"Oh, John, I'm getting close," Greg called between breathy moans.

John raised Greg's hips and adjusted his thrusts so that he was hitting the man's prostate with each movement. In response, Greg's head fell back against the pillow and his hands scrabbled harder at John's back. The detective always looked the most beautiful right at that moment as sweat was beading at his forehead, his deep baritone voice was rumbling in ecstasy, and John could feel the pleasure he was giving him.

That was John's biggest turn on: giving pleasure. Every person was different, they all had their needs, desires, and John loved to figure them out. Greg had a masochistic streak a mile long, which John had deduced before he had even touched him. The bitter sham of a marriage, hiding his sexuality, and of course cooperating with Sherlock were all glaring clues that the man reveled in denial and withholding. That was why John, when he heard Greg rapidly approaching orgasm, pulled out and swiftly pinned the man's arms above his head.

"What the hell?" Greg sputtered in confusion.

John grinned wickedly and pressed the length of their bodies together, grinding their cocks against each other slowly. Greg did not try to pull away, he never did, instead he gazed intently into John's eyes and begged, "Please, John, I can't take it."

"Oh, I think you can," John whispered against Greg's ear. "I think you want me to tie you up and leave you like this all night."

"Don't you dare," Greg commanded with zero conviction. Slowly, he spread his legs and wrapped them around John's thighs then lowered his voice to say, "Please, John, I need you."

Moving his hands from Greg's wrists, John clasped the man's face and placed an achingly slow kiss to his lips before saying, "Since you asked so nice . . ."

John finally pushed himself back in and pounded his lover until the man had nearly lost consciousness.

Once John had cleaned them both up and they had arranged themselves under the duvet, Greg quickly fell asleep with an arm draped over John's chest. However, John stayed awake and softly carded his fingers through Greg's silver hair with one hand and rubbed the familiar metal of his dog tags with the other. During all his years in the army, John had somehow developed a fantasy that when he returned home he would find someone to give them to.

When he thinks back on it, he wonders if it's silly to give someone his ID tags as a sign of love and affection. In the army, they serve a practical purpose but he wondered if giving them to a significant other was a rather unromantic sign of possessiveness. He could just imagine the look on his ex-girlfriend's face if he put those around her neck after telling her he had a surprise. Maybe it would be different with a man? Throughout the last ten years, he certainly had a vast number of male lovers but they were military flings and never serious relationships. For the past week, he had been wondering if he should give them to Greg.

Their relationship, while unconventional due to their work and living situation, was warm and comfortable. Whereas the sex was consistently mind blowing, everything else was familiar and relaxed. There was no pretense of romance or courting, instead they lived as good friends, great flatmates, and satisfied lovers. In many ways, John supposed it was an ideal marriage. That was why he could not understand why he was so reluctant to give the man his dog tags. Greg would easily understand their significance and probably wear them without fuss, but John could never bring himself to do it. With a tired exhale, John took the chain off and set them on his bedside table.


"Dr. Watson, it's a pleasure to finally meet you. Please have a seat."

John tentatively sat at the desk across from two very eager looking middle aged men in suits. They had already showered him with business cards and handshakes insisting that John call them Ron and Leonard.

"I'm still a bit confused as to why I'm here," John responded as he sat. "You said you read my blog and want to publish it?"

"No, not exactly," Ron replied. "We've read your blog and want to hire you as a columnist for the paper. Your blog will continue as is but what we want are thoughts, opinions, and stories from Dr. John Watson."

"Isn't that what my blog is?" John asked, still confused.

"Actually, no," Leonard jumped in. "In your blog, you mostly write about Sherlock Holmes and while he's fascinating, we're interested in you, our readers are interested in you."

"We've received hundreds of letters and emails over the past couple weeks specifically requesting information about John Watson," Ron said while producing a stack of letters to prove his point. "You wouldn't believe how many of these requests come from military personnel. It seems you're a bit of a celebrity within the army."

John blushed, hoping they weren't going to mention his nickname and the reputation that came with it. "Sherlock's the brilliant detective, why don't you ask him?" John asked, puzzled why they would talk to him and not the man himself.

The two men exchanged a look and Ron replied hesitantly, "We've read over his website, the Science of Deduction, and frankly we find him a bit off-putting."

John instinctively began to frown, causing Leonard to scramble in reply, "I'm sure he's a great detective, a genius, and everything else you say he is, but he's not exactly personable. Our readers want someone to connect with and they've very clearly connected with you. They want to read what you have to say about the army, being a doctor, living in London, being wounded, actually anything you would want to write about. The crime solving is just one aspect of John Watson and we wouldn't want Sherlock Holmes to overshadow that."

While John sat in stunned silence, trying to take in what he was being told, Ron took over, "We'll start you off with one column a week in the Sunday edition, but you will still be technically full time and receive the corresponding salary."

It was never something John had even considered, being a writer, and in fact he was thinking about finding a job at small clinic since he could no longer operate with his damaged shoulder. However, he knew it was not his decision alone to make. "I'm going to have to think about this," John replied still deep in thought.

"That's fine," Leonard answered with a grin. Despite John's cold attitude and stoic face, both men seemed to know he was considering it. "Take all the time you need and get back to us when you're ready."

John nodded and stood, leaving the office. He knew before he did anything he would have to talk to Sherlock. The opportunity for which arose that night when he was suddenly woken by a shake to his shoulder and an irritated voice, saying, "John, wake up!"

As John's sleep-filled eyes slowly came into focus, he noticed his vision was filled with Sherlock's pale face. Wondering if it were a dream, he reached out and gently touched the man's cheek.

In a tight whisper but without moving away, Sherlock asked, "John, what are you doing?"

Lazily, John replied, "Just checking. What are you doing here?"

"The Bergman Case, I figured it out," Sherlock announced, suddenly forgetting he was supposed to be quiet.

His voice roused Greg from his sleep on the other side of the bed and the exhausted DI mumbled, "Bloody hell! What time is it?"

John leaned over and placed a comforting kiss to Greg's forehead, telling him, "It's just Sherlock, go back to sleep."

Greg murmured indignantly and rolled over, pulling the duvet up to his chin. When John sat up, he looked around for any clothes nearby and when he saw none, gazed up at Sherlock and nodded at the door. However, Sherlock only stared forward with an odd expression on his face that John could not completely make out because of the darkness of the room. John sighed and decided anyone that invaded his bedroom in the middle of the night had no right to complain about nudity. John rose from the bed and nonchalantly walked across the room to pull on a pair of track pants then grabbed a slightly shocked Sherlock and took him downstairs.

Once they had entered the living room, John began, "Sherlock, what the hell is so important you have to come wake me up in the middle of the night?"

"The Bergman Case from last week," Sherlock said as he gazed around the room, no doubt analyzing every aspect of John and Greg's life. "I know what we were missing."

"The Bergman Case? The two year old jewelry theft that you rated a 4? Why on Earth couldn't you wait until morning to tell me?" John asked with exasperation.

Sherlock pursed his lips and flopped into John's armchair, answering petulantly, "It was very interesting and I thought you'd want to know right away."

"Why didn't you just call or text me?"

"I did," Sherlock looked away as he replied quietly. "When you didn't answer, I became concerned that something may have happened, which I now realize was foolish because you merely left your mobile in your trouser's that are strewn across this room along with the rest of your and Lestrade's clothing."

John only then noticed the mess they had made earlier when they were snogging and stripping each other on the way to the bedroom. With an embarrassed flush, John sat in the other armchair and took a moment to observe Sherlock. The detective was fidgeting uncomfortably and had his head turned, not meeting John's eyes. He seemed so much younger at that moment than John had ever seen him. With his normally arrogant attitude and nearly omniscient deductive skills, John easily forgot that the man had serious emotional issues that had likely never been addressed and possessed a childlike ignorance of what most people consider the most basic knowledge.

"Sherlock, I've been offered a job," John announced, deciding he may as well get the conversation over with at a time when things could not possibly become more awkward.

Sherlock whipped his head back to stare at John with something akin to fear in his eyes, "What kind of job, a hospital, a surgery?"

"Actually, a newspaper wants me to write a weekly column. They're offering a decent salary and I'm considering accepting. Is that something you'd be comfortable with? I won't do it if you say no."

Something in Sherlock's eyes softened as he took in John's words. After clearing his throat, he replied, "Right, so you'd be doing most of your work from home?" John nodded and Sherlock paused before continuing, "That's . . . fine. Yes, I think that will be fine."

"Really?" John asked having expected some sort of resistance. "It won't be the same as my blog, I won't be writing up cases, but I probably will mention you from time to time. Are you alright with that?"

"John, you write whatever you like about me on the internet, a column in a dying medium is hardly going to make much difference. If someone is willing to pay you for it and you don't have to spend extended time in an office, I don't see any reason why not."

"Great," John replied and then clapped his hands together. "So tell me about the Bergman Case."

As Sherlock described the fibers he found in the safety deposit box, John listened with rapt attention and could not keep a smile from growing on his face. He could not explain it, but Sherlock's brilliance always seemed to radiate off him and fill John with the oddest warmth, a feeling so addicting, he could hardly imagine himself living without it.