Author's Note: Part 2! Expect part 3 soon! Thank you thank you thank you! XOXO, JSB

"Well?" Sherlock asks and he's dangerously close to John. He can feel his hot breath push across his face. Sherlock is looming over him, leering down at him over the bridge of his nose with a weird sort of glee in his eyes. There's a glimmer of mischief in Sherlock's twinkling eyes that John doesn't like – not one bit. John attempts to say something once, twice, three times but words fail him. 221B is so eerily quiet that John almost wishes some of the excitement of the morning trickled into the evening (minus the whole dead prostitute thing – so really, John should just be grateful for the peace and quiet).

He closes his eyes and leans his head against the rest on his arm chair. He doesn't know what to say, so he doesn't say anything. His silence annoys Sherlock, and John hears the rustle and crinkle of papers along with the pacing footsteps of the taller man. He peeks an eye open to look at the detective and Sherlock stops in his tracks. He turns to face John, and as he holds his open notebook out towards him, Sherlock gives him the most pleading look John's ever seen. His eyes round big, like a puppy's, and he drops down to his knees in front of John.

"Please, John. Just let me do this one experiment and I'll never ask for your help, or your assistance ever again, and it would really be wonderful if you could participate since I went through all this trouble to collect all this data and information, and I know that you've done a lot for me today, and I'm sure you'll mutter some profanity that describes me under your breath, but I'd really appreciate if you were my volunteer since the information is technically about you, so please?" Sherlock pushes the notebook underneath John's nose with a quiver of his pointed chin. It smells stale, like cigarette smoke.

John takes a deep breath and suddenly, it feels like his lungs won't hold all the air he needs. He hasn't slept yet, and his weariness is really starting to set in. His shoulders and eyes feel heavy with exhaustion. With a heaving sigh, he exhales and sits up straight in his chair.

"Fine," He huffs. He only agrees because he knows Sherlock only talks in run-on sentences when he's really excited

"Alright, John, I'll get started."

"If you get an erection, the experiment is over."

"…Obviously."

Rewind back ten minutes to Sherlock sliding behind John as he nods off in his warm, comfy chair. He lowers his mouth to John's ear, and says, "I want to test some of the theories I've formulated."

John shivers and leans away from Sherlock, pretending he doesn't understand what he's talking about (really, though, Sherlock's little roof top 'confession' is all John has been able to think about). Sherlock came round the chair, determined, "You get goose bumps every time you scratch a certain spot on your neck. Sometimes, when you think no one is watching, you rub at the spot for longer than necessary, meaning that you either have an awful rash or you enjoy the stimulation. Subject Private Gabriel Dancer enjoyed having his neck licked, kissed, bitten, and touched. With this information in mind, I would like to analyze this spot on your neck, using different techniques to stimulate said spot, and test my theory."

John swallows heavily, and feels the whole room grow just a bit warmer, "And your theory is?"

Sherlock doesn't reply. Instead, he leans forward (severely invading John's personal space) and tentatively presses the spot just below his ear. John nearly jumps out of his skin and jerks his head back. His cheeks flush immediately at the sight of Sherlock's smug smirk.

"So, you'll let me run the experiments," comes from Sherlock's mouth as he scribbles quickly in his notebook. It's not a question. John is scared.

"Wait, wait, wait."

"What?"

"Who the fuck is Private Gabriel Dancer?"

"A…colleague (?) of Christian Dorian Grey…"

"Jesus, Sherlock. How many prostitutes have you had in this flat?"

"… I'm really unsure of whether I should respond honestly or not…"

Rewind back five hours to John and Sherlock seating themselves in the corner of the very empty twenty-four hour diner a few blocks up from where they 'dropped off' Christian Dorian Grey. John orders coffee, his hands shaking as he asks about the omelets they offer. When the waitress suggest the house specialty, waffles, John panics and orders an omelet and the waffles because oh my God, oh my God – the waitress knows. The old man sitting at the coffee bar knows, everyone knows, and John is going to jail if he doesn't order the waffles

He drinks – actually pounds – his coffee in one huge gulp, not realizing and not really caring how hot the liquid is. The burn of the coffee down his windpipe calms the panic that is making his spine tingle. It makes him remember that he's with Sherlock – he was, after all, the best person to be stuck with in this kind of 'situation'.

The wail of sirens flying down the street makes John's stomach fall down to his feet. All the air leaves his lungs and for a second, he can't breathe. He can't think. All he hears is an oddly loud buzzing noise as everything goes fuzzy. Just for a second. He closes his eyes and inhales and remembers where he is, who he's with. The noise of sirens fade, but not that much. John doesn't need to have Sherlock's power of deduction to deduce where they were stopped (just a few blocks down… what a coincidence). He looks across the table to Sherlock, and John realizes that he hasn't said a word since they left the roof top. Sherlock looms down at his phone placed in the center of the table, glaring over his hands steepled in front of his face. Even when their food gets placed in front of them, Sherlock remains quiet, his eyes never wavering from his mobile. He doesn't touch his food, and it annoys John. He wants to complain, but he digs into his waffles and Bloody Nora – the waffles are astounding.

The shrill beep of Sherlock's makes John stop mid chew – a text. Lestrade. Sherlock reaches out and immediately reads it. He takes a second, a deep breath, and sets his phone down. He doesn't make eye contact with John, doesn't even look at John. Instead, he ducks his head, picks up his fork, and begins to shovel food in his.

Literally shovel.

John's not sure he's ever seen Sherlock eat with that must enthusiasm.

John's not sure he's even chewing.

John swallows his mouthful of delicious waffle, "Sherlock?"

Sherlock doesn't stop eating. Over an incredible full mouthful of omelet, he mumbles, "They found the body. They want us at the scene. They think there is malicious intent."

John turns towards his waffles again, cutting a large piece, "Murder?" He can't help how nonchalant he sounds. He wants to panic, he wants to be anxious and worried, but seriously – these waffles. Easily the best waffles he's ever eaten. Really, what is that spice? And John literally wants to bathe in that bloody maple syrup they've put all over it.

Sherlock doesn't respond. He only throws his fork down and sticks his hand in the air, waving dramatically at their waitress. John looks up but doesn't comment; his mouth is too full of what Jesus must have ate at his last supper. The waitress quickly comes to the table and Sherlock looks up at her, eyes wide with anxiety.

"Yes, I want onion rings," Sherlock demands.

The waitress stares at him, "It's six in the morning."

Sherlock rolls his eyes, "If I can get an omelet twenty four hours a day, I should be able to get an order of onion rings. No, I want two orders of onions rings, extra crispy. I will also need some pie, preferably banofee. Do you have that neon orange cheese sauce? I want to dip everything in cheese."

The waitress blinks at Sherlock. John's just glad to see him eat.

"Sherlock, what's the spice in these waffles?"

"Cinnamon, cardamom, ginger… John. Those are exceptional waffles."

They're halfway through the second order of onion rings before they speak again.

John says to Sherlock around a mouthful of onion rings, "We're going to have to figure out what we're going to do."

Sherlock mumbles something in response.

It could be, "Yes. I know we do. But I have no idea where to start."

It could be, "These are really great onion rings."

Both are equally true.

When they literally waddle back to where Christian Dorian Grey was 'hanging out', John is too full to care. He's tired and basically bursting at his seams, and right now, he doesn't even mind going to jail because he'd be able to lie down… even if it was on one of those beds that smelled like urine and one too many men named 'Bubba'.

The body of Christian Dorian Grey was no longer hanging. Instead, he was laid out on a sheet on the ground. The rope was still wrapped tightly around his neck. They passed Anderson, and Donovan, but Sherlock was too frantic to even register what they were saying. His eyes were fixated forward, on the body that was laying out in front of tries to act like he has no idea what is going on, like it's not all familiar, when Lestrade turns to them,

"There you are," He greets and hooks his thumb over his shoulder, "Apparent suicide. We have the note."

He hands John the familiar note with the familiar hand writing and the familiar words. He tries to pretend to knit his brows in surprise as he reads it. Sherlock pushes past him and Lestrade and glares at Christian Dorian Grey. He pretends to examine him just as John pretends to read the note.

"Really beautiful stuff there," Lestrade comments, nodding towards the note. "Really troubled guy. I almost feel sorry for him."

John has the stop the laugh in his throat. He hands the note back to Lestrade and mumbles, "It's Virginia Woolf's suicide note."

Sherlock makes a noise somewhere between a squawk and that weird 'bah' sound sheep make. He turns to John with panicked eyes and John feels a twinge of self-satisfaction at the detective's distress.

Lestrade raises his eyebrows, "John? I didn't take you for quite the literary man. You're a fan of Virginia Woolf?"

John scoffs and stuffs his hands in his pockets. Sarcastically, he replies, "Love the dead broad."

Lestrade doesn't pick up on his sarcasm.

"You said there was malicious intent," Sherlock announces, "And I see none."

Lestrade clucks his tongue and turns his back to John, folding his arms across his chest, "Yes. We didn't see it, either. Surprised, though, that you didn't pick it up. We were getting ready to cut him down and ship him off to Bart's for identification when Anderson pointed out that his shirt was on backwards."

His shirt was on backwards.

His shirt was on backwards.

John wants to strangle Sherlock. Because earlier that morning he watched Sherlock wrestle with the very dead Christian Dorian Grey to put his clothes back on him. He wants to strangle Sherlock, and Sherlock wants to strangle Anderson, and John wants to strangle Anderson too because right now, that smug look on his slimy face is pissing John off.

Sherlock is flailing, much like a Muppet, too apprehensive for his own good. John realizes that no one is really paying attention to him, because honestly, they've all seen Sherlock do some weird things at crime scenes. Because Sherlock was, in fact, weird. John runs a hand over his face and approaches the body. He squats down by Christian Dorian Grey's head and takes a deep breath. His back is to Lestrade and with Sherlock running about like Kermit the Frog, John has to be the one to swoop in right now. He pokes at his skin, runs a finger under the collar of his shirt, and moves down to his legs. He pats down his pockets where he knows Christian Dorian Grey keeps his 'business' cards. He reaches in a takes one out, glancing at it for a second before handing it to Lestrade.

"Suicide," John states firmly.

Lestrade blinks and sends John a puzzled look, "How can you tell?"

John moves back to Christian Dorian Grey's head, and uses the cuff of his sleeve to open his mouth, "Boils and rashes along his shoulders and neck, liver spots on his hands and chest, thinning gums, white film along tongue, sunken in cheeks yet no dark circles around the eyes to suggest drug use. This man is HIV positive. In fact," John moves and pries open one of his eyes, "By the state of his eyes and mouth, I'd say full blown AIDS. Close to, if not the late stages, probably nearing delirium. Suffering no doubt and wanting to end his suffering."

Sherlock stops pacing and positively gapes at John. John feels like giving himself the biggest pat on the arse ever. He deserves an award, a bloody BAFTA for that performance. Everyone around him is staring and blinking and completely convinced.

Lestrade whistles through his teeth, "You just gave Sherlock a run for his money."

Sherlock scoffs behind him, but John is almost shivering from the look that Sherlock sending him. Gratitude. Pride. And what is that? Adoration? John wants to cross his fingers and pray that it is. Lestrade starts to signal wrap up, but Anderson – fucking Anderson – pushes his way forward.

"Wait. His shirt though. It's on backwards," Anderson protests. John wants to slap him.

"Anderson, your shirt is on backwards," John states flatly. Sherlock snorts behind him, "Idiot."

Anderson sputters and looks down under his sterile blue cover. The black tag of his shirt greets him, poking out just a little from under his collar in the front. The group gets a good chuckle out of Anderson's stupidity, which makes John and Sherlock incredibly happy.

"I'm really surprised that Sally didn't catch that this morning, Anderson," Sherlock replies snidely.

Lestrade is still looking down at the card in his hand. After a moment, he jeers, "Christian Dorian Grey, huh?"

He then rolls his eyes and pockets the card, "Leave it up to a guy named Christian Dorian Grey to copy Virginia Woolf's suicide note."

John feels all smug again, "Rather hysterical, isn't it?"

Fast forward fifteen minutes and John is dragging himself up the stairs of 221B Baker Street with Sherlock hot on his heels. John just wants to shower and sleep and forget that the day ever happened. He can almost smell Christian Dorian Grey on his skin still, and immediately walks straight to the bathroom once his feet hit the sitting room floor. Sherlock stalks into the kitchen, collar of his jacket still pulled up past his ears. John doesn't think about anything for a while after that. He stands under the scalding water, but it doesn't burn him. It actually feels wonderful. He's starting to feel clean again, and his muscles are starting to relax and his brow is starting to soften when Sherlock barges into the bathroom and throws the shower curtain open.

"Sherlock!" John shrieks and covers himself with the curtain. "What the hell!?"

"John, it is dire importance that you come to the sitting room immediately after you're finished," Sherlock states, face void of emotion. John bristled at his casual demeanor, when there was absolutely nothing casual about storming into the bathroom while your flat mate is naked in the shower.

"Sherlock, I locked the bloody door," John started but Sherlock scoffs and peers at John condescendingly.

"Honestly, John. I can easily deduce an entire murder and backstory from a fleck of paint on the ground. Do you honestly think I can't pick a lock? I'm really offended by your lack of intelligence."

John really wants to smother Sherlock with the shower curtain.

Fast forward thirty minutes. John is sitting in his chair, gripping the arms so hard that his knuckles are stark white.

Fast forward two minutes and Sherlock is leaning over the back of his chair, stroking the sensitive spot underneath John's ear. John's heart is pounding so hard that he's sure Sherlock can hear it, and for the life of him, he can't figure out why he agreed to this. His whole body feels warm and tingly and he's doing everything he can to remain calm. When Sherlock then scrapes a fingernail softly over the spot, John feels his toes curl.

Fast forward three minutes and Sherlock is satisfied with the data he's collected. He scribbles brief notes in his notebook, and John takes a deep breath because he thinks he's off the hook. Sherlock rounds the chair and climbs onto John's lap before he can even register what is happening. He freezes as Sherlock straddles him and pushes his head gently to the side. John is about to protest, about to shove him off his lap, but when Sherlock dips his head and blows on the spot below his ear, John melts.

Fast forward another three minutes, and John can't breathe. He can't breathe because Sherlock's lips are fastened to John's neck, working magical circles around the sensitive spot below his ear. The air around him is filled with Sherlock, and he can't breathe around Sherlock, but John doesn't even care. He doesn't care because my God – whatever Sherlock is doing is amazing. Seriously. Sherlock. John can't believe Sherlock is making him feel like his nerve endings are on fire.

Another two minutes from now, Sherlock sinks his teeth into the spot below his ear and John can't help the strangled groan that slips through his lips. It feels like sparklers are going off in John's spine, and his trousers grow a bit tighter. John should feel ashamed but he can't because he can't even remember the last time something has feel this good. When Sherlock does it again, John whimpers and his hands shoot out to grasp Sherlock's hips tightly. The breathy little gasp that comes from the detective on top of him surprises him. Sherlock pulls away and stares down at him. His dark curls are in his eyes, but he clearly doesn't care. The sight of his bruised lips makes John want to pant. Sherlock makes a satisfied noise and scribbles down more notes in his notebook.

John can't help the small squeeze he gives Sherlock's hips as he writes. His entire body feels so tingly and warm and the spot that Sherlock had been nursing for ten minutes now is sending electric shocks under his skin. He looks up at Sherlock, and squeezes his hips again, a bit harder. John whispers, "C'mere."

Sherlock's pen pauses on the page as he peers down at John over the edge of the notebook. His eyes are dark, unreadable, but the soft pink flush across his high cheekbones gives him away. Oh, he's enjoying this. Sherlock sets his notebook down on the arm of the chair and stares at him, not moving closer. Not closing the distance that John wants closed so badly. John squeezes his hips harder, pressing his thumbs against his lower abdomen, just the right amount of pressure. Sherlock closes his eyes and licks his swollen lips and John almost cheers in victory.

"Please," He manages to rasp out. Sherlock opens his eyes, and tucks his chin back into John's neck. His hands travel up to John's waist, where he scrapes his fingernails over his jumper and John shakes as he feels the motion over his ribs. He closes his eyes as Sherlock softly kisses the sensitive spot, soothing the faint bite marks, and John can't stop the small noises he's making in the back of his throat. His hands grip tighter and Sherlock makes a noise that vibrates across John's skin and all John wants to do is throw Sherlock down and ravish him. He wants to pull him into his body, consume him, and make him make more noises, louder noises.

Somewhere in the back of John's mind, he realizes how crazy that sounds. He wants Sherlock. And the breathy moans coming from his mouth meant anything, Sherlock clearly wanted John too. Absolutely insane to think about. Sherlock runs a trail of very wet kisses up his neck to John's ear.

"What are you thinking?" He asks, lips wrapping themselves around John's earlobe. He sinks his teeth into the flesh of his ear and John gasps. He's so confused, because can't Sherlock see what he's thinking. He feels teeth nip at his ear again, and he says the first thing that comes to his mind,

"This is weird."

Sherlock freezes and pulls back and John realizes that what he said was wrong, wrong, wrong and dumb, dumb, dumb. He shakes his head and tries again,

"I have to go to bed."

Wrong, wrong, wrong.

Dumb, dumb, dumb.

John stops talking because CLEARLY his brain and mouth are not working together. He wants to crawl into bed and die a little. Sherlock is staring down at him, and John can't tell what he's thinking and that bothers him. He can never tell what Sherlock is thinking. Sherlock touches his fingertips to his lips and climbs off John's laps and John wants to whine and pout.

"Yes, you're right. It's been a long morning. I have notes to review. You can use my bed, if you don't want to climb the stairs. You look dead on your feet, anyway," Sherlock states blankly. He holds a hand out to John though, and gives him a small, sincere smile before he hauls John to his feet. For a second, John stands there stunned, but after a brief nudge from Sherlock, he makes his way out of the sitting room.

"We'll pick up where we left off when you wake," John hears. He pauses mid step and turns to find Sherlock flipping through his notebook with a sly smile across his swollen lips. John swallows and nods, "I uh… look forward to it."

He really means that. Sherlock peeks up at him, and while he locks eyes with John, he says, "I'm going to pin you to the couch and kiss you for an hour. That's the next experiment."

John doesn't even want to sleep anymore, but his eyelids are growing heavy and his body is so weary that he's starting to fall asleep where he stands. He takes a deep breath and turns back around. Over his shoulder, he calls, "I don't like a lot of tongue, but if you bite my bottom lip, I'll do whatever you want me to do."

He doesn't hear a response, but then again, he doesn't expect one. John smiles and walks straight to Sherlock's room.