I know I say this a lot, but seriously, a HUGE thank you to everyone who reviewed/alerted/favourite this. The fact anyone is reading my silly little fic is mind boggling. So I'm gobsmacked at the response.

I'm continuing the tradition I started in the last chap, by naming chapters after songs. This time it's Radiohead.

Really Really hope you liek this chapter. :)

Loves to you all

MB

XXXXXX


Hands on Education.

Chapter Nine.

All I Need.

He wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry, so he ended up doing a strange mixture of both. A stifled giggle, followed by a small wail, piercing through his lungs. His cheeks blushing a bright red, flushed with embarrassment as he felt more and more idiotic with every passing second.

A very confused Sherlock Holmes was being held very tightly in his arms, not having the slightest clue what was going on. One minute he was happily smoking a cigarette, the next minute John Watson had grabbed him from the edge, using all his bodyweight to drag him across the roof. Arms clutched round his middle, words spilling out of his mouth at a tremendous rate. Sherlock didn't understand why John was begging him not to jump, jump where exactly? Sherlock could only make out the odd word as his teacher was speaking so fast, he heard 'jump' 'need' 'I' 'you' 'can't' and, perhaps most shockingly off all, 'please'. He pulled Sherlock's wiry frame into a tight hug, squeezing so hard Sherlock was almost unable to breathe.

He was on the verge of tears before he finally allowed Sherlock to speak. He told his story in quite muffled tones, as he mouth was mostly covered by John's shoulder. He told him why he came up here, how he was perfectly content until John had flung the door open and started screaming at him. There was a long pause as Sherlock's story sunk in. Complete silence, a sound Sherlock had always revelled in, but now felt strangely eerie, almost uncomfortable; it made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Sherlock felt the grip round himself loosen, and, if he was being completely honest, was strangely disappointed that he was no longer clutched so close to John, though now he could actually breathe, so he guessed that was a bonus.

'You're practising the violin?' John asked and Sherlock nodded. His arms trapped at his sides, his chest pulled tightly against his teachers, John still not letting him go. The image of Sherlock lying dead on the ground evaporated from John's mind and he felt nothing but a cold, harsh stupidity.

'It's nice up here; I wanted the peace and quiet.'

'Oh'

Sherlock felt an arm curl around his waist and a hand on the back of his head, John's fingers toying with his curls. The sun disappearing behind some clouds, the air tinged with frost, John standing so close to him, their mouths mere inches apart. John finally let him go, and he felt a pang of disappointment at the loss, John sat down, running his hands through his hair, perching on the edge of the rooftop.

'Play me something.' He nodded to his violin case that rested against the wall. 'I've never seen you play before.' He needed the calm of music, he wanted to distract himself from how much of an idiot he had been.

Sherlock nodded, always happy to answer a request from John. Like a puppet on a string, or a puppy fetching a stick.

John watched intently as Sherlock got out his violin, and started playing a mournful, yet hauntingly beautiful tune. He could never get over just quite how adorable Sherlock was at times like this. He was filled with such a vibrant, youthful, passionate energy. Seeing him play the instrument, with his usual look of intense concentration, biting his bottom lip gently as he played. The sound drifting over the roof, and into John's ears. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back, then immediately opened his eyes and looked back at Sherlock. Finding he couldn't take his eyes of the young man.

He played the violin like everything else in his life, intricate and precise. It was a stirringly erotic sight. Seeing his long, thin, nimble fingers dance over the strings. Sherlock played the instrument like he would play a lover, with eloquence and grace. With careful, precise movements.

The music was stunning, he was no expert but he couldn't believe just how well Sherlock played. He sounded as if he had been playing all his life, he played so beyond his years, eyes shut, lost in his instrument, performing a private concert just for John.

'That was fucking amazing.' John clapped when Sherlock had finished, a broad grin on his face that made Sherlock's cheeks flush with embarrassment. He suddenly remembered that the only person who had ever heard him play was his teacher, Kate Lestrade. It seemed fitting, after all John was his first love, and his first kiss, this was just another first to add to the ever growing list.

He felt something wet hit his head, then another. Rain began to fall heavily on their private scene, so it was time to leave. He followed John down the stairs, along the silent corridors of the school. Arms occasionally brushing against one another. He was normally was wary human contact, didn't like being hugged or even touched, but with John he craved it, feeling as if he couldn't breathe unless he felt John. He was feeling brave so he reached out and purposely ran his hand against Johns. Running his fingers along his companions hard knuckles. John didn't seem to notice, smiling lightly to himself, he threaded his fingers through John's, expecting John to immediately let go he was so surprised when he didn't, he just carried on walking, hand in hand with his student through the grounds of the school. Biting down on the inside of his cheek to stifle the broad grin he felt utterly drunk on the love he had inside of him. It was exactly the same as being drunk, just like how he remembered, the same feeling of euphoria, the feeling that nothing could touch you, that all worries and nagging doubts that came with life had just floated away.

There was something from yesterday to, John had yelled at him that he was 'only seventeen.' Sherlock had no idea how John knew that his birthday had come, he didn't really care, John possessing such personal knowledge of him, it gave him a thin glimmer of hope.

'Need a lift?'

'Yeah, okay.'

He was so familiar with being in John's car, but the experience still felt special. He still squeezed out every moment, still felt such earthly pleasures where fleeting so he had to enjoy them while they lasted. Happiness had never come easy for him, had always been in small supply, yet with John the sorrow that seemed to cling to him was lifted.

He whistled to himself, today had been a good day. It didn't matter how shit a day he was having, as soon as he saw John all clouds seemed to evaporate and the sun just shone through.


'Where have you been?' His father snapped at him, Sherlock smelt the usual mixture of strong whiskey and cheap beer. Lank, black greasy hair clung to his head. He looked like he hadn't washed for days, Sherlock's nose turned up at the stench of dried sweat.

'No-where.' Sherlock replied sarcastically. He tried to get past him and to the relative safety of his room, but as he walked his father grabbed his arm, fat fingers squeezing tightly, he yanked the violin case out of his son's hand.

'What is this?' He furrowed his sweaty brows, opening out the case to reveal the violin tucked neatly inside. 'Where the hell did you get a violin from?'

'A friend.' There was no use trying to hide the panic from his voice.

'You stole this didn't you?'

'No!' Sherlock protested but it was no use. A quick hit to the gut and a swipe across the face and he was on the floor. Kicks and punches rained down on him, the words 'thieving bastard' shouted over again. Blood pooling in his mouth. Sherlock learnt long ago that the best thing to do was to just curl up in a ball and take it. His father was twice the size of him, sure he was taller, but he was slight, there was no way he could defend himself. So all he could do was screw his eyes shut and wait for it to all be over. His father was an expert now, knowing just how and where to hit.

'I'll show you what we do with thieves in this house.' Sherlock could just watch as his father picked up his violin, and smashed it against the wall with such force it broke in half, held together purely by the strings.

He felt strangely numb, as if the bit in his brain that enabled thought and feeling had shut off and gone home for the day. He just stared at the pieces of his broken violin in his lap. That was it, the only thing he had ever owned that meant anything to him, was gone. It would no longer make the sweet, beautiful sounds that he treasured so much. He didn't know what to do with it, he couldn't throw it in the bin, how undignified an end for something he had loved so much, in the end he slipped them into his desk drawer, knowing he never wished to look at them ever again.

Before his brain had time to properly catch up with his movement he was packing. He didn't know where he was going, how he was going to get there, or how long he would be gone. He just knew he had to leave. He couldn't stay, he had to get as far away from the drawer with his shattered violin. He opened the bag, throwing in some clothes, a few books, his toothbrush, toothpaste and a comb. Wrapping his coat tightly around himself and tying his scarf extra tight to deal with the cold, he flung his bag over his shoulder, crept silently down the stairs, and snuck out into the dark.

He checked his watch, nearly midnight. Far too late to check into the closest hotel, he wondered around aimlessly wondering where he was going to go, he had no friends or family to go to. The park was utterly deserted at this time of night, sitting on a bench opposite some children's play equipment, he decided to stay here for the night and decide what to do in the morning. He used his bag as a makeshift pillow and wrapped his arms around his legs in a desperate hope to stay warm. He cursed himself for not having gloves. The hard metal of the bench dug into his back, rusty swings moving in the breeze and a few owls calling out were the only sounds he heard. He felt the cold seep into his bones as he settled into an uneasy sleep.


'Sherlock! Sherlock.' He woke up to someone shaking his arm, snapping open his eyes he found Mrs Hudson, her face the vision of pure worry.

'What are you doing out here?'

'Ran away.'

She sighed, 'we'll you can't stay out here, your already frozen, come on I'm taking you home with me.'

Sherlock could never say no to Mrs Hudson, he knew that she would make him go home at the first available opportunity, but he was so cold, and the promise of warm tea and maybe some breakfast was too good to miss.

'I'm not going home.' He insisted.

'I'm sure we can work something out.' Mrs Hudson smiled affectionately, her eyes tinged with worry as she led the way home.


Five days. Day one John was slightly worried, day two he was concerned and now on day five he was about ready to pull his hair out. Sherlock hadn't been at school in five whole days, he tried asking the admin staff, but he had not run in sick. He had really began to panic when Kate had informed him that he had not shown up at this violin lesson. There was no way Sherlock would have missed that.

When the door opened John half thought he had got the wrong house. That was impossible of course, he had seen Sherlock walk into this front door so many times, but John was taken aback by the sight that greeted him. Sherlock's father was an imposing man, lanky, grease filled hair, the same shade of jet black as his son's, tall like Sherlock, but unlike Sherlock's greyhound like frame he was well built and stocky, he looked dirty and unkempt, the unmistakable smell of cheap booze filled John's nostrils. The house looked so dark inside, all the curtains drawn across the windows, old wallpaper peeling off the walls. A filthy carpet stained with what looked like old, dried vomit.

'Is Sherlock in?' John asked politely.

'No.' The man snapped.

'Do you know where he is?' John was really pushing his luck now.

'No, I ain't seen him for days.'

'Well, if you do could you tell him John Watson called round.'

'Alright.'

John left and felt the door slam behind him. So Sherlock hadn't been home for days. Or maybe he had and his father simply hadn't noticed him, that wouldn't surprise him. John couldn't blame Sherlock for wanting to be far, far away from that man.

Next stop was the lab John knew Sherlock had been helping out in, he walked into the room, taking in the whitewashed walls, and lab equipment, he noticed a young woman staring into a microscope. He coughed to try and get her attention.

'Yes.' She didn't look up from the microscope.

'I'm looking for Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes. I was wondering if you had seen him recently.'

As soon as John mentioned Sherlock's name he could see interest in the woman peak. Tearing herself away from whatever it was she was studying, she turned to John, giving him his full attention and looked him up and down.

'And you are?'

'A friend.'

'Funny, he's never mentioned having any friends.' She ran her tongue over her glistening white teeth. 'What's your name.'

'John. John Watson.'

'And what are really?' her voice dropped several octaves. The tone husky and dark. When he was young his mates and dared him to ring up a sex phone line, her voice sounded remarkably similar.

'I told you.' John said calmly. 'I'm a friend.'

'Oh come on John don't be a bore.'

'I'm his biology teacher.' The woman smiled.

'Thought so.'

She walked over to him, till she was right in his face, and began toying with his collar. John felt his face flush and wondered how easy it would be to snap her neck in half.

'You know, ever since I was a girl, I've had this unique ability to know what people want.'

'And what do I want?' John glared. He looked at her name badge. Irene Adler.

The women giggled, 'I've seen you with him John, you may not know me but I know you. Sherlock talks about you non-stop, so I started watching you, seeing all the things you do together, I've seen the way you look at him when you think no one else is watching. You're a very naughty man aren't you John. John Watson.' John flinched as she mimicked his introduction. Adler continued 'Yes, a very naughty man, I've heard of being hot for teacher but I never heard of it being the other way round.'

'You know nothing.' He hissed.

'That's where your wrong, its curious isn't it, this little country of ours, a tiny little island in a very big ocean, full of people far too polite to say what they really want. Little people with their little lives, and you are just like everyone else. A little man trapped in a marriage because he is too much of a coward to claim what's his.'

'He isn't mine.'

'Oh we both know that isn't true, we both know Sherlock Holmes is yours. Tied up in a big bow with 'to John Watson' on the tag. If only you would admit how you feel, stop trying to deny it John, stop trying to deny that you want him, because if you don't take his virginity I most certainly will. If only you would admit how you truly felt.'

John grabbed Irene's wrist. 'How do you know how I feel.' he tried to keep his voice even but was failing miserably. How could she possibly know how he felt for Sherlock? It was impossible, he had only been in the room less the five minutes.

'You're eyes, window to the soul you know, their expression goes beyond a normal concerned teacher.' She sang. 'One look at you and I can tell you are hopelessly in love with him.'

Suddenly her eyes clouded over with sadness, she looked down a the ground 'It's nothing to be ashamed of John. I am too. And I'm afraid I haven't seen him since Sunday.'

'Did he tell you anything? Mention he was going somewhere or was going to see anyone?' John demanded, he had had enough of the woman and her games. She was playing him, just like Sherlock had played that violin.

She shook her head 'He was here all weekend like normal, as far as I know he went home Sunday evening like he always does.'

'Thank you.' John thanked her half heartedly.

John stormed out of the room. Desperate to get away from the woman and her piercing gaze. If his attraction to Sherlock was so evident he wondered who else could see it. Could Sarah? Would she look into his eyes one day and know he was in love with someone else? He shook his head trying to dispel the awful emotions that had swirled up from his meeting with Irene Adler.

Next stop, he decided to go to the library, and if Sherlock wasn't here then he really had run out of ideas. He hoped, prayed, that he would walk in and see Sherlock wrapped up in a book and that he will greet John as if nothing had happened. He strode into the library, looking around desperately hoping to see a mop of dark curls on top of a tall figure. But nothing.

'Excuse me.' He asked one of the librarians 'Have you seen Sherlock?'

'Who? Oh Sherlock Holmes! Yeah I saw him earlier, came in with Mrs Hudson, he's round at her place now, apparently she found him sleeping rough and has taken him in.'

John felt like he could cry with relief, knowing he was with Mrs Hudson, and therefore safe and sound.

'I need to see him, do you have her address?'

The librarian thought for a moment.

'Please.' John pleaded, before bringing out the big guns 'I'm his teacher and it's important.'

Luckily for him Mrs Hudson lived close to the library. A few minutes in his car and he there, he pulled up outside of a neat looking cottage, the garden was overflowing with flowers and the house had a rather impressive thatched roof. It was something out of a Constable painting John thought.

He knocked lightly on the door, so dainty and twee did the whole thing look he feared he would put his hand through the painted wood, if he did anything sharper.

'Hello dear.' Mrs Hudson pulled John into a hug. Squealing with delight, her fondness for the man as present as always.

'Mrs Hudson' John exclaimed greeting the older woman. 'Is Sherlock in?'

'Yes, he's reading a book right now, would you like to come in?'

'Of course' he walked into Mrs Hudson's home. It smelt strongly of Lavender, the interior was just what he expected. Warm shades on the walls, flowery wallpaper, items everywhere, furniture straight from a period drama, but it was so cosy that John felt immediately at home.

'Sherlock, Sherlock dear you have a visitor.' She led John into the living room where Sherlock was curled up on a soft, squishy sofa. A plate of biscuits on the table next to him, and a thick volume of 'English History Volume 6' in his lap.

John beamed at him 'I was getting worried about you. You haven't been at school all week.'

'Sherlock!' Mrs Hudson scolded 'You promised me.'

Sherlock folded his arms defiantly 'I'm not going back.' He protested.

'Oh yes you are young man.' John knew the smart money was on Mrs Hudson winning this argument, you never said no to Mrs Hudson.

'Would you like some tea John?' She smiled sweetly.

'oh yes please.'

He followed her into the kitchen and was soon sitting at a very old looking breakfast table, drinking tea out of a floral mug, complete with tiny saucer. They had left Sherlock in the sitting room with his book.

'How long have you known Sherlock?'

'Oh since he was a baby, he's always been coming into the library for hours on end, when he was a boy he only went home when his mum came to pick him up.' She sighed softly 'He hasn't been the same since she died.'

John felt like he had been struck dumb 'His mother's dead? I had no idea.'

'Oh yes, a few years back during that awful winter we had. She was driving her car, struck some ice and that was that. It's such a shame, she was a lovely women, we were good friends, she was the only one who could bring him out of his shell, when she died he closed in on himself even more, though not so much since you moved here. I'm so glad you two are friends it's so nice to see him smile.'

John wondered what Mrs Hudson would say if she knew just how deep this friendship had run.

He sat next to Sherlock, they passed the time watching crap on Mrs Hudson's ancient telly. John pretended to be annoyed when Sherlock spoiled the ending of a old Miss Marple episode. But in truth he was just so relieved to have Sherlock by his side once again, that he just couldn't stay mad.

He must have dozed off because when he awoke it was dark outside, rain was falling heavily against the window and there was a loud rumble of thunder followed by a bright flash. Mrs Hudson and Sherlock stood by a window peering outside.

'What's going on?' he asked.

'Storm' Sherlock replied. 'The radio said it will last all night, that was until the power went out.' John looked around and noticed the candles and torches lighting the room.

John nodded then joined them by the window, it looked like a minor hurricane had struck Bakerford, and the trees were swaying to and fro in the strong wind.

'Best be heading back.' John thought of Sarah, and how worried she would be.

He wrapped his coat around himself, pulling his hood over his head to try and shield himself from the rain, he ran to his car, fumbling with the key in the lock he finally got the door opened, the wind making shutting it almost impossible.

'Come on Come on.'

The car spluttered and choked, and then refused to start altogether. He tried a few more times before giving up and running back inside.

'What happened?'

'Car won't start.' He pulled out his phone to ring the breakdown people, only to be told there was no way they were coming out in this weather.

'Well then, there is nothing else for it. Do you have an umbrella?'

'John you can't go out in this!'

'Well how else am I going to get home?' John exclaimed 'Neither of you drive. Besides it's not that far.'

'Not that far! It's on the other side of town, I will not let you out in this weather, it's suicidal. You can stay here for the night. You can use the other spare bedroom.'

John quickly remembered what he had said about saying no to Mrs Hudson. Looks like he was staying put. He rang Sarah and told her what was going on. Then decided to settle in for the night. Mrs Hudson made them a tea of some sandwiches, a few packet of wotsits and some cake, and the three of them munched away quite contented.

After tea they played cards, and John amused himself by watching Mrs Hudson teach a very disgruntled Sherlock how to knit, they chatted and played charades (though how Mrs Hudson guessed Sherlock was doing 'a brief history of time' John would never know), and soon it was time for bed.

Luckily for John Mrs Hudson always had a spare toothbrush in her bathroom, he brushed his teeth and washed his face using some floral soap, he spotted Sherlock staring at him through the door.

'Can I help you?' He asked.

'No.' Sherlock answered before running back to his room, shutting the door so it rattled in its hinges.

'Night John.' Mrs Hudson handed him a mug of hot chocolate dressed in some fuzzy slippers and pyjamas.

'Night Mrs Hudson, night Sherlock.' He called through the door. No reply. He sank into the bed, the mattress so soft it almost swallowed him, and sipped on his hot chocolate that Mrs Hudson had made for him, flicking through an old spy novel he found. When he had finished he turned off the lamp and settled down to sleep.

When he awoke from the darkness, he found himself in a bright, white room, he was tied to a chair. He watched as Irene Adler fluttered over, her high heels making a clipping sound across the floor.

'Hello John. John Watson.' She smiled.

'What do you want. I know you're not real, I know I'm dreaming.'

'You know exactly why I'm here.'

'No, I really don't' John protested.

'Oh John stop being so boring! I'm here because you can't stop thinking about our conversation earlier, round and round you're head like a teddy bear, you can't stop thinking about how much you want him, and how it terrifies you to think he might have ran away to get away from you.'

'You're wrong.'

'Wrong? That's a funny thing to say to your subconscious.'

'I don't give a shit who the fuck you are, get out.' He started wriggling and pulling against the ropes that bound him. 'Get out! Get out! Get out!'

John's eyes snapped open, he was panting heavily, his heart beating out of his chest and a shimmer of sweat covered his exposed body, having kicked the sheet of the bed. He was mumbling to himself, trying desperately to get up out of bed, except something was stopping him, something or rather someone had wrapped their arms around him, whispering his name, asking if he was all right, running their fingers through his hair and over his cheek in a desperate attempt to get him to calm down.

'Sherlock.' John clutched the boy into a tight hug. Burying his head into Sherlock's soft curls.

'Are you all right?'

'I'm fine just a bad dream.' He held Sherlock in a tight embrace, refusing to let go, rocking the boy back and forth, their soft breathing the only sound to be heard in the silent room.

'Sherlock.' John said after a while.

'Yeah.'

'Why did you leave home?'

Sherlock sighed 'My dad, he broke my violin.'

'What?'

'He said I had stolen it, so he threw it against the wall and it broke.'

'I'm sorry.'

'It's fine.'

'I'll buy you a new one'

'Don't worry about it.'

John pulled away, cupping Sherlock's cheek. 'So you didn't run away because of me?' he asked, his voice sounding so timid, barely audible.

'No, why would I do that?' John shook his head.

'Sherlock.'

'Yeah.'

Oh god here goes. John screwed his eyes shut then opened them again. Sherlock's bright eyes staring back at him. His white skin glistening in the moonlight. God he was beautiful.

'When you were on the school roof, I thought you were going to jump, then when you ran away and I didn't know where you were, I've never felt worse in my whole entire life, I felt that it was all my fault, that I had hurt you. I couldn't bare it. Have you ever met someone, then realised that before you met them you were sleepwalking through life? And that this person brought you to life, nd being apart from them physically aches, because without them your nothing. Well that's how I feel about you.'

John leaned forward, covering Sherlock's lips with his own, eliciting a whimper of surprise followed by a moan. He pulled away again.

'Are you in love with me sir?'

'Yes Sherlock, yes I am. This thing between us, whatever it is, I'm so tired of fighting it. I just want to be happy, and you make me oh so very happy.'

Sherlock smiled, 'I think I've waited my entire life to hear you say those words.'

Their mouths moved together in perfect harmony. John knew exactly the right kind of pressure to use to elicit small groans of appreciation from Sherlock, and Sherlock was a quick learner himself, it may only have been his second proper kiss, but he knew just how to make John's head spin. Tongues sliding against each other, John held Sherlock's head in his hands keeping him in place. The kiss deepened, all the angst, the pent up aggression, the lust and love that had clouded over them the past few weeks went into that kiss. Sherlock sunk back into the mattress, bringing John on top of him. Sherlock nibbling slightly on John's bottom lip, then taking his top lip and giving it a gentle suck. John had never been kissed like this before, with such care and consideration, it was as if Sherlock was taking everything, every tiny scrap of information and filing it away in a folder marked 'how John likes to kiss.' Because everything he did seemed to be able to drive John wild.

Then Sherlock started to stiffen, he felt rigid and cold and was desperately trying to pull away from john. Not that John would let him, holding him tightly.

'Sherlock what's wrong?' John asked concerned over his younger lover. Sherlock continued squirming away, turning himself on his side trying to get away from John, burying his face in the pillow. John was getting really worried now, why was Sherlock trying to get away from him? The younger man was curling in on himself, tossing and turning desperately trying to get away. John got his answer when he held Sherlock still, something hard grazing his leg. John started to laugh, wondering how it was possible for one man to be so heart wrenchingly adorable.

'S'not funny.' Sherlock pouted.

'I know love, I know, but please don't get embarrassed over it. We were kissing, it happens, it's perfectly natural.'

Sherlock's cheeks were bright red, his hair sticking out at all ends as he leant into John's embrace. 'It's not fair. I can't control it. And it is embarrassing'

'No one can.' John smiled. 'But you shouldn't be ashamed. I'm flattered actually.'

'Really.'

'Yeah, you were getting hard because of me, very flattering.' He kissed Sherlock on the forehead.

'If no one can control it how come your not...you know...like that.' Sherlock flustered.

'Because I'm not seventeen, not that I haven't been achingly hard thinking of you in the past.' John let out a small chuckle at just how flustered Sherlock seemed to become at that comment.

'Right, I think it's time for bed. Can you stay with me? Just for tonight?' Sherlock nodded, scrambling to help John sort out the covers and snuggle into his side. His head resting on John's chest feeling the reassuring thud of his heartbeat.

They kissed a few times, lazily, without the frenzied heat of before but still with the same love and cherishment.

'We are gonna have to make sure Mrs Hudson doesn't see us like this.' Sherlock groaned in protest, hating how John's comment had burst the bubble they had been in for the past hour. John felt Sherlock simply snuggle in tighter. Showing John exactly what he thought of that comment.

'Only if you promise you will be here when I wake up, that you will stop fighting me. I couldn't handle being rejected by you again, it nearly killed me the first time.'

'I promise Sherlock. I promise.'

Sherlock slipped into a deep sleep, John knew he would soon follow. Lying here with the man he loved asleep in his arms, John felt like he could burst with happiness. He knew this was wrong, that he was married, that soon reality would hit them and he should never have started whatever this was in the first place. He was a grown adult, but he knew he was putty in Sherlock's open palm. And he loved him. Whether this was love, lust, infatuation or a deep seated obsession John didn't care. After all why couldn't he reach out and claim what he wanted? He loved Sherlock, would do anything for him. And for the first time in his life John had thrown caution to the wind, forgotten his duties and expectations, and followed his heart.

He ran his hand through Sherlock's hair, something he had wanted to do so long. All he needed was right here, lying sound asleep in his arms.

'You're all I need Sherlock.' He whispered. 'You're all I need.'