[Author's Note: So, I know that I'm new to this fandom, but here's something you need to know about me. When I get into Smuttytown, I tend to linger there. This smut train, in particular, was taking the loooong route around the hill. In other words, this chapter was going on, and on, and ON, and I finally figured I had to break it somewhere or I was going to give you 7k words of smut in one go. So, sorry for the semi-smutus-interruptus. I promise to rush the next chapter (aka "rest of this smut scene") as soon as I can!]

John hauled himself up the last few stairs, as usual cursing his decision to let a flat on the fourth floor of a walk-up. Still, he smothered a smile as he turned his key in the lock. He never knew what to expect with Sherlock on the other side of that door, and he wouldn't have it any other way.

He opened the door and his heart seemed to stutter in his chest. Sherlock was motionless, lying on the bed backwards, head lolling off the edge.

"Sherlock!" John rushed forward, dropping the takeaway bag, reaching a hand out to check for a pulse. He almost screamed as the pale gray eyes snapped open, pinning him in place.

Sherlock's eyes scanned over John quickly. "Compiling data," he said absently, immediately closing his eyes again.

John felt his knees sag in relief. "Bloody fuck, Sherlock." He felt his annoyance mount as Sherlock pried a single eye open, examining him for a long moment and then closing it again without comment.

"Jesus," John said. "At least straighten yourself out. You'll have an awful crick in your neck. How long have you been lying like that?"

"Don't know," Sherlock said, his eyes snapping open again. "You don't have a sofa," he added accusingly, as if John's sad flat were an elaborate plot to inconvenience him.

He seemed to try to move, and a peeved expression settled on his face. "Stuck," he announced loftily, regarding John upside down, clearly expecting him to remedy the situation.

"Oh, for fuck's sake."

"Language, John!" Sherlock rebuked.

John went to the other end of the bed, grabbed one of Sherlock's ankles in each hand, and hauled him none-too-gently further up the bed.

"Ouch!"

Already somewhat repentant, John more gently helped Sherlock lift his neck and shoulders and put a pillow under him.

"There, you git," he said fondly. "Finish compiling. I'll make tea."

By the time John had put the takeaway onto plates and readied the tea Sherlock was on his feet, pacing. His dressing gown flared out around him as he made every turn. How the man managed to look majestic in pajama bottoms, a t-shirt, and a blue striped dressing gown was beyond John.

"Bad day?" John asked sympathetically.

"Infuriating!" Sherlock snarled. "That's months of footage I've reviewed now...almost half of it...and there's nothing!" His pacing grew more frenetic, his gestures wild. "I could be looking right at Moran and not know it!"

John moved to intercept Sherlock, placing a hand on his shoulder. "You'll find something. Give it time."

"Time!" Sherlock expostulated, knocking John's hand away inadvertently with another wild gesticulation. "I've given it time, John! A week of nothing else...of being trapped here, watching you suffer in pixelated images, while you go out every day, exposing yourself, and I can do nothing — nothing! — to protect you!"

John felt something in his chest twist. He had known Sherlock was getting a little stir-crazy, but he hadn't really realized what the past week had been like for him. Sherlock was pacing again, and on his next turn John stepped neatly in front of him, grabbing his wrists.

"Hey," he said gently, forcing Sherlock's gaze to his. "It's all right. I'm all right."

The frantic energy seemed to drain from Sherlock suddenly. He looked at John, and it sent a shiver down John's spine to see the fear in his eyes. "For now," Sherlock whispered, suddenly subdued. "But for how long, John? It's not even just that I cannot protect you...I am actually putting you at risk, every moment that I am here. He could be out there — today, tomorrow, any time, ready to put a bullet in your head, and there is nothing I can do to stop him."

"Stop that," John said sternly. "First of all, you will stop him. You are brilliant, and you will find a way. Second of all..." He pulled Sherlock closer, his arms tightening around the slim, tense frame. He could feel Sherlock's heart beating fast, too fast, against his cheek. "Risk or not, there is nowhere else I would rather you be."

Sherlock's chest heaved as he took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. One long-fingered hand came up to cup John's cheek, tilting his head up. Sherlock pressed his forehead to John's, eyes closed, shaking his head slightly. "I said dangerous..." he said, his mouth twisting into a bittersweet smile.

"...and here I am," John finished softly, cupping Sherlock's face in his hands in return and then placing a gentle kiss on his forehead. "Now drink your tea. I have a surprise for you."

He suppressed a giggle as Sherlock's mood seemed to shift dramatically, his eyes lighting up as he scanned John, trying to deduce the surprise.

"After dinner," John said, pushing the tea into Sherlock's hands and going to the kitchen to snag the takeaway plates. "And only if you eat."

Sherlock shot him a narrowed-eyed glare, but nonetheless ate all of his dinner hurriedly. John finished at a more leisurely pace, smiling inwardly at Sherlock's expectant expression.

He quickly did the washing up, ignoring Sherlock's impatient noises. Finally, he dried his hands on the dishtowel and walked over to his jacket, pulling the small bottle from an inner pocket, feeling a bit foolish for having made such a big deal of what was probably a silly idea.

"I noticed your wrists seemed to be bothering you a bit when you typed. Not surprising given how much you've been on the computer lately. I thought you could use a bit of a massage...if you liked. There's a physiotherapist at the surgery on Fridays — I told her my leg was bothering me again and she gave this to me. And that was before I even knew you had bollixed up your neck..."

John realized he was babbling, and shut up suddenly. He couldn't read Sherlock's expression as the man prowled closer to him, finally taking the bottle from him, opening the cap, and sniffing the contents.

"No exotic South African poison," John said sheepishly. "Just almond massage oil, as advertised."

"Hmmm..." Sherlock rumbled deep and low, apparently considering the offer. He tilted a glance at John. "How do you want me, then?"

Bloody hell. John swallowed, his mouth suddenly a bit too dry. Well, two could play at that game. John took the bottle back, letting his fingers linger on Sherlock's as he did. He went to the bed and sat down on the edge, putting the bottle on the bedside table and taking off his socks and shoes. Then he put a pillow behind his back and leaned back against the headboard. Watching Sherlock watch him, he slowly spread his legs, bending his knees so his feet were flat on the bed.

"Come here."

It was a rare and beautiful thing, watching Sherlock Holmes do as he was told. He slipped off his dressing gown and put one knee on the bed between John's spread legs. He seemed surprised when John guided him around until he was sitting back against his chest, but allowed himself to be pushed and pulled until they were arranged. Sherlock had to slump quite a bit, but in his typical boneless fashion he managed to end up nestled quite comfortably, the back of his head against John's collarbone, John's bent legs bracing him solidly at waist and thighs.

Sherlock's hands seemed to flutter uncertainly before settling, folded together on his chest. John smiled, pouring a bit of the oil into his left hand, waiting for a moment to let it warm. He put the bottle down and gently untangled Sherlock's left hand from his right. He clasped their left palms together, letting the oil dribble between, before he started to move his thumb in slow, deep circles on Sherlock's palm.

"You have beautiful hands. Has anyone ever told you that?"

Sherlock gave a minute shake of his head, his breathing growing deep and even. John used both his hands now, smoothing down each of Sherlock's fingers, rubbing deeply on the palm before working his way up the wrist. He felt Sherlock tense for a moment as he rubbed along the sore tendon, before he relaxed again with a sigh.

"I like to watch them," John continued, a hushed confession. "When you're talking...when you snap open that magnifying glass of yours...when you play the violin..."

If Sherlock felt John growing half-hard against his back, he gave no indication.

"God, when you play that violin," John said fervently, working his way up the sinewy muscles of Sherlock's left forearm before massaging his bicep. "When you're lost in the music, and you don't even seem to notice me." He breathed the next words into Sherlock's ear. "I watch your fingers move against those strings and it just makes me...want."

Sherlock shivered, and John gave him a reassuring squeeze with his thighs. He put Sherlock's hand down on his own left thigh, and then pooled oil in his right hand before starting the process again with Sherlock's right palm.

"I'll play for you," Sherlock said somewhat abruptly. "When we're back at Baker Street." He rubbed his cheek against John's shirt, breathing a puff of warm air into the vee of his open collar. "I'll play Sarasate," he added somewhat breathlessly.

"Yes." John worked his hands up Sherlock's right forearm, imagining the muscle tensing and flexing as Sherlock wielded his bow like a weapon, his body swaying unconsciously in synchrony with his music. "You'll play for me, and I'll listen. And when you're done, you'll put your violin and bow away carefully — " At the top of Sherlock's right bicep now, John smoothed one hand firmly down each arm until he held Sherlock's hands palm up in his, rubbing one more deep circle into each palm with his thumbs. " — and you'll put these beautiful hands on me instead."

Sherlock made a fervent noise of agreement. "I could do that now," he said, his voice a full register deeper than even his usual deep baritone. Christ, but that sounded good, and John couldn't stop himself from bucking up a little at Sherlock's words. He breathed deeply, getting himself under control. "Soon," he said, pressing a kiss to the top of Sherlock's head before reaching for the bottle again.

John pooled the oil between his palms now. He slid his hands under the neck of Sherlock's t-shirt, cupping them on his shoulders before stroking firmly up Sherlock's neck with his thumbs. Sherlock groaned deep and seemed to melt, his head lolling back against John's chest as John worked the tension out of his shoulders and neck. John had always had good, strong hands, and he had a knack for this — instinctively finding the knots and loosening stiff muscles, feeling Sherlock growing pliant and mellow beneath his palms.

"Why?" Sherlock said. He didn't sound hurt or angry, just curious.

It took a moment for John to pick up the thread of the conversation again, lost as he had been in the feel of Sherlock's skin under his hands. "Why not now?" he said. "Because I want to know what you like first. I need to know what is good for you, every step of the way, and if it stops being good then we go no farther."

"I am not actually asexual, if that's what you're worried about," Sherlock said, his voice sounding somewhat peevish now. "Much as I may have wished to be in the past. Your...caution in these matters, although appreciated, is hardly necessary." The sharp edge of his voice softened, turning somewhat melancholy as he closed his eyes and continued. "I have no compunction about giving you satisfaction, John, but if you insist upon me receiving it in return you will be disappointed, and bitterness and anger will soon follow."

"Mmmm." John hummed thoughtfully, running his thumbs up firmly to the base of Sherlock's skull, choosing his words carefully. "Is that what you're worried about? That if you don't, er, achieve orgasm, I will consider it a personal failure on my part, and get angry at you?"

Sherlock's brow furrowed, his eyes still shut. "Won't you?"

"No," John said firmly, kissing Sherlock's temple. "I won't." He traced his fingers along the bottom of Sherlock's t-shirt. "Okay to take this off? I'll do your back."

Sherlock hesitated only a moment before nodding, shifting deliciously against John as John drew the t-shirt up over his head and off his arms, throwing it to the side.

Slicking his hands again, John rubbed down Sherlock's neck and along his spine, using Sherlock's passive weight to help him dig into the muscles under his shoulderblades.

"Don't get me wrong," he said meditatively. "I would love to make you come." He smiled as Sherlock's eyes flew open in startlement. He pushed his fingers down Sherlock's spine in a long sweep, lingering on the small of his back. "I'll wager you're gorgeous when you come," he whispered hoarsely into Sherlock's ear.

"John..." The words was formed from a shuddering breath as Sherlock's eyes fluttered closed again.

"But," John continued in a relatively normal tone of voice, "If it doesn't happen for you, that's all right too. As long as you're enjoying yourself, I'll be chuffed to bits." He returned to Sherlock's neck, slowing his movements to a leisurely caress. "How does that sound?"

"Good." Sherlock's voice was soft and dreamy. "That sounds...good."

John smiled. Sherlock hated repeating himself, so hearing him do so was proof positive that his wits had been scattered. John had told himself that this would just be a massage, that he would just see how Sherlock responded to being touched. Now, however, that he had the man sprawled across his lap so pliantly, seeing how incredibly responsive he was to his words, he couldn't help but push a little farther.

His left hand came up to card through Sherlock's hair, pulling gently at the short curls, watching as Sherlock's face smoothed out in bliss. He wound his other hand around to brush down that long line of exposed throat.

"This neck of yours," he said huskily. "I want to do things to it."

"Things?" Sherlock murmured.

Bracing Sherlock's head with the hand in his hair, John ducked down to graze his teeth over the lean line of Sherlock's throat. "I want to bite it," he growled into Sherlock's ear, emphasizing his words with a sharp nip to Sherlock's earlobe. "Suck a mark into it." He straightened up, running his fingertips now up and down, over the bump of Sherlocks' laryngeal prominence to the tender hollow of his suprasternal notch. "Show everyone that I had my mouth on you."

Sherlock made a low noise that John felt as much as heard, vibrating out from under his fingertips. John hadn't failed to notice Sherlock's growing arousal, the soft fabric of his pajama bottoms hiding nothing. He also hadn't failed to notice Sherlock's hand twitching restlessly, moving toward his waistband as John spoke and then away as he seemed to recollect himself.

John took a deep, steadying breath, his left hand again tangling in Sherlock's hair while his right snaked down, now wandering across Sherlock's chest, outlining the musculature there, carefully skirting the healing scar of his knife wound. His blood hummed with arousal and the heady rush of taking a gamble. But then again, John Watson had always been a gambler at heart.

[Please review! :-D]