As they turned on to Baker Street they were met by the sight of a posh black car. John rolled his eyes.
"Doesn't do subtle, does he?" He asked as Sherlock approached the man leaning on an umbrella beside the vehicle.
"John." Mycroft greeted curtly, noting the absence of a cane. He handed Sherlock a manilla folder. "Peruse that at your leisure." John's interest was piqued - a case? A case could be useful actually, it might return them to some sort of normality. Sherlock tucked the folder under his arm, in no apparent hurry to review its contents. Strange, usually a case took precedent. Perhaps he just didn't want to look too eager in front of Mycroft?
"Will that be all?" He asked his brother coldly. Mycroft glanced at John thoughtfully, as though debating an acerbic comment. John straightened his back instinctively, he had the nasty feeling that Mycroft knew everything and was expecting some kind of reaction. John was half tempted to speak his mind but decided 'Yes I nearly shagged your little brother in the therapy office, and I might do it again in the near future, what of it?' would be a little inappropriate so instead he smiled calmly.
"We must catch up later John, it's been a while." The elder brother settled on. Sherlock averted his eyes skyward dramatically.
"Yes." John agreed, suspecting he was in for the ringer and mildly amused by the thought of Mycroft threatening him. Oddly he had never really feared Mycroft - even if he was 'the most dangerous man you'll ever meet'. He knew Mycroft's heart was in the right place generally, that he had Sherlock's best interests at heart. "Soon."
"One more falsely polite statement from either of you and I'm leaving." Sherlock snapped, thoroughly irritated by the civil tongue they were both keeping. John didn't trust Mycroft, not after he'd sold his story to the papers (even though Sherlock had agreed it was the best thing to do) and Mycroft didn't trust John not to hurt Sherlock again. It was pathetic - in an endearing sort of way. Sherlock was not used to people caring so much for him.
"No need, have to dash - the Korean's have us over a barrel." He paused. "Again." He sighed and slipped back into the car with the typical Holmesian grace and elegance. Sherlock had already set off towards 221b and it took John a few strides to catch up.
"Case?" He queried, nodding at the file.
"Hm? No. Not a case." He dug into his pockets and produced a packet of cigarettes and a lighter. "Go ahead, I'll catch up." He insisted. John sighed, he couldn't deny Sherlock his one vice - not when he'd managed to steer away from so many others so he walked the rest of the street alone, absently wondered if he'd get the chance to use the 'it's like kissing an ashtray' excuse to get him to quit. He glanced briefly over his shoulder as he got to the door - Sherlock was smoking with his right hand and had the file opened in his left. John found himself smiling.
It was all so new and complicated. Except it wasn't that complicated at all.
"Oh, John!" Mrs Hudson said, surprised as they nearly crashed in the entrance hallway. "You're home early. Did it not go well? I was just on my way to Mrs Turner's for a chin-wag but if you'd like I can put the kettle on..."
"No it's fine, you okay after this morning?" John asked, genuinely concerned.
"Oh at my age you just learn to accept the scares as they come." She dismissed, waving her hand as if swatting a fly.
"At your age you shouldn't be climbing." John's voice was warm. "I mean it Mrs H, you're going to end up breaking your other hip! If you need anything you can always give me a shout."
"I don't like to put you out, dear." She hesitated. "Although... the light bulb's gone in my bathroom - if it wouldn't be too much trouble?" John's face softened.
"Not a problem I'll..." The door opened and Sherlock slid in, bringing the smell of cigarette smoke with him. He was a fast smoker. "Ask a tall person to do it."
"Sherlock!" Mrs Hudson cried happily, pulling him in for a hug, apparently unfazed by the lingering smell. "You're back! Are you back? Oh it's wonderful to see you dear." She kissed his cheek and pulled back. "Have you two made up then?"
"Uh..." John wasn't quite sure how to respond to that one. Sherlock however spoke with the kindness he usually reserved for Mrs Hudson and Mrs Hudson only.
"It's early days, but there's progress." He answered diplomatically. He hadn't seen much of her since his return, something he'd brooded over - stupid and selfish of him but he deemed Mrs Hudson to be his, but she was part of the flat and John had been so adamant, that he hadn't dared approach 221b when John was still so upset and as the elderly woman rarely answered her mobile it was difficult to reach a compromise. He let her go.
"So why did you need a tall person? Light bulb?" He asked knowingly.
"And there you go again, knowing it all without being told." She said fondly. "I'll just pop round to Mrs Turner's and tell her you're visiting so I can't stop."
"No." Sherlock said quickly, as grateful as he was to see her he didn't want to miss the opportunity to speak to John about this. "Go to Mrs Turner's, it's fine. John has a key to your flat, I'll change the light bulb before I go..."
"You've been off the grid since you came back Sherlock." She said, her bottom lip quivering slightly. "For all I know I won't see you for another three months!" Sherlock had the good grace to look guilty, but John wasn't going to let him take the blame on this one. He jumped in with:
"He stayed away at my request but he's back for now and... and he'll be around a lot more." John promised her. A look of relief ghosted over Sherlock's face for a split second - he would be back then, eventually. John wanted him back.
"If you're sure... I am so happy you two are back together, you work so much better as a pair." She looked as though she may cry.
"I... am aware of that fact." Sherlock agreed, opening the door as a prompt for her to leave. She waved cheerily at them as she disappeared to next door. John lead the way upstairs and shuffled into the kitchen, clicking the kettle on. Sherlock loitered at the threshold for such a long time that John glanced back at him.
"You okay?"
"Everything's changed." Sherlock whispered gently. John shook his head.
"No." He argued. "Not this. You were right about this one... this is your home." John looked around. "It's always been your home I've just been... looking after it." He said honestly.
"Our home." Sherlock corrected, stepping into the kitchen as though expecting a bomb to go off. (Though, that was not an entirely unreasonable expectation for 221b Baker Street)
He peered at everything as though it were brand new, stopping once more at the doorway between the kitchen and the living room, looking into the lounge.
"Sentiment?" He asked quietly.
"Pardon?" John asked, pushing a mug of coffee into Sherlock's hand. Sherlock stared at the living room once more to confirm his theory.
"Very little additional wear on the stair carpet, track marks towards the downstairs bedroom - heavy wear. Three years ago you moved into my bedroom." Sherlock sounded as though he was quite affronted and John wondered how it could be considered a breach of privacy when the man had been dead.
"My leg." John murmured. "Didn't really fancy the extra flight of stairs and... sentiment." He admitted embarrassedly. "It just... it helped I guess."He shrugged awkwardly. "You can have it back when you come home I just..."
"Stop talking." Sherlock insisted. Not because he was trying to be rude, no. No he needed to think. There was new data.
He wandered around the living room, ghosting his fingertips over everything in an attempt to absorb the minute changes. It helped him paint a picture of John's mental state over the past few years - the nightmares, the stress, the depression, and the confusion. The biggest change was how little had changed. Their flat had never been the same for so long, there had always been new books on chair arms or new experiments on the table, John's latest girlfriend's jumper hung over the back of a chair - always something, yet the flat looked almost identical to the day Sherlock had left it, frozen in time. The shrine of a man in the throes of grief. By the time Sherlock had processed all this, John was sat on the sofa with a mug of coffee in his hands. Sherlock wasn't happy. People had told him how low John had gotten, but they'd all said he'd worked through it, come round. Either they had been lying to him or nobody had known the true extent of John's bewildered suffering. Sherlock hated both of those ideas.
"The reason you're still so mad at me is that you never got over it..." Sherlock concluded. "You had no sense of closure. The day I came back you were still grieving." He said as he sipped his coffee, taking his seat carefully on the other end of the sofa - close enough to touch if John so wished, not so close that he was giving John no choice. "You never came to terms with it, never accepted it, possibly you were distressed on some level over feelings for me you'd never voiced - even if you weren't aware of them consciously. So even though my coming back was what you wanted, was ideal, it dragged up the confusion, the stress, the anger and the guilt you'd never really laid to rest." Sherlock nodded, everything slotting into place as he spoke.
"You really need to stop reading Claire's psychology books." John shivered, once more given the feeling Sherlock was opening his heart and reading it out loud. It was uncomfortable and John wasn't keen on it at all. Too exposed. Too vulnerable. Sherlock was thinking again, it was obvious in the way he sat hunched over his coffee as he drank. John frowned deeply. He had been the one who wanted to go to therapy, to talk their issues over, but now they were so out in the open... it made him feel weak and that was not something he wanted.
The cups were drained without another word passed between the two of them. John beginning to doubt they would ever work as a couple and Sherlock's resolve in their bond strengthening.
"Can we just..." John paused. "Can we just stop with all this? I'm not... I'm not mad any more and the more we talk about it..."
"You're the one who insisted we needed to discuss this." Sherlock said calmly. "You're being rather hypocritical though."
"Yeah... yeah I know." John admitted, curling his legs up underneath him.
"You don't want to move forwards, but you're sick of looking back." Sherlock's eyes were searching him. "It has to be one or the other - or we're stuck." John nodded reluctantly. Sherlock was right. Sherlock was always right. "I don't mind going slowly. Perhaps it is for the best... however." Sherlock's tongue flicked out and brushed his bottom lip. "I refuse to live in limbo. If you wish to persist in therapy, to talk about it - that's fine. If you wish to move on, to make a go of this then that's fine too, but I won't stay here in the middle." Sherlock clambered to his feet and John stared at him almost incredulously.
"We've waited long enough. If you're truly done with the past then there should be no issue... and if there still is then this relationship is inherently flawed from the get go." He spoke gravely and John frowned, this sounded very much like a break up speech and John hadn't even been aware they were in a relationship.
No.
Not a break up. An ultimatum. Now or never. John's heart raced, he knew if Sherlock left that this was it - it would be buried. Fuck. This was their only chance and ready or not if he was going to take it he had to take it now. Sherlock headed for the door and the decision was made. John darted after him, grabbed Sherlock's wrist and pulled him close into a very sudden and awkward embrace.
"You're a fucking prat. You know that?" John breathed into his chest, his heart hammering. Sherlock's arms cautiously found their way around him.
"Oh thank goodness," Sherlock huffed a breath of relief."That was a gamble I'd rather not have had to take. You're proving to be very high maintenance." He muttered indignantly, as though John had wronged him. John gave a half laugh. It had been a cruel trick, and possibly an escape route on Sherlock's part if it hadn't worked, but it didn't matter because ithad worked. Faced with the option of having Sherlock or having him walk away - the choice was very simple.
The hug melted from awkward into something more intimate very easily - that secure and safe feeling John had sought for so long washed over him once more and this time there wasn't the edge of confusion, no 'oh my god what the hell is happening', just the two of them and that made had all felt very real, very painful, constantly raking over it had made the wound seem raw and so fresh but at that moment it seemed utterly ridiculous. Insane. He'd let fear of losing something keep him from trying and that was just pointless. The only obstacle they'd faced since Sherlock came back had dissipated, faded into nothingness. So it didn't matter who kissed who first - just that they were kissing like they should have been doing weeks ago, months ago, years ago.
There was no tension, no caution, they kissed as though they'd been doing it their whole lives, lips pressing together, tongues sweeping neatly. John prided himself on being a good kisser, god knows he'd kissed enough women, but Sherlock... fuck, John knew Sherlock hadn't really had any romantic encounters before him - so how on earth did he learn to kiss so destructively? Any and all resolve John had frizzled into thin air as Sherlock took him apart with innumerable kisses, varying in technique and intensity but all of them perfect.A gentle push left John sprawling on his back on the sofa, Sherlock's lips fused to his and body firm and flush above him. John moaned and pulled away.
"We can't." He panted, looking a little forlorn.
"Why not?" Sherlock demanded, pupils huge in anticipation.
"Don't have..." John took a moment to regain his breath. Damn it he'd seduced women on three continents, it was so unlike him to be out of control. "Don't have any lubricant." Sherlock dipped into the pocket of his coat (John wondered vaguely why he'd not removed it yet) and produced a small bottle.
"Presumptuous." John murmured, a little thrown - had this seduction been preplanned?
"I prepared for all eventualities." Sherlock murmured, giving John the impression that he could read minds. He lowered his head and pressed hard kisses along John's neck and throat. John shivered.
"Condoms?" He breathed, entangling his fingers in Sherlock's curls and tugging experimentally. Oh. He liked that apparently, if the throaty groan it induced was anything to go by.
"Not necessary." Sherlock whispered, his lips barely leaving John's skin.
"Doctor." Reminded John. "Necessary." Sherlock huffed exasperatedly.
"It's very hard to do this when you keep talking at me." He grumbled, sitting up and pulling away from John. Immediately John feared he'd done the wrong thing, because suddenly Sherlock's warmth wasn't enveloping him. Sherlock however retrieved the manilla folder and handed it to John. John frowned, because gory crime scene photos were probably top of his list of boner-killers. However he opened it to reveal a medical report. A sparkling one at that.
"Mycroft insisted I submit to a full sexual health screen before we embarked on... this." He trailed off looking a little awkward. "And I know for a fact the clinic forces you to undergo them routinely, you've lost that job now but you've not had a sexual partner since your last..." Sherlock was cut off by John's lips on his, silencing him with a frankly brutal kiss. Electrifying. For a few moments Sherlock allowed John to take the lead as he bullied Sherlock out of the coat, eager to get his hands a layer or two closer to bare skin.
"I wasn't aware that degrading myself by ejaculating into a cup was a turn on." Sherlock grunted as John struggled with the buttons.
"It's not that, you idiot," People so rarely called Sherlock an idiot that it was a novelty - the amusement died away with a quick peck to his cheek from John. "It's the fact you were willing to do that... and we need to work on your bedroom talk." Sherlock froze, John's fingers had worked their way under his shirt and found a hardened nipple. Sherlock felt like he'd been burned, but at the same time he didn't want it to stop. Ever.
"We're not in the bedroom." Argued Sherlock, rightfully so seeing as how they were straddled on the sofa. John stood and offered Sherlock his hand, it was only sheer dumb luck that Sherlock remembered to grab the bottle of lube before they retired to the bedroom. His brain had decided to go completely offline at the reality of it all: John Watson wanted him.
There was no doubt between them, but certainly a lot of nervousness. The bedroom setting cemented the idea of not just sex on a whim but premeditated, planned love making. Sherlock set the bottle down on the bedside cabinet that had once been his but now housed John's books, the sleeping pills he didn't like to admit to using and the reading glasses he didn't think that Sherlock knew about.
"Backing out is still an option." John reminded him cautiously.
"Backing out stopped being an option at 'Afghanistan or Iraq'. It was all just a matter of how long it took to get here." Sherlock smirked. He wrapped an arm around John's waist and tugged him closer.
"Quite possibly. Poor choice of words... I meant if you're not ready then..."
"Are you ready?" Argued the detective, still stubborn to the core. John did not hesitate before nodding.
"Definitely."
"Then I am." There was a finality to his tone that suggested that was the end of the discussion. 'Leave your hang ups at the door because it took us too long and now it's time.' John nodded, he continued working the buttons of Sherlock's shirt until he was able to push the offending garment to the floor, taking his time to trail his fingers down Sherlock's arms as it went.
They'd done little more than snogging and groping, stood beside the bed with hands wandering over every inch of exposed skin, before Sherlock seemed to be struggling. John knew not to ask if Sherlock was okay, but detached his mouth from Sherlock's shoulder long enough to spare him a 'what?' look. Sherlock blushed furiously.
"Trousers. Too tight." He mumbled. John grinned. Served the perfectly-tailored git right for wearing such tight pants, didn't it. "Bed." Sherlock ordered, regaining some of his composure during the temporary ceasefire in John's onslaught. "Now." He froze then shook his head, grabbing John's wrist as he made for the bed. "No. No - clothes first, then bed." The detective instructed decisively. John grinned and went for Sherlock's zipper but the man stepped back awkwardly.
"Your own clothes, I think." He mumbled, gulping nervously. John nodded very slowly, keeping his eyes locked on Sherlock's own as they darted over him, seeing more with every passing second. John was not shy about his body, a little softer in the middle than he had been three years ago and there was still the large ugly scar creeping along his left side from the bullet wound but that had never bothered him as much as previous girlfriends assumed it did. Apparently it didn't bother Sherlock either, who had raised a hand to his mouth and was chewing his index finger. He'd barely been touched and already Sherlock looked wrecked, his lips dark and kiss bruised, his shirt long forgotten, his trousers were obscenely tight but the most obvious sign of arousal were his eyes which had become deep, dark and terrifyingly wide. By the time John removed his underwear, Sherlock looked completely and utterly fucked.
"Yours too?" John gestured vaguely at Sherlock's predicament. Sherlock's response was a strangled noise. Sherlock Holmes who would jump off a building for him, Sherlock Holmes who could kiss for England, Sherlock fucking Holmes was standing there full of sexual tension and completely frozen as to what to do with it. John was about to placate him, to tell him it was okay if he was spooked that if this was as far as they went today then it was fine, it was all fine, then Sherlock spoke.
"I'd prefer to top." His voice was a little mangled, as though words were beyond him. John nodded.
"Either's fine by me." He agreed, desperate to step forwards and close the distance that had seeped between them. Sherlock ruffled his own hair in an attempt to restart his brain, which had all but shut up shop.
"Bend over the edge of the bed." Sherlock ordered, his tone business like and authoritative. John frowned slightly. He supposed he couldn't really object, but he had been hoping for something a bit less... bossy, a bit more romantic. Still. Feeling a little vulnerable and overly exposed, John made his way to the bed and bent over - arse in the air. He felt ridiculous. More so when Sherlock didn't move over immediately, John could feel his lover's heated gaze on him long before he heard the zipper signalling Sherlock was removing his trousers. He longed to glance back over his shoulder and take in the view but as soon as the though occurred to him he felt Sherlock kneel behind him.
His touch was uncertain, with no confidence behind it as he stroked the back of John's thighs, easing them apart. John gulped when he heard the click of the lubricant cap. Sherlock DID know this required preparation right? That he couldn't just slick up and dive in? The words caught in John's throat. He wanted to speak out but he felt oddly pinned by the fact that Sherlock was barely touching him - the panic was very real and John was a soldier. He did not panic. He was not supposed to panic. That didn't stop his heart leaping to his throat when he felt a long, cold, wet finger against his hole. At least Sherlock knew what he was doing.
Embarrassed, John lay his head on his elbows and let Sherlock get on with it. It wasn't delicate and romantic, it was cold and clinical and methodical and very Sherlock. John felt a slight pang in his chest. He knew he loved Sherlock, and that Sherlock loved him more than he had ever loved anybody.
That should be enough. John thought, willing himself not to be disappointed by Sherlock's attitude in bed. To him this was probably just another biological function. A necessity maybe? John's breath caught as Sherlock eased a second finger inside him. It burned a little but it wasn't so much a pain as a discomfort. manageable certainly.
Say something John thought desperately. Even during meaningless hook ups ad one night stands, John had always seen sex as something intimate, and for someone he loved to be so distant during it, John felt completely and utterly lost. He wasn't usually needy or desperate but the only point of contact between their bodies was Sherlock's fingers inside him. John had wanted eye contact, that loving gaze, softly spoken words of affection.
He winced as Sherlock's ring finger broached him too. John longed for a kiss to the small of his back or Sherlock's other hand to squeeze his calf in reassurance. Anything. He didn't get it. All of Sherlock's attention was on opening John up for what came next. This wasn't foreplay, it was maintenance. In fact John was almost certain that his erection had flagged significantly - wasn't this supposed to feel amazing? It didn't really hurt but it didn't feel... good. John was sure it was meant to. He frowned into the crook of his arm. Maybe he could convince Sherlock to let him top next time? Sherlock's fingers slid away and John found his didn't miss the intrusion so much as he missed Sherlock's touch. They weren't touching at all now and there was something very wrong about that. A long pause as Sherlock slicked himself up. Instinctively, John braced himself.
He felt the blunt, silky head against his fluttering entrance and mentally prepared himself for it. Sherlock pressed in very slowly, easing his cock in an inch or so at a time - gentle, so as not to hurt John. There was that. Sherlock cared. He might not have a clue about affection during sex, but that didn't mean he didn't care. John let out a heavy breath he didn't realised he'd been holding. Sherlock shifted a little higher, he was on his knees between John's legs and John expected a thrust to start it off, but Sherlock surprised him. Fully seated inside John, Sherlock leaned forward, his chest to John's back, his arms opened and he traced his fingers down John's biceps until their fingers were entwined. He formed a cage over his lover, so they were touching from the knees up. Sherlock kissed the back of John's neck very softly. John shivered. Okay - he'd got it wrong, Sherlock was capable of affection and sex at the same time.
"We need to go slow." He whispered against John's ear. "I've nearly come twice already and I'd prefer this to last." He murmured, running his nose along the side of John's neck. The angle forbid them kissing, but John found it didn't matter, not when Sherlock was caressing every inch of him. And oh... oh! Suddenly it made sense. John's cheeks lit up in a furious flush, Sherlock hadn't pulled back because he wasn't keen, he'd pulled back because he was overly keen. Sherlock hadn't dared to let John remove his clothes, and couldn't bear to touch more than necessary until he was ready - because he'd been so excited that it would have been game over. And wasn't that a sexy thought. A little kissing and groping from John and Sherlock Holmes had been so turned on he'd nearly come in his pants. Sherlock squeezed John's hands gently.
"Let me know when you're okay for me to move." Sherlock's voice had dropped almost completely off the register. John groaned.
"Believe me, I'm okay." He promised, and wriggled his hips just a little to confirm. Sherlock withdrew slowly, barely retreating from John's body before dropping back into place. John shuddered as electricity whipped through his spine - he didn't know why this hadn't felt so amazing before as it was pure heaven now. Tortuously slowly, they rocked together, Sherlock's lips finding purchase on John's skin wherever they could land, a kiss to the neck, to the shoulder blade, to his cheek. The first time Sherlock hit John's prostate it was completely by accident, John jerked forward so sharply he nearly dislodged Sherlock.
"Fuck." Sherlock whispered in shock. "Sorry, didn't mean to do that just yet." He sounded blissfully surprised, his voice thick and slow with the intoxication of inducing that much pleasure. John knew that drunken feeling well, experiencing it himself at the same time. He wanted to make a plea, 'oh god yes, do that again' or 'harder' or 'faster' or something but he also wanted to let Sherlock set the pace because he trusted the man (with his life), so the only words he managed to choke out were slightly garbled
"Love you." Sherlock buried himself inside John once more, so deep that they were part of each other. John could feel Sherlock's cock pulsing in time with his heartbeat, pressed solidly against his back. He groaned and pushed back.
Sherlock didn't say it back this time, not vocally. He said it with each slow rise and fall of his hips, with each careful, delicate thrust, with a scattering of misplaced random kisses. John didn't think he'd ever felt more loved, cared for and cherished. Even when Sherlock's libido finally began to overrule the sentimental side of his brain, when the speed picked up and the kisses fell by the wayside, John still knew how much love Sherlock was conveying. He bit his lip to stop himself making downright pornographic noises as Sherlock's hands reluctantly left his own and slid down to John's hips, holding them still for better leverage. Each movement was now accompanied by a wet slap of skin and John's cock burned from rubbing against the duvet so quickly. He freed one hand to grasp himself, soothed by the warmth of skin on skin. He thumbed his tip and was unsurprised to feel the puddle of pre-come forming there. Sherlock grumbled.
"I was going to do that in a moment." He complained quietly, feeling inadequate that John was touching himself when Sherlock was perfectly capable. John chuckled.
"Feel free." Sherlock stopped pistoning into John for a moment while he replaced John's hand with his own, stroking the doctor's erection in time with his thrusts as they resumed.
This time the glancing blow to his prostate was intentional. John's entire body clenched and spasmed, his breath sucked from his lungs in an embarrassingly loud gasp. John didn't have to be able to see Sherlock's face to know the smug bastard was grinning. John pushed back - hard, earning a gasp of his own from Sherlock.
"Is that how we're playing it?" The detective recovered, squeezing John's shaft rhythmically.
"Mmhmm." John panted. Sherlock aimed for the sweet spot again, and John retaliated in kind until he was unable to, until he was so wracked with pleasure he couldn't fight back and just slumped slightly forward, moaning as Sherlock pushed him closer and closer to the edge. The last few jerks of Sherlock's body were wild and frenzied, his hips slammed home and the head of his arousal targeted John's prostate with unerring accuracy, his hand moved lightning fast over John's cock in a race to finish him first.
John's orgasm was hardly a surprise to either of them, but the domino effect of it sparking Sherlock's apparently was. John spilled hard over the covers, his blood boiled and his arsehole squeezed Sherlock tight, forcing the taller man deeper inside as he shot everything he had into his willing lover. They collapsed against the bed, breathing harshly and coming down from the dizzying high together. John listened to the rush of Sherlock's breath by his left ear for a very long moment after he came round, Sherlock was still on top of him and John had neither the energy nor the inclination to shift him. It took Sherlock much longer to recover, but John supposed that was to be expected of a virgin who'd just learned the joys of a paired orgasm. John grinned lazily as Sherlock pulled back, his knees shaking a little as he made for the box of tissues by the bed. Nope. Sherlock Holmes was not a virgin any more.
John peeled himself off of the bed and cleaned himself up after Sherlock finished.
"I presume cuddling is mandatory?" Sherlock queried. John nodded and hoisted himself up onto the bed, kicking the covers further down to avoid the wet patch he'd left. Sherlock clambered in beside him and they worked together to find a comfortable position to curl up into - John cradled against Sherlock's chest. A long, comfortable silence followed, only ever interrupted by the occasional brush of John's lips against Sherlock's chest, or Sherlock's against John's hair.
"Was that... Was it any... I mean I know it could have lasted longer and..." Sherlock frowned, he wasn't even entirely sure where he was going with this, his brain still hadn't come back online post-orgasm.
"It was brilliant." John said genuinely. He truly meant it. Yeah it hadn't been the longest sex he'd ever had, it hadn't been the hottest or the dirtiest or the most erotic - but it had been the most intense sexual experience John had ever shared and that counted for everything in his book "If it were up to me we wouldn't leave this bed for the next day or so."
"Do we have to?" Sherlock wondered aloud.
"Yes. You do." Sherlock sighed.
"You still don't want me back at the flat?" He asked. He sounded so weak and a little resigned. John didn't have the heart to laugh, instead he drew himself up and kissed the frown from Sherlock's face, licked his way into his lover's mouth and held them there in a slow, searing kiss that - had they not already been spent, would have lead to much much more.
"You're staying. I want you home." He promised. "But you're going to have to leave this bed at some point - you did say you'd go change Mrs Hudson's light bulb." Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief.
It was only hours later, when they were together in bed for the second time that Sherlock grinned and asked in a far too hopeful voice.
"This does mean we're finished with that therapy nonsense? Yes?" John would have responded, but his mouth was a little full, so instead he just glared up at Sherlock and made a mental note to have a discussion about timing.
A/n: I'm so sorry for the delay, I've had technical issues! Hopefully this extra long, porny chapter made up for it! There will be one last chapter to this, probably a short one. It should be up fairly soon. Kudos are lovely. Reviews are lovelier.
