Hello everyone! Bet you didn't think you would be seeing me so soon? :D

Firstly just a huge thank you, honestly thank you all for your support it means so much to me, you have all given me such a boost and I'm really determined to finish this now. I haven't got a new laptop I'm afraid (bleh) so I hand wrote this and then typed it up in my library with a really scary librarian scowling at me all the time. Oh if only she knew what I was writing.

Updates come with all the uncertainty of the Greek Bail Out fund, but I will finish. Hear that? I WILL!

MB

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Hands on Education.

Chapter 14.

Killer of Sheep.

'Twit-Twoo. Twit-twoo.'

Sherlock awoke with a start, the sharp noise shattering the quite night and jolting his body awake. It was that dam owl again, that dam owl had been keeping him awake for a number of nights now, just as he would fall asleep the thing would call out in its distinctive tones and he would be wide awake again. It had built a nest right by his bedroom window, though he could not see the nest in daylight he knew it was close, occasionally he could see a ball of white flapping its wings against the black backdrop. Not that he needed any reminding it was there, it was loud enough to make forgetting its presence impossible. He spent a few minutes thinking what it would be like if he himself were an owl. To have bright, shining eyes, and to be able to twist his head all around so he could see everywhere. To fly with absolute precision and grace, praying on small animals for sustenance. He mentally put Moriarty's head on the body of a mouse then imagined swooping down and catching him in his sharp talons. He giggled.

He tried to fall asleep again, but found his brain just would not shut off, admitting defeat he leant over and switched on his bedside lamp, casting his room in a warm, glow. He checked his phone for messages, but there was nothing. He felt a pang of disappointment, but was not surprised. It was gone midnight after all, John would probably be fast asleep by now. He pondered texting him, but decided against it. The last text had been well over an hour ago, simply saying 'goodnight'. Sherlock gave a small sigh, he missed John, he wanted John, even if it was only a few words on a screen. It had been such a long day and he would give anything to have John with him right here and right now. It seemed the more time he spent with the older man, the more he felt the pain of being apart. It was an acute pain, he felt it right in his chest, as if someone was stabbing him with a small blade right in the heart. He had spent all day with John, and still it was not enough. He wondered if a lifetime would be enough, especially now as he had discovered the gloriousness of sexual intimacy. After they had woken up from their small sleep in the guest room of John's house, John had insisted on spending the rest of the day fussing over Sherlock. He held him, he kissed him, and he asked him over and over again if he was alright. Telling him that he was loved, that he was beautiful, and that he was perfect. Constantly asking him again and again if there was anything he needed or wanted. Sherlock had joked that the only thing he needed was John naked and writhing. Despite protesting that he was completely serious, John laughed. Now John was gone. Once again he dropped Sherlock off outside his own home, once again he promised to meet up soon, once again he returned to Sarah. Silence fell, and without John's constant chatter Sherlock felt unexpectedly vulnerable.

He crept downstairs into the dark kitchen and poured himself a glass of water. Staring out the kitchen window, sipping on the cold, clear liquid he once again thought back to the day's events. Calling in sick, sneaking round John's, John seeing him naked, seeing John naked, John sucking him off. He shook his head, his pyjama bottoms already beginning to tighten. He didn't especially want an erection while drinking water in his kitchen. He would save that for John. Now he had known what it felt like to have those lips wrapped round his hardness he knew that his right hand would never satisfy him ever again.

On the outside he was exactly the same. He looked exactly the same, his life was exactly the same. He was still a seventeen year old school boy. There was not the slightest difference between pre blow job Sherlock, and post blow job Sherlock. Yet on the inside he felt so different, so very, very different he could barely wrap his head around it. Now he knew physical release he felt like his old self had disappeared and a brand new Sherlock had been put in its place. He felt that there had been a massive shift in his psyche, he would never be quite the same ever again. He also didn't understand why people did anything else. If sex was this good, how come people did such boring things like go to work or do the shopping? How come they didn't just stay inside and have sex all day?

Maybe because no one else was as good as John he sniggered to himself.

He felt much closer to John now he had the experience of using John's body, and of John using him. He had always thought they were as close as two people could be, but he was wrong. Nothing could compare to this. He felt part of John now, now he had seen what was underneath those ridiculous jumpers, and John was part of him. Everything had become so much more intense.

He briefly wondered that, if this was what happened after a blow job, how the hell he would feel if and when John fucked him, at first it sent a jolt of excitement through him, but the more he thought about it, the more it scared the living daylights out of him.

He thought back to John's naked body, the tight, toned muscles and soft, silky skin. He remembered the sight of his hard cock disappearing into that mouth, the indescribable 'oh god yes' feeling of that talented tongue going to work and bringing him totally undone, but mostly he remembered the love and cherishment John bestowed upon him. His eyes lighting up as Sherlock presented him with his naked body. How John had mapped out his body with his touch and showered him with kisses. He was so gentle and loving, yet strong and urgent. He felt like a temple, he felt worshipped.

It was all so different now, it was all a million miles away from where he was in that very moment, standing in his lonely kitchen in his cold, and bleak, empty house. He would give anything, absolutely anything with John once more. To have his arms wrapped round him, curling around his waist and pinning him close. To fall asleep snuggled into the older mans side would be bliss, but no, he didn't get to have such things. He wasn't allowed. He was the affair, would always be the affair so he wasn't honoured with these gifts. That privilege once again belonged to Sarah, he understood that, of course he did, but understanding didn't take the sting out. Facing the truth didn't numb the pain. Just because he knew his place didn't mean he didn't suffer. He often wished he could be entirely ignorant. Then he could live in an entirely different world.

Maybe that's what they were doing right now? Maybe they were sleeping soundly while cuddling tightly? Wrapped up in their own little cocoon. Had John touched Sarah just like they had done earlier in the day? Maybe he had made Sarah writhe, pant and call out his name just like he had made him do? And now they were nakedly snuggiling beside one another, sleeping peacefully. He shook his head trying to dispel the thoughts. He felt anger and bile rise up in his throat, he was furious with his own mind for conjuring up those images, for putting those venomous thoughts in his head. He was happy, why couldn't his brain just leave him alone? Why did it have to betray him by shining a light of his fears? For believing the worst was happening. John loved him. Loved him. He wouldn't do that to him. Would he?

'Hey there handsome.'

Irene Adler winked at him as he entered the lab that Saturday as always. Her long eyelashes fluttering about and her blood red lips pulled into a smile. Sherlock could feel himself blush. Dammit why did this woman have this effect on him? Could he not control himself? It was so easy, he had done it around every single person he had ever met, well, except John of course, but Irene Adler made him awkward, made him blush and act like a fool. She made him human, and Sherlock hated her for it. Behind her sultry smile was row upon row of glistening white teeth, he could see her pink tongue play with them, running itself along the edges of the enamel. He gave a small smile by way of greeting.

'How was your week?' She asked sweetly. Well, sweetly wasn't really the way to describe it, her gaze was fixated on him following his every movement. It was as if a shark was asking him how his week was before ripping him apart with its powerful jaws. Irene Adler did not do sweet.

Sherlock gave a half hearted shrug.

'Same old same old.' He added, taking off his coat and hanging it carefully on the rack before positioning himself behind a microscope.

Irene rolled her eyes, clearly not satisfied with the response Sherlock had given. She was like a dog with a bone and Sherlock knew she would not let go till she got what she wanted. 'If I was straight.' Sherlock thought 'I would probably fancy her.' Sherlock began to play about with the slides, staring down the lenses at the subject. He heard the scraping of a chair and the sound of high heels striking against the floor. The smell of expensive perfume filled his nose as Irene leant into his space, he could feel her hot breath against his ear.

'Come on Sherlock.' She whispered. Her voice low and husky. 'I've been so good to you, letting you come in my lab and do all sorts of exciting experiments, the least you could do is tell me whether or not you have shagged that handsome biology teacher of yours yet?'

Sherlock jerked his head around to face Irene so quickly he almost snapped his neck in half. He felt a wave of pure panic flood him. Someone knew. John had made it so clear that no one could ever find out about him yet someone had. This was not good, this was not good at all. His perfect existence, or as perfect as his life could ever be, had suddenly come screeching to a halt.

'How could you?' He spluttered 'How could you possibly know?'

'I've known for ages.' She said simply 'Your brother and I go way back, wouldn't be much of a friend if I didn't know who his baby brother was opening his legs for now would I?'

Another wave of emotion hit him, this time it was a burning hatred for his brother. Honestly could the man not leave him alone? Even when he was at university his looming presence seemed to surround Sherlock.

'Your not going to tell anyone are you? You have to promise not tell anyone.' He pleaded. The tone alien on his lips.

Irene giggled 'Of course I won't tell anyone Shirley. Where's the fun in that.'

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but right at that moment Lestrade came bursting through the door calling his name.

'Murder in Church Street, old lady by the name of Mrs Perkins, widow. Cause of death is stabbing you interested?'

Sherlock stared at the silver haired detective in bewilderment. 'Really? Me? You want me to have a look?' He couldn't quite believe this was really happening.

Lestrade nodded at him. 'I told you if you were good I would let you come to crime scenes, well now here is your chance. I've sent John a text and he has agreed to be your chaperone.'

Sherlock pouted 'I don't need a babysitter.' Even if it is my boyfriend he mentally added.

Lestrade shrugged 'Yeah, and I'm the queen of Sheba, now come on let's go.'

John knew better then to be offended when he arrived at the crime scene and Sherlock all but ignored him. A brief hello and a few words from Lestrade was all he got before Sherlock darted inside the victims house. John didn't mind of course, he knew Sherlock had not done it on purpose, once that great mind had latched onto something there was no letting go. Not until he had solved everything, had taken it apart and devoured it using that massive brain of his. Nothing and no one could distract him. The entire world could end, but if Sherlock was thinking, John highly doubted Sherlock would notice, he probably wouldn't even bat an eye.

John just stood next to Lestrade in the victim's living room watching his younger lover set to work. The body of the victim, Mrs Perkins, was sprawled out in front of them. The widow lay next to an open fireplace, which fizzled and crackled with life. Sherlock started by inspecting her, then looking around the room, taking everything in. Cataloguing and dissecting in a way only he knew how.

'I'm going out for a fag.' Lestrade informed them. 'Back in a bit.'

Once the pair were alone Sherlock once again knelt by the victim, though this time John joined him. He stared down at what was once the body of an old woman, though it didn't seem that human anymore, the poor women had been stabbed so many times it was unrecognisasble. A large pool of blood had seeped into the carpet. John felt queasy, he normally had a strong stomach but this, this was too much. He briefly wondered if Sherlock should have been kept away, if he was far too young to see such a sight, but he doubted it had bothered him in the same way it had affected John. He didn't think Sherlock had seen it like he had, he didn't think Sherlock had seen an old women whose life had been brutally ripped away from her, an old woman who didn't deserve to end her life in pain and suffering, no, Sherlock had just seen a list of deductions he had made.

'Anything' he asked the younger man, keen to break the stony silence.

There was a long pause. 'It's cold' he answered finally.

'How can you be cold? We are right by a fire. See this is what I mean by you needing body fat.' John teased. Sherlock shook his head.

'That's not what I meant, I meant the murder, and the murder is cold.'

'How do you mean?'

Sherlock took a deep breath and began 'There is no signs of a break in, nothing was taken, there is an expensive gold ring and a watch still on her wrist. This was no robbery gone wrong, whoever killed her knew her routine, knew she would be home and when she was at he most vulnerable. Whoever it was she let in, so clearly it's somebody local. Then there is the sheer number of times she has been stabbed, if this was a crime of passion they would have stopped as soon as she was dead, but I counted nearly forty five wounds on her, it's pure overkill, they kept stabbing her over and over again, long after she would have stopped breathing. Plus there is the central heating.'

The central heating? What has that got to do with anything?'

'Oh come on John just think!' Sherlock replied exacerbated. 'The heating is on and last was not especially chilly. It would have been perfectly warm enough yet when we arrive there is a fire? The killer lit that to keep her body warm so we couldn't determine time of death, though that clearly shows he doesn't know as much as he think he does as using body temperature to determine time of death is incredibly outdated.' Sherlock looked around the room again, nothing missed under his hawk like glare 'She isn't a rich women, just look around you, enough money to live off and a bit saved up, but certainly not a worthy amount to kill someone over, plus she is ninety, why kill someone who will be dead in a few years anyway? There is no rhyme or reason to this murder, no logically explanation to why it should happen at all, it's like whoever did this simply did it because they could.'

John took a few moments to let Sherlock's words sink in. Sherlock was right, whoever did this was one heartless bastard. When Lestrade returned from his cigarette Sherlock repeated everything he had told John. Then the detective quickly ushered the pair out of the house. Forensics would be coming any minute now and he didn't want to explain why Sherlock and John were there.

'I have a lot of work to do now, but if I have some time later do you fancy going for a pint?' Lestrade asked John.

'Sure. See you soon I hope.' John agreed before turning to Sherlock.

'Need a lift home?' He asked but the younger man shook his head.

'My house is only a few streets away, I'll walk.'

John shrugged, a little disappointed at the rejection. 'okay I'll see you at school.' Sherlock nodded and began walking away, John carried on watching the solitary figure till he was far out of sight.

'You have a visitor.' His father hissed at him as soon as he got home. He wasn't even through the door.

'Who?'

'I don't fucking know, there in the kitchen.' his father grabbed his jacket and stormed out, slamming the front door behind him, off to spend another evening down the pub.

Sherlock wondered who could possibly be visiting him, he had left John and Lestrade minutes earlier, Mycroft was in Oxford, he thought maybe Irene Adler had come to torment him some more, but when he wondered into the Kitchen, the face looking back at him belonged to Jim Moriarty.

'Hello Sherlock.' The weasel featured man smiled.

'What the hell do you want? What the fuck do you think you are doing in my house' Sherlock hissed at his enemy.

'Now now Sherlock, where are your manners? You know its customary to offer a guest a drink when they come and visit?'

Sherlock scowled at the boy before storming over to the kettle and flicking it on.

'Tea or coffee?'

'Tea thanks' Sherlock kept the scowl fixed firmly of his face as he hunted around for mugs and tea bags. While his back was turned he felt Moriarty's icy stare on him. Tea made he gave a mug to Moriarty and took a seat opposite. He took a sip of the hot liquid and glared. Moriarty gave a low chuckle.

'It's such a shame you are not more excited to see me Sherlock.'

'And when have you ever given me a reason to be excited to see you? You have bullied me my entire life so forgive me for not being very enthusiastic at your visit'

Moriarty gave another chuckle. 'Such a shame. We're the same you know Sherlock, you and me, both so very clever, both so very bored, think of the fun we could have together, we could have so much fun, we could bring the world to it's knees.'

'I'm nothing like you.' Sherlock snapped adamantly.

'Now we both now that's not true.' Moriarty spoke so calmly, so devoid of emotion it was unnerving. He took a long sip of his tea, his eyes constantly on Sherlock. 'Have you figured it out yet?' He continued 'Have you figured out why I'm here?'

Sherlock scoffed, of course he did.

'Why did you kill her?'

'And what makes you so certain it was me?

'As soon as I figured out only a heartless bastard could have done it.'

Moriarty gave another sinister chuckle.

'I killed her because she was a sheep, and because she was home.' He shrugged 'It could have been anyone, but she was home. You know ever since I can remember I've always had a thirst, I used to be able to sedate it, quench it, all I had to do was bully you and pull wings of flies. But it all became too much and I couldn't control it anymore, this darkness inside me, I had to kill, so I did.' He shrugged again and took another sip of tea. 'I have plans Sherlock, I'm getting together an organisation, its pretty small but it will get bigger. It's such a shame you have chosen the side of the angels, I could do with someone like you.'

'Why are you here?' Sherlock was getting impatient now.

'I told you I…..'

'No' Sherlock interrupted. 'Why are you really here?'

Moriarty smiled at him 'To make you a promise.'

'A promise?' Sherlock raised an eyebrow quizzically.

'Yes Sherlock, a promise. I want you to know that this little game of ours isn't over. We will meet again, someday. I promise you that. Plus I'm a fugitive now and you know how sentimental I am, I just couldn't resist saying goodbye.' He glugged down the last of his tea before standing up and wrapping his coat round himself. 'I have to be in London by nightfall, better dash.'

'What makes you think I'm going to let you go? What makes you think I wont call the police right now?'

Moriarty laughed, a deep, throaty laugh. 'Because I know you Sherlock and I know you won't. You've picked the game Sherlock. You will always pick the game.'

Moriarty walked to the door, pressing down on the handle before he paused and turned to face Sherlock once more. 'Look after Molly for me, you know I felt something for her once, but it's you Sherlock. It's always been about you.'

He opened the kitchen door 'Goodbye. Till next time Sherlock.' He called back before stepping out of the front door.

Sherlock sat in silence, his tea had gone stone cold long ago, he just sat and stared at the empty place where Moriarty had once been. The words the other boy had spoken going round and round in his head. Moriarty had come into his house, confessed to a murder, told him his future plans, even where he was heading, all because he wanted to make Sherlock a promise, a promise that this was not over, a promise that the game had already begun. Moriarty was right, he would not tell a soul. His enemy knew his love of detective work was not because he wanted justice, or to see bad men behind bars. It was because he loved a puzzle. Moriarty knew Sherlock would pick the game, he knew he could waltz into Sherlock's house and tell him everything, because he knew Sherlock would pick the game. He wouldn't tell a soul, because he wanted that future meeting with Moriarty.

Moriarty, who had bullied him his whole life, who was his enemy, actually knew him better then anybody else.

He would tell no one, not even John. Sweet, kind, brave, loving John, would just not understand. He understood so much, but not this. He knew he would find Molly crying at her boyfriends disappearance, and he knew he would be there to provide kind words and a shoulder to cry on. He also knew that the death of Mrs Perkins would become yet another cold case file at Bakerford police station.

See you soon Moriarty. See you very soon.

John knocked on the bathroom door, the hollow sounds echoing in the air were quickly followed by the sound of splashing water.

'I'm off for a pint with Greg' He lied, the truth was the detective inspector had cancelled their pub plans just hours before, the Perkins case has him swamped and he had to work late. Sherlock had texted him immediately afterwards saying he was home alone and John just would not resist the allure of his younger lover. The Greg story was the perfect cover up, not that Sarah would know any of this.

'Okay. Don't get too drunk.' She called back. Her voice layered with a slight tone of annoyance that her husband had interrupted her bath. John could her the soft, jazzy music she was playing, he could see the flicker of tea lights through the bottom of the door. Her imagined her with a glass of wine in one hand and a trashy romance novel in the other. Probably smiling to herself that she had managed to get rid of her husband for the evening. Honestly is this what women did to relax? Lie in their own filth while reading shit books? Not that he really cared, not when the promise of Sherlock was calling out to him.

He climbed into his car and speeded down the streets, his car stereo on as loud as it would go. He sang along, not caring that he was thirty five and acting stupid. He felt like a teenager again, going to someone's house while their parents were away? Filled with excitement at the prospect of a snog, maybe even a grope? It was bringing back pleasant memories. Not that the casual partners of his youth were anything like the all consuming love he felt for Sherlock.

He was eternally grateful when Sherlock opened the door wearing just jeans and a tee shirt. He hated seeing Sherlock in school uniform, unlike some men that particular fantasy never had any appeal for him. To him the material was used a physical reminder of who exactly Sherlock was, when he was in normal clothes John found he could forget it was a pupil he was holding in his arms.

'Evening stranger.' He grinned, kissing Sherlock boldly on the cheek before being led inside. As soon as the door was closed Sherlock snuggled into his arms, pulling him tightly into a hug, burying his face into his neck. John once again feeling those soft curls tickling his nose.

'I missed you.'

John laughed. 'I've only been gone a few hours.' The last time he had seen Sherlock was at the crime scene earlier that day.

Sherlock shrugged 'Still missed you.' He pressed his lips lightly to John's neck. John closed his eyes and enjoyed the moment.

He had never been inside Sherlock's house before, always dropping his off outside, never once coming in. John also had a strange feeling Sherlock preferred being at his place, now looking around he could clearly see why. The place the picture of neglect. All the curtains were drawn, very little sunlight seemed to creep through. Paint and wallpaper were peeling of the walls and the furniture looked old and warn, so old an warn even the most desperate of charity shops would reject them. Sarah would have a heart attack if any of this stuff came inside her neat and tidy home.

It was the very opposite of a happy home, it made John and Sarah's modest house look like a palace.

'It used to be nice.' Sherlock spoke sensing his unease. 'But since mum died dad has just given up caring. Come on I'll show you my room.'

Sherlock felt slightly uneasy when John entered his room, after all no one else came into this space, so having someone else's presence here was new to him. It was his private sanctuary, but strangely he didn't want John to leave.

The room reminded John of his old student halls before he had moved in. Completely bare and soulless, ready for someone to stamp their personality on the place. There was furniture, a few scattered books on the desk and a rumpled duvet, and the skull he had given the younger man all those months ago, but nothing else to suggest someone lived here.

'It's so bare.' He commented, staring at the sky blue walls.

'I like it this way.' Sherlock shrugged. 'Come here I want to show you something.'

He led John to his small single bed, the older man perched on the end causing the old mattress to squeak at the weight.

Sherlock rummaged around his desk drawer before pulling out his most private of possession, he gave it a quick look before handing the photograph to John.

'That's my mum.' He explained, ever since their conversation at John's house about her death, he had been yearning to show John the only picture he had of her.

John smiled as he took the image in. The women was beautiful, almost as captivating as her son. The same curly hair, black as night, the high cheekbones and grey eyes. She had none of Sherlock's seriousness, her mouth pulled into the kind of smile he rarely saw on his younger lover. There was something else as well.

'Is that you?' He pointed a finger at a small toddler she held in her arms. He had a patch of wild black hair, a prominent cupids bow and to his surprise, incredibly rosy and chubby cheeks.

'Yes that's me.' Sherlock felt a flush of embarrassment.

'Oh you are adorable.' John cooed. 'You're the cutest thing I have ever seen.' It was true, toddler Sherlock, despite his lack of smile was seriously cute. Even cuter then poppy when she was a pup.

'I am not adorable.' Sherlock protested.

'Oh yes you are, just look at your chubby little fingers.'

Sherlock just rolled his eyes and went back to the desk drawer. 'There is something else as well.'

John stopped teasing him and wondered what else Sherlock wanted to show him.

'Here' Sherlock presented him with a folded bit of paper. He wondered what was so special about it till he saw that the paper had been expertly folded into a paper aeroplane.

'It's the one you made in that detention you gave me. I want you to know I kept it, I wanted you to know I was in love with you even back then.'

John felt his breath catch in his throat. He toyed with it between his fingers gently, he had totally forgotten all about it, all about the detention, all about the time when Sherlock was just his student and not his everything. He had no idea Sherlock had felt something for him back then, that he would keep something as trivial as a paper aeroplane simply because he had made it, he had assumed Sherlock's love for him was made out in the snow, clearly he was wrong.

'I can't believe you kept it.'

'It's the only thing I have of yours.' Sherlock explained.

He handed Sherlock back the paper and the photograph.

'Thank you' He mentally told the image of Sherlock's mother. 'Thank you for him.'

Sherlock carefully placed the objects back in the drawer before turning back to John.

'Can we kiss now?' He asked. John just laughed, admiring Sherlock's forwardness.

'Sure.'

They lay down on the best, quite a tight squeeze with two of them, but the managed, John propped up against the wall and Sherlock lying mostly underneath him they managed to fit. The kiss, as usual, was deep and electric, John's brain turned to a thick sludge as soon as his lips met Sherlock's. Hands roaming everywhere, much to delight of both of them. Sherlock managed to elicit small whimpers fro the older man with every kiss. Quickly he changed positions so he lay on top of Sherlock straddling his thighs. He lightly cupped John's growing erection in his palm, causing John to gasp and buck his hips into Sherlock's palm, all the while kissing him ravenously. They were both desperate to feel the touch of the other. John was like salt water, Sherlock mused, the more he had, the more he wanted to drink.

Sherlock quickly undid John's belt buckle, toying with the zip before pulling it down so his trousers, and then his boxers, rested just above John's knees. He knew what John wanted, and Sherlock knew what he wanted him to do, he just wasn't sure how, he had never done this before so he was uncertain over exactly what it was he should be doing. He decided to simply copy what John had done to him. Leaning down he gave an experimental lick of Johns hard cock, finding the tangy taste of pre-come mixed in with John's signature taste to be strangely pleasant. He pulled the foreskin down with one hand and licked the underside of the hard muscle, then round the tip, letting his tongue flicker into the slit. John groaned, his breath coming out in short, sharp pants before stopping altogether when Sherlock swallowed him down. Sherlock alternated between hallowing out his cheeks and sucking hard, and then bobbing up and down, stopping just before his gag reflex kicked in, covering John's dick with his saliva. He felt John's hand slip into his hair, not pushing his down, or guiding him in any way, they were just holding his head while he gently fucked his throat. Sherlock was pretty confident he was doing something right as he felt John tense up, desperately trying to stop himself from writhing about uncontrollably. It was a strange feeling, knowing that John's penis was in his mouth, but it felt so right. He didn't want to stop. He wanted to be the one to make John come, he wanted John to scream his name. He had completely lost himself as soon as he felt his mouth invaded by John's hard cock.

When John had looked down and seen that cupids bow wrapped round his cock he honestly thought he would come right there and then, he was fairly certain his brain had short circuited, it took every ounce of brain power he had left, not to pound his hips as hard as he could into that mouth. Despite being Sherlock's first time, despite being unpractised and messy, it was incredible, no one had ever sucked him off quite so enthusiastically. It was glorious.

'Fuck.' He panted after a while of being the subject of Sherlock's persistence.

'Fuck Sherlock…..I'm going to….oh fuck….SHERLOCK!'

Sherlock had prepared himself for the inevitable, it was the signal he had been waiting for. He didn't move, he stayed exactly where he was, he was hopelessly turned on, knowing he was the one that had caused John to be in this state. He wanted to taste him. John gave another series of groans before coming hard down Sherlock's throat. He bucked his hips into the heat as Sherlock milked him dry, riding on the waves of pleasure his orgasm ripped through him.

Sherlock swallowed, yes the taste wasn't exactly nice, but John was sweeter the Sherlock imagined, and he didn't want to spit John out, so he swallowed John's seed. Once John got his breath back he pulled Sherlock into his side and the pair cuddled. John holding his close to his chest and planting messy kisses to the top of his head, telling Sherlock how much he loved him and using words like 'wonderful' and 'amazing' Sherlock lay back, his ego preening at John's compliments.

John kissed his lips.

'I love you Sherlock. I love you.'

Murder and Sex in the same chapter? I'm spoiling you I really am. Next chap is coming to a future near you nut in the meantime review! review! review!