A/N: Sorry for taking so long, but these kinds of chapters need time to perfect. Sherlock keeps his promise...

"Oh, we aren't done John..." Sherlock breathed, lunging forward to pin John to the floor and earning another beautifully soft moan as he scraped his teeth upon the bruise on his collarbone. The genius was in a frenzy- so many things he wanted to try and do to John that he couldn't process them all through his recently accepted and overwhelming devotion to the man mewling below him as their hips began to grind together once more.

"Why are you still wearing paaants-" John whined, fingers back in his hair and scratching lightly at his scalp. A chuckle from the baritone voice turned into a hum; Sherlock's rule of no one touching his hair suddenly turned into no one but John touches his hair. "N-not here-" He managed when John began to work at his pants, batting his hands away to pull John's hips to his with one arm, and the other wound around his back to lift him to his feet.

Though Sherlock is in a frenzy by the time they are halfway up the stairs, John slows their progress, setting his foot down in a last ditch effort to find equal ground with his lover on this trail blazing to John's room- less chance of noise reaching Misses Hudson there, but with the gradual increase in his and Holmes' moans and sighs and grunts when John has Sherlock pressed to the wall and rolling their hips, biting at lips and shoulders she would more than likely still hear them.

John's hands grip and Sherlock's hips, halting his motions and drawing their eyes to meet. There the detective sees something he holds his breath for, feels his heart skip a beat at the sight, and for once- the man cannot speak. He cannot think straight, because in order for his mind to work again, John has to speak- has to explain the unabashed love in those endless pinwheel colored eyes.

When it gets dark and hard to see in their later years, John's eyes become a haven he will always be able to find with HD clarity. But, for now, they anchor him down in his sea of desire for John to just ravish him already. What he has to say must be important, and it's Sherlock's job to listen.
The soldier brushes his lips against that wonderful cupid's bow mouth, his bottom lip lingering on Sherlock's upper lip, earning a sigh. "Slow down... I'm not ready to share you with the world, Sherlock... just a little more time..."
He felt his chest tighten; John wanted the moment to last, before something happened to ruin it. Lestrade calling, Misses Hudson walking into the flat- "Okay John..." He breathed, leaning in to kiss John softly, so incredibly different from the heated ones earlier. This one was a steady growing fire in their veins, lighting every nerve ending as they ran hands over shoulders, chests, faces...

A trail of clothes led from the living room- up the stairs to the bedroom. John guided him onto the sheets gently, as if he would shatter if handled too rough, but that was where Sherlock turned the tables again. He pulled John down with him by his forearms, pressing their lips together and curling his leg around the man's waist. Sherlock was glad he had lost his pants and trousers at the threshold of the bedroom door. Chills broke out across his arms when the friction finally began, and John took to nibbling at his ear as they rocked their hips.

"Oh, John please-" Sherlock whispered, causing John to bite his already kiss bruised lips and look down into the detective's eyes, before allowing him to trade places so that John was beneath Sherlock. The adoration and trust in those multifaceted eyes of the war-torn soldier below him, faintly echoed one soft spoken plea: 'slow down...'. Sherlock obeyed. For this man below him must be the one he was destined to remain with, for all eternity. No other had humbled him, nor peeled back the layers he used to shield himself, only to burrow in alongside him and pull them back up. John Watson was under his skin, and Sherlock found he had no problem with that.

The man who's neck he peppered with soft kisses and showered praises to in between, was the one of the few who had cared enough to look at him with kind eyes and the only one to love him, despite what he said or did at times. Sherlock was still humming affections when John moaned, causing him to look up to see those eyes shining in the light from the streets.

Another soft mewl from John, then a hitch in his airway as Sherlock licked at his jaw and stroked John's already tight again ring of muscle with his index and middle finger. When he pushed the digit in John gasped, and when he began to add more he began to pant, legs opening wide to give him access. Sherlock couldn't help himself. He was moving his fingers faster, scissoring him and spreading the three fingers currently inside John to open him wide. "S-Sherlock please-"
He closed his eyes and smiled, withdrawing his fingers to slide forward a bit, tip brushing his entrance. "God you make 'please' sound like it belongs only in a bedroom," He murmured, not thinking John had heard him until the man chuckled in a strained tone.
"Please..."
Sherlock rocked forward, pushing half of his length into John's sturdy frame, causing the soldiers back to arch and lips to part in a silent cry of pleasure. Sherlock remained still until John urged him onward, flushed body scooting back a bit on the sheets with each sharp snap of those wonderfully porcelain colored hips. He could feel each movement, and Sherlock could feel how wonderfully tight he was, even after the thorough preparation.

"Sherlock..." John groaned, head tilting back to allow him more access as the taller man rained kisses upon every inch of reachable skin. He closed his eyes and sighed while his hands fumbled around for a moment, trying to find leverage to grasp and hold onto through the assault that heated his body to a degree he never thought was possible. They settled for one diving into the mass of ebony curls, while the other gripped at the back of the Adonis that drove into him.

Everything became hard to miss, the brush of fabric under him, the sounds they were making as the buildup was growing unbearable, the thick shaft pushing into his body with urgency while also trying to keep from moving too fast. "Don't cum yet, John," Sherlock reminded in a lucid voice. It was hypnotic and sensuous and God did it make John throb so hard it hurt. Being denied release he so desperately needed felt like both a vice and the most beautiful heat...

"Oh God," He gasped, writhing underneath him in wreckless abandon, too lost to think through the haze of heat clouding his mind. A thin sheen of sweat ran across his forehead. John forced his eyes open, watching as his lover's hair moved with each snap of his hips, eyes closed in vain attempts to control himself. Feeling the gaze on him, those usually pale blue eyes were lost to his blown out pupils. His hand was on John and moving rapidly and the doctor nearly cried out- and then the angel breathed.

"John"

John came with a cry, and his muscles tensing around him sent the detective into his own release. It took them an unmarked amount of time to even begin moving again; Sherlock rising from slumping against John to fetch a clean cloth, and John from his thigh burning spread out position into one more comfortable.

"For in my arms I hold the Flower of the Ages, and the first love of the world," He breathed as he held John to him after they had cleaned up, His arms circled John protectively,"He has been worn, but that only shows how strong he is-"
John's eyes opened a bit, his heart fluttering at his lover's words, "Sherlock..."
"He has been wounded, but rebounds with the strength of many in his wake," He nipped at his earlobe.

The softest sound between a cry and a groan left the man who fisted the sheet with the hand resting on the bed while the other was holding on to Sherlock's arms. He had tried to hide his face- but only succeeded to ripple the muscle through his arm and torso. He wasn't used to compliments of this nature; closest thing to it would be praise on his work but by far this was more... healing; soothing, kind words, than no one else had ever cared to give him. From day one he had hated the very thought, that anyone would see Sherlock as cold or heartless. Oh how wrong they are, the fools. If they only cared to look with the eyes Sherlock has, they would see that within him was a great heart and a good man.

"S-Sherlock," Was he speaking? If he was he sounded like he needed water, his voice was airy and low, but his mind was elsewhere. It was with his eyes that took in the sweaty curls and ethereal glowing body that drove into him with wreckless abandon; his stomach muscles burned like he had just came back from a marathon run from how rough they had been when they were nearing their release.

To say I love you would be to degrade how I feel about you; to say I need you- an understatement. You are the epitome of what I've been searching for all of my life that I never knew I craved-' John wanted to cry; the words never left his lips... and he knew he would never memorize them in the haze of oncoming sleep. He would tell the detective one day how he felt in different words, for now he settled on curling as close as possible into the cage of his lover's arms, as the two slid into dreamless sleep.

They had nothing left to haunt them, nothing left to dream for. All they had ever wanted, they were slowly finding in one another.

A/N: Read and review please!