"...his first major injury came after his third World Cup win, keeping him out of the next season, but he was back in fine form after that, helping his team get to the finals..." Isaac Lyons read from the podium at the front of the ballroom.

John sat in the back row of chairs, quietly watching the crowd as the memorial service went on. He had debated whether to attend, but decided to in the end.

The floor to ceiling windows showed the incredible expanse of the city and the River Thames, 125 meters below. John was slightly bemused that he felt a touch of vertigo, realizing that he hadn't been in a building over six stories tall for a long time. It had even been a strange feeling to step into the high-speed elevator to get to the 34th floor, whisking upwards with powerful motors instead of his own steam.

He was pulled out of his musings when Paola's coach sat down, and his fiancée stepped up, tottering on sky-high Louboutin heels. Her signature mane of gold hair was pulled back into a severe chignon at her nape. Even from the back of the room, he could tell her eyes were puffy from crying and her usual proud posture was bent under the strain of her grief.

"Thank you to everyone for coming out today. Paolo's family, friends, teammates..." She looked at various people sitting on the chairs. "He was so well loved, everywhere we went, and we will miss him so..." Stepping back from the microphone, she dabbed a tissue at her eyes, momentarily overcome and trying to collect herself.

Seeing the obvious grief on Felicity's face really brought it home to John. Made it real. Paolo's fiancée was a successful model, but John had always been impressed with her when she had accompanied Paolo to medical appointments and when he spoke to her after the surgeries. She asked intelligent questions, and there was obviously a great relationship between them, supporting and loving each other. To see this normally poised, beautiful woman breaking down in front of everyone had him scrambling for his handkerchief as well.

A handsome man stepped up to her side, wrapping a supporting arm around her waist, whispering in her ear. She nodded weakly, and he drew her away, taking her to sit beside an older woman who hugged her tight.

"Felicity wanted to let everyone know that there will be refreshments available after the service, so please stay." He returned to the podium to address the crowd, and nodded as he was done.

Like most funerals now, there was an urn with his cremated remains on a side table, so no need to leave to go to a cemetery. People milled about, going to the windows to lookout over the vistas and quietly talk as the caterers set up a buffet of snack foods and beverages.

John stood up, and went to the washroom. As he came back, he ran into his friend, Mike Stamford. "Oh, I didn't expect to see you here. You aren't in sports medicine circles."

"My wife is friends with Felicity, so I knew them socially." Mike replied with a warm smile.

They had been friends since college, but didn't get the chance to see each other very often. Mike came from a wealthy background and had wealthy clientele. John's patients were mostly poor seniors and disabled people, with the occasional elite athlete.

Looking towards Felicity standing with the handsome, olive-skinned man, John quietly asked Mike about him.

Mike chuckled. "You don't watch sports much, do you? Oscar Moretti. He's an old friend of Paolo's, practically a brother. Plays for Milan."

"Is there something more going on there?" John asked, lowering his voice, looking over at the attractive couple. Felicity seemed very upset still, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue, and Oscar talking to her softly, care evident in his expression.

Mike shrugged. "There have been rumours, but hotly denied by fans. Oscar, Paolo and Felicity were often seen out together, obviously close with each other. It's only natural he is taking care of her this way."

Nodding, John took a glass of wine from a passing server. This was definitely the fanciest service he had every been to, packed with famous athletes and celebrities. The venue size limited the crowd to those invited only, but John estimated at least a hundred people were in the ballroom, maybe even a hundred and fifty.

A taller man caught his eye, and John was surprised to see Sherlock there, talking with an older woman. He was dressed in a well-tailored black suit, with a simple white dress shirt, but wore it like a model.

Mike chuckled beside him. "Hmmm...I've seen that look before. Another conquest in your sights?"

John rolled his eyes at the insinuation. He had been teased during medical school about his dating habits, and the nickname 'Three Continents Watson' had somehow emerged. "Yes, he's undeniably attractive, but Sherlock Holmes is too much of a nutter for me."

"A bad boy your mama warned you to stay away from? Ever see that crazy / hot graph? The crazy ones are always the most exciting in bed." Mike joked. "We are tempted to be with them even though we know they are no good for us."

John scoffed, taking another drink. "I think I'm old enough to control myself."

Mike smirked at him. "You are single! You should go out and have some wild fun once in a while. Give something for the married types to be jealous over."

John shrugged in response to Mike's comment, and their conversation went on to other topics. But it kept popping up in his thoughts.

Maybe from the outside it looked like his life was routine. Safe. After his years in the military, he had come home and taken a good hard look at everything. He had dated a lot, but never had a long term relationship. With his parents dead, and his sister so unreliable, John had to create his own life. Start his own practice, build up clientele. Date people who were smart and with similar goals in life.

...

Exiting the building an hour later, John crossed the mostly empty parking lot to head towards London Bridge tube station. The weather was mild and warm, and he felt better for being outside again.

A man rushed towards him, and before he could even react, punched him hard across the jaw. John rocked to the side, almost falling down, but regained his balance.

Adrenaline kicked in, breathing faster and his heart pounding as he took in his attacker. Young, strong, angry. Circling to attack John again. He took a few breaths, trying to calm down and focus, knowing he couldn't get out of this on brute strength alone against the bigger man. He needed to be smart.

His attacker took advantage of John's disorientation, his right fist coming in for a hard uppercut.

John saw it coming, and jumped back out of pure reflex. He saw an opening, and his left hand shot out, catching the man hard in his stomach.

The taller man bent over, clutching his abdomen with a loud grunt of pain.

Feeling a surge of satisfaction, John was about to follow it up with another punch when someone grabbed him from behind. He tensed up, ready to spin around to face another attacker.

"John, John..." The man behind him said with a calming tone, the voice seeming familiar and letting John relax a little.

The attacker in front of him straightened up, glaring at John and the man behind him, and must have decided it was too much to take them both on. He whirled around, running quickly down the street.

Part of John wanted to chase him down, surging forward instinctively, but was held back by restraining hands. Twisting out of their grasp, John turned to face the man, surprised to see it was Sherlock.

Blue-green eyes scanned over John, taking in the swelling on his lower face. "Come on, we should get some ice on that before it gets worse."

John's first reaction was to let out an incredulous laugh. Sherlock as a nurse, tending his wounds? The idea was ridiculous. He shook his head as he raised a hand to his face, probing where it was sore.

As his fingers probed over the swollen area, he became more aware of the pain, not only in his jaw, but also in his hand. Fuck.

Sherlock nudged him forward, and with a sigh, John followed him. This whole day was just getting stranger. Sherlock waved to a trishaw, and they were soon crowded together in the seat, crossing London Bridge.

Twenty minutes later, Sherlock was leading him up the stairs to a flat. Right into the mad scientist's lair. The thought made John smirk to himself as Sherlock unlocked the door and waved John inside.

It was like stepping into the past, the flat a run down version more suited to one of his ancient patients than a man in his mid-thirties. The walls were painted a light green, with some sections covered with brown patterned wallpaper. The wall above a sagging sofa had bold black and white wallpaper. Every surface seemed to be covered with dusty stacks of books and piles of paper.

"Sit down, John." Sherlock waved towards a plush, upholstered chair with a Union Jack throw pillow as he shucked off his long coat and went into the adjoining kitchen.

Shaking his head, John settled into the chair. He looked down at his left hand, the knuckles reddened and starting to swell. He flexed his fingers experimentally, cringing at the sharp twinges of pain. Idiot. He sighed heavily.

Sherlock passed him a tea towel lumpy with several ice cubes, and plopped down on a boxy, dark grey leather armchair nearby.

"Ta." John said softly, shifting the cold bundle to sit against his left hand. The ice inside was already starting to melt, the cold water soaking the fabric.

Curious eyes looked him over, and Sherlock nodded. "Of course. Your hand. I'll get you another for your face." He popped before John could object.

When he returned, John just looked at the new ice pack, wondering how he could manage to hold it against his face while keeping the other against his hand.

Sensing his dilemma, Sherlock gave John's arm a little tug. "Come over here. This will work better."

He motioned for John to sit down on the sofa, and then sat down himself. Placing a throw pillow on his lap, another sweep of his hand showed what he had in mind.

Rolling his eyes, John swung his legs up onto the sofa, leaning back to rest his head on the pillow. Sherlock held the ice pack against his face. John held the other one against his left hand, resting them on his stomach. It was a strangely intimate position for two strangers to be in.

"Who was that guy who attacked you?" Sherlock asked.

John closed his eyes, thinking back on it. Everything had happened so fast. A blur of motion and the survival instinct overriding everything else. "I'm not sure. He was younger than me, likely late twenties."

Sherlock was quiet, and John couldn't see his face from this position to tell what he was thinking. "I didn't recognize him either. I would say he is an athlete, from his physique and quick motions. And he clearly wasn't a fan of you."

There was a slight wry tone to the last comment, and John smiled in response. "I'm not really the type of guy who has archenemies."

"No? Sounds rather dull." Sherlock shifted the ice pack, and a trickle of the melted water went down John's neck.

The cold, wetness sent a slight shiver through John. His breath caught, a tingle travelling down his body. Suddenly, he felt more aware of everything. The contrast of the ice packs chilling his skin when he was warm everywhere else. The odd odour of a musty apartment with chemical fumes, perhaps sulphur or formaldehyde. Things that triggered memories of his days in university labs. His legs felt weak, drained of energy.

Sherlock swore softly, and shifted, getting back off the sofa and positioning John lying down with the ice pack resting against his face. "Your blood sugar is dropping. I'll make you some sweet tea."

John wanted to object, as he hated sugar in his drinks, but then held back. It was strange being the patient, being taken care of. Having his symptoms recognized by someone else before he did.

By the time Sherlock returned with a tray and poured out a couple mugs, John sat up. He put one ice pack on the coffee table, and rested the other on his thigh. Turning his left hand over, he rested it against the cold pack as he took the hot drink with the other. It was real tea, with real sugar, and John sighed at the full flavours that reminded him of his childhood.

From this vantage point, he could see the flat better. Between sips of tea, he tried to subtly check things out. The room nearby was more of a laboratory than kitchen, with elaborate set ups of glassware, clamps and stands. A massive compound microscope had a place of honour at the kitchen table. It was an odd mix of a laboratory, a library and a old lady's cast-off furniture. Clearly, Sherlock lived alone. He couldn't imagine anyone else putting up with these living conditions. At the table near the windows, he spotted a SensiSuit draped over the back of a chair amongst the other clutter, confirming his single status.

"Feeling any better?" Sherlock asked, when John set the empty mug down on the coffee table. His perceptive eyes were watching John closely, likely noticing how he had looked around.

John lifted his hand from the ice pack, turning it over and moving his fingers. The swelling was not too bad, and his range of motion was alright. "I seem to be fine. I should know better than punching with my left hand, but instinct overwhelms thoughts sometimes."

"Can I?" Sherlock held out his hand.

Surprised, John nodded and placed his hand on Sherlock's. His hands were long-fingered and cool to the touch.

Focussing down on his hand, Sherlock lifted it, angling it slightly in various directions, and then lightly palpating around the metacarpals. "You are lucky, Doctor. There doesn't appear to be any breaks."

"Old habits die hard." John pulled his hand back, feeling a little awkward. It was years since he had been in an altercation like that, likely since his army days, fighting drunk over some woman.

Sherlock gave a half-smile at that. "Really? You used to get into fights?" His sharp eyes scanned over John's hemp blend clothing and vegan leather shoes.

The dismissive tone and expression sent a surge of irritation through John. It had been a trying day, the funeral, the attack, and now being here with Sherlock. John's normal patience was at an end. "Doesn't every man at some point in their lives? A simple equation of alcohol lowering inhibitions and intelligence, combined with too much testosterone."

The speculative look he got in return put John into even more of an irked state. "I really should get going. Thank you your help." He stood up, feeling more himself from the tea and rest.

Sherlock walked to the door, but didn't open it. He stared down at John as he approached, his perceptive eyes reviewing him again. And before John could see it coming, he leaned in to press a soft kiss to the sore spot on John's jaw.

John jerked back, startled. The kiss was as unexpected as the punch earlier had been. And left a bigger physical reaction. A combination of warmth and prickles went across his skin, that quick press of warm lips seeming to still tingle.

The taller man had not retreated far, his face still close as he watched for John's response, a slight smirk on his lips.

Glaring up at the berk, John stepped back, shaking his head. "What are you on about?"

Stepping back into John's space, Sherlock ignored the signs, and swooped in for another kiss, this one on John's mouth.

His eyes fell to Sherlock's lips, wanting another, more. The physical, immediate yearning fought with his saner side. He hardly knew this man, and although he was attractive physically, John didn't like him otherwise. This was so, so wrong.

Perhaps sensing John's inner battle, Sherlock tipped the scales with another kiss, this one longer, harder. It broke off with a gasp from both of them. The zing of chemistry between them was undeniable.

Pushing his right hand into Sherlock's hair, John dragged him closer for more. Heat, excitement, a fast surge of pure want ran through John, in a way he hadn't felt for years with anyone. This was ridiculous. He hardly even knew Sherlock. What was he doing?

Questions like that flew from his mind when Sherlock pressed his mouth to John's neck, kissing and giving soft bites to the sensitized skin there. Moaning loudly, John tilted his head away to give better access as his hands clutched his shoulders, pulling him closer. They were soon fully pressed together.

Running his hands down Sherlock's back, John glorified in the enveloping sensation of this man. Feeling his warm body pressed along his own, the warmth, the feel of the fabrics beneath his fingers. The full feel of hot, wet lips against his skin. The sharp nip of teeth. So much more than the satisfying sensations from a SensiSuit. He had forgotten how raw and intense it could be in reality. Dangerous, real, scary, exciting. The smell of a woodsy cologne and the nudge of his erection against John's stomach twisted his arousal higher and higher.

"Fuck." John groaned, tugging Sherlock's dress shirt out of his trousers to touch the bare skin of his back.

Sherlock pulled back, a little breathless, his eyes glittering with sexual promise. "Bedroom?"

This was it. A simple yes or no would suffice. Casual, spur of the moment sex. Fucking a man who was practically a stranger just for fun. Or should he shake his head regretfully and go? Admit to them both that this was a momentary lapse of judgment, that he was ruled by his head, not his libido?

But Sherlock looked too damn tempting to resist. John gave a wicked grin in response, and saw the answering spark of heat in Sherlock's gaze.

Seconds later, they were yanking off their clothes in his cluttered bedroom, chuckling at their uncoordinated movements in their rush to strip. Finally they landed in a messy tangle on the unmade bed, John quickly rolling on top of Sherlock to kiss him hard.

It had been far too long since he'd felt this, an eager naked partner, skin against skin. Messy, sweaty, delicious. Unrestrained and a bit savage. Sherlock seemed determined to leave his mark on John's chest, each nip of his teeth making John hiss in pleasure mixed with the pain. It was almost too much, but too luscious to stop.

—

An hour later, John pulled away of Sherlock's lax hold with a chuckle, and planted a soft kiss on his lips. "Do you mind if I use your shower before I go?"

Sherlock shook his head, watching like a sated lion as John got out of bed and picked up his discarded clothing from the floor.

John's shower was quick, using Sherlock's expensive shower gel and shampoo without worry. He dressed and made sure he had everything, patting his pockets with another chuckle. It would be bad to need to come back for his keys, looking like he intentionally left them behind as an excuse to see Sherlock again. This was obviously just a one-off hook-up for both of them.

When he left the bathroom, Sherlock was in a silk dressing gown and trousers, his chest and feet bare, typing on his tablet.

John lingered for a second by the door. "Thanks again for before." It was awkward sometimes, leaving.

Sherlock rose, ambling towards John. "For what? The sex?" There was a teasing glint to his eyes.

"That, and helping me with the attacker." He waved his sore hand.

Nodding, Sherlock stopped near John. "Still no idea who it was? Or why?"

John shrugged. "None at all."

There was another awkward pause, both of them gazing at each other. Should I kiss him goodbye?

The thought made John chuckle to himself, breaking the intense moment. "Goodbye, Sherlock." He pulled open the door with his right hand.

"Au revoir, Doctor." Sherlock said from the doorway as John headed down the stairs.

It took John a minute to orientate himself, and head off to the nearest tube station. Once settled on a seat, swaying with the motion, he was surprised when his phone vibrated in his pocket.

Would it be too forward to say we should do that again sometime? -SH

The surprising message from Sherlock sent a few confusing emotions through John. Pleasure that he had texted and seemed interested in more with John. It was a clear sign he had enjoyed the sex as much as John had. Anticipation at the idea of more sex. A twinge of concern, questioning if it was a good idea to continue things. And irritation at Sherlock.

No, it is not too forward to say that. It was too forward to enter your contact details into my locked phone while I was showering though.

It was hardly Fort Knox, John. -SH

Rolling his eyes at the response, John put the phone back in his pocket, content to just review the strange events of the day as he lifted a hand to probe the sore spot on his jaw and flex his left hand. They were both a bit sensitive still, and he would probably end up with a bruise on his face.

His body had a pleasant sort of all-over ache, from the sex. His skin had areas with whisker burn, some places where Sherlock had dug in with his hands or his teeth. Even before in the shower, John had chuckled to himself as he noticed the marks. Sherlock was unrestrained and passionate, in a way that had John's sated desire starting to perk up again remembering it.

It was crazy to think of spending more time with Sherlock, a man completely wrong for him in every way. He was beautiful and wild, and would probably leave John a mess by the time this attraction blew itself out.

Totally worth it.

...

-A/N: Thanks for all the reads and kudos.

-The Shard: The memorial service for Paolo is being held in the ballroom of The Shard, on the 34th floor of this 95 story building.

-Elevators: Energy costs are higher in this version of the future, so people have moved their homes and businesses into shorter buildings that are cheaper to maintain, and the occupants can use the stairs to get around. Elevators would be reversed for disabled use.

-Cremation: Currently, around 70% of people in the UK are cremated, and this will likely go up in the future as land is less available for burial.

-Crazy /Hot: If you rank how hot someone is on scale of 1 to 10, and how crazy they are as well, you can get a crazy hot matrix. The hotter they are, the more likely they are to be crazy.

-Trishaw: This is a cycle rickshaw, since it has one wheel in front, and two in the back. They were created in the 1880s, and by 1980s, there were four million of them in the world. They are also known as bike taxi, velotaxi, pedicab or becak.

-Blood Sugar: After the adrenaline has worn off, people can have a drop in blood sugar, leaving them feeling shaky and not thinking straight. Sweetened tea is a good way to correct it.

-Hemp blend clothing, vegan leather shoes: In this future, most people have gone to using clothing that is produced locally with materials that last well.

-Au revoir: Goodbye in French that translates, literally as 'to the seeing again.'