A/N: Again sorry about the shortness of the chapter.

WARNINGS: This is Slash, so don't like, don't read. No Beta-Reader so will probably Grammar/Spelling mistakes. Contains spoilers for season two, story is set during that episode Hounds of Baskerville,

Enjoy :)

CHAPTER FOUR

John was forced back against the headboard and his arms went up to push Sherlock away. Unlike the first time, John's lips weren't press tightly closed but had been partly open in preparation to speak. Sherlock of course took full advantage of this. Slipping his tongue into John mouth before he had a change to react.

John's hands pressed against Sherlock shoulders. He couldn't believe the bastard was doing it again and after not one, but two warnings of ABH. He was floundering in the bed like a fish out of water but when Sherlock tongue made a long, slow and seductive seep of his own, and a lustfully moan echoed in his ears he stopped fighting.

It was called fight or flight. That initial gut instinct that takes over when put in unexpected circumstances, and this was most defiantly unexpected. As a soldier it was a common feel that he'd had to both embrace and ignore in equal measure. But right now John chose neither, he picked the third option, one that could be considered brave or foolish depending on your point of view. John chose surrender. Hands in the air, or in this case Sherlock's hair, surrender.

Said hair was wrapped strand for strand around John calloused military fingers, enhancing his grip. He tugged and found his mouth filled with a groan of pleasure that rumbled though his chest. It was enough to warm John's blood and get it pumping to all the right - or wrong if he thought about. Which he had no intention of doing right now. - places. He could feel himself growing hard as Sherlock's hands mirrored his own, carding into John short army cut hair.

John's hands untangled themselves from the thick lush dark locks, sliding down that swan-like neck he'd observed earlier, till they found the collar of Sherlock coat. He wasn't even fully away of what his hands were doing as they struggled to pushed the thick, coarse material off the man shoulders, His body was taking full control of his mind and actions.

He raised his leg so that his foot could find purchase against the mattress allowing him to lift his hips and grind against the thick duvet that separated him from Sherlock. Another moan filled the room as the friction increased. He could feel Sherlock shaking above him. Could feel his hands clawing at his hair, could feel his blood rushing though his veins and his heart pounding in his chest. None of this was new to John. Sex wasn't new to John.

Wanting Sherlock was. It was something he could even begin to figure out. He didn't want to analyse, that was Sherlock thing. He was just content to give into the rush he hadn't felt in months. He wanted to ignore the dark shadow at the back of his mind and just surrender.

~ SHERLOCK ~

Sherlock understood quite clearly what was happening, he just wasn't all that sure why. He hadn't planned on any of this. The kiss that morning had been an experiment in seducing information. The threats since had been an experiment in winding his flatmate up. This was never part of his plan. This wasn't an experiment, this was very much real and it was terrifying him.

He'd taken a walk around the village in hopes to clear his head. It wasn't a large village so he'd passed the Cross Keys twice on his circuit. The first time he's glance though the window and seen John talking to Henry's therapist. They were laughing and drinking wine and having what looked to be a good time. John had on his flirtatious smile, one he'd see him use countless times with other women. The woman had blushed and averted her gaze, clear signs that she was attracted to John.

And who wouldn't be. He was kind and brave and loyal - probably too much for his own good. - and he was patient and caring. It really was no wonder he attracted woman the way he did.

As Sherlock had watched them he'd felt a not wholly unfamiliar tightness in his chest cavity. It was a feeling he'd only felt since meeting John. It had shocked him the first time, when it slammed into his chest the day John had told him about Sarah. It had been even worse when he'd had to stand their and watch them together. Luckily for him, John wasn't a consulting detective with a skill for observation. He hadn't realised it at the time, but he'd become quite possessive over the ex-army doctor. Which was precisely why he took every chance he got to sabotage his dates. Making sure he landed John in it. The most recent incident being supposedly forgetting Jeanette's name. Like that would ever happen. Sherlock wouldn't forget something so vital as his flatmate's girlfriends name. Even if there had been a few over the past year. He'd done it because he'd wanted to wind them up. Get under John's skin. Upset the woman to the point of breaking up with his flatmate/colleague/friend. Which it turned out had been relatively easy this time.

Sherlock had brushed this 'date' off, it was work after all, he told himself. But the image of John and the therapist just wouldn't leave him as he took another lap of the village. When he arrived back at the Cross Key's and found the table empty with no sign of John, something had snapped in him. That fear and anxiety he'd been carrying since Dewer's Hollow intensified. He couldn't lose John. Not to some woman he'd only just met. Not to anyone. John was all he had. All he wanted.

He rushed into the room expecting to find the ex-army doctor en flagrante only to find him asleep in his bed, alone. He'd felt such a rush of relief that he'd woken the man. He didn't know why, he hadn't planned on it. He'd just done it. Followed that screaming in his head.

And that was how he'd ended up kissing John Watson for the second time in less than twenty four hours.

Only this was so much more than a way of getting what he wanted, this was filled with something Sherlock hadn't felt before and wasn't at all sure he could correctly name. As he'd told 'the woman', he understood the chemistry. He knew why he was having the physical reaction. He got why his blood was racing through his body at lightening speed, his heart thundering against his ribs like Red Rum winning the grand national and his mind wasn't working. What he couldn't explain was the emotional reaction. The mixture of fear and excitement.

When John pulled at his hair, a spark of that unnamed something rushed through his whole being. If he had to name it he's say it was lust. It seemed to fit the descriptions, though he'd never really had any personal experience of it before.

He knew desire, he knew what that felt like vaguely. He'd felt something like it when he'd first met the woman. But this was stronger. With her he had still been able to think. A little irrationally at moments, but think none the less. Here he could barely do that. When he tried all he got was this white noise.

Instincts he'd never needed to rely on, that he hadn't actually believed he had, took control of him. His hands moved without conscious thought, his tongue slid into the other man's partly open mouth, elicited from the back of his throat. A very dirty, shameful moan from them both.

John had asked him once in a not so subtle way about his sexual preferences. Sherlock had told him the work came first. But the truth was Sherlock didn't really have any preferences. He'd never been all that bothered with sex, with men or women. By definition he was asexual.

But that had all changed. Slowly over the past few months he'd begun to think and feel. He'd hidden it away, far away behind a very think wall. But that wall had had a crack. One that the woman had exploited to her own ends.

John was the cause. His support and criticism had been more seductive than anything she could have come up with.

Sherlock heart stopped when he felt John's hand tugging at his coat and scarf, when he felt the press of a body beneath him. The white noise in his head increase to deafening proportions. While his body continued to act under its lustful influence, his mind screamed. That fear yelled in his head that John didn't want this. That John wasn't gay. That John would leave if he let himself follow though with this. John will leave.

Sherlock couldn't have that. Not ever. He told himself that what he was feeling wasn't real. That there had to be a reason behind the fear and doubt and anxiety. That the answers where out there waiting for him. Not in here, where he was currently forcing his unwanted attentions on his best friend. He had to find answers. He had to stop this before he destroyed the only friendship he had ever had.

He had to force back the desire, lust and need behind that wall again and seal it closed forever.

With more strength than he would have believed possible in the current situation, he pulled back. Ripping his mouth from John with a groan of angony. - though whether that groan came from him or John, neither were clear.

"Sherlock?" John breathed with confusion, his hands still wrapped in the collar of Sherlock's coat.

Sherlock couldn't look at him, thankfully it was dark. But he could feel his breath on his face and his hands trying to pull him back. Sherlock shook all over, his heart slamming against his ribs in protest.

"Sherlock." John repeated almost pleadingly.

~ SHERLOCK ~

The doctors answer came with a tug of his coat, ripping it free of John grasp and then the sound of rushing footstep and the closing of a door. John stared, gasping and wide eyed at the empty space. His body protested at the sudden loss of contact and something in his chest, his heart he supposed, tightened painfully.

He would deny he felt rejected, cause that would mean he'd actually wanted it to continue. He was relieved and a little ashamed. He shouldn't have allowed it to go as far as it had. He knew Sherlock had little if no experience. He should have pushed him away and battered the shit. He could have. As strong as Sherlock was, he wasn't a soldier with years of military training.

So why hadn't pushed him off? - Why hadn't used his training that morning when Sherlock had first kissed him? Why was he currently wanting to shoot the bastard for leaving him like that?

All perfectly good questions, and once John Watson had no intention of considering. Instead he slid back down under the cover and tried, most desperately, to sleep. A mission that wouldn't it seemed be accomplished without a lengthy trip to the bathroom.

So, Thanks to all of you for reading, and to those who have reviewed and faved (if you have)

Next chapter ASAP.