Richard padded down the stairs, running a hand over his short hair. He'd gone to the barber's yesterday, by himself. It hadn't been as exciting as the trip to the cemetery, with John. It was hard to think that was a few days ago, it felt like it had happened months ago. They hadn't spoken about what Richard dubbed 'Graveyard Make-out' in his head, but he reckoned it had definitely altered their friendship. He couldn't help but be aware of John now, seeing him but now knowing what it felt like to be held down and kissed by him…it changed everything.

He'd been trying to get out of the flat more, even just for a few minutes. It wasn't easy, he couldn't help worrying when he was out in public, his concerns mainly stemmed from the fear of getting lost or running into that strange man who had kidnapped him before. He hadn't told John about that although he felt he should have. But John would have most likely strongly suggested he stay indoors from now on. For his own good.

He was just musing on whether there was any chocolate spread left to have on his toast(either he or John would have to go to the shops soon) when he heard John's voice and another man's, coming from the living room.

"You were seen," hissed an angry voice, and Richard shivered at the malice running through every syllable. It seemed vaguely familiar.

"By who?" John sounded confused but not much else. Richard pressed himself against the wall, eyeing the closed door, wishing he was brave enough to walk in the room and see things as they were.

"It doesn't matter who saw you. You were seen. In the cemetery. You were engaging in coitus with-"

"Wait, hang on a second. You've been spying on me?"

"I've been worried about you."

"Oh yeah, I bet you have. Well it doesn't seem to do much good, does it?"

"You don't seem very grateful."

John responded with a sudden screechy laugh that made Richard wince. "Grateful? You think I should be grateful? For what? You meddling in my life? I've said it before and I'll say it again- I don't want your help. I was Sherlock's friend, not yours. And I don't want you judging me-"

"I help you because you were Sherlock's friend. And frankly, I thought you would show more respect to my brother than defiling his resting place with your distasteful act."

"We didn't actually have sex. And he's right upstairs, Mycroft. Can't we talk about this later?" It was Mycroft.

"If we must. I don't particularly want to have this conversation here anyway. This was Sherlock's home. Let's not tarnish that memory anymore, shall we? And you needn't worry about my 'meddling', I'll never bother you with it again." Mycroft's voice waxed and waned as he paced the room. "One last thing, John? If the two of you plan on copulating right here on the floor, please wait until I've left the building first. I don't think my stomach could take it."

Richard had misjudged how close Mycroft was. He shrank back as the door swung open and Mycroft strode out, wearing a dark expression. There was absolutely no way Mycroft hadn't seen him, but he walked right past Richard as if he was a piece of furniture, giving him no attention.

John ran out of the room, his face ugly in anger. "Yeah, well, at least throwing up would help you lose weight! And give Sherlock's grave my best, you bastard!"

The front door quietly clicked shut.

As soon as he was sure Mycroft had gone, Richard grabbed John's wrist, urgently asking "What was that all about?"

"Mycroft saw us. In the graveyard. Him or more likely, one of his employees. I fancy a drink- do you want a drink? Let's go to the pub."

"John, it's ten in the morning, I don't know what-" Richard said, feeling flustered. John had broken free of his grasp and was now pacing up and down the narrow hallway, turning sharply around the corners.

"He doesn't own me, I'm my own man," John clenched his jaw, straightening his collar. "I can do anything I want."

"Yes, of course you can, John, but-" John dove in suddenly and gave Richard a bruising kiss. He returned it automatically, his knees weakening at force with which John kissed him.

"Mm- John, you don't have to prove anything to me- oh-" John was unbuttoning his shirt with remarkable speed, and Richard didn't think he was in the mood for talking.

"I know I don't have to prove anything to that…" John paused mid-strip to think of an insult. "Odious prick. I just- I want this, Richard. And I don't care how bad that makes me. Mycroft can go throw himself in the Thames for all I care. He already thinks we shagged…"

Richard wet his lips, not quite sure what the social protocol was here. Should he persist in trying to make John confide? Or should he…well, John had already started to undress, and Richard didn't want to render that hard work redundant…

Sick of talking, John reached for Richard, pulling him close. Richard closed his eyes, enjoying the feeling of John's body against his, and he shyly put a hand on John's chest, to feel the heart beat beneath his palm.

Somehow, they both managed to get to the sofa.

John let Richard's hands fall down over his head, and started to work on Richard's shirt buttons. To Richard's surprise, when the buttons proved to be stiff and unyielding, John simply grasped both sides of the shirt and pulled them apart, like opening a crisp packet. Buttons fell down and John ignored them, kissing Richard's tense neck.

"John, if you want to talk about this-"

John stopped undressing Richard, and now sat there, grasping the sides of Richard's shirt tightly. "I went through all that. I stayed with Sherlock even when a smarter man would have left him to die. I did all that and now MYCROFT FUCKING HOLMES is telling me what to do! HE'S NOT THE BOSS OF ME? WHAT GIVES HIM THE RIGHT!"

"John, please be quiet," Richard begged. "The neighbours will hear- oh, John, they'll call the police-"

"I don't care," John said with deliberation. "Mycroft has watched me just… crumble and fall and I am so so pathetic, Richard, you don't even know. He never stepped in. But now I finally find happiness-" His voice broke on the last word and John buried his face in Richard's neck.

Richard knew he was being selfish pressing the issue but he wanted to hear John say the words.. "You're…happy? Because of me?"

John unzipped Richard's jeans, not meeting his eyes.

"John, are you?"

When John looked up, his eyes were sad. "I want to forget about it, Rich. Not like you forgot, nothing so…permanent. I want just one night where we don't talk about Sherlock or Mycroft or Mori-" He was interrupted by Richard's hasty kiss.

"Ok," Richard nodded when John drew back.

So they didn't talk.

John wasn't thinking straight, perhaps he wasn't thinking at all. That would make more sense, he reckoned. No sane man would sleep with a mass murderer, a terrorist. But he felt stupid using those terms in the same sentence as Richard Brook. Floppy-haired, big-eyed and impressionable, Richard looked like the sort of man who'd need assistance in opening a tin of baked beans. And yet, as Richard kissed him back, hands sliding down John's face to his neck, there was a hidden strength not apparent at first. Once Richard was coaxed out of his shell enough, he could surprise John. After all, what kind of man would make out in a graveyard? I would, John thought grimly. He made a promise to himself not to think for a while. It was clearly a demoralising activity.

He thrust his hand down Richard's jeans, gratified to find the man was already half-hard. This wouldn't take long. There were awkward moments of wrestling for room on the sofa, in danger of falling off. At one point, Richard joked "Pretend the floor is lava!" and they both laughed. But it was incredible to just be with someone who wanted him. John was glad they were doing this here, on the sofa, not on the bed, because it took the pressure off. There weren't candles and eye contact and silken sheets, and all the other clichés that are supposedly the ingredients for good sex. John had the feeling such intensity would bother Richard, at times the man was so timid John wanted to shake him, but like this, he was lithe and writhing, moaning as John touched him through his underwear.

John pushed Richard back on the couch, and brought himself up to all fours, so he could push his trousers down his legs. In the narrow space between John and the sofa, Richard wriggled out of his jeans, palming himself with a look of tortured pleasure. No use dragging this out, John thought, yanking his boxer shorts down. He spat in his palm and stroked himself, feeling tingling pleasure reward his action.

"Richard," he murmured, partly to get his attention but also to check this felt as good to him as it did to John. Richard reached up for him, and John allowed himself to be dragged down into warm flesh and a wet mouth. Kissing Richard. He didn't think it could feel better than it had at the graveyard but it did. Skin against skin, it was all Richard, pressed against him. Richard arched his hips and their bodies rubbed together; John gasped at the sensation. He pushed himself up on his forearms and ground himself against Richard's crotch, the hot friction sparking pleasure that made him moan. With Richard's hands at his back, it wasn't difficult to stay connected and everything felt good, even the pain- the pressure of keeping himself propped on his arms and legs, Richard's nails digging into his back, it all was sensation and what his body was crying out for.

He bowed his head, and Richard's soft hair was in his face but it didn't bother him, it was just more of Richard for him to kiss and feel. Richard slid a hand between their bodies and that was it, the feeling of his hand, surprisingly soft for a man's hand, damp with sweat, gripping him firmly. John bucked into the hand, breathing heavily on Richard's hair, eyes closed, as Richard stroked him in a irregular rhythm.

"Oh, fuck, Richard…" He humped Richard's hand frenziedly, feeling close to coming. "I can't-" And maybe Richard understood what he meant, because he pumped at his shaft harder, until John came with a cry and collapsed on top of him. He was a mass of nerves and rushing chemicals, and boneless, so he let Richard take his hand and rub it against himself, until Richard too was coming. John opened his eyes; he wanted to see Richard's face as he came. Richard clutched at John with one arm, the other one still frantically rubbing John's hand against his cock, but it was his face that captured John's interest. The look of blank bliss on Richard's face was beautiful, beautiful in the way a factory-made object can be perfect, devoid of human error, symmetrical and unblemished. Richard's mouth was a pretty 'O', like a porcelain doll, his eyes were round and wide and his cheeks were flushed. John rubbed Richard's shoulder soothingly, and gradually, the dreamy look in Richard's eyes faded, to be replaced by embarrassment.

"You ok?" John asked him. He dropped a chaste kiss to Richard's shoulder as an afterthought; he wanted to erase that ashamed expression.

"Yeah…I really- I mean, it was amazing. It was. But I think-"

"Don't think," John murmured, ducking down to kiss Richard's silky throat. "It's a dangerous activity."

"John, John, stop,"

John did. Without the distraction of Richard's skin under his lips, he suddenly felt horribly aware of the situation. Both of them, undressed. Wet and sticky. On the sofa. Shame-faced, he moved back to allow Richard to get up. Richard scrambled into his trousers, avoiding John's eyes.

"Did I- did I do something wrong?" John asked, because it certainly felt like it.

His words stopped Richard's movements, and Richard's face softened. "No," he said. He kissed John on the cheek. "You did everything right. But for all the wrong reasons. I'm going to have a shower, then I'm going to pop out- I think we need more milk and some other stuff. Ok?"

"Ok," John said, still awkward and undressed as Richard slipped out of the room. There didn't seem to be anything else he could say.