I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

- Robert Frost, The Road Not Taken

Sherlock's brain was stuttering. Words couldn't take shape. Ideas couldn't form coherent threads. He was falling, sinking, being completely swallowed up by this moment; by the soft slide of lips against lips and the taste of tongue. His world was currently compounded into the non-existent space where his mouth ended and where John's began.

Hands were in his hair, tugging his head back, angling it to better suit this maddeningly slow meeting of mouths. He wanted more, needed it, craved further contact and yet this was already more than he could bear. This was too close, too intimate and too raw. He felt exposed, almost like someone had slit open his brain and let all of his thoughts spill out onto the floor. There was no hiding from the truth while he could feel John's mouth moving against his. No merciful pile of logic he could bury his emotions under while he impatiently took in shuddering lungfuls of air; resentful of the fact that in order to breathe he had to briefly break their contact.

He should stop this, prevent it from going any further but he didn't want to. His logic and pragmatism had been impaired by the overwhelming desire to taste, touch and claim all of John that he could. Though he couldn't touch him because that would be as good as giving in and admitting what he wanted. And this is what he wanted. He'd wanted this for so long, ever since that first case when he'd looked up through the flashing red and blue lights of the ambulance and seen John standing behind the police tape. He'd wanted this from the moment he realised that this man, who'd known him for less than a day. Who'd just returned from war; from seeing blood and carnage and bodies torn apart by bullets and bombs, had killed to save his life.

That was the catalytic moment that had cracked the well composed equilibrium of his brain. As prior to that moment Sherlock had spent his entire life feeling like he was looking in at the world through a pane of concave glass. He had stood alone, staring at the people that entered his life in a detached state of bemusement. No one saw the world the way he did. No one had ever understood that every unsolved puzzle to him was as painful as an ember burning its way through his brain; that he would swallow every pill and chase every shadow in order to find out the answer.

But John had understood; he'd worked it out after knowing him for less than a day and for the first time in his life Sherlock hadn't felt like he was standing alone. He'd felt connected, tethered to the world by another human being. And that feeling, that feeling of being seen after being invisible for so long, had surged through him sending his heart beating faster and his body trembling. He had known in that moment that he was now on the verge of having something that he simultaneously wanted and was afraid of losing. So he had created rules to protect himself, to prevent John from getting too close:

No spending more than three days out of seven eating dinner and/or an equivalently lengthy meal together in a given week.

No sharing personal items, clothing or towels.

No establishing routines.

No talking about personal things that do not pertain to either cases or the general upkeep of the flat.

No exchanging gifts for either birthdays, Christmas or any other ridiculous social conventions/religious/spiritual holidays.

No touching.

But then John had started cooking dinner for both of them every night and using his toothpaste and shower gel when his had run out. And as John did all the laundry Sherlock had lost track of which socks and underwear belonged to him. And then John brought him a present for his birthday and another one for Christmas and a chocolate egg for Easter – even though Sherlock had spent an hour, lecturing him about the ridiculousness of celebrating a holiday that combines the resurrection of Jesus Christ, sweets and a magical rabbit. Over the course of only one year John had successfully broken every one of Sherlock's rules... apart from the last one.

Touching. Why had he even put that down on his mental list of rules? Why did he need reminding not to touch John? Why would he want to touch him and what did he even mean by touching? Was it simply expressing friendly affection like hugging or shaking hands? Or had he subconsciously been warning himself against doing something else? Something darker, something sensual, something that friends were never supposed to do to each other?

That's when the dreams had started, the ones that woke him up in the early hours of the morning with an aching cock and a mind full of filthy images. Images of him on his knees with John's hands in his hair, his hips thrusting back and forth as John fucked his mouth roughly, savouring the taste and feel of him on his tongue.

He'd ignored these thoughts and tried to chase them away from his dreams by reducing the amount of time he spent asleep. He could get by on about five hours a night and, as long as he shoved his face into a pillow to muffle his moans, he could fuck himself whenever the urge got too strong. Sherlock could control himself; he could put aside his base desires in order to preserve their friendship. Why couldn't John do the same? Exert the same level of self-discipline and control_?

"Don't." John said as he finally broke off their kiss and began trailing his lips down the side of Sherlock's jaw.

"Don't... what?"

"Ruin this by speaking."

"But I_" the words died in Sherlock's throat as he felt John's teeth gently biting the sensitive skin of his neck, "John we need... um... we need to talk."

"We've been talking all night." John said as his hands slid down Sherlock's chest and started tugging at his shirt, pulling it free from the waistband of his trousers.

"John_ ah, shit." He was touching him now, trailing his fingers across the hot skin of Sherlock's stomach, unbuttoning his shirt so that his hands could touch more of him.

"This is irrational John." Sherlock said as he desperately tried not to feel, tried not to want.

"What? You trekking us across miles of marsh land so that we can play a drinking game in a windmill? Yes, I agree." He said as he unfastened the last button on Sherlock's shirt and allowed the lapels to fall open, "We should have stayed in the hotel room where there's heating and electricity and a bed." Suddenly John's hands stilled on Sherlock's chest, almost as if he had forgotten to do something vitally important.

Sherlock watched as John closed his eyes and took in a deep breath before he finally looked up and stared at him with such fierce intensity that Sherlock actually felt himself starting to blush.

"Do you want this?"

Sherlock felt a cold jolt of adrenaline shoot down the length of his spine, "What do you mean by that?"

"Do you want us to be more than friends?"

"We_"

"I'm not asking whether you think that it will work or not, I'm simply asking if you want to try. Do you want this? Do you want me?"

Sherlock stared at him for a long moment as he frantically searched his brain, trying to work out how to sidestep the question and turn it into one that was less... raw. He'd managed to do it thus far. John had been so caught up in his own emotions to actually ask him how he felt about all this. He'd never directly asked him what he wanted. He'd never been forced to say it out loud, to admit to it.

He felt himself tremble as he continued to stare at John. He was waiting, looking expectant, needing an answer. If he admitted to this then there was no going back; no way to hide the truth, to protect himself against the inevitable fall. And he would fall. They wouldn't last, it wouldn't work and when John finally left it would break his heart, rip him apart, destroy him and the fear of that pain made him tremble again.

John was looking at Sherlock so openly and honestly. He looked so ready to try and be something more than they ever could be...

"I can't do this." Sherlock said as he finally pushed John off his lap and scrambled away from him, kicking a few candles across the room in his haste to get away.

"Sherlock_"

"What is it that you can't understand John?! You know me, you know what I'm like: I don't do things like this." Sherlock said, gesturing violently between the two of them, "I told you that this would destroy me, did you think that I was just being over dramatic? I don't know how to do this John, I don't know how to do love and affection and relationships. Caring is not an advantage it is a flaw, a misjudgement, a human error. It's exploitative and damning and ruinous and I don't know how to do it, I don't know how to be what you want me to be!"

John buried his head in his hands and groaned deeply, "For the love of God Sherlock, for someone who is so smart you can be incredibly fucking stupid." He scrubbed his hands across his face in exasperation before he looked up at him and said, "I know why you brought me here tonight."

Sherlock felt slightly whiplashed by the change of direction that their conversation had suddenly taken, "I... this is a date_"

"No it isn't. A date would have involved us going to dinner, having an argument and then returning to Baker Street where I could have fucked you senseless on all of the surfaces I could comfortably bend you over. This, on the other hand, is your way of trying to show me how different we are."

It was rather irrational that, even emotionally compromised and half naked, Sherlock was still a little bit miffed that John had seen through his carefully constructed plan. "I was simply trying to show you that your attraction to me is illogical and based on_"

"Sherlock I am perfectly aware of how different we are. I've lived with you for three years, I've fished fucking toes out of yoghurt pots and made you pee in cups to test your urine for cocaine. Our differences are pretty obvious_"

"Then why do you keep insisting on pushing this?!" Sherlock shouted and even to his own ears he could hear the frantic panic in his voice. He felt like he was being backed off a cliff, trying desperately to dig his feet into the ground to prevent himself from being flung off the edge. "If you already know that we're incompatible then why do you keep trying to turn us into something that we can't be?"

John stared at him in complete bemusement, "I never said that we were incompatible Sherlock, I said we were different."

"That's the same thing."

"No it isn't," John said, finally getting to his feet – with some effort as the time spent straddling Sherlock had obviously stiffened his knees. "Can you imagine what it would be like if we were the same? If I was the same as you, if there were two Sherlocks living in the same flat?" He actually seemed to shudder at the thought, "The fire department would be run off their feet trying to put out all of our kitchen fires and explosions, Mycroft would be comfort eating himself into a coma and Lestrade would simply give up the will to live. We'd end up dead after a month of either malnutrition or a drug over dose."

Sherlock opened his mouth to try and refute John's comment but he instantly realised that he was right about this one.

"And if you were the same as me..." John continued, his voice faltering slightly, "Well then we'd still be walking with a limp, suffering from post-traumatic stress and living off a government pension."

He took a deep breath and for a horrible moment Sherlock thought that John was about to start crying because the skin around his eyes was starting to look a little red,

"Sherlock you have no idea how bleak my life was before I met you. You have no idea just how happy your friendship makes me because without you... without the life that we've built together back at Baker Street... I'd have nothing."

He stared at him, his eyes wide, and in complete sincerity said, "I owe you, I owe you so much, I owe you everything and no matter what happens between us I will never leave you because you are my friend, my best friend. And there'll be times when I'll walk away, because there are moments when you irritate the shit out of me, but I promise you that I will always come back. I promise, because without you... before you I was so alone and I can never go back to that. I can't go back to a time when I don't know what it's like to have you in my life."

John took a few steps forward but not enough to close the gap between them, "I want you in every possible way that I can have you and if you give this a chance... if you give us a chance then I can guarantee that it will be worth it because we work Sherlock. We fit, we are a match even though there are so few similarities that we share. We are different but we are the same in so many ways and all I want is for you to give us a chance."

He moved closer, side stepping half dying candles and piles of melted wax until he was standing a meter away from Sherlock, "I don't want you to change, I know what sort of man you are and you're what I want. Not some simple, sweet, age appropriate woman who will look after me and feed me soup when I can no longer chew solids. I don't want a conventional life, I want one with you and I know that means chasing serial killers through fields and defusing bombs and almost dying every other week but that is what I want. I want this, I want you and all I need to know is if you want me too. Do you want me?"

Sherlock stood paralysed, his mouth hanging open slightly, his brain completely blank. It was ineffable, this feeling that was currently coursing through his veins. He felt like his chest was about to explode, almost as if someone had taken a bicycle pump to his lungs and inflated them until they were on the brink of bursting. He was shaking, trembling, feeling like he was about to shatter all over the floor. He couldn't think, he could barely breathe, but before he was aware of what he was doing, air whooshed out of his lungs and formed the word,

"Yes." He closed his eyes and savoured that word, "Yes I want you."

"Thank fuck for that." John said as he reached out, grabbing the lapels of Sherlock's shirt and using them to drag him closer. Then fingers were in his hair and John's mouth was covering his and it was glorious. Rough and fierce with a combination of hot tongue and sharp teeth. He could taste John's breath, taste his mouth and tongue and lips. Hands were everywhere, oscillating between tugging at his hair and trailing down his chest.

"Are we really doing this?" John asked against his lips as he grabbed hold of his hips and began gently thrusting his erection against Sherlock's.

"Ah... shit John that feels..."

"Are we doing this Sherlock, are we really going to try and be together? Tell me."

He could feel John's laboured breath falling against his throat and his hands working on the fly of his trousers and it was too much, he couldn't think, "Did you mean what you said before?" He managed to ask after several long moments had passed.

"Yes." John said against his mouth before kissing him again, "Every word, I promise, I promise I won't hurt you."

Sherlock closed his eyes. He was afraid and hesitant and sceptical but maybe, just maybe there was a chance that he could be wrong about this. If John had meant the things that he'd said then maybe they could work, maybe they could last. Maybe it would all be worth taking a chance...

"Okay," he said at last, his voice trembling slightly, "Yes, we'll try."

The second he said it Sherlock felt John sag against him, his forehead pressing against the crook of his neck as he said, "Oh thank God," over and over again in between peppering Sherlock's throat with kisses and licks and sharp, stinging bites. His mouth travelled across the expanse of his neck before stopping by his ear where he whispered, "I need to fuck you now."

Sherlock moaned and let his head fall back until it hit the wall behind him with a dull thud. He'd never thought that he'd want to try that again, not after that incident with his old professor, but the idea of getting down on his hands and knees and feeling John's cock thrusting in and out of his arse made him grow incredibly hard.

"God yes, do that, please." He said, hating how needy his voice sounded.

"I will but first I think I'll finish what I started last night." And before Sherlock could process what was happening, John had dropped down onto his knees and had started placing open mouthed kisses over his trouser glad erection.

"Oh John that's... fuck!" His knees were beginning to shake and he was worried that they might give out from under him. Tentatively Sherlock reached out his hand and threaded it through John's hair, marvelling at the warmth beneath his palm and the fact that he was touching him, he was allowed to touch him like this. John looked up at him and maintained unwavering eye contact as he started pulling the waistband of his trousers over his hips.

Sherlock took in a shuddering breath. This was really happening, the truth was being laid bare and raw and he couldn't escape it, couldn't deny this feeling or pretend that he didn't know what it was anymore. He knew what this was, he knew how he felt, he just had to open his mouth and say it. John had already done the hard part, he'd said it first, he'd paved the way. Sherlock just had to reciprocate, he needed to say it now before he lost his nerve, before this moment passed and doubt started to leech back into his brain again.

He licked his lips and took a deep breath before saying, "John, I think... I think that I lo_"

Something in his back pocket started making a hideously incongruous noise. John stared at him incredulously,

"Is that... is that a fucking phone?"

"I... yes," Sherlock said as he fumbled frantically to retrieve the offending gadget. A quick scan of the screen showed him that Mycroft was calling him. He ignored the call and stuffed it back in his pocket, resisting the urge to throw the thing across the room – trust Mycroft to pick the worst time to want to catch up with the events of the day.

"How do you even have reception? Aren't we slap bang in the middle of the Bermuda Triangle?"

The phone rang, it was Mycroft again. Sherlock ignored the call for a second time.

"The Bermuda Triangle is situated in the western part of the North Atlantic Ocean. We're in a windmill in Kent."

John smiled slightly, "I was joking."

"You'll have to forgive me, it's quite difficult to pick up on humour when your mouth is four inches away from my cock."

"That's a very rude word you just used."

"I think you'll find I know quite a few rude words."

John's smile became a smirk, "Care to orate a few for me_?"

The phone rang a third time and John groaned, pressing his forehead against Sherlock's stomach, "Just answer it and tell Mycroft to fuck off." He said, "In fact, better yet, give me the phone and I'll do it for you."

Sherlock handed John the phone and watched as he connected the call before pressing it to his ear, "Look Mycroft, this is the worst possible time for you to be phoning. We're sort of in the middle of something at the moment but I can assure you that Sherlock is fine, so am I and Moriarty is_"

John's face grew suddenly very flushed and then began to slowly drain of colour. He looked up at him and Sherlock could see cold fear flitting through his irises. Without a word spoken between them John held the phone out to him and Sherlock took it. He placed it to his ear and quietly called out his brother's name,

"Mycroft?"

There was a brief moment of silence before the voice of Jim Moriarty came clanging down the line, "Hello honey, did you miss me?"