Cool, moist and sinfully satisfying. The little voice cackled in glee.

* o.O.o.O.o.O.o*

The first thought was, well, there was no thought. All sense had been suspended as soon as those arrogant lips pressed against his own. He felt the fingers - gentle yet strong - grip the sides of his jaw. His mouth opened in shock. All rational thought seemed to vanish from his thoughts as desire blossomed in his chest as Sherlock's tongue snuck though. It tasted of cheese and apples, with hints of cinnamon. John tilted forwards, a deep rumble escaping. It felt...beautiful.

John urged Sherlock back slightly, gaining advantage of height. He slipped a hand in the colourful head of ebony curls, marvelling in the softness. Threading his fingers, he pulled the other's head back, allowing his own exploration. The doctor smirked at the hitch in his friends voice, the murmur of need that whimpered from that throat. Breathless they pulled back, eyes boring into one another.

"That was..."

"Sherlock-"

"Satisfactory." Sherlock murmured, heart hammering frantically. Every nerve sparked.

John chuckled.

"Extraordinary..." Sherlock whispered, lips already seeking. John moaned, spare hand wrapping behind the detectives nape. He felt Sherlock shiver. It was wrong. It was devious. It was perfect.

The blonde felt the rush of blood to his trousers. He pulled back, gaze taking in the muscled form clad only in royal purple hemmed with gold, and boldly ran a thumb across his friends chest. His wrist was immediately caught in a strong grasp.

"I - I've never..." Sherlock managed, gaze fixated on his doctor. His John. The other could hardly hide the astonishment, but it was quickly replaced with a hunger that shook Sherlock's very foundation.

The idea of Sherlock never indulging in intimate acts with another human being was more then the good doctor could bare. He seared a kiss on that haughty mouth, his lips trailing down along the slightly stubbled jaw. Sherlock winced as he shifted, his injury protesting, but he promptly ignored it as John's tongue nipped at his nipple. The sensation was...arousing. Frightfully so.

"I seem to be - aroused..." Sherlock muttered, the word almost foreign on his tongue. He could feel the painful throbbing between his legs and noted that John seemed to be in the same situation.

"Am I intruding?"

Sherlock coolly tilted his head at the intruder, trying to force the observation of John who had stiffened, face instantly thrown into an emotional flux of shock, fear and shame, into the back of his mind. Sherlock ignored the sickening feeling writhing in his gut as John broke from his start, leaping back to his feet.

"Paul," Sherlock stated blandly, the violin mercifully concealing his softening member. Thankfully Jon's back was turned, his own erection quickly receding.

"Sherlock. Dr. Watson." Green eyes surveyed the two men, the pinkness of his flatmates cheekbones and the heavy breathing of the doctor. "I have a lead on the case."

Sherlock nodded curtly, fingers trembling as he gingerly shifted in his seat. He blamed the morphine.

*o.O.o.O.o.O.o*

"By adding a certain amount of hydrochloric acid to pure gold, there is no change in the metal, but when you add nitric acid the chemical mixture will turn yellow, the gold will start dissolving. The nitric acid is oxidizing the surface, which allows the chloride to react to form a complex form which dissolves in the solution. This can then be placed on shelves - stored and unnoticed by those common enough not to realize the value - which can allow the gold to be returned to metal with the proper reducing agent. Facinating. The dissolved gold becomes chloeoauric acid - solidified. By adding the solution, the gold will become a powder, one has to melt it down to get the shine of common gold. It's brilliant..." Sherlock grinned, his hands steepled under his chin, eyes shining like molten chocolate. "The powdered gold is being smuggled in the cigars!"

"And you know this how?" John scoffed, trying to follow his friends erratic speech. Sherlock pointed to the cigar held in Jefferson's fingers.

"Jefferson, would you be so kind as to dissect the Claro?"

"Where did you get that?" The question was ignored as Paul unwrapped the cigar, its contents containing a dark yellow-brown powder.

"Remarkable," Sherlock muttered. He leaned in his chair, lips pressed in a thin line. "The smugglers are using the stolen gold and transporting it in cigars. But why cigars? The amount is paltry...unless the cigars are meant as a means of communication...promising the larger prize. Displaying the means how the gold can be transformed."

"The Claro brand connects those involved, seeing as our criminals are all linked. Almost like a secret handshake or signature item." Jefferson added.

"Je sues d'accord." Sherlock ran his hands through his hair, ignoring the falling feathers that gathered in his lap (thankfully now covered in an appropriate blanket). "They were killed with the same Claro that was being used to smuggle the gold - a message was sent to those involved. Maybe someone got greedy..."

"Those men, those secretaries - they were somehow involved with the smuggling." John managed to get in a word. He rather disliked how the detective and the ex-lieutenant conversed, almost in their own world. I kissed him, I was the one who ignited such lewd moans. John allowed himself a private grin at the thought. I fathom you have never even tasted such sweetness, Mr. Jefferson.

"They had access to the security and documents of the Bank, even if it was minor; but clever, no one looks at the small fish. They could steal from under the Bank's noses. But they got greedy - three married and one engaged? They must have been in need of some income. But murder? Why murder?" Sherlock ranted.

"Perhaps the person in charge hates having what he desires most, being taken from him."

Paul commented, the last words laced with a frosty undertone. John grimaced as bouts of anger drew around him.

"Damn being confined to this horrifying room - the air is thick with boredom; there are murderers and smugglers to be apprehended!" Sherlock shouted in anger.

"Another week, Holmes and then you may - carefully - return to the case." John felt the intense brown orbs turn in his direction. He noticed the small blush forming around the detectives cheeks, the reddening of the tips of his ears, and found himself enjoying the attention, even if it was mostly anger.

"I am to assume you are still interested in this adventure?" Sherlock muttered to the doctor. His heart fluttered as those sky blue eyes drank him in. He could lose himself in that brightness. But then the fleeting memory of John's reaction jarred him back into reality. John. Mary. Married. Of course John would react in such a predictable manner. Sherlock felt a wave of nausea momentarily take over.

"I am sure Mrs. Watson would disagree." Paul cut in. " During the previous meeting she was quite firm in her view."

Oh. Mary. The baby. John felt his stomach drop. How had he forgotten? He glanced at Sherlock, who was suddenly very taken by the feathers in his lap.

*o.O.o.O.o.O.o*

Timing was everything. He learnt that from a young age but he was starting to become impatient. They were starting to get close, the game was amusing but the Doctor...he was starting to become irritating. The plans, oh what grand plans they were, were starting to become complicated. This man, John Watson, was starting to become a problem. He wanted nothing more than to feel the doctors blood coarse down his hands.

Paul Jefferson watched carefully, committing to memory, the fleeting emotions that so plainly sailed across the other man's face. He hid his pleasure deep down, locked away his satisfaction. His time would come. His prize was too great. The prize of the great Sherlock Holmes, a vast sea in need of concurring.

When he had witnessed the Doctor pressed over top the detective, Paul's blood had run cold. They were close, so close to finishing this game of theirs. He could not allow such a whimsical man to interfere.

"During the previous meeting she was quite firm in her view. Why only this morning I saw her on her way out and heard the good news. Surely that is enough to stay from danger, is it not Dr. Watson?"

"News?" Sherlock questioned, still deeply concerned for the feathers in his lap.

"Oh did the good Doctor not say?" Jefferson spoke, cutting off any response from the other man, "He is to be a father!"

The room fell heavy into silence. John Watson felt hollow as no words seemed to form as he watched the consulting detective peer at him with a bored curiosity as the feathers where casually discarded to the ground.

"I believe congratulations are in order, then my dear doctor. Give my best to Mary."

"Holmes -"

"I don't know much about marriage other than it is a pointless waste of time, but I do know that your life is too precious to be risked on such affairs. You are to return to Mary and raise this child away from such crime."

"Sherlock!" John managed, but it sounded weak even to his own ears. He needed to be here. To be with Sherlock. "I-"

"Sherlock is correct, Dr. Watson. Now that you are to be a father, such dealings will only put you and your family in harms way. Please leave all future matters behind you."

*o.O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o*

Emotions compromise thought Sherlock chanted silently, eyes weary and void. A father. John Watson. How...common. Moments ago they were locked in something so passionate, so vibrant that time seemed to stand still. But how fleeting a moment of bliss can be, replaced by a vacant emotion. Emotion. An affective state of conscious in which a variety of feelings are experienced. How unnecessary. How troublesome.

"Are you alright, Sherlock?"

"Quite. I do require some peace and quiet if you will. Please escort Dr. Watson out will you?"

Jefferson allowed glee to give him a simple thrill of pleasure as he nodded to the Doctor, who had, to his satisfaction, seemed rather unwell.

"No."

"No?"

"Mr. Jefferson, if you please, I would like to talk to Mr. Holmes, privately."

"What need-"

"Mr. Jefferson!" John shouted, lips quivering slightly in suppressed rage.

Paul felt his palms twitch with murderous intent but Sherlock clicked his tongue, breaking the sinister trance.

"You have three minutes." Sherlock murmured. "Then you will escorted out of the house, by force if necessary."

"Three minutes then," Paul echoed, his footsteps taking him out of the room.

John took in a shaky breath. He didn't know what to say, but he felt he needed to say something, anything.

"How far along?"

"Pardon?"

"How far along is the pregnancy?"

John gazed at the expressionless face, those soft yet hard lips which had murmured such sensuous sounds.

"A few months."

"You now come to the portion of life that makes you a father. Sentimental attachments, extravagant expenses, oh and not to mention the -"

"Be quiet, Sherlock."

John found himself in front of the detective, not trusting his writhing emotions. Sherlock was averting his gaze his cheeks taking on a pink glow.

"I want you."

"I fail to understand..."

"I want you in my life. I cannot imagine one without -"

"You have a child to think about, John." Sherlock hissed, looking up into pleading blue eyes. Eyes that begged forgiveness, told of pleasures that were yet to be experienced.

Without thinking, without holding back, John leaned forward and kissed the man beneath him. Tasted the fading hints of cinnamon and apple. And then pulled away.

"I swear it to you on all I hold dear, Sherlock Holmes. I will never let you go."

Silence hung thick around them, breathes shallow and erratic.

"Good day Doctor Watson," Sherlock whispered as Paul Jefferson pushed open the doors.