Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, he owns me.

WARNING: Sex. Have fun!

Read on. Enjoy!

Chapter Twenty One

"Those Three Words, and One Promise"

Previously….

She sensed it, the presence just out of arm's reach to her side. There was no warning, no hint that she wasn't alone. That she had failed. Mary closed her eyes, and smiled. The click of a hammer being cocked cracked loud in the overwhelming silence, and a soundless roar built up in her ears. Three put down, better than most could do. End me then. Let it be by a worthy opponent.Mary's killer leveled the barrel of the gun at her temple, and spoke.

"Hello, Mary. Let's talk."

Mary's eyes flew open, for she heard the voice of Death.

It was a voice she had never expected to hear again. Mary turned her head, her eyes widening in disbelief. The woman who held her gun pointed at Mary's temple was known only as Death. Mary's heart stopped, squeezed tightly under her ribs. Dear God, what trouble has found me now…..

Death was a specter in her black tactical gear, almost invisible in the darkness under the trees. From head to toe Death was dangerous. The weapon she carried was silenced, black and lethal in her delicate hands. Her long tresses were bound in a tight braid, trailing down her back. Her fine features twisted into a facsimile of joy, as if she were playing hide and seek in the dark with her best friends. Hide and seek with bullets and dead bodies.

"Well done, Mary. I was certain I wasn't going to make it in time. It's been a bit busy on my end lately. Glad to see you haven't lost anything in retirement." Death smiled at her, tossing out the compliment casually, as if she weren't aiming a pistol in the other woman's face. Mary carefully contemplated her options, and chose caution over more violence. Death had yet to pull the trigger.

Mary had met her once, on a mission eight years back. That mission haunted her even now. During that mission she had met a beautiful creature who was wholly evil. She harbored an evil that was self-aware, and made no excuses. Death had relished in the job, made it into high art, her genius for weaving a tapestry of blood unrivalled. Mary merely provided support, and watched Death work her dark magic. She was so young, and so very talented. Far too talented. Mary had always suspected that the day would come when someone saw the evil clearly, and would take the time to see it flourish. Some people were born wrong, born disconnected from their souls. The woman called Death was one such person.

The gun was still pointing at Mary's face, and she looked past the barrel, into the eyes of madness. Mary still held her gun, but she took her finger from the trigger, and slowly lowered it to point at the ground. Death watched her carefully, and she didn't relax her stance. Mary knew she was confronted by a wild animal, and one aggressive action would result in her messy death.

"Should I call you Mary? I shouldn't call you by that other name, should I?" Death spoke, the gun unwavering. Her voice was calm, as if discussing the latest fall fashions over tea.

"Mary is what I go by now. Is it still Death, or have you chosen a new name as well?" Mary matched her tone for tone, smiling a little as the younger woman grinned wider. Such a pretty smile, it hid the evil so well.

"You haven't been paying attention, Mary. Look closer."

The face before her morphed and dropped the visage of insanity to blend into another face. The face of the young society wife of the traitor, Sebastian Moran. The man Sherlock and John had stopped from destroying Parliament last week. Just the reminder of John and Sherlock made Mary's broken heart crack further, anger filling the voids.

"Sybil Moran." Mary breathed the name, and she fought back her astonishment. She has been here in London the whole time, out in the open, and no one saw her! I never saw her! "Very impressive."

"So sorry about your marital issues, dear. Are we going to exchange pleasantries all evening, or do you think I can stand up?" Mary took a chance. If Death wanted her dead, she wouldn't have revealed herself, and Mary would be another cooling corpse in a small forgotten park. There were too many questions unanswered, but now was not the time for them. One strike team had failed; another could be well on its way.

"Oh please do Mary. I haven't come for your life, not tonight." Death stepped back, and deliberately lowered the gun, finger still on the trigger, pointed at the ground.

Mary stood, her knees wet from the damp gravel, cold dripping down into her boots. Mary looked back to the bridge, her eyes scanning beyond for any movement among the trees.

"There was a car, there may be more." Mary grimaced, and turned to Death. "Were they yours?" She looked Death in the eyes, wondering if she would be able to tell if this creature was lying or not.

"No. They were sent to capture, and failing that, to kill." Simple, straight forward. Death maintained the sweet mask of Sybil Moran, only her eyes revealing the true nature underneath. Mary nodded. She would believe her, for now.

"By…. Who?" Mary almost didn't ask, the list was long indeed who wanted her dead.

"I don't know for certain, but I know it was Magnussen who let slip your current hiding place. Apparently he traded you for information to get to someone else." Death stopped speaking, her attention caught by a distant sound from the street. Car doors slammed, and lights were flickering through the trees. "You can stay here and die, or you can come with me."

"I'll live, thank you." Mary replied, her gun lifting from the ground, as she turned to place herself beside Death, facing the approaching threat.

"Mary, you know better." Death sighed, and she cast a glance at the gun in Mary's hand. "Go clean, all of it please. Or you can stay here."

"What a shame." Mary groaned, and began to strip down the gun. She was oddly fond of it, but this was necessary. Her prints were all over it, and she had just used it to kill two men. If she used it again in the future, the ballistics would create a trail back to this shooting, and her actions tonight. Keeping an eye on the approaching lights, Mary broke down her gun, and tossed the pieces in to the stream, deep plunks of noise muffled by the trees. She pulled out her wallet, and mobile. The mobile was GPS enabled, too easily tracked. She tossed them both back towards the bodies, knowing the police would find them, and think her either missing, kidnapped or dead with no female body present. Her cover as Mary Morstan was blown. The attempt on her life tonight proof positive there was no going back.

As long as there were no prints left on the gun, the police would have no clue she fired the shots that killed those men. If they even found it. Most likely Sherlock would, though. Mary was no fool; John and Sherlock would learn all too soon what had happened here. She knew Sherlock would see past the violence, and know she left willingly. The time between the police getting to the scene and Sherlock and John finding out about it would allow her to disappear.

She had no intention of turning to Sherlock and John for help. John had betrayed her love, leaving her abruptly, no warning. She knew the bond between the two men was powerful, but she hadn't expected it to exclude her. Sherlock had broken John with grief and despair, and she had been left to pick up the pieces. For all the good it had done for her heart.

The truth of her identity was no longer a secret. Mary was now a hunted animal, and she would no longer be playing nice. The lights in the trees were closing in, the passage of men moving quickly through the underbrush a bare whisper of sound in the silence.

"Sad really, that we can't stay, have some more fun. My boys are waiting for us on the other side of the park." With that, Death turned and jogged off into the trees, silent and sleek. Mary knew there was no going back from this point, the hunt had begun for real now. Mary turned and followed, the dark swallowing her as well. She felt a tendril of manic delight unfurl from her broken heart, a seedling growing into retribution.

Now…..

"John?" Lestrade's voice was far away, even though the Inspector was standing right next to him. John was at the crime scene in the small park, staring down at the large pool of blood that still glistened in the sun, sinking into the stone work of the small bridge. Here two men had died. A third had died about a hundred feet away, beneath the branches of an overgrown pine.

Sherlock and John had only been on scene for twenty minutes or so, but John had lost all track of time. John had managed to keep it together right up until this point. Her mobile and ID had been found here, sticky with blood. Mary was here, why was she here? Where is she?

Sherlock had led the way, following the very clear trail of multiple people running through the woods of the small park. The first scene had captured Sherlock's attention instantly, and the look that fell over his face had nearly driven John mad. It was if Sherlock was angry, yet gleefully satisfied all at once. Like he had just confirmed a long-held theory. The bed of pine needles had left clear marks, as feet running at high speeds had torn up the soft damp earth.

Sherlock hadn't spoken, merely looked at John before walking in deeper. John was so deeply conflicted he could do nothing but follow behind Sherlock, Lestrade at his side. Would she still be safe if I hadn't left? Did they take her because of me? Because of Sherlock? Is this to get at us? The disciple?

John stared at Sherlock's back, wondering what he was feeling. A part of him was screaming at him to reach out to this man, to hold him close and seek comfort. Sherlock would make this better, he would solve this conflict in his heart. John loved Sherlock so much, so very much, and that he did was making him feel wretched. John was crippled by another part of him; the part that said that Mary being in danger must be his fault. Must be John's fault because he had been selfish, and left her for Sherlock. He hadn't loved her enough. If he had, she might still be okay. And that someone wanted them to suffer, so they took Mary.

"John, we sent units to your house, they're searching it now. She wasn't there." Lestrade said, voice low. John barely had the ability to nod, let alone speak. Sherlock had followed the stream down a little hill, and into the woods. He was a moving shadow under the trees, and John felt like Sherlock was slipping away too. Mary was gone, Mary was gone and it was his fault. He didn't deserve her, he didn't deserve Sherlock.

"Lestrade." Sherlock's voice drifted out from the trees, lifting John temporarily from his cycle of guilt. John followed Lestrade down the hill, and they walked under the cool shadows of the trees. Sherlock was standing next to the stream, his gaze absorbed by the rippling waters. As John approached, Sherlock looked up at him, his face impassive.

"I know what happened." Sherlock paused, and his voice was cold, heartless. John shivered, and his heart felt like it was breaking. Sherlock hadn't sounded this reserved in years, not since the beginning. Whatever it was, it was bad, so bad Sherlock wouldn't let emotion prevent him from saying it. She's dead, and they hid her body or took it, Mary please no…..

"John, you must hear me, and know I speak the truth. I am not wrong."

John was struck speechless, and could only nod once. Sherlock held his gaze prisoner for a moment longer, eyes like ice, resolved. His voice was like steel, and John knew that Sherlock never lied about his deductions, not ever. John nodded, and waited.

"She was chased by the three men, the ones who died. She ran across the street, into the woods. One was closer than the others, and she ran for the pine tree. Not to climb to safety, but as a means to kill. She ran up the trunk, jumped over him, and kicked him so hard that he killed himself, cracking his head open on the tree. She then proceeded to run deeper in to the park, heading here for this clearing, and the bridge. She was losing ground, they were gaining on her, until she leapt from the bridge, and made the tree line here." Sherlock paused, and gestured to the ground. There were long skid marks dug into the gravel of the stream bed, and a deeper depression at the end.

"She evaded the shots they were firing at her here, by going below their line of fire. Here was were Mary drew her own weapon, and killed them both." Lestrade moved, as if to argue, and Sherlock stilled him with a single look. "She fired two shots only, two shots to their even dozen."

Sherlock pointed down to the gravel, and nestled in among the rocks was two spent shells, nine millimeters from the size.

"She knelt here, until another woman joined her, from the other side of the park. The tread, the pacing all suggest a woman, late twenties, early thirties. Size 8 shoes." Sherlock was pointing to the dirt, and there was another set of footprints, stance shoulder width apart and facing Mary's position.

"They made no aggressive moves towards each other, and from Mary's positions as she stood, she knew her companion, knew her well enough to face a new threat that was coming from the street. Look there, in the ferns, into the stream from the opposite bank. You can see several lines in the damp earth, several men closing in on them. The women left, but not before Mary dumped her ID, her mobile, and her gun."

"Hey hold on mate, Mary shot those thugs, and dumped her gun? What gun?" That was Lestrade, clearly unwilling to believe that the woman he had met could have done all that.

John was still staring at Sherlock, and he felt something shift in his chest. Something was changing inside his heart, and it was breaking off a piece of himself he thought he would have to carry forever.

"Yes, her gun." Sherlock threw off his coat, and tossed it away from the stream, higher up on the bank. He then did something John or Lestrade would have sworn he'd never do, ever, in a million years. He kicked off his shoes, pulled off his socks, rolled up the hem of his slacks and….. Waded into the stream. The cold water swirled up Sherlock's pale legs, as he carefully navigated the stream, to where he halted in the middle, the deepest part. He stared down for second, and slowly bent over, pulling up his sleeve to his elbow. His arm sank almost all the way to his sleeve, and his fingers gripped something below the surface. He lifted up, and tossed a wet dripping black object from the water to his coat. It fell silently, droplets thrown everywhere. Three more times he went back into the water, before tossing up the last piece.

"Mary Morstan went 'clean'. She got rid of her ID, her mobile, and the weapon used to kill those men. Her actions speak of training, at the highest level. Look and see."

Lestrade went to see, and he swore, instantly recognizing what he saw. John couldn't move, his feet refusing to let him go see, his mind incapable of believing. He had recognized the first piece almost as soon as Sherlock had pulled it from the icy water.

"John." Sherlock's voice was an order, jarring him free. John moved forward, eyes on Sherlock's long coat. It was a disassembled nine mill, with a silencer. The truth was cracking John apart, and he felt like the entirety of his life was built on lies. Nothing but lies. Everyone he loved had lied to him.

"No John, not your entire life." John hadn't realized he'd spoken aloud at all, until Sherlock answered him. "You are not a lie."

"But the people who are in it are." John whispered back. He couldn't look at either man, and John turned from the stream, and the evidence that Mary Morstan wasn't who she had claimed to be. Mary was an efficient killer, easily dispatching three armed thugs without hesitation. Sherlock had lied to him, played hide and seek on the Continent for two years while John's heart was broken, mourning the man he loved past all reason.

"What does that say about me, that people find it okay to lie to me? That everyone I have ever loved has lied to me? Am I not worth the truth?"

John couldn't take it anymore. He couldn't cope, too much change too fast. Four weeks ago his best friend was dead, and he was moving on, in love with a funny, smart, kind woman. Two weeks ago his best friend came back from the dead, and resurrected John's heart along with him, changing his whole life in the process. He had asked Mary to marry him because he loved her, but he didn't love her enough to resist Sherlock. He had tried to keep going in the direction he thought he should. Sherlock's pull on his heart yanked him off course, and put him in this new place. He had Sherlock, he had him fully, and John let Mary go. His guilt, at being unable to love her enough to stay, had been eating away at him. His guilt made him angry; how to feel guilty when she was a lair, such a liar?

"Sherlock…" John needed Sherlock. But he couldn't ask. Mary would have married him, lying to him the entire time about what she really was, about what she could do.

John was shattering now, confusion breaking apart his foundations. He was shaking, and his mind was at its breaking point. First the panic attack, then the scare in the morgue, then the crime scene, and now this revelation. Too much, too close together.

Anger was boiling up from his core, anger so fast it made his fists clench so tight his nails dug into his palms, blood creeping from the welts. He was beyond sanity now, and John lost any shred of control he'd been holding onto the last two years.

John screamed, screamed out his rage. He wasn't John anymore, he was a wounded animal, screaming out in defiance at the world, daring it to tear him down further. To break him faster.

"Damn you! Damn you all!" John was lost, so lost in the pain and betrayal he didn't care, he cared for nothing. He just kept screaming it, over and over and over. His fists were pounding on something hard, something that bit back, the pain enraging him further. He hit and hit for eternity, until his arms refused to move.

John did not weep, he did not cry. He beat at the earth, and struck out at the confining hands that reached for him.

I am not this man… I am not this man….. I have died before, twice now, this is nothing….. She lied to me, I loved her. She lied to me… but I lied to her. I tried being who I thought I was, a man in love with a good woman…..I deserve all of this…. I let Sherlock face Moriarty alone, I didn't fight hard enough… he left me, he died…God, pull me back, pull me back from this…. Help me, please God…Don't let this happen to me again, help me….Sherlock!

John was dimly aware that he was making no sense, even to himself. He felt separated from his body, as if he were watching a show on the television. He saw himself collapsed to his knees on the wet gravel, hands bloody from pounding at the stones. His face pressed into a warm, comforting surface, and he heard a drumming in his ear, a sound her knew, that he loved. He was in Sherlock's arms, the detective wrapped so tightly around him John knew that gravity had lost the fight, and that Sherlock held him to the earth instead.

Sherlock was saying something, over and over. John couldn't understand it, his brain unable to weave the words together. He tried to calm himself, to hear Sherlock better. It was very important right then for him to hear Sherlock, so very important.

"I love you John. I promise to never lie to you again. I love you John, I love you…." Over and over again Sherlock whispered it to him, voice urgent. "I love you John Watson, come back to me…"

Did he just say that? Sherlock? He moved his head, tilted it back, to look Sherlock in the eyes. He knew John saw him, heard him, but he continued to say it, over and over.

"I love you John." Sherlock whispered to him, voice full of guilt and sadness, and for some reason, joy. Sherlock smiled at him, and said it again. "I love you John Watson."

"Say that again." John whispered back, and he felt his own inner strength stirring in his soul. Felt his abused heart respond, the words like rain on the desert he was dying in.

"I love you John." Sherlock was no longer whispering it, speaking at a normal tone. He didn't care that Lestrade was mere feet away, that he heard everything. Sherlock would shout it to the universe, if it made John come back from the edge.

Sherlock bent down, and kissed him. Sweet and chaste, but full of emotion. John sighed, his eyes drifted shut, and he kissed his lover back, letting the kiss fill his heart. Sherlock broke away, and his voice serious, he made John a promise.

"I promise to never deceive you, to lie to you. I will never hide something from you, even if I think you knowing will place you in danger." Sherlock paused, and continued. "I promise you this because I love you, and you deserve everything from me, all that I can give you. I can do no less. All facets of my heart and mind belong to you, John Watson."

Lestrade watched them, so absorbed in each other, that they cared not where they were, or who watched them. Greg felt his own heart stir, and he struggled not to cry. The love between them was so powerful; it swayed his damaged heart. Greg Lestrade was an old romantic, and he hated for people to know it. Yet here beneath the trees, Lestrade watched a miracle, and did not care who saw him tear up.

A long time ago, he had once told John Watson that Sherlock Holmes was a great man. And that if they were very lucky, one day he would even be a good one. Lestrade was so lucky today. He saw Sherlock Holmes admit to love, and love enough to make a promise.

John sat on the bench, in the sun, in that little park where everything had changed again. John felt freer, he felt lighter. His guilt over how he treated Mary was swiftly disappearing. She had kept such large secrets from him, and the way she had been acting right up until the point he broke it off made it clear she had no intention of ever telling him.

"It was in self-defense, this whole mess?" John asked, looking down at his hands. His knuckles stung, but he'd done worse to them.

"Yes, it was." Sherlock was sitting next to him, pulling on his socks.

"Lestrade going to start looking for her then? Bring her in for questioning?"

"Officially she is a person of interest, but not a murder suspect. I think Lestrade is letting this sit on the back burner. Apparently those men were professional bad guys, so no one is seeing this as too urgent." Sherlock was trying his laces up, and John found himself staring at those long pale fingers. "They'll be seeing who hired them for the hit, obviously, but they'll be leaving Mary alone for now."

"Good." John sat back on the bench, and put his face back to the sky. It was in early in the afternoon yet, and the sun came come out from behind the clouds long enough to warm his bones before ducking away again.

"I will find her only if you want me too." Sherlock said, and he sat back as well, his hand coming to John's shoulder, arm along the backrest.

"She left willingly, and she wasn't hurt. If she wanted our help, or the police's help, she would have come to us. Let her go." John reached up, and took Sherlock's hand in his.

"Do we need to be somewhere right now? Back at the lab or at Mycroft's place?" John was not looking forward to seeing the elder Holmes right now, he'd probably punch him the second he showed his snarky face. Some of his thoughts must have been obvious, because Sherlock laughed quietly.

"Technically yes, but give me a moment….." Sherlock pulled out his mobile, and scooted over next to John. John let him snuggle up along his side, Sherlock's arm around his shoulder. Sherlock tilted his mobile so John could see what he was typing.

Canceling this afternoon –SH

Whatever for? –MH

Had something more urgent come up –SH

Nothing for close to a minute, then:

What on Earth is more important? –MH

John –SH

Sherlock promptly shut down his mobile, and tucked it away again.

"Well, I give it less than a minute before he starts in on your mobile sooo…." Sherlock, in a very sneaky move, plucked John's mobile from his jacket pocket and turned that off too. Handing it back, Sherlock smirked at him, eyes all shiny and happy in the sun.

John laughed at his antics, and they both stood up. Sherlock wrapped his long fingers around John's, and they headed out of the park, back towards the street.

"Hey, Sherlock! Your brother wants you to call him!" That was Lestrade, his mobile to his ear, a harassed look on his face, standing with some of his officers. Sherlock just waved at him, and neither of them stopped.

Mrs. Hudson had wanted to stick around and chat, talking nonstop about the news. She kept wandering back into the flat, before Sherlock managed to close all the doors. Sherlock then was dragging John to the bedroom, shoving the door shut, and throwing the lock.

The entire can ride back from the park had felt different, the air alive with electricity. Sherlock knew he had crossed a milestone in their relationship today, and John felt it too. Sherlock held John's hand the ride home, thumb rubbing at the back of his doctor's hand.

Sherlock had no idea what he was doing, but John had a clue, as he was stripped down to his trousers in under minute. Sherlock wanted to touch him, and his hands lifted up without thought. His fingers slid over John's smooth skin, running down his chest, across his firm stomach. Sherlock was fascinated by the way John's skin felt, the charge it built in him. Sherlock didn't flinch when John reached for his waistband, and tugged his shirt free. Sherlock lowered his head, and John met him halfway in an open-mouthed kiss. He let his hands rest on John's hips, with his doctor's tongue sliding over his own. Sherlock groaned, and he took over the kiss, delving deeper, and the taste of John was intoxicating.

Sherlock felt a tugging at his shoulders, and let John remove his shirt without once lifting his mouth. Sherlock was so absorbed in John he didn't realize that John was walking them back towards the bed. His doctor had his hands on Sherlock's waistband, and popped the tab free, and the zipper down. Sherlock felt his slacks fall to the floor, but John's tongue was in his mouth again, and he didn't care.

Suddenly John tugged on his arms, and so swiftly Sherlock had no warning, John threw Sherlock on the bed. John came up over him, arms braced on either side of Sherlock's head. He stilled, wondering what John had in mind. John gave him no time to think, mouth on his, as John settled himself squarely on top of Sherlock. Thigh to thigh, groin to groin, chest to chest. John kissed Sherlock, deeper. Sherlock felt John against him, restrained by his trousers, and then Sherlock noticed he had nothing on but his underwear…

"John." Sherlock breathed out, as John paused for air. "I…."

"Let me, Sherlock. It'll be ok." John whispered, kissing his ear, licking his neck.

It took every ounce of courage Sherlock had to nod, unable to speak. Tension was creeping up on him, and John seemed to just know. He always knew. John eased over, to Sherlock's side. His hand captured the detective's, and placed it on his chest. Sherlock let his hand roam, the feel of John calming and enticing all in one. John rested his free hand on Sherlock's stomach, thumb swirling a tiny circle in the pale skin. John kissed Sherlock again, starting slow, holding back, and teasing. Sherlock got impatient, and lifted his head, wanting more of John's mouth. John let him in, and as Sherlock's tongue plunged between his lips, John's hand slid under the waistband of Sherlock's shorts.

Sherlock jumped, and froze. John had him fully in hand, literally. Hand so hot, grip not too tight but not tight enough….. John kissed him, and Sherlock eased as John's hand stilled. Sherlock was breathing fast, fear feeding the desire, and the fire that burned every inch of him lit into an inferno. John smiled, as Sherlock relaxed. His doctor leaned over him, put his arm under Sherlock's head, and looked him in the eyes.

John wouldn't let him look away; Sherlock couldn't. John's hand tightened around him, and Sherlock felt the earth move beneath him. John moved again, up so slowly, thumb just under the tip. Sherlock fought hard not to close his eyes, John's gaze was the single most important thing to him in that moment. John's eyes were dark, his face flushed. His doctor had him completely under his control. Sherlock's hips jerked once as John slid his hand down to the base of him, stroking back up in one long motion. John fought off a grin as Sherlock hardened even more, hips lifting to match his strokes. Any touch of fear he had been feeling was leaving, overcome by John's hands.

Sherlock had no ability to think. He was nothing but this feeling, arousal sweeping through every cell of his body, knocking down the walls of his mind. Sherlock was gone, and only this aching need was left. John saw the change in Sherlock's eyes. His eyes were burning, like silver stars on the edge of a supernova. John leaned down, capturing Sherlock's mouth again, tongue sweeping in, making him moan deeply in his chest. Sherlock was moving with his hand now, refusing to let John lift away. He had Sherlock where he needed him, so absorbed in his hand, his mouth he wouldn't have a chance to think, to be afraid.

John kissed his way down Sherlock's throat, admiring the rapid pulse with his tongue before moving on. John kissed Sherlock down his chest, tongue tasting, licking. He kept his hand at that steady rhythm, not too fast, he didn't want to rush it for his detective. John kept going, Sherlock's hand drifting to his hair, and the back of his neck. Every time John paused, and kissed, he stroked his detective's hard length, making Sherlock moan.

"John…" Nothing but a whisper, one John was certain Sherlock was unaware he'd said. Sherlock's eyes had drifted shut, one hand buried so deeply into the comforter it was likely ripped. The other was holding on to John, fingers losing and regaining their grip in his hair. John kept kissing down, to where his hand was pleasing his detective so. John moved Sherlock's shorts down, and away, enticing him into lifting his hips, distracted thoroughly.

John contemplated his options, and realized he had none, other than to make them both happy. John wanted to be with his detective, and there was no hesitation in his heart. John kissed Sherlock, where no one had ever been before. Sherlock responded by pulling his hair, but John persisted, and swallowed him whole. It wasn't unpleasant at all; John moved his hand away, and wrapped his tongue around Sherlock, wet and hot.

Sherlock couldn't find air, he felt nothing but John's mouth wrapped around his erection. It felt so damn good, so hot and wet. His muscles were seizing, and releasing. John lifted his head, sucking as he went, tongue teasing the underside of his cock.

John was amazed at himself, so incredibly turned on by the feel of this man in his mouth. He was so hard, and his hips lifted with John's mouth, tempo going faster. John encouraged him, cupping his balls with one hand, tugging as he sucked. He went faster, harder, taking him as deep as he could, before pulling back, and beginning again.

This is for you, your first time, all for you…anything for you… I love you…

John poured every ounce of love he could into his mouth, his hands, working Sherlock towards his climax. Sherlock was close, so close, and John wasn't going to stop until he came. It was a gift he so badly needed, and John needed to give it to him….

"John!" Sherlock was undone. A wave of heat and sweet pain spilled from the foundations of his body, running through his veins, cascading over the walls of his heart, and tore through the streets of his mind, washing away all thought. Sherlock was undone, cast adrift. John had him, securing him, carrying the sensation farther, mouth taking Sherlock all in as he finally came.

"John…." Just a plea, a whisper, cast out into the world. John swallowed, his mouth wrapped tight, and helped Sherlock finish. Yes….. Just let go…. I love you….

John lifted away, and relaxed against Sherlock's hip. His head hurt for some reason, until he remembered that Sherlock still had a death grip in his hair. John smiled, kissed his love's hip, and carefully pried Sherlock's immobile fingers free from his hair.

"John…." Sherlock could barely manage that, as his body quaked from tiny tremors. "John, I love you."

John looked up at Sherlock, and caught his gaze. Sherlock was in a state John had never seen before, ever. Totally, hopelessly relaxed. And there was a tiny hint of a smile playing about his lips.

"I love you too." John moved back up the bed, laying on Sherlock's chest. Sherlock's heart was beating hard, and he was all loose muscles, and shaking hands.

John reached up to kiss him, but hesitated. Sherlock raised a brow, then understanding swept across his eyes. John blushed as Sherlock laughed, and he grabbed John's head, and pulled him down for a kiss, tongue sweeping across his lips before dipping inside. Sherlock was shaking, his tongue gentle on John's, and all soft caresses. Sherlock was unreserved, open, his face clearly showing every thought and feeling.

The afternoon was gone, the fall light slipping away into evening. Sherlock kicked off his shorts, and pulled down the blankets, tugging John to follow him under the covers. John went, shucking off his trousers and shorts before joining him. Sherlock wrapped himself around John, tucking his doctor's head under his chin, legs intertwined.

"You okay?" John had to ask, even though he knew Sherlock had enjoyed himself. John kissed at the soft spot under Sherlock's shin, smiling as Sherlock gave a tiny shiver.

"Hhhhhmmmm." Sherlock was still getting little quivers, and his toes had taken forever to unfurl from the force of his orgasm. "I assume so, but I've never done that before. Need more data before I can confirm."

"More data? What do you…. Oh right. More." John kissed his neck again, and licked, the taste of Sherlock all salty, making him very interested in acquiring more data. "Let's get some more."

"I'm fairly certain there's more to this, yes?" Sherlock's deep voice rumbled in John's ear, his voice full of curiosity.

"Um, yeah…. Never done any of it, but yeah." John knew exactly what Sherlock meant, and he felt a rush of excitement and fear flash in his stomach. Sherlock pulled John closer, one of his hands drifting down to caress a firm buttock. "Never done any of this, actually. With a bloke at least. Only ever had that last bit done to me, so I sorta knew what I was doing."

Sherlock seemed to be pondering this, his hand rubbing John's backside, long fingers strong and firm. John was distracted by his fingers, enjoying the buildup of heat. He was still aroused from earlier, but he had been content to relax, and let Sherlock enjoy his first orgasm. Or he was until Sherlock's fingers started touching him in all these new places. John pressed his hips against Sherlock; the sensation of his cock rubbing the detective's making him want to keep moving. John sighed, one of his hands drifting down Sherlock's side, his hip. Nudging his cock against Sherlock's, John was impressed at his lover's response, hardening quickly, and pressing back along his.

John groaned, shut his eyes, and kept up his little thrusts, the soft heat and hard muscles pulling away his thoughts. Sherlock's hand on his ass was gripping harder, pulling John to him, fingers inching closer to his rear. John nipped at his neck, tugging the skin between his lips and sucking. Sherlock groaned softly, pulling John as close as he could manage.

"John." Sherlock gasped, "You, or me."

"Mmm?" John wasn't thinking, too absorbed in the taste of his detective's skin, his hard cock rubbing on his own.

"John….. Can I please…?" Fingers went straight to the point, pressing against John's anus.

John jumped, froze, and held his breath as Sherlock pressed two fingers to him, the sensation so foreign he had no notion what to do. He groaned, Sherlock pressing himself against John's cock, long fingers pushing into his ass. John was swept up, what Sherlock was doing to him so completely new, so very hot, he got so hard that every tiny thrust of Sherlock's cock on his own made John whimper.

Sherlock took that as encouragement, kissing John roughly, his tongue eager, dancing between his teeth. John struggled to keep up, but his mind was focused on Sherlock's two fingers, which had loosened him up just enough to dip in. The stretching, the pressure, all so overwhelming John was panting into Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock pressed his fingers in, almost an inch, and began to move them apart. John moaned, as Sherlock worked him, spreading his ass with his long fingers.

Sherlock lifted his face from John's, and asked him roughly, "Let me John, please..?"

He accompanied this plea with a deepening of his fingers, both fully inside of John, plunging them in and out. John was consumed by Sherlock, wanting him to keep going, so eager he pushed his ass back against Sherlock's hand. John nodded, and went back to sucking on the growing red spot low on Sherlock's neck.

"Don't worry, I borrowed your laptop." Sherlock whispered in John's ear.

John would have laughed if he had still been able to. Sherlock was lifting up, rolling John under him, chest down on the bed. John didn't want to stop his ministrations, but Sherlock was insistent. John went, and gasped as Sherlock jerked on his hips, lifting them briefly off the bed before he stuffed a pillow under him. His fingers grasped John's cock, stroking him several times before pulling his hand away, letting John rest on the folded up pillow.

John was breathing fast, nerves beginning to show. He knew Sherlock wasn't going to hurt him, that men did this every day to each other, and that men did it to women too. But he kept crashing into the thought that Sherlock was about to fuck him, and he really, really wanted him too. John's fists grabbed at the sheets, and he buried his face in his pillow. Sherlock's were grasping his hips, stroking his buttocks, fingers dipping into his ass, John's body accepting them easier each time. Again and again Sherlock would slip his long fingers in, stretch John's ass a bit more each time, before pulling them out all the way, just to push them back in. John was moaning in time with his lover's fingers, and he didn't pay any attention to the fact that Sherlock was moving up behind him, pushing his knees together. Sherlock pulled away his hand, and straddled John's legs, and leaned over his doctor, pushing his erection along the crack of his ass, pressing his chest to John's back. He bent down to bite the back of John's neck. John jumped, the bite not too hard, but he reveled in it, the feelings Sherlock was bringing out of him.

Sherlock whispered in John's ear, "Are you sure?" John groaned, impatient, and lifted his hips back into Sherlock's. "Dammit, yes!" John gasped into the mattress, heat washing over him, his nerves ready to collapse under the strain.

Sherlock lifted away, and John whimpered quietly, fearing Sherlock had changed his mind, that he wasn't ready. He feared that up to the moment he felt a warm, wet finger slide back into his ass. Dear God, he did his research! John lost it, realizing Sherlock was spitting on his fingers, lubing John's ass. John groaned, long and continuous, eagerly lifting his hips as Sherlock positioned himself closer.

Yes! The head of Sherlock's hard, thick cock was there at his ass, pushing. Sherlock must have spit on the head, as it went easily in that first inch. He was so large, so much bigger than the fingers he had been worked with, that John tensed around him. Sherlock stopped, holding himself still, supporting his weight on one arm on the bed, the other on John's hip. The pressure was so strong; John felt the first twinge of pain. He shivered, wanting more, but he felt nervous, knowing it would hurt, afraid.

Sherlock pulled back, almost withdrawing totally, before working back in, going just a bit farther. John fought to relax, Sherlock rubbing his hip, soothing. He pushed, stretching John's ass, the pain feeling almost as good as the tension inside. Sherlock kept rubbing him, his warm hand distracting just enough, as he pulled out. Sherlock spit again, wetting the head of his cock. He swiftly plunged it back into John's ass, and John moaned loudly, pleasure and pain mixing until he couldn't tell them apart.

Sherlock seated himself fully, John impaled on his hard length. John was panting and whimpering, hands raking at the sheets, the sensation so new and overpowering John was damn near sobbing. Sherlock groaned. The tight heat of John wrapped around his cock was making him want to explode. All he wanted to do was plunge away, to ride his doctor until he came. This was madness, his control barely intact. Sherlock felt a stirring in the depths of his being, fire and need and a sensation so unfamiliar he had no name for it.

Sherlock pulled himself back from the edge, knowing he had to keep control, lest he hurt John. He wanted John, wanted him beneath him, but wanted John to enjoy himself too. So Sherlock held back his urges, and let his control take over. John was relaxing slightly beneath him, Sherlock's cock still lodged as deep as it could go. Sherlock pulled back, very slowly, one long inch at a time, before rocking his hips, and going back in. Slow and sure, no hesitation. This man beneath him his whole world. His only focus, the tight hot wet grip of John's body on his cock. Sherlock let his eyes drift shut, his head fall back, and he lifted himself up so he put his weight fully on his knees, and the man under him.

Sherlock's weight wasn't minor, but John took it easily. His cock was moving in a deep rhythm, and John felt a glorious sensation as the head swiped across the most sensitive spot of his body. John knew in some distant part of his brain that Sherlock had found his prostrate, and from the angle Sherlock was fucking him, he knew it too. John cried out at each thrust, each drag of his cock pulling out. His body was fully acclimated to Sherlock's cock, yet still tight and hot, and John gripped him instinctively each time he pulled out.

"Harder!" John managed to whimper, teeth clenched, groans being pulled from him with every thrust of Sherlock's hips.

Sherlock obliged him, and grabbed his hips tightly, pushing him down, and fucked him. Hard. Rode him without restraint. They both started to cry out together, bodies in perfect sync, Sherlock's tempo making John come part at the seams. Sherlock rode his doctor at a relentless pace, a primal urge to satisfy and dominate all at once ripping his control to shreds.

John was getting close to his climax, Sherlock driving him mercilessly. Sherlock had managed to work himself in deeper, John's body accepting him, pulling him in. Sherlock felt John begin to tighten up, clench around his length like a fist. He was bucking back against Sherlock's thrusts, their matched tempo failing as Sherlock drove John over the edge. John screamed, long and ragged, the sound hurting his throat. He screamed and screamed, pulling air in to just yell it back out into the mattress.

Sherlock thrust until John stopped screaming. He was close, and John's body was relaxing, his ass engulfing Sherlock completely. Sherlock watched as his cock was swallowed up, each time he pulled it out, absorbed and fascinated.

His own orgasm caught him by surprise, blasting from his core, more subtle than his first, but far more powerful. He screamed, long and deep, as he came inside John, great gushing spurts. He couldn't move, his body wracked by spasms, fingers digging into John's hips. Sherlock collapsed as his body refused to obey him, his full weight landing on John.

Neither could breathe all that well, bodies incapable of pulling in enough oxygen. Sherlock knew he should get up, but he couldn't. Nothing, muscles gone. He couldn't even feel his own body anymore. They laid like that for a long time, just trying to survive.

John moved, an arm moving out from under him, and he pushed up. Sherlock appeared to be dead, or at least he was doing an excellent impression of a dead person. John fell back down, laughing.

"Sherlock?" John asked.

"Mmmmm." Mumbled answer, no movement.

"Sherlock, I love you, I really do, but I can't breathe." John tried again.

Sherlock made an effort, he really did, but all he could handle was a shift in his weight.

"Oh no sir, you are not falling asleep on top of me! Off you go!" John pushed, and rolled Sherlock in towards the center of the bed. Sherlock fell off of him, withdrawing as he went, making John gasp in surprise. Oh that's going to hurt later, I know it… So worth it….

Sherlock managed to lift a hand, and pulled John down to him, who snagged the blankets, covering them both.

"I love you too." Sherlock whispered in his ear, before sleep claimed them.