Watson bends at Sherlock's chair, eyeing him like a child. "Oh." For Sherlock to be the one above in height, he sure does feel tiny and immaculent. Watson drops his frantic face to concentrate every atom on thinking about Holmes. Every breath, every blink doesn't go unthought of until he smooths his hand beside Sherlock's. "And would you like help?" Holmes tilts his head, unsure of what he meant.

John staggers his fingers closer and closer to Sherlock's, then intertwines them without much asking. "Since you are past it, I mean. I can help you." Holmes is utterly unmoving despite his deep and long breathing. John stands inch by inch, drinking in the time, hovering more-so over the detective. When standing becomes an effort, the doctors knee finds room on the other side of Holmes. It was a sight. Their heads were almost touching at the forehead, the invisible breath mingled smelling of coffee and tea Sherlock must've had earlier that day, John's leg stretched whorishly wide... It was too slow, and in contrast, every breath seemed exceedingly fast.

"Help me." Sherlock tested a sudden motion with his legs, finally sliding his feet to the floor. His hands gripped onto John's sides hard to accomodate for his lengthy legs as he lifted him gently. John fell slightly forward, catching his weight with his hand on the couch behind Holmes' head. Their cheeks flushed. His hold on John's sides lifted but didn't let go. They were almost statue-esque again. Watson's other leg lifted parallel to the left, his knee going to the free side of Holmes, now straddling him. "Don't worry. I will." He whispered into his ear, speaking to him as if he were in pain. Then, he sat slowly, sliding closer into the lap of Sherlock and putting his hand once holding him to his neck.

Their hands were clasped so tight, the heat was rumbling throughout the room, Sherlock panted a plea. "Just hold me." His voice was straining against itself, and his hands that were once on John's sides were now trembling. The doctor sat back momentarily to assess his situation, it wasn't just scaring Holmes, he was scared as well. "Your anxiety." A lightbulb flashed and he was on the case. Yet, he was ordered to do one thing. Which he did.

His hands weren't occupied with Sherlock's body anymore, they were on course for his face, holding it in place, urging Holmes to look him in the eye. "Shh. You are fine." Sherlock hadn't realized he was whimpering softly, being consumned by the hold of fear and confusion. He turned his head into the hand on his face, shutting his eyes shut and counting in his head. Counting always worked, except for now.

"Quiet, calm down, look. Look at me, I'm not hurting you, taking advantage of you, or threatening you." John shifted to a stand on his knees again, "Here, I'll get up."

Sherlock's hands still shook violently, and he trembled still, but he couldn't let John leave so soon. His arms lunged for John's waist, running up his back and pulling him sickenly chest to chest, then lips to lips. Sherlock's face was plastered with pure fear, with eyebrows furled and mouth hung open panting against John's. He didn't mean to be rough or harsh, he was just frightened to be left again. And expecting Watson to push him away, or protest him, he was pleasantly surprised.

"Mm." John made a faint hummed noise into Sherlock's mouth, then began toothlessly biting at the lips presented to him. Holmes' jitters faded into desperate touches. His arms tightened a hug around John, nibbling back into the tongue and fleshy lip. The sound of clothing slipping against itself ran louder with mixed noises of panting and smacking lips.

But as before, it infiltrated Sherlock's mind. It was just too much, the feeling, the person, the uncontrolled aspect. Holmes shot his head back, leaning it on the chair, his hands settling on John's waist subtly, and mouth hanging slack. "Stop." He ushered, just before Watson made way for the exposed white skin on his neck. He snapped back, holding hands up to clarify him stopping. "This is wrong, isn't it?"

Holmes brought his head up, out of breath, "You think this?" A look of disappointment and John's mind is sent reeling, "Gods, no." They share a look that needed no words explaining, "I don't know." John looked to his right and delicately placed his hand over his, "I hope not." Sherlock sleepily flips his hand over to intertwine their fingers, massaging John's hand with his thumb. "Don't leave me." He begged again, and it felt like the thousanth time he's mentioned it tonight.

Watson leaned his head to the cradle of Holmes' neck, burying his face into the collar and squeezing his hand around Holmes. "I couldn't if I wanted to." He closed his eyes, enjoying the moment. Sherlock noticed the drop in heat, and the dying pulse rates, then his eyes shut also. He played around with John's hand in his for a minute, then moved his hand to John's short locks. Brushing them side to side, leaving tingling patches of warm on the man's scalp. Before he knew it, Watson was breathing an even path that suggested sleep. Holmes felt his pulse raise then fall again, a small burst of adrenaline sounding off the enemies. He was with Watson, for now, and that's what he needed.

Right behind sleep. Sherlock's head fell ontop of the one asleep on him. And did the same.

A/N: I know they fell asleep fast, but hey, it was barely morning and neither had good sleep so... yes. And I have a plan still for Molly's problem, it will come later. But WARNING, next chapter I plan on orgasms, so if you don't like don't read. I won't change the rating just because both will be clothed. Trust me, okay sweets?