boy, a little off to the left from the mother's side, "They ran, he tried to hold his father's legs," he gestured at the smears of blood on the carpet, "give his little brother and sister time to get out. He was shaken loose, kicked off, then kicked and stamped until something happened to draw the father's attention to the other two," he moved to the final two children, a four year old boy with his little broken arms still around his baby sister, hunched over her, "The baby, probably, cried when the door wouldn't open and the boy saw his father come for them and wrapped himself around her as well as he could, holding on to try and protect her. Fists this time," his nitrile covered fingers ghosted over the bloody marks on the boy's back, "The baby probably screaming herself hoarse, and the father kept hitting until she stopped. One blow after the boy had gone limp and couldn't protect her head anymore," there was a slight caved in spot on the side of the baby's head, "and her skull would have been crushed."

"Christ are you even human?" Anderson glared at Sherlock.

"Shut it Anderson." John's voice was sharp as a whip. He felt sick to his stomach and most of all he would just like to fall down on his knees and cry but he wouldn't stand for this. "In order to catch the person responsible for this happening we need to know what happened. Sherlock just told us that. Which is more than I suspect you would be able to do. You take your little pictures and pretend you know what's happening but you don't have a clue. Too caught up in yourself to care. Med-school dropout. Cheating husband and lousy forensic...How does it feel to be human?"

Anderson turned red, "Why don't you tell me Doctor? You follow him," he jerked his head at Sherlock, "around like a faithful little dog when he wouldn't care if you were gunned down in front of hi-"

"Anderson!" Lestrade barked it out, "That's enough. If you can't control yourself you can walk off the scene and go home. Same for you John," he met the doctor's eyes. "This is ugly so we all need to stay calm."

Anderson shut his mouth with a snap and went back to photographing the evidence and scene.

"When your people start treating Sherlock with even basic respect, then I will be as calm as a cucumber." John met Lestrade's eyes. "You call on him...you know what happened when you let your dogs off the leash and still they keep doing it. You keep your people under control Detective Inspector and I will keep myself under control."

"John," Sherlock stood up and shook his head, "Anderson's welcome to his opinions, they are always wrong after all."

Greg shot Anderson a look when he made a noise as if to begin saying something. "Look can we just table our personal messes before Sherlock's brother decides to send in his own merry men? What else you got?" He looked at Sherlock this time.

He pointed at drag marks in the carpet, "The father was probably dead from an overdose when she unblocked the door and came to get him out. The back lawn you said?"

"Yeah."

Sherlock nodded sharply and stepped out of the room, ignoring Mycroft as he walked to a back door.

Mycroft's only reaction was the slightest raise of an eyebrow, after all he knew his little brother.

John glared at Anderson and then sent an even more scathing glare in Mycroft's direction before following Sherlock outside. He might be Sherlock's dog, his pet, he'd heard all of it before, it really didn't bother him. If anyone had a problem with it they would learn that this dog's bite was definitely worse than his bark.

Sherlock walked slowly around the still steaming, half charred body tied to a stake, "Hm that's a deviation from Grecian themes."

"What is?" The smell of burnt, charred flesh was not new to John but he didn't think he'd ever get used to it, he hoped he never would get used to it. "The stake?"

"Yes. Grecians used traditional platform pyres. Takes more time to build, more wood," he looked around and saw a stack of depleted firewood near an outdoor supply building, "No tattoo this time either. There wouldn't have been a point, it would have been charred off yet it's part of her signature." His eyes flicked from side to side, "A peacock feather," he looked around pacing out, eyes narrowing, "Lestrade!"

"What?" The DI came up and frowned in the direction Sherlock was staring.

"He was still burning when you arrived?"

"Yeah. Wh-" before he could finish asking Sherlock took off at a run into the woods surrounding the house. "Bloody hell what?!"

"She's still here!"

"What?" John was on Sherlock's heels in the blink of an eye, bare restraining himself from reaching for the ankle gun in Lestrade's sight.

Mycroft was on his sleek phone, silently giving orders and already the faint hum of an helicopter could be heard in the distance. It seemed as if his merry men were on their way.

Lestrade cursed loudly and ran after Sherlock and John. One day Sherlock was going to be the death of him.

Sherlock's legs ate up ground like a gazelle's as he followed the footprints and trail markers he saw and then a flash of white just up ahead that began to flee. He put on more speed to catch her, spotting dark hair and olive skin in the moonlight. Private estate, no CCTV, no need to go in disguise. He jumped over a tree stump and was right behind her.

There was a hiss as the woman tried to push more power into her feet, get that final last push to outrun the man behind her.

John was close by, he didn't have the long legs Sherlock did but he had stamina, more than that, he had determination. He wanted his hands on that bitch; he wanted to make her pay.

The bright light of a chopper lit up the forest, made John blink from the brightness of it and seemingly from one moment to the next the woman was simply gone.

Sherlock growled, actually growled. He'd almost had his hand around the back of her shirt before the lights from the helicopter blinded him, misdirecting his grab, and letting her get away.

Greg came up just behind John and Sherlock, not panting quite as hard as John was but nowhere near as controlled in his breathing as Sherlock. "She got away?"

Sherlock nodded sharply, "I suppose you'd arrest me if I committed fratricide in front of you."

"It's my job so yeah."

"What if it was an accident?" John ripped the wig off his head, scratching at his sweat damped hair. "I just happen to bump into him and oh the pity we both stumble and I just happen to break the bastard's neck?" He gave Lestrade a wide eyed innocent look.

"Get in line, besides I don't think a bloody earthquake could make Mycroft Holmes stumble." Greg pulled out his talkie, "Donovan, the suspect escaped, make sure the umbrella toting bastard knows it's because his minions lit up the forest like a bloody stadium and tell him to get the hell off my crime scene if he plans on continuing to be so helpful."

"I would Sir." Donovan's voice crackled over the walkie talkie. "Sadly it appears as if Mr. Holmes had left, there was this car and this woman who looked like a model and then he was just gone."

John felt like growling but he had to admit to himself at least that Mycroft Holmes was indeed a very smart man. He would run too if he managed to piss Greg off to that degree.

"Right. Of course." A muscle in Greg's jaw ticked and twitched, "Off out then." He looked at Sherlock, "If your brother somehow winds up floating in the Thames I probably won't look twice at you." He tucked his talkie back away, "Anything else you need to do here?"

Sherlock shook his head, "No."

"I'll get a cab for you then."

John nodded slowly, he knew a dismissal when he heard one and after all that had happened it wasn't wise to push Greg's buttons, not right now. "Will it be okay to wait for our statements until tomorrow then? We could come down to the station." He wanted to shower and get rid of the prosthetics and make up...Then he wanted to curl up in his bed and maybe have a good cry on his lonesome.

"Yeah that'll be fine. Come on then."

Sherlock followed broodily until they were back at the foot of the drive, a more restored Donovan ordering the others around and guarding the tape. He barely noticed her nod followed by her normal pet name for him but knew it had been spoken from John's sudden tension. He gripped John's arm and shook his head, just continuing to walk. He was angry, with his brother, and with himself for not anticipating what Mycroft would do and being ready to adjust his approach for it, and he wanted just to get back to the flat so he could think away from all the tension and anger that was now floating around here.

It wasn't long at all until a black cab rolled up the driveway, John watched Sherlock fold himself into the backseat before following his friend. He waited until the cab was rolling before turning to look at Sherlock.

"Why do you put up with it? With what they call you? Even after Moriarty, Barts...The roof..." John's voice trailed off, that still hurt, it was still a ragged, bleeding wound inside him and John didn't know if it ever would heal completely. "They are wrong; they know they are wrong so why do you let them get away with it?"

"Because their opinions don't matter to me John," his fingers twitched and tapped and drummed on his knee, "They don't matter and nothing you or I can say or do will make them change. I learned that in primary school." He pulled out his phone and brought up the scandal sheets despite his distaste for them.

"You shouldn't have had to learn that in primary school." John's jaw was set in its usual stubborn line. "You are brilliant, what you do is amazing, you should have been told that every day of your life growing up. I know how fantastic you are, it matters to me, you matter to me and I will never stop taking action when someone puts you down just because they aren't as smart as you are."

"That is why yours is the only opinion that matters to me John," Sherlock looked up at him.

John faltered a little, floundering and searching for what to say. It was too important moment to simply brush it off. "I know how great you are, you have my respect and admiration and you'll always have it, even when I want to rip your hair out for being an idiot."

Sherlock didn't smile the way he usually did, he couldn't. The police thought nothing got to him at all but that was far from the truth. There was one thing that always got to him in cases and that was when children suffered. This murder scene had been wrenching and he wasn't going to sleep until he caught this Antigone, which was almost certainly not her name. "I don't think you even realize how amazing you, yourself are John. Of course if you ever do that would ruin it."

"I'm exceedingly normal; just look at me jumpers and all." John was still heartbroken, still felt the need to cry but he was trying his very best to be normal for Sherlock. He meant every word he said. Sherlock was extraordinary, special in the best way and John would always be there to remind Sherlock of that fact.

"That is precisely it. You are normal, aside from the adrenaline addiction we share, yet when you deal with me you don't react the way other normal people do. That makes you special John even though you can't see it." Sherlock looked down at his phone, eyes changing as he found what he was looking for, "Ah Nathan Brix, that would explain Mycroft's presence."

"What would?" John leaned so he could look at Sherlock's phone. "His National Security covers a rather broad spectrum." He knew it had to be something big for Mycroft Holmes to be there in person. Fieldwork was not something Mycroft ventured into unless it involved his brother. "Does it explain why Antigone chose this man as well?"

"Not this article, this one is on him being designated as the designer of a new national defense software," he changed to another article, "The why is the resemblance to the Hercules figure. Former womanizer, an every-man's hero from a privileged background, devoted husband and father."

"Yeah, because loving your family is such a cause for being targeted and murdered." John's voice was laced with bitterness. "I would love to shoot this bitch, a clean shot right between her eyes but that would be too good for her. She should be exposed for the horrible person she is and she should be made to suffer."

Perhaps but it's better to just get rid of her." Sherlock put his phone away as the cab rolled up beside the front door of the flat and he scooted out of the vehicle, heading upstairs, walking slowly enough that he kept John right behind him.

John thought about it. It wasn't really any moral qualms that had him hesitating about putting a bullet in Antigone's head. He actually worried more about Lestrade's paperwork than he did any other consequences. There was only so much Greg could turn a blind eye to after all and if this bullet matched Jefferson Hope's bullet then John would be pretty much screwed. It might be very selfish of him but he didn't want to leave Sherlock's side.

As soon as Sherlock was inside the flat and out of his coat again, he laid down on the couch and grabbed the nicotine patches. He didn't put them on yet though, just stared at them and spoke quietly, "It's the only sort of case I hate."

"Because of the children?" John had been there to see Sherlock's mask drop, besides, it really wasn't all that hard to read Sherlock's feelings when you knew where to look. He sighed and sunk down in his armchair, just wanting a moment of peace and calm before he went to shower.

"Yes. I do actually like children despite what many think of me, they've not yet fallen into the trap of idiocy that adults walk into. I don't like seeing children dead." His jaw tightened and he tossed the nicotine patches aside, rolling to his feet to begin pacing. He hated this even more because children should never have to know the strike of a parent's fist. It happened, he knew it happened all too well but it shouldn't.

"I was eleven when I decided that I would never, ever have children." John spoke calmly, still seated in the armchair he had claimed as his own the very first day he sat foot at 221B Baker Street. "Harry was fourteen then and she came home drunk for the first time. I looked at her as I helped her to bed without our parents noticing and it was like looking into a mirror image of Dad. Same hurtful comments, same tendency to take all frustration and irritation and channel them into their fists and feet. I knew then that I never wanted to bring a child into that. I have the same genes and I could never willingly put a child through that." John exhaled and poked at the prosthetics on his face; he really should go and shower. "Children should never be afraid when they wake up; wondering if that would be a day spent hiding, a day spent in silence since Dad has a headache from his hangover. Should never have to be afraid of their own parents. What happened tonight is so much worse still...This was a loving father, a father who would never punch, kick or break an empty bottle over his children's head. These children were loved and for him to be forced to do this to them...It makes something inside me die."

Sherlock turned and went to crouch in front of John, his hand swiping a bottle and a cloth from his desk along the way. He soaked the cloth in the solution and tugged on one cheek prosthetic, exposing the edge and letting him wipe at the glue with the solution on the cloth, rubbing it away, "I know," he knew because it wounded something within him as well. He slowly stripped the prosthetics from John's face then found himself tracing the correct features with his fingers. "Just as I know you were blaming yourself. Wrong and stupid to do so. If you blame yourself you'd have to blame the entire population that was inside the pub as well. Why didn't they see? Why didn't they notice? Because she knows how to keep people from seeing."

"You may be right but it doesn't change how I feel." Sherlock was so close, so close and John's skin tingled where Sherlock had touched it. "Bill was a good man I just left him there with her. No matter how skilled she is at blending in I don't think I'll ever get over that. If I was just a little bit better, a little bit smarter, a little bit more like you...If only, then three children would lie sleeping in their beds right now, tucked in with kisses and fairy stories by a mother and a father who would never raise their hands at them."

"You don't want to be like me John." His fingers ghosted over very fine scars on the left side of John's face, ones only he or someone looking very, very close would notice, "No one would really want to be like me," the inflection on the last words held a subtle, barely there loathing because there were times he wanted to be normal, times when he'd give so much to just still his mind for an hour or two, think about inane idiocies that normal people did, times when he'd like to be able to make friends easily but he knew he never could. He was what he was and so long as he had John, he could live with it.

"You are wonderful Sherlock, you really are...No one else could be like you, you are one of a kind, not weird or strange or freaky but unique in the best possible way." John looked into Sherlock's eyes. "What you can do with that massive brain of yours...It's fantastic but that is not what makes you amazing. You see so much; know so much and you still care so much. You might try to hide it and pretend that you don't but I see it. Despite everything you wear your heart on your sleeve Sherlock and I want nothing more than to protect it because oh what a beautiful heart you have."

The organ in question began to beat harder and Sherlock moved so that his nose was barely a centimeter away from John's, his mouth dry and his hands trembling, "John..." He searched the dark blue eyes before letting his own slide shut so John wouldn't see the desperate pleading in them not to be rejected and so he wouldn't see disgust on John's face as he leaned in closer until his lips brushed against John's thinner ones.

It was barely a brush of lips against lips but John could feel it all the way down to this toes. He couldn't believe this was happening, didn't quite dare to believe it was real. Sherlock Holmes was kissing him. Beautiful, brilliant, amazing Sherlock. It was like something from his dreams. At first he sat stock still, eyes wide with disbelief and shock. Then with an exhaled sigh he leaned in just a little bit and pressed his lips more firmly against Sherlock. Still soft, still chaste, just a movement of their lips together but it still meant more than any other kiss John had ever had.

Sherlock felt John's response and swore his heart hitched in his chest. He angled his head a bit more to better feel the slide of lips against lips, one hand curved around John's neck and the other gripped at the polo shirt, just over where the scar on John's shoulder was. He made a sound, somewhat like a sigh. He was kissing John, at long last he was kissing John and John wasn't pushing him away, he was responding. He knew the science behind interpersonal chemistry but knowing it and feeling it were two very different things so while he knew dopamine and endorphins were flooding through him, it felt like lightning in a bottle. A feeling he savored.

One hand came up and sank into rich, dark curls and the other went to Sherlock's face where he brushed a sharp cheekbone with the pad of his thumb. John had wanted this for so long, longer than he'd been aware of wanting it. Sherlock's lips were perfect for kissing, plush and warm and just a little bit chapped, a proof that this was real and that it was happening. John sighed into the kiss, wanting to savor the feeling, wanting it to keep going forever.

"John," it was almost a prayer against the doctor's lips as Sherlock shifted, his hands slipping down and around to clutch at the back of John's shirt. He wasn't quite certain what to do. He wasn't a virgin, something many people would disbelieve he knew, when his libido made itself known, rare though that was, he took care of it with a willing partner picked up from some high end club. Those encounters were nothing like this, they'd only been rushed moments to take care of mind clouding lust, no caring or tenderness. That wasn't at all what he wanted with John but he didn't know how to go about giving the tenderness he wanted to.

John continued to rub his thumb over Sherlock's cheekbone, the one in his hair traveled down to stroke Sherlock's back. He moved away from Sherlock's mouth long enough to bring their foreheads together, then he pressed a kiss to said forehead, a kiss to each sharp cheekbone and a kiss over Sherlock's cupid's bow. Then he caught that enticing upper lip between both of his own as he slowly deepened the kiss.

Sherlock made a hum, almost a moan and sank into the kiss, nibbling and sucking on John's lower lip, returning the favor. John tasted like spice, like nutmeg and allspice, and heat. He almost nuzzled into him, his hands flattening and smoothing over the muscles in his back that shifted under skin and fabric.

Sherlock's mouth was sweet; John imagined that it was all the sugared coffee. It was an addictive sweetness, laced with the pure taste of Sherlock and John wanted more of it so he licked his way into Sherlock's mouth, tasting all he could. He cupped Sherlock's neck and sighed blissfully against Sherlock's lips.

Now he did moan, licking against John's tongue and sucking, welcoming the slick muscle into his mouth happily. Keeping their mouths connected he rose to straddle John's lap, settling himself comfortably on the strong, well sculpted thighs. His mind still ran rapidly through every last bit of data it could but it was all about John, his reactions, his taste, the feel of his muscles. His world narrowed down to the man he was kissing and nothing more except perhaps the various sexual positions he knew existed.

It was John's turn to moan and he did, deep and low as his hands shifted to Sherlock's lower back, stroking and holding as he let the heat inside him explode as he twirled his tongue with Sherlock's, the kiss taking a different note though the underlying tenderness was still there. The weight of Sherlock in his lap was welcome and John tilted his head back so he could deepen the kiss even more.

Sherlock ran his hands over John's shoulders, along his arms then let them splay over that perfect, broad chest as they kissed and sank into each other. The heat of John's hands on his lower back seeped into his very bones, taking away the chill he always seemed to carry with him and making him practically melt into the other man. Pressed torso to torso, Sherlock could almost feel John's heat beating against his own, the thrum of life.

John was kissing Sherlock with his entire being, the cat was out of the bag anyway now and John didn't want this to be their only kiss. He wanted to kiss Sherlock everyday for as long as he could imagine. Everything else paled and all John knew was that Sherlock was there, pressed against him, alive and warm and beautiful and John never wanted to let him go. The words they pressed and pushed and John had no choice but to let them out. It felt as he would explode if he didn't. He tore himself away from Sherlock's lips and buried his face in the crook of the younger man's neck. "I love you."

Sherlock's breath left him. It was sentiment and falling into the ridiculous trap of romance, but hearing John say that was thrilling, and terrifying. Because he could all too easily say the wrong thing and hurt him. He slid his arms around John and bent his head over his, "John...I don't have words. Not for this. I have the science running around in my head, dopamine, serotonin, oxytocin, vasopressin, but I don't have words." He held tighter, hoping John's medical training would translate the list of brain chemicals into the right conclusion.

John smiled against the warm skin of Sherlock's neck, oh yes, Sherlock was most definitely one of a kind. "It's fine, words are overrated anyway, I'll say them for the both of us. I love you Sherlock Holmes, I love you." The skin beneath his lips was much too tempting and John pressed his lips against it, kissing that long, strong, proud neck and feeling Sherlock's pulse jump against his mouth.

Sherlock leaned his head back, happy to let John do as he willed, the feel of his mouth on his skin skimming through him. "Perhaps I forgot to mention the testosterone of the moment," he made an almost squeak when he felt John's teeth nip at him in a wordless scold that didn't have the effect he imagined John had been wanting. After the noise he made a breathy hum, "Oh do that again."

Interesting, very interesting indeed. "Liked that did you?" John licked his way up Sherlock's neck until his mouth rested just below Sherlock's ear, he opened it and bit down, a little bit harder this time and Sherlock jolted in response, his breath quickening. "This is a study that will require much more data I believe." There was a smile in John's voice though the words came out low and rough.

Sherlock moaned at just the thought of it. He'd never had someone's teeth on him before so he certainly hadn't known he'd have such a reaction but this was John so he had no problem with it. "Well, far be it from me to," he caught his breath at another gentle nibble, "impede scientific discovery." He found himself reaching up and shifting his fingered through the short cap of John's hair.

John's chuckle rasped in his throat as his fingers crept up to undo the buttons on Sherlock's button down shirt. He nipped at Sherlock's collarbone, the hollow of his throat and then he let his teeth rake over perfect, pale skin before biting down on Sherlock's shoulder, nearly breaking that flawless skin.

This time it was a low keen and he arched into the bite, feeling himself harden completely in seconds. He gasped out, "Careful. I don't...never...haven't explored and much more of that and I'll..." he let himself trail off, meaning heavy in his voice.

"Fuck." It came out as a deep heartfelt groan. "What you do to me...You mean you could come just from me putting my mouth on you? Biting you?" John slid a hand inside Sherlock's open shirt, brushing a pebbled nipple with his fingers. "So what would happen if I bit you here?"

He sucked in a sharp breath and shivered, the spike of sensation from John's fingers brushing over him making his blood heat more. "I don't know," he shifted his hips, his erection pressing against John, "but based on the evidence yes I think I could come just from your mouth on me and biting me there..." he shivered again, "Save it for another day perhaps?"

"Hmm." John circled that beautiful, pink nipple with his fingers, a considering look on his face. "You might be right, I want to take my time with you, have you stretched out in bed as I lick you from the bottom of your feet to the top of your head. Think of all the places I could press my teeth, the back of your knees, inside of your thighs, right beneath your navel..." He let his voice trail off.

Sherlock shivered and moaned, "Please. Yes. John," he looked into John's eyes, they were dilated and he could measure his pulse from the tick in his neck, "I want you. I want it, all you can give me. Please."

"You have me Sherlock, I'm all yours, have been since the first time we met." John cupped Sherlock's face and pressed their foreheads together again. "I want you too and I will give it all to you." He was so hard, wanted Sherlock so much but Sherlock was right, this wasn't the time to indulge in that want. "I want you today, I'll want you tomorrow and for as long as the days will stretch out before us."

"We'll keep each other then?" It was an almost childlike question, one he nearly wanted to slap himself for, but he hadn't been able to restrain it. No one had ever wanted him before, not really, and absolutely no one had ever wanted to keep him. Not the odd few friends he had scattered round, not family, even Molly for all her generous nature, she didn't understand all that he was and how all that he was would hurt her and stifle her so her feelings for him were idealized. John though, John knew him, every last little bit of him and even when frustrated he didn't truly leave. he went out for air, for control, but he didn't leave and Sherlock didn't think he could stifle John if he tried.

"We'll keep each other." John agreed, voice serious. Through a miracle he'd gotten Sherlock back when he'd thought him lost forever. John already knew that nothing would make him leave, he would always be there, always silently support Sherlock when he needed someone to lean on, which he did though he never admitted it. "You are difficult, infuriating, obnoxious and rude. Wonderful, brilliant and amazing and I wouldn't want you any other way. I love you and I will keep you for as long as you let me."

He shifted once more, draping his legs over the side of John's chair so he was sitting sideways in John's lap, his head resting on his shoulder, and trying to ignore his very insistent erection, "Always. I never want you to go." He wanted all of John but he also needed him.

"Where would I go? Without you everything loses its color, turns cold and gray. I'm not going anywhere, I'm yours remember?" John pressed a kiss against Sherlock's temple and wormed one hand inside Sherlock's trousers, cupping him through his pants. It wasn't a night for biting and teasing but he could still get Sherlock off, wanted to get him off.

Sherlock moaned softly, his hips rolling up into the touch. "Goes...both ways." He nuzzled at John's jaw, "I belong to you. Think I have since you shot the cabbie."

Something warm and loving but at the same time sharp and possessive curled inside John's stomach at those words. He slipped his hand inside Sherlock's pants as well and stroked Sherlock's erection, skin against skin. "You were about to take the pill you bloody idiot, of course I shot him." He loved the sounds that Sherlock was making, wanted to hear more of them, wanted to be the cause of them always.

"Needed to prove I was right. Then. Not anymore, not now." He shivered and made a mewl as John's hand stroked him, "Have you now. Don't need to prove it." Then he quit talking and gave himself up to sensation. He kissed, licked, and sucked on the side of John's neck, not applying his own teeth, it actually didn't occur to him as he was after tasting, not claiming.

It was beautiful, witnessing Sherlock give in to sensations and watching him come undone. It was the most beautiful thing John had ever seen. He increased his pace, wanting so badly to see Sherlock come. "No, you don't need to prove it anymore; I know how amazing you are because you really are Sherlock in every way."

He shuddered and squirmed. It was a little bit...embarrassing that John praising him had him closer to coming than before. John was the only one who brought out these reactions in him, who made him want, and need, and feel. He clung to him tightly sucking at the spot just under his jaw, shivering and feeling his orgasm drawing closer and closer.

"Brilliant, beautiful...Mine." John's voice was low and smooth as he whispered words at Sherlock. He ran his thumb over the head of Sherlock's erection and held him as Sherlock arched and spilled all over his hand.

Sherlock's fingers dug in to John's shoulders and his head flew back as he came, a soft cry falling from his lips as he did. His mind was a wash of colors and light and sensation and he couldn't think but it didn't frighten him because John was there, holding him steady and keeping him from flying apart.

John held him throughout the shakes and shivers of his orgasm while whispering soft words of love and always. He pulled his sticky hand out of Sherlock's trousers and with his eyes locked on Sherlock's still dazed ones he licked it clean. Now he really needed that shower but Sherlock was a comfortable weight on his lap and John didn't feel like moving. Right now he was holding everything that mattered to him in the world and John couldn't think of a better use of his time than to continue to hold Sherlock close.

The look in John's eyes as he'd licked his semen off his hand made Sherlock groan and he licked his own lips. He had to wonder how John tasted now, not to mention he'd like to return the favor. He squirmed and wriggled and managed to somehow slip down and out of John's lap until he was kneeling in front of him again. He rubbed his cheek on the knee of the khaki trousers as his fingers went to the zip.

John sucked in a breath through his teeth and looked down at Sherlock with wide-blown eyes. "Sherlock...You don't have to...I don't expect..." He was too shocked, too aroused to even get a full sentence out.

"Do I ever do anything because it's what someone expects John?" He freed the button and pulled down the zip, hooked his fingers in both the waist band of the trousers and the boxers, "Lift up? Unless you don't want me to?"

"Don't want you to?" John looked at Sherlock as if he'd lost his mind. "Christ Sherlock, look at the state I'm in because of you." He nodded down toward his groin as he lifted his hips so Sherlock could get his clothes down. "You drive me crazy...I always want you."

"Mmm," Sherlock pulled the trousers and pants down quickly then ran his hands up the exposed upper thighs. "You do appear to be very obviously enjoying the prospect." He moved forward, wrapping his fingers around the thick shaft and giving the head and experimental lick.

Cursing under his breath, John's hips jerked and his hands went to the armrests of the chair, clutching them for dear life. Sherlock's hand was around his cock, Sherlock's tongue was on his cock and it was enough to make John have a complete meltdown. He'd dreamt about this, fantasized about it for so long...Reality was so much better than any of his dreams though.

Sherlock filed away John's reaction, a wicked smile twitching at the corners of his mouth, and swept his tongue around the tip of John's prick before taking it into his mouth. It was an experience he'd not indulged in much so he knew that what he was doing was basic, perhaps even a little bit fumbling, but John was certainly seeming to enjoy it if his white knuckles and the precome leaking onto his tongue were any indication.

"Sherlock!" It was a plea, a prayer and a command all at once. John felt as if he was about to burst out of his very skin. Sherlock's beautiful, wicked mouth was on him and John's world had narrowed down to that simple fact. All he saw, thought and felt was Sherlock. This wouldn't take long, John was wound far too tight for that. His balls were already tightening and he had to forcefully keep his hips still so he didn't thrust up and choke Sherlock.

Never let it be said that Sherlock's powers of observation weren't keen because he moved both hands to grip John's hips, keeping them still, though if John tried hard to move them it would be a strain to maintain that hold, and took more of the shaft into him mouth until he couldn't take anymore without gagging. Then he pulled back, his already prominent cheekbones standing out further as his cheeks hollowed. He set up a slow steady bob of his head, taking John in, backing off, in and out, in and out.

"So...fucking...gorgeous." John pried one hand off the armrest to once again stroke the pad of his thumb over a cheekbone. "I could come just watching you...Though your mouth, it turns me inside out." John gasped the words out, lost in the pleasure that Sherlock gave him. "Please...Sherlock...Going to come." John's toes curled and flashes of pure pleasure ran down his spine.

Sherlock jerked just a bit as John spurted into his mouth, surprised by how quickly he did, then he swallowed rapidly, trying to keep up but unable to and wound up with the last bit of ejaculate splashing on his face. It wasn't an unpleasant taste per se, though sugared coffee it was not, nor was he irritated to have come on his face. All that was overshadowed by the look on John's face as if he'd just seen his God and fuck it was beautiful.

If John hadn't just come he might have blown his load at the sight of Sherlock with his semen on his face. Fuck he hadn't even known he had such a possessive streak but something inside him liked the sight, liked it very, very much. "Come here." John's hands curled around Sherlock and he pulled him up so that he could lick Sherlock's face clean before he dove in for a deep kiss. "I love you."

Sherlock didn't reply verbally, both not comfortable with the term and a bit out of breath from that kiss, but he took John's hand and, in a wave of what he felt certain Mycroft would consider disgusting sentiment, placed it over his heart.

John smiled and kept his hand over Sherlock's heart, feeling the steady thump against his palm. The action spoke louder than any words could. "I promise I will keep it safe."

"You always have." It was a whisper, barely audible. Soon enough he would be up and hopping, working things out, untangling the threads to find their killer before she took another life, but he wanted a few more moments to relax and settle into John.

John stayed where he was, pulling Sherlock more firmly onto his lap again in what was a post orgasm cuddle though he would never voice that out loud, not to himself and certainly not to Sherlock. He knew that Sherlock would be back to constant movement soon, the air around him would flutter with energy but for now, just for now it was wonderful to just hold him.

~to be continued...~