UmbraDrachen, darling this is for you. sorry it took so long, but I hope you like it! it took me legit two whole days to get right.

John had been walking down the street— several months' past by now— when he had stumbled upon a homeless, skinny vagrant cat-hybrid in the street. He was long-limbed and dark-haired, bone-thin and filthy, shivering in the London winter, with no collar, no clothes save for pants with a hole in the back for his long, listless tail, and no energy. John winced but made himself walk past the creature; maybe it belonged to someone and they were looking for him?

The next day, the same condition could be said of the hybrid, but this time there were a group of young boys in the alley, kicking and laughing at the poor creature. John cleared his throat loudly and they looked up.

"Does he belong to you?" he asked, calmly but commandingly. The hybrid's ears twitched a little toward him and maybe one sea-glass flavoured eye poked out over his forearm questioningly and—perhaps—in disbelief. The boys looked a tiny bit ashamed and shook their heads, scattering back out of the alley when John jerked his head to the side and stepped back for them to exit. He went over to the hybrid when they'd dispersed.

"Hey, there, mate." John extended a hand and touched the hybrid's arm lightly, the one over his eyes. The hybrid tensed visibly, but didn't try to get away. Maybe he couldn't. He was in the same position John had seen him in yesterday, just a bit more jostled from the beating.

"Why is a creature as beautiful as you down here in the dirt, eh?" John asked, tugging at the man's arm until he gave, sitting up against the brick of an adjoining building. He breathed a little too hard for John's taste, ribs sticking out everywhere as he heaved and his eyes trailed all over the small doctor.

John let him explore as he slowly loosened his muscles and let John examine him. Once the hybrid had identified John as an ex-army medic, he relaxed almost completely. He didn't have a trace of "untrustworthy" in him, Sherlock decided.

"M-m-my name is Sh-Sherlock," the hybrid supplied in a quiet voice. Quiet, but quite deep. John looked up from wiping at a cut on the back of the hybrid's hand and offered a quick smile.

"My name's John Watson, Sherlock...Sherlock What? Do you have an owner?" he asked quietly. Sherlock grimaced and shook his head, eyes going solidly back to the dirty cobblestone beneath him.

"My name before I was sold was Holmes," he supplied, taking John's offer to get up off the ground. Maybe…maybe he'd take him somewhere to get some food? That was the best Sherlock had learned to expect from humans these days. They rarely paid any attention to even someone as expensively made as Sherlock had been. The hybrid daren't hope for anything better from a stranger.

"Would you like to come home with me, then? I live in a flatshare alone with a nice older lady who lives downstairs. Mrs. Hudson, she's my landlady…?" he let the question trail off as Sherlock's knees went out beneath him. He was just too weak and undernourished to balance well. The dehydration had also taken a toll, but it was easier to find water—even if it was kind of toxic from pollution—in rainy London than food most days, so it wasn't as bad. John tightened his grip around the hybrid's ribs and swung his thin body up, catching just under his knees to a bridal carry. If Sherlock squeaked just a bit during the move, John didn't mention it. At this point, John was taking the younger man home to clean him up and feed him at least, even if he didn't want to stay. He started walking toward the main road, ready to hail a cab.

"Poke out an arm, will you? Mine are a bit full," John commented, winking at Sherlock. The hybrid gave him a thin smile and wavered an arm out, hailing a cab. John got in and kept Sherlock on his lap to avoid any cleaning charges from the driver. Sherlock was absolutely filthy.

"Ah, 221 Baker Street, please." John supplied to the driver and they were on their way.

During the short trip, Sherlock swished his tail anxiously in the space between John's legs, brushing the insides of each calf as his did so. He let himself lean heavily into the doctor's chest and even his ears gave a bit of interest away as he watched the outside world pass them by.

When they arrived, John passed the driver £20 for keeping his mouth shut and not complaining about the smell or dirt. The man smiled and drove off pleasantly enough as Sherlock swayed on the bottom stair. John half-lugged him to the door, unlocked it, and showed him in before picking him back up again for the two flights of stairs, this time in a much easier fireman's hold.

If Sherlock showed any displeasure at the rough carry, he didn't mention it.

Mrs. Hudson was in John's kitchen, wiping down the counters (she always insists she isn't a housekeeper then proceeds to clean half of 221B anyway) so when John came in with a filthy, smelly hybrid slung over his shoulder in just a pair of dirty pants, she squealed a bit and scurried over to help immediately.

"John, what on earth!"

"Mrs. Hudson, this is Sherlock." John set him on his feet and turned the taller man around to face her, keeping a steadying hand on his lower back comfortably. "He's homeless, so I brought him over to help him get cleaned up and put some weight on. Would you run a bath while I get him some food?" he asked politely. Mrs. Hudson reached out and rubbed one of Sherlock's ears gently and cooed before walking into the WC to do just that. When they could hear water running, John pushed Sherlock toward a seat at the table and went rummaging for a can of tuna.

Sherlock sat rather uncomfortably at the table. He'd never been allowed at one before. Victor had made him sit on the floor and eat out of bowls. The young hybrid sat, twisting his fingers in his lap and looked around the flat surreptitiously.

"Erm…" John pulled a face and glanced up at Sherlock curiously. "I've never had a hybrid 'round before…do you prefer the can, or a bowl…fork?" he asked, brandishing the instrument in question toward Sherlock as he held the can of tuna in the other. The smell was mouth-watering; Sherlock felt his pupils dilate just a bit. He licked his lips and answered fairly calmly, given his starvation.

"The can is fine…but yes, I'd like the fork…if I may?" he reached across the table, stopping short of touching John by about a foot, and waited. John heard his stomach grumble loudly, and made haste to finish opening the can and thrust it along with the fork into Sherlock's outstretched palm.

"You'll need some fluids. I might have a…yes here it is," John stood back up as Sherlock set the empty can of food back down on the table-top, licking his lips and staring back at him. John was holding a saline drip-bag and digging in a large First-Aid kit for tubing and a butterfly needle. He found one just as Mrs. Hudson called from the toilet, saying the bath was ready, and that she'd go find some of Mr. Hudson's old clothes if she could for Sherlock, since the lanky hybrid was too tall and skinny for any of John's clothing to fit.

"Would do," he called after her down the stairs as he hobbled with Sherlock down to the toilet where he helped ease the younger man out of his holey pants and into the steaming water.

John kept his motions clinical as possible, for which Sherlock was unspeakably grateful. He was admittedly a bit frightened of this human only bringing him home to give him enough of a cleaning and feeding to have sex with him and turn him back out onto the street.

But, he thought, a bit of sex for one night off the street and a full belly is better than not, right? Maybe this John fellow wouldn't be too rough. Sherlock was thrown back into reality by the soft and slightly inquisitive scrub of a flannel over his broad back, trailing soap down over his shoulder and arm to clean it for the saline drip John had already set up. He had tied it to the shower-curtain railing above them while Sherlock daydreamed in the hot water, letting his joints and muscles relax for the first time in months.

"So your owner turned you out, or you left?" John asked, keeping his voice light and soft. He was focusing on getting a vein to stand up on Sherlock's inner forearm. He was so dehydrated, it was becoming rather difficult.

"I, um…I wouldn't have sex with him and his friends for his birthday, so he threw me out. But not before he made sure I knew that he'd gotten another hybrid. A female, this time. She was stupid and much more compliant. And, as you know, when we are released from a contract without another full human to take us in and collar us, we are left out on the streets. I can't even get a menial job without a new collar," Sherlock mumbled into the bubbles as John finally sank in the needle. He left his arm poking out of the water like a dead tree branch as he sank in a bit deeper. John paused after he taped the needle down and sat for a minute, staring.

"He wanted, what, a gangbang? And because you shied off he threw you out to be homeless? Wow. I mean, how much did he pay for you?" John rubbed at an ear as he slid shampooed fingers through Sherlock's overgrown hair, cleaning them and the tangled mess as one. "I can't imagine less than, what, a hundred thousand quid?" Sherlock moaned and rubbed his head instinctively against John's scouring fingers. It felt so good.

"Something like that. But I was engineered embryonically; my parents had planned to sell me all along. My brother is much more valuable to them, now. Second children usually get the shaft, you know," he commented offhandedly, knowing from his deductions on the ex-army doctor earlier that he was the youngest with an older sibling.

"Yeah, that they do." John started when Mrs. Hudson called her signature woo-hoo and rounded the kitchen and down the short hall to the loo. John was kneeling outside of the tub with Sherlock submerged up to his nose in the steaming water, looking half-asleep already.

"Here you go, Sherlock, deary, hopefully these will fit for the time being. I've brought you a dressing gown and some clothes for tomorrow as well." She nodded sagely to his bubbly-meek thanks and rounded on the doctor. "John, if you need anything else or someone to watch him when you go in Monday, I'll be downstairs. You boys behave, and let him get some sleep, the poor dear," she chided John, the both of them throwing a glance back to Sherlock's drooping eyelids over the water.

He hadn't been this comfortable in years.

Mrs. Hudson disappeared back down the hall and before long they heard the chimes over her door rattle, indicating she had retreated to her kitchen. Probably to bake up some sweets to put fat on this skinny hybrid, John thought. Good idea.

"Come on, let me clean you up some more and then you can sleep to your heart's content. I have two bedrooms, the guest one is upstairs, but I don't fancy having to carry you again so you can sleep in the en-suite right there," John nodded to the frosted glass door behind Sherlock's head and dug around in the water for the flannel he had dropped earlier. He found it and deposited more soap onto the soft cloth, helping Sherlock sit up against the back of the tub a bit better so he could reach all of him more easily. Sherlock whimpered as John traced over the fresh cuts and scrapes all along his back, sides, and thighs, probably from being on the streets for a few months, but overall seemed to enjoy his little rub-down.

Sherlock got a bit shy when John tried to help him out of the water, but then he remembered that the good doctor was being so clinical, that it didn't really matter that he was dripping wet and naked in front of him. Except that he was getting a bit interested in the man just from the fact that he hadn't been so cruel.

Not yet, anyway.

The hybrid was having trouble drowning out the voice in his head that kept telling him that John would eventually turn rogue and bend him over the first available surface. Nothing about the doctor betrayed his interest in Sherlock, sexually, whatsoever thus far. So, with quite a bit of effort, Sherlock told his cock to behave itself and stood in the water, leaning heavily on John once again, as the doctor strived to wrap a towel around him and help get his long legs out onto the cold tile. John set Sherlock on the closed toilet seat and bent down to drain the tub. He then turned back and roughed- up Sherlock a bit with the towel to dry him off and get some blood flow into his limbs, wary of the saline drip.

John then knelt and eased Sherlock's long feet into a pair of pants, which Mrs. Hudson—god bless her—had already cut a small hole into for the hybrid's tail. Once they were situated on thin hips, John stood Sherlock back up and reached for the IV drip. He paused, thinking of something belatedly.

"Do you um…do you need to use the toilet?" he asked, not sure how Sherlock, or really most hybrids for that matter, preferred to do their business. Sherlock offered a weak smile and shook his head. He was too dehydrated to produce much waste, anyway.

John nodded and went back to untying the bag and threw an arm round the taller man's waist, helping him into his bedroom. Sherlock sat on the edge of the bed as John yanked back the duvet and slid his legs in, tucking the thick cover up clear to the hybrid's chin. The drip bag was secured to the bed-post above his left shoulder. Only then did John pause in his precise movements to look about himself and begin to pick up scant socks and papers that he had let lay about. A novel there, a belt here. He threw everything onto the armchair by the window and came back to sit on the side of the bed.

"Are you feeling better?" he asked, checking his watch. He'd had Sherlock about an hour by now, and his colour was already improving from a small meal and a good hot bath. Better than the near-freezing conditions outside, anyway. Sherlock yawned deeply and nodded, a small smile stretching across his lips.

"Good. If you need me I'll be dozing on the sofa out here in the sitting room, okay?" Sherlock nodded again, already half asleep, and John patted his head with a small smile himself, reaching down to untwine an unruly black tail from his calf and tuck it back under the duvet with its owner before closing the door over and heading out to plop on the sofa with some crap telly and a beer.

He tried, rather in vain mind you, to get the image of those ethereal eyes out of his mind's eye for the rest of the night.

John was awakened several hours later—the clock now read 02:17 a.m.—by a fearful whine and a loud thump. Both came from his bedroom, where he raced off to find Sherlock tangled in the bed sheets in a sweaty lump on the floor. His eyes were huge, the retina catching a stray beam of light from the bathroom and turning them a glowing green as he looked around frantically to try and piece together where he was. John got down to his knees and slowly made his way over to the scared hybrid, murmuring softly.

"Sherlock? You're okay, you're with me. It's John, remember? And Mrs. Hudson? She's downstairs…?" he asked, reaching out a hand. As soon as he brushed the brunette's too-long hair with his fingertips, the man ducked but didn't back away. He froze, a quiet whine starting low in his chest. John inched closer, letting his body signals control the moment. He sat cross-legged and waited for the hybrid to show some sign of ease and come nearer of his own accord.

Sherlock quickly latched onto the scent of tea and gunpowder that John seemed to carry in his very skin and almost instantly calmed. Sherlock felt safer already. He melted into John's soft touch and crawled unceremoniously into his lap, squashing the smaller men a bit as he straddled him, settling his bum in the space created by his position, and letting his tail curl around John's right knee and tickle at his foot a tad.

John let out a quiet oomph! But didn't otherwise really respond to suddenly having a lap full of squirming hybrid, other than letting one hand settle easily on his lower back, right above his tail, and the other nestle a bit deeper into his hair. He thumbed an ear questioningly, and Sherlock rubbed his face into it, encouraging John to comfort him some more in the silence of the early morning.

"You okay now?" John asked after several more minutes, when his cock finally decided that it should quit trying to gain their attention and had settled down, as did Sherlock's breathing. He was almost asleep again, draped over the doctor's shoulder, nose pressed into his war-weathered skin. His eyes fluttered open at the soft interruption of the peace.

"Yes, I apologize," Sherlock started to disentangle himself, though John could tell that he really wanted to stay where he was. "I get rather vivid nightmares sometimes, particularly starring my previous…owner." Sherlock grimaced but set about getting himself off of John. But John had an idea. Sherlock squawked a bit when the doctor cupped his arse and pinned his pelvis to John's belly and stood, the longer man clenching his not-inconsiderable limbs around John like a vice, and walked back to the bed with him in tow. John settled against the headboard with all of the pillows tucked behind and around him. He shoved another under his neck and let it poke out a bit on the side before he relaxed back, letting them cushion his position. Sherlock got the picture and gave him a shy smile, tucking his nose back into the hollow beneath John's throat, and settled to where he was laying—legs sprawled—between John's legs, his torso and head supported by John's sturdy chest, surrounded by his arms on both sides. His whole body surrounded on both sides by this amazing man who had saved him for no reason. His tail swayed in ambiance as he relaxed again, letting John take the lead.

It wasn't long before the both of them were asleep once more.

A Few Weeks Later…

John had grown accustomed to a certain lifestyle. He was a doctor. He had been invalided out of the army a few months back, and this kind old widow had let him rent her upstairs for practically nothing while he got back into civilian mode. He'd been home for precisely three months when he found Sherlock in that alley. He'd never been this close to a hybrid; they were still in a rather "experimental phase" if you would, and only the obscenely rich could pay for the surgeries.

Sherlock wasn't wrong, the second child, usually the second son or daughter in the line of other same-sexed siblings, was usually the one to have the surgery done. It was cruel, in a way, because they were basically made out to be slaves—little more than pets—for the rest of their lives, and they had never even been allowed to breathe their own air yet.

Yes, in John's opinion, biological engineering had gotten quite out-of-hand.

John had been visited already by Mycroft, the terrifying older brother of Sherlock, but after the man had been assured that Sherlock was not being used as any kind of sex slave, and that he was far from being starved for either affection or nutrition, he left and had only texted in a few times to his brother's new mobile—a gift from Mycroft himself—since.

Sherlock was getting more and more desperate to go outside, but he hadn't any kind of collar or legitimacy anymore, so he couldn't go into shops or restaurants anyway. He was itching for some stimulation out-of-doors.

John had an idea.

And here the doctor was, happily tapping his foot on the floor of the Piccadilly Line as he made his way home. He had a plastic shopping bag clutched in his right hand, a worn-but-still-put-together box on the other. He had a few presents for his friend.

Life at 221B had gotten a bit more…unpredictable since Sherlock's internment there. He caused things to "magically" catch on fire, there had been several instances were dead mice were found either in the freezer or, more disturbingly, in the confines of the sofa. (Sherlock said they were experiments and, when confronted, looked a terrible combination of terrified that John would hit him/throw him out and offended that John had to even ask.) So, John was bringing him home something to fix his plights.

"Sherlock!" he called up the stairs as he climbed them by twos. He heard the sofa creak and knew he was about to be tackled at the door. He braced for it, but rather than the hug he normally got, he was peered at inquisitively.

"Taking the stairs by two? And the Piccadilly Line? What on earth have you been up to today, John?" John rolled his eyes and walked into the kitchen. He was far too used to these deductions even after only a few weeks with his eccentric new flat mate.

"I got you a few things, Sherlock. Come here," he pushed out a chair for him and went to stand across the table from the younger man. When Sherlock didn't immediately go for the parcels, John nudged them closer and told him to open them.

Now, Sherlock had also grown accustomed to a certain lifestyle. Never before had someone decided to treat him like a human. All Victor ever saw was a big bank account and a tail. He was a pet, nothing, there for entertainment and occasionally a hole to fill. He had to eat out bowls on the floor, sleep in a basket that was far too small for his limbs, and crawl along after Victor whenever there were guests over. He was expected to be the perfect servant in these situations, occasionally…servicing all of them. More than a few times he had had to do them all at once. So the last time he refused, he had been smacked around. When he fought back, that's when Victor kicked him out. But not before he put Sherlock in a metal crate for four days and gave him nothing but occasional glasses of water, tilted through the bars, and showed off his new pet. She was a Dalmatian-hybrid, with a long sleek tail, slim thighs and build, and heavily freckled skin. She was all too eager to be a hole for him and his bar mates to fill, and Sherlock had been forced to sit and pout in his cage until Victor had officially voided the contract that bound him to the Holmes family.

So when John pushed those two parcels toward him, he choked a little. He had no idea what was in them, but knowing John it was more than likely going to be good. It wasn't food. John never stopped on his way home; too early, he said. The smaller one…Sherlock dove for it first, eyeing John carefully as he tore the plastic bag open and fished out the smallish black velvet box. He waited for a second, until John's attention was bordering on impatience in his anxiety, and opened it.

Inside was a thin, black leather collar that had been polished inside and out for maximum comfort against delicate skin. It had a small gold circle hanging from the thin D-ring at the front. Sherlock had no idea what to say. His throat ached. His old collar had been a cheap dog-collar from Tesco. The Nylon had left a rather lasting impression on his skin. He couldn't even bring himself to touch the collar, he was so overwhelmed by the gesture. John started to fidget.

"It—it's just for outside, you know, like when you want to go to the shops or something without me, yeah? So you don't always have to wait for me, or even really ask permission or anything. Just—I mean—I'd like you know when you're coming back, or if you are…" he added quietly. Sherlock lifted his eyes to the ceiling to keep the tears from breaching the line of his lower lid and smiled back at John. He lifted up and read the small ID tag.

Sherlock

Prop. Dr. John H. Watson

221B Baker Street

Westminster

On the back there was John's mobile, his work, and Mrs. Hudson's numbers, in neat rows. Sherlock laughed and beamed across at John, still fidgeting a bit under his scrutiny.

"I love it, John. Thank you," he said as warmly as he could. "Would you?" he offered the collar to John and the smaller man scrambled to walk behind Sherlock, taking it in hand and fastening it around Sherlock's slim neck. He had put on some weight, nearly a whole stone, since he'd moved in, but it was not enough, in John's medical opinion.

The collar fit beautifully, with the tag dipping just into Sherlock's suprasternal notch comfortably.

John cleared his throat as though embarrassed and walked back around the table, pushing the larger box over to Sherlock as he settled back in his chair. He once again waited as Sherlock peered at it, fingering his new ID tag while he made rapid deductions.

Old

From work, not bought

For me…?

Sentimental. John is, not the item to him, necessarily.

Hmmm.

Sherlock reached forward and opened the loose lid on the box and gasped. John had surprised him, again.

It was a microscope.

This time, Sherlock let the tears fall as he pulled out the device and set it up right there on the kitchen table. No one had ever…ever let him experiment freely. And now, John was trusting him not only to experiment, not to burn down the flat or turn his hair white with chemicals or choke them all on acid fumes, but he was giving him the open freedom to run about town for supplies and giving him the ability to find inspiration elsewhere. He turned on the light and peered through the lens, nearly cracking up inside as he held the gagging emotions at bay.

How could someone have found him—a discarded, unwanted hybrid mess—in an alley and in two weeks teach him what it is to be alive again? What it is to be loved, even if it was platonic?

This John…John Watson. He was the real deal. He had dealt with physical and mental ruin in the army, and coming back from it, only to pass on what healing he knew through his kindness and mercy.

Sherlock had never loved a person more. Not even his own family came close to how he felt for this righteous man across the table from him. They had sold him, literally, to an abusive man for his money. They had made him into a salve before he was even known to be male or female in the womb. He had never stood a chance.

But with John, he did. And he was going to take it.

"John, will you come here, please?" Sherlock called from the bedroom. John had been letting Sherlock sleep in there since the second day when he got up to the guest room and promptly turned back around and receded under John's bed in a fit to stay nearer to the comfy man. John followed the sound of his voice out of the steamy toilet—fresh from a shower—to find Sherlock curled up on his side, tail flicking about and betraying him a bit. He stretched a hand out toward the doctor and John huffed a laugh, dropping the towel from where he'd been rubbing at his hair and climbed in in his pants.

Evidently Sherlock was seeking a cuddle, tonight.

The good doctor maneuvered himself under the thick duvet, sliding up close to Sherlock so the hybrid could curl around him and steal some much-sought-after ear rubs. But Sherlock had a different agenda.

They had been ignoring things like morning wood and erections up until lately, and it had been going well. But Sherlock had made his interest clear when he rutted against John in his sleep a couple nights ago, and John had lain there, fascinated. Since then, John's had it-erm—well, hard for the younger man. So when Sherlock snuggled in close, spreading his thighs to capture one of John's between them, and he felt a thick, mostly-hard cock nestle up against the meat of his thigh, John's cock woke up quite quickly to answer that call. He turned a bit more toward Sherlock, who was still wearing and lightly fingering that damned collar, eyes glowing a bit in the pale light from the toilet.

"Do you want this, really, Sherlock? You don't need to repay me for the collar, or anything, ever. You understand that, yeah?" John was whispering to the dark to keep himself from lunging on top of the hybrid and kissing him senseless.

"I know, perfectly, John. I want this. No one had ever treated me as anything close to an equal. With you, I feel more… necessary," he trailed off, lips catching bits of John's throat as he crawled a bit closer, coming up on his elbows over John. Their legs tangled, and a tail brushed someone's thigh, tickling it. John jumped and laughed into Sherlock's mouth, letting out a low groan when their tongues swept over one another.

This wasn't anything close to dominance and submission, though one may be wearing the collar and have a lower caste in life. In this, Sherlock didn't need or want to be catered to. He knew how to give, and how to take. And John certainly was one for the giving, in all things. He let Sherlock guide them, deciding to lay back and do as he was asked.

"Did—oh god yeah, like that love—agh—did, uh, you want to top? Or do you want me—to—ooo?" John gasped out between love bites and lapping kisses to his torso and bollocks. Sherlock was teasing him, purposefully avoiding his cock as it throbbed against his temple.

"Mmmm. What would you prefer, John?" he stretched his back beautifully, arching well, like a cat over John as he settled his limbs onto either side of the smaller man, engulfing him. He nipped at a bit of untouched skin at John's neck as he waited for his answer.

"I don't mind, Sherlock, honest. If you'd like to top, you're more than welcome to. But if you like to bottom, then let me make you good and sore, love." Sherlock snuffled a laugh at that and nodded, reaching over for the lube he found a few days ago in John's bedside. "Someone'd been snooping," John commented halfheartedly as Sherlock shimmied down his body, nipping and licking here and there, making John jump each time. He engulfed John's cock in his mouth expertly, taking him to the root as John felt a hand disappear from his thigh.

Sherlock worked himself open quickly and thoroughly, taking a few extra moments to taste every inch of John he could fit in his mouth, spreading his thighs open a bit more to lap behind his love's bollocks and into that most tender place. John jumped but groaned, writhing a bit as he fought to keep his hands in the sheets and let Sherlock explore. Sherlock loved him all the more for that simple gesture.

The hybrid crawled back up, finally, straddling John and lining himself up with ease. John looked a bit surprised, he'd honestly expected Sherlock to jump at the opportunity to top him, but maybe he simply liked this better. Topping from the bottom, was it?

John's brain short-circuited as Sherlock sank down on his length, enveloping it in tight, ringed heat that clenched at him mercilessly. He had opened himself up just enough so it didn't burn, but he was nowhere near "loose" yet.

John lay back and tried to breathe evenly for several minutes as Sherlock writhed, lifted, dropped, and rutted on top of him, trying to find the right angle, until the good doctor finally lost his good patience and rolled them over.

"Oh god yes," Sherlock screamed and arched back when John thrust in as hard as he could, angling up a tad so that the head of his cock hit that tender spot dead-on, and let the rest of his thick member rub against it mercilessly as he made the strokes long and deep. The doctor wrapped the trashing tail around his wrist and locked Sherlock's ankles over his shoulders as he continued to give his new lover the rogering they both seemed to need just then. It only stoked Sherlock's flame higher when John curved down to meet his lips tenderly, never missing a beat in his thrusting, and leaned down further to kiss the ID tag that bounced off Sherlock's chest.

The younger man palmed his cock minutely, seemingly trying to make it last, but one final hard thrust against his prostate had him wailing out and clawing at John's shoulders regardless, riding a wave of ecstasy he had never been allowed to indulge in before.

John rode the younger man through his orgasm and let it stoke his own, the fire growing hot and roiling in his lower belly. He leaned back and gave a few more even thrusts before Sherlock clenched around him, a mischievous grin could be seen on his face, even through the exhaustion, and John came hard, filling Sherlock with his seed as he cried out.

Several deep breaths and a tender extraction later, Sherlock was half-draped over John's chest once more, this time thoroughly sated and near asleep.

"I want to stay John, for good. I'll try and get a job so I can help with the rent, and food, and trivial things like that. But I…this is the closest I have ever come to…well—"

"I love you. And you had better stay, Sherlock. That's an order." John beat him to it, and Sherlock burrowed his face in John's shoulder, tail wrapping around his calf. His ears twitched as short fingers probed between them, but Sherlock was blushing too hard to think about looking up at John quite yet.

"Oh my, Sherlock. Have I found…a kink?"