It's 2am and I can't sleep. I'm lying there looking up, watching the car headlights slide across the ceiling. Mycroft. Sherlock's face when he saw the smiling, bland face. Sherlock sitting in this chair with his eyes closed. All evening. Until bedtime when he gets up and makes me a cup of tea I didn't ask for, as though he just remembered how he's supposed to be acting since he told me he loves me.

After another hour of silence I suggest we go to bed and he gets up without speaking and, like an automaton, goes into the bathroom, does the painful teeth brushing. By the time I come into the room, he's lying on his 'nest' on the floor with his eyes closed.

So here I am thinking in the small hours. Thinking about what he must be thinking about, how this revelation is making him feel. I hear him sigh and I sit up. He's wide awake and silent. Eyes focussed on the ceiling, just like mine.

"Do you want to get in?" I pull the duvet back. He lifts his head and looks at me solemnly.

"I don't want to hurt you." The bruising is coming out on my face and the fingers are healing. They hurt if I catch them on things but mainly they look a lot worse than they are. A lot worse.

"You won't, get in."

"Why would being in your bed help me feel any better?" He's like a child, he doesn't understand anything. I sigh.

"Sherlock, get in the bed please." He picks himself up from the floor, unfolding himself like he's half man half deckchair, all lanky limbs. He's naked and the street lights make him look golden, unearthly.

He gets in and I put out my arm, he rests his head on it and snuggles closer. His body is cold and I pull him closer. For a moment or two I savour the embrace as a comfort, a security in what has shifted and become an uncertain world and then the fact that Sherlock Holmes is naked in my bed has its obvious effect on my body. My gentle kiss against his brow becomes longer, more lingering and he lifts his face so that I can reach his lips.

Against my thigh I can feel him getting hard, lengthening and pushing against my leg. He sighs and shifts against me. His hand, resting on my stomach, is exerting some magnetic pull, some incredible energy force which I can almost feel touching my cock, even though he's nowhere near me. I will him to move. His hand moves away from my stomach and up to cup my face, he pulls me deeper into the kiss, hungry and tense. I run my hand down his smooth back as far as it will go and then I flip him onto his back and, leaning on my elbow, I kiss him more fiercely, running my free hand down his chest.

I skim over his hard nipples and he arches towards me. He moans a little, his breathing heavy and his hands are in my hair pulling me towards him. Teasingly I skim my hands lower and lower carefully avoiding where he wants to be touched. He breaks the kiss.

"Tease." He chuckles and I look at him.

"No Sherlock. Teasing is when I do this with no intention of fucking you at the end." I raise an eyebrow suavely. He laughs; I feel it in his stomach. I laugh too, suave just me. I do notice thought hat, when he's stopped laughing his breath has hitched a little. So he likes me to talk to him? Ok. I can do that.

"Because I really want to fuck you Sherlock. I want to feel you open and ready for me, wanting me. I want to feel how tight you are for me." This last comment gets a moan and a shudder so I press on. "And I want you to feel every inch I have for you. I want to hear you tell me you love me again, this time while you come for me." He is looking straight at me, his eyes totally focussed on me.

"I want that too John." He breathes. God this man is sexy. Five words are all it takes. Frightening.

I run my fingers over his hard on, a light, tickling touch and his hips buck forward. He blows out a long, slow breath like he is trying to steady himself. With the flat of my hand I stroke him harder. I run my thumb over the tip of him; he arches off the bed and groans my name. Jesus.

I'm hard but I want more. I want his mouth, his beautiful, sensual mouth. I sit up and kneel beside his face. He gets the idea and he pulls my leg over him until I am straddling his chest, bracing myself on my arms on the head the bed. He looks up at me and smiles his predatory smile. Then he licks me.

From base to tip he licks a flat wet line across my burning skin. His tongue is soft and defined in the same moment and I close my eyes briefly, the feeling is overwhelming. Then I open them again and watch him, his eyes closed in a sort of prayer-like way as he repeats the action. I can see my cock twitching as he wraps his lips around me and his cheeks hollow as he sucks.

It's like being on fire. I twist and writhe, his mouth holds me fixed. Like he is the pivot to my world, and somewhere in my lust filled brain that thought registers and I know it's true. The pressure in my groin mounts and I want to come, I want to feel those muscles in his throat as he swallows but I want to be inside him more. This time I want to look him in the face when I come, when he comes.

I move a hand from the bed head and smooth it down his cheek. His expression changes from concentrated effort to questioning and I pull away from his mouth, a string of saliva and precum joining us from tip to lip briefly. I slide down his body and he opens his legs wide. I shift a pillow under his hips and take the lube bottle from the bedside cabinet, I pass it to him.

He grins and pours the clear liquid into his hands, then, cocky bastard, he runs his slippery hands over himself and he groans. He's still smiling. Ok, if that's how he wants it. I am still kneeling between his legs and I put both of my hands on him and begin to pump him hard. The lube and the pressure of my hands, alternatively squeezing and stroking, is sending him over the edge. I know he wants to come with me in him but now his body has other ideas. And he thinks I've changed my mind.

"John, oh oh John I love..." He's so close I can feel it. I stop, pull my hands away. His eyes flash wide open, his body still jumping on the bed, eager, desperate. I lean over him, our cocks touching, rubbing. I whisper in his ear.

"Really? Do you Sherlock?" He nods; I can see he's beyond his massive intellect now. This is all body and sensation. I relish in the moment where I have this extraordinary, unique man in my hands. "Then let me fuck you." He moans and pushes against me and I kneel back and pour the lube between us. Some ends up on the bed but I really don't care. With my tip against him I move forward a little. He groans and I thrust into him. He is pushing back against me, his movements desperate, hungry. He grunts and I am beyond stopping now.

He is so tight around me, the feeling so intense and intimate that I am losing it. I can't go slowly. I pull back and hold his hips so that I can go deeper, take him all. His eyes are wide; staring up at me and it's like something has fallen away between us.

I hold his knee for leverage and push harder, grabbing his cock with my other hand. I copy my thrusts with the movement of my slick palm, thumbing over his tip as I reach the head. Somewhere in my brain I remember he enjoyed that before. He is shuddering now, no rhythm to his movements, he is just alive and wanting. I feel the tension in my groin building to a fierce crescendo.

I relinquish my grip on his knee and fell over him, driving myself up and into him, pinning my hand and his cock between our damp bodies. My mouth is at his ear.

"Tell me Sherlock, tell me again." I look at his face. He is so beautiful and uninhibited now. All his social awkwardness, the mask of his intelligence has slipped and he's just like me. A savage, an animal.

"iloveyou, iloveyou," he pain time without bodies' frantic movement. "yesyesyes. John." I open my eyes from where I have been concentrating, trying to hold back, to wait for him. He is looking at me and this is the whole man. Not the animal body or the terrifying brain but a hybrid, a creature of angelic proportions and reasoning. "I love you." he says simply, his voice hoarse with lust.

He spills onto my hand, across our sticky bodies and I come inside him. His muscles clench wringing from me all I have to give him. My arms give under me and I fall over him, our breathing forced and panting together.

"I'll never hear that enough." I whisper, unsure of how emotional I can be with him. I feel him smile against my cheek.

"I love you John. Did I mention that I love you? Would you like to record it?" What? How did he? He chuckles. "I'm going to get used to saying it. It's the only rational thing to do. Do you want pasta?" did he just ask me...? I look at him, using my elbow for support.

"Did you just suggest pasta?" he nods.

"I'm starving" he wriggles from underneath me and pads from the room on those huge feet. As I listen to him in the kitchen I wonder if I should dress for dinner.

We both wake up late. The sex and the pasta did for us both. I still can't believe he made carbonara at that time of night and after what we'd done. In fact I didn't know he knew how to cook pasta so all in all it was a pleasant surprise when it was delicious. If I didn't believe it the plates are still on the floor. Sherlock is face down in the bed, snoring slightly. I get up and have a shower; my muscles have that good 'sex ache' that I'm getting used to now. It's a good feeling.

"Hey!" there is a shout from the bedroom. I wander in there, wrapping a towel on and Sherlock is pulling on his socks, just socks.

"Hey, what are you doing?" I eye the hopping and the scuffling as he fights with the second sock.

"John, we're going to see Mycroft. Get dressed. Bring your revolver." He dashes out of the room and comes back with my jacket like I've got ready in the split second it takes him to get back. I take it from him.

"clothes." I point to his nakedness and he grins.

Downstairs Mrs. Hudson accosts us. She tightens Sherlock's scarf and tidies an imaginary strand of hair from my face.

"How are my boys?" she asks affectionately. "Still having fun?" Sherlock nods eagerly and I smile. She's just going back inside when she sees the picture in Sherlock's hand. "Ooh they're all over the papers aren't they?" she coos. I frown.

"Who are?" Sherlock doesn't read the papers or watch the news. Well sometimes he watches it with the sound off. To be honest I haven't; looked at either for while too.

"Cameron's ten millionaires." she points at the picture of the modern Brotherhood in Sherlock's hand again. She registers our ignorance and sighs. "Well I guess you boys have been busy" she giggles.

"These people? Are you sure?" Sherlock holds the picture far closer to her face than he needs to. She takes it from him.

"Yes. Sir Robert Frederick's, the banker. Lord Aberfeldy the bloke whom owns that big green garden thing in Scotland, you know the one with the biodomes and Nicola Bradley – Ewell, the yacht tycoon. Ooh I love her hair! It's a shame about the other one though isn't it, that Abrahams bloke; still his daughter's going to honour his pledge."

"What. Are. You. Talking. about?" Sherlock's intensity is lost on our landlady.

"Well they're going to get us out of the recession aren't they?" they're each donating loads of money to the economy. There was a press conference... didn't you...?" Sherlock is gone; leaving me to apologise and take the picture from Mrs. Hudson's confused hands.

We get out of the cab outside an Indian restaurant on Bethnal Green road. I wonder briefly if we're having something to eat before we confront Mycroft and I'm vaguely concerned as it is only gone ten in the morning. But Sherlock's eating habits are erratic to say the least.

He breezes through the restaurant, oblivious to the kind Bengali waiter who tried to bar our path I smile politely but carry on walking after Sherlock's billowing coat tails. We walk through the kitchen, spices and oil scent the air and I wonder what the hell he is doing. He marches to the fridge and opens the big, stainless steel door.

I am stunned. It's like a dream where things join together in an abstract way because, behind the fridge door of the Indian restarting in an office. A plush, wood lined office with oil paintings on the wall and a receptionist. She is about sixty I guess and her hair is in a silvery blonde bun. Her suit is a pale pink, the sort of thing the queen used to wear in the sixties. She reminds me of Miss Moneypenny. My brain can't keep up. I glance behind me, yep, the restaurant's still there too. Hmm.

Sherlock's on the receptionist before she can squeak. He whips my gun from his coat pocket, hang on I thought he told ME to bring that? And points it unwaveringly at her face.

"I want to see Mycroft Holmes." Her eyes are wide but she doesn't lose her cool. Tentatively, her eyes never leaving Sherlock's face she stretches her hand to a mahogany lined intercom. She flicks the switch.

"Mr Holmes? Your brother's here to see you." she flicks off the switch and sits back in the chair. Her expression says '; come on young man shoot me or bugger off'' Sherlock lifts the gun from her face and passes it back to me. I flick the safety on and pocket it.

A door in the elegant panelling opens and I follow Sherlock's long strides to the office beyond. Mycroft is sitting at his desk. Behind him are portraits of the queen in her youth. It's like a theme in here.

"Bet the cooking smells are hell when you're on that diet!" Sherlock announces his entrance with a barbed jibe.

He glances up from his desk and smiles that small secret smile. When his eyes cross to me he frowns, his mouth pulls down at the sides and he actually looks sad. I realise he hasn't seen my injuries before. The ones he caused.

"Oh dear." He says in a small voice. "Oh dear John I am sorry." I am about to speak although I don't know what to say. Maybe I was going to accept his apology, how very English of me. The man has me tortured and then says sorry and I let him off. Sherlock has no such compunctions however.

"Sorry? oh that's ok then, forgiven forgotten." His voice sounds like he means it, I am surprised and I turn to look at him but then I realise this is Sherlock's act, the fake, menacing, normal person act.

Mycroft spreads his hands.

"Now there's not need to be like that, I'm sure John understands that I only do what's best for the country as a whole. I'm sure, having fought and nearly dies for queen and country," at this he glances reverently Her Majesty who smiles benevolently back in a lovely pastel yellow jacket and hat. "My actions were necessary if not pleasant." He looks apologetic, like he's just told us he's out of our size in some expensive boutique.

Sherlock is round the desk, his hands out for Mycroft's throat in an instant but Mycroft pulls back quickly. For someone who looks like a suit he's remarkably fast. I wonder just what it is he does.

"Necessary?" Sherlock is quiet but his voice is wrathful. "how was it necessary exactly to kidnap John, to break his bone and pull out two of his fingernails? John?" he grabs my hand and puts it right up in Mycroft's face. Then he peels off the tape and shows the mess of my finger end to his brother. Mycroft screws up his face and tries to close his eyes but Sherlock uses his other hand to prise one eyelid open. It's like watching children fight in expensive suits, I want to laugh.

"Boys, boys." They stop and look at me, their expression so similar that it's comical. Why can't I find it in me to be angry with Mycroft? I think its three things. One, he's so like Sherlock and yes he is so different. Two, he obviously has some high minded reasons for his actions and I want to know what they are. Unlike his brother I can't believe he's an arch villain. And three apart from Mrs. Hudson he's the other person I met who worries about Sherlock.

"Sherlock I think we should listen to what Mycroft has to say."

Sorry for the cliff hanger, just so tired and need to go to bed. I knew you'd be waiting so I published this. Hope that's ok?

So, what did you think? I am worried I have lost it? Might be the late night paranoia! :D Tell me your favourite bits, what didn't work for you!

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