Welcome to the last chapter of this thing! I thank all the wonderful people who favorited this, or put it on alert, and most of all the people who REVIEWED! You're all beautiful and I love you. This chapter is the one you've all been waiting for, I'm sure, so I hope you enjoy and I ask that you review this too!

Disclaimer: Mofftiss, Cumberbatch, Freeman, Doyle.

Lust, n. very strong sexual desire

John Watson fell in love with Sherlock Holmes after they chased a cab around London, but he fell in lust with him only very recently. Afterwards he would wonder why it took so long– he was a lovely specimen of a man. Though of course, he mused, after a lifetime of admiring the sensuous curves of women, it just wasn't in his nature to shift his attention to the strong, angular features of the man he lived with. And yet he did, because he loved him, and he was worth lusting after.

He started the day after they completed a case. It was blistering hot, so John had abandoned his usual jumpers and taken to wandering about in a loose t-shirt and light trousers. He bore it reasonably well– he was mellow by nature and it had been much hotter in Afghanistan– though he was a bit tetchy. So far nothing really set him off until he came across Sherlock, spread out on the couch on his belly.

This was the typical position for him, but that wasn't what set John off. It was more of the fact that he had lost his sheet and was completely, stark naked. "Sherlock!" John yelped in surprise. He quickly recovered his composure and shock turned to anger. "Put your bloody pants on!"

"No, I don't think I shall," came the muffled reply. "It's hot, you see."

"I know it's hot, but I managed to keep my clothes on! I don't want to stare at your arse, you could at least pull the sheet back over you!"

"You're funny when you're angry," the detective murmured with a chuckle. "All right, fine. If you don't want to stare at my arse…" He rolled over so he was on his back, looking at John with amused, half-lidded eyes.

John gasped. "Sherlock, you…" He lost his words with the sudden jolt of arousal that skittered through his body. He felt a roaring blaze of lust course through him and all he wanted was to pleat himself along the length of the man before him and shag him senseless. He made a noise at the back of his throat.

"Yes, you like that, don't you," Sherlock purred. It wasn't a question. He slid a hand down his slim chest and pressed his cock into it. His hips kicked up as he started to rub it, full lips parting to release a low moan.

John wondered what had happened. It had been a normal day and yet here he was, watching his suddenly very sexy flat mate wanking… and he enjoyed it. There was a touch of voyeur in him, while Sherlock was all exhibitionist. When his knees gave out, John sank into an armchair, eyes wide, desperately trying not to palm himself through his trousers.

Sherlock worked harder, his hand pumping his swollen cock faster. "Oh, yes, yes," he groaned with such passion that John had to hold back a moan of his own. "Oh, yes, that feels so good, oh, it's been so long…"

John swallowed, hard. It felt twenty degrees warmer, at least. "Sherlock, why are you doing this?"

Blindingly bright eyes met his own. "Because, John," Sherlock said in his "you idiot" voice, wearing the face, "I want you. I always have. You can presume my logical, rational mind has been caught up in a haze of, dare I say it, lust." The would-be superior effect was ruined by his arm, still moving back and forth. He bit his lip as his eyes rolled back.

"And," he added, his hips bucking wildly, "you can't pretend you don't want me."

John couldn't argue. He was harder than he had ever been and, if he wasn't careful, he was dangerously close to coming in his pants. He considered saying something, but before he could, Sherlock gave his loudest, most arousing moan yet.

"John– watch– I'm–" he choked out before he came, pearly ropes of come shooting over his belly and hand. When he had finished, he cleaned himself up with the long-forgotten sheet and sighed in relief.

John cleared his throat. "Well, if we're done…" He stood up, fully intending to lock his bedroom door and get off.

In a flash, Sherlock was off the couch and on his knees before John. "Done?" He hooked his fingers in the waistband of John's trousers and grinned up at him. "Oh, my John, we haven't even begun."