Author's note: The final part. XOXO, JSB

Buzzzzzzzz.

For a second, that's all John can hear. Buzzzz. Everything is fuzzy and warped and he's so shocked that all he does is stare down at the disc in his hands.

John H. Watsonis written in pen across the front of the case. Simple, clean, and John is so confused. The black letters blur together in a dark blob in front of his eyes. His cheeks are warm, blazing actually, and though he knows he should say something, he can't. Buzzzz.

Sherlock's head is turned towards the window, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his trousers. Shoulders rigid, jaw tight and clenched – he'snervous. John blinks up at him, once, twice, then clears his throat. He scrubs a sweaty palm across his forehead, and he drops the disc case in his lap. He can't stop staring at it – even as he tries to turn his attention towards other things around the flat, he can't seem to tear his eyes away from the curious object in his lap. John shakes his head and tries to push out some form of words, but all that comes out is a rush of air.

Buzzzzz.

Sherlock won't look at him. The longer he remains quiet, the more Sherlock turns away from him. His back is to John now, and he watches as Sherlock takes a deep, shuddering breath and bows his head. John wants to reach for him, to grip his rigid arm and turn him around. He wants Sherlock to look at him, but he's not sure he can bear the bright eyed gaze of the detective. He wants to say something, but God damn it, he can't.

He's just so confused.

Buzzz – The buzzing sound clears and now all that remains is the unnerving sound of silence throughout 221B. John thinks he likes the buzzing sound better.

He squeezes his eyes shut and takes a breath and forces out a long, strained, "So…"

Sherlock's head snaps over his shoulder and John's chest constricts at the look in his eyes. He's tense. Worried. He's a different kind of anxious now. He's not running around like a mad man, or binging on breakfast items like he was earlier that morning. He looks hurt. He looks crushed. He turns and walks towards John, his hand reaching out for the disc on his lap.

"John, forget about this. It was really stupid of me and –" John can't bear the sound of defeat in his voice. He snatches the disc from his lap and holds it away from Sherlock.

"No," He says firmly. Sherlock's hand is still outstretched and his eyebrows are knitted in desperation. Desperation to get away from the situation.

"John, please. Really. Just give me the disc and we'll forget this ever happened. I'm sorry I eve-"John hates the despair, the pleading in Sherlock's words. John shakes his head – that's not Sherlock. That's not his Sherlock. Never mind that he just referred to the detective as 'his'. Never mind that it's late, and John has had the most miserable of days. Never mind anything because John is not going to stand for this Sherlock. John refuses to settle with anything other than his Sherlock.

"No," John states, squaring his shoulders. Sherlock ignores him though, and keeps reaching for the case John held above his head. He knows what would happen if Sherlock got a hold of the disc. He can see it through the look in his eyes. He would take the disc from John and retreat to his bedroom and then there would be silence. Not the average silence that John basked in after the result of an experimental explosion in the kitchen. The kind of silence that makes his skin crawl. The kind of silence that he can't break, because Sherlock would draw into this stoic cocoon he spent forever perfecting and then he would leave John alone. Sherlock would sit across from John, a million miles away, and to John, that was worse than not having Sherlock here at all. He couldn't have that. He couldn't be alone like that – he couldn't be without Sherlock.

And maybe that's what John needed to tell himself all along. What would John be with Sherlock? He wouldn't be anything. He'd be lonely John Watson, ex-military doctor, who looked ten years older than he actually was because he frowned so damn much. Sherlock gave him life, Sherlock gave him everything. John was thriving because of Sherlock. Sherlock.

The frantic detective takes a step back and lowers his hand. With his chin to his chest, he looks like such a wounded little boy. John reaches out tentatively and simply touches the fabric of Sherlock's pants. His fingers wind themselves through a belt loop and he tugs just a little to get Sherlock to look at him. He doesn't, though. Instead, Sherlock drops down to his knees and clasps John's free hand in his and looks into his eyes. John feels his heart racing. Sherlock's eyes are glistening with unshed tears, his chin quivering so slightly that John almost thinks he was seeing things. He feels like such a tit – he knows he should say something, but for the life of him, he can't think of what to say.

How can John put into words how he feels about Sherlock? What does he say to the man whom he owes everything to? He could say that he loveshim. He could say 'I love you'. It's amazing how difficult those three words are to say, isn't it? It seems so… anticlimactic. How John feels about Sherlock – it's the craziest fucking thing in the world, like he's on a roller coaster twenty-four-seven, on one of those sudden drops that makes his stomach flutter and fly into his throat. He feels like the world is just spinning, spinning, spinning in a whirl of lines and colors all around him, and the two of them are the only things standing still. He feels like his whole life has been inconsequential until the moment that he met Sherlock, like all the school, the friends, the scraped knees and the broken hearts have all just been training for the day that Sherlock would walk into his life. He had never be able to understand it until he saw Sherlock, and the whole meaning of the world clicked into place.

"John, please," He pleads, and his voice is soft and broken. "I'm so sorry that I did this. I'm so sorry. We can just forget about this. We can forget this ever happened. I'm such an idiot. I can't lose you, John. I can't. So, please. Please, just give me the disc, and everything can go back to normal."

He lowers his head to John's lap and rests his forehead on the hand that he has clasped in his own. John swears he can feel a kiss being placed on the back of his hand. He definitely feels wetness on his hand, and when Sherlock sniffles and lifts his head, John can see tears beginning to spill down his cheeks. The sight of his tears gives John the words he was looking for.

"Don't you dare apologize to me for how you feel, Sherlock Holmes. You just… surprised me, that's all," John starts, softly. He pulls his fingers from Sherlock's belt loop and rests his hand on top of his mop of curly hair. Sherlock's eyes close at John's touch, but he remains rigid and stiff. John smiles, trying his hardest to break apart Sherlock's frown, "I don't ever want to hear you apologize for your feelings, especially when I'm involved."

Sherlock's shoulders slowly start to relax. John takes it as a small victory. He continues, "I'm not going anywhere. You will never lose me. I'll stay right here, right beside you until we're old and ornery and I wouldn't have it any other way."

Sherlock grabs the hand in his hair and pulls it down to John's lap to join his other hand. His fingers tighten around John's, but he doesn't mind. His hands feel warm and he can't help but notice how perfectly his hands fit within Sherlock's. How right it seems to feel.

Sherlock frowns, and furrows his brow, "Why? Why will you always be here?"

John pauses, because he's unsure how to answer. He shifts fractionally in his spot and squeezes Sherlock's fingers, "Can't you deduce that?"

Sherlock grimaces, and he looks down at John's lap where their fingers intertwine together, "I don't want to assume anymore. Not with you. Not with this."

John slowly removes one hand from Sherlock's, and reaches forward to wipe away a tear pooled just above his cheek bone. He sighs, though he's not sure why. His hand lingers longer than necessary, but John enjoys the softness of Sherlock's skin under his fingers. Sherlock immediately leans into John's touch, though his eyes watch him like a hawk, wary and apprehensive. John smiles again, and rubs his thumb across a sharp cheekbone before replying, "Because you're my everything, Sherlock."

For a second, for one precious second, it seems like the world stops. Or so John thinks. For a second, there's only Sherlock and John staring at each other, and something clicks in John's head. All those times, all those moments when he would peer up at Sherlock and see that unreadable gaze, John finally understands. Suddenly, they weren't so inscrutable anymore. Because here, right at this moment, Sherlock was crouched in front of John and the look in his eyes was nothing other than love. Adoration. John feels a little stupid. A little dull. Why had he not seen it before?

'Yes, you see, but you don't observe'. John chuckles out loud as he hears Sherlock's baritone voice echoing in his head. He chooses not to explain himself as Sherlock raises an eyebrow to him. Instead, he reaches forward and seizes a handful of Sherlock's shirt and pulls lightly. Sherlock doesn't move at first, but as John tugs again, he raises himself from his knees and allows John to pull him. John leans back on the couch, dragging Sherlock with him until the taller man is nestled firmly on top of him. Sherlock freezes, keeping himself propped on his elbows, his eyes wide and curious and surprised. John grins up at him, and settles into the couch cushions. He spreads his knees just a little and runs his hands down Sherlock's waist until he gets to his hips. He squeezes, firmly, because he knows Sherlock enjoys that. And enjoy it, he does. The detective gaze changes from astonished wonder to a darkened gaze that made John feel like he was prey – like he was to be about attacked, ravaged. John squeezes Sherlock's hips again, his fingers digging into where his hip bones jutted out – he wants to be devoured.

Sherlock sucks in a breath, and his hips move against John, and they both gasp at the electric current that shoots between them. Delicious friction. John wets his lips and Sherlock's watching every move he makes, and John tilts his head and says, "So, let's get on with this experiment, yeah?"

"Can I please have the disc back?"

"No, it has my name on it… therefore it's mine."

"But…"

"It's not every day that you're serenaded by Sherlock Holmes."

"Serenade? Really, John?"

"Well, that's what you were doing, serenading me…"

"In the simplest of terms, I suppose."

"With Elton John."

"From my research, Elton John is a very talented and respectable artist."

"Oh, for sure. He's great. It's just… that's so… ordinary of you."

"You know, if this was any other situation, I wouldn't hesitate to call you an idiot."

Rewind back two months and three days. John wakes up to the sound of Led Zeppelin drifting up the stairs. He's not angry – quite the opposite in fact. He actually rather likes Led Zeppelin. As he lay in bed though, under the warmth of the duvet, he realizes that it's the same song on repeat –Black Dog. He gets out of bed and shuffles downstairs to make himself a cuppa. He hums along – hey baby, oh baby, pretty baby, tell me that you'll do me now. When he steps into the sitting room, he greets Sherlock, who is in front of the window. He doesn't reply, just turns and flicks off the music. John frowns into the silence. Sherlock is watching him – observing him.

"Experiment," Sherlock states, expressionless as he nods his head towards his laptop that the music was previously coming from. John nods and smiles up at him, blinking away the morning light in his groggy eyes, "I like Led Zeppelin."

Sherlock doesn't say anything, he just turns back to the window. John sips at his tea and opens the paper. He hums Black Dog all day.

The following day, John wakes up to another Led Zeppelin song – Whole Lotta Love.

The day after that, it's a Stones' song – Wild Horses.

Then it's Pink Floyd – Wish You Were Here

When John wakes up to Elton John – Your Song – he groans into his pillow. He had spent a large portion of the 70's hearing the song blare from Harry's room. It wasn't that he hated the song, it was just that he had heard it so many times that it was just old now. The song is nevertheless stuck in his head all day. Sarah teases him at the clinic when she hears him singing it softly in the break room.

When John wakes up to The Moody Blues – Nights in White Satin – he wanders down to the sitting room and waves off Sherlock's attempt to turn the music off. He sits in his chair and leans his head back and listens with his eyes closed. The song, it brings back so many memories. Memories of being sprawled on the carpet of his bedroom, passing around a pipe between his friends. Memories of kissing 15 year old Darcy Thomas, wondering what would happen if he slipped his hand up her lacy shirt. He opens his eyes and looks at Sherlock as he sits on the sofa. He's staring at John. John wonders what it would be like to kiss Sherlock's bow shaped lips. He wonders what would happen if he ran his hand up under Sherlock's soft silk shirt. He wonders what Sherlock tastes like.

And I love you, yes I love you, oh how I love you.

Wait. What?

John shakes his head – what is he thinking? He turns off the music after that, and disappears into the kitchen for a while. John doesn't wake up to the sound of music anymore after that.

Fast forward now, two months and three days from John being awoken to Black Dog. Fast forward past all the mess that was Christian Dorian Grey. Fast forward past the surprising delightful experimentation in the sitting room. John wakes up to the sound of music. He doesn't recognize his surroundings at first, but when he sits up with a start, he remembers – Sherlock's room. He couldn't have slept long, since the sun was still shining brightly through the bedroom curtains. He feels better though, more rested than before, and he flops back down onto the bed. He listens. Before, Sherlock only played classic rock, but now, it was something different. There's a heavy snare, a driving beat that makes his head want to bob along. There's an echo to the guitar chords and whispered vocals that John can't quite make out from where he lay. He likes it though. It sounds soft and pretty and it makes John smile because he hasn't quite heard anything like it. He curls on his side and buries in face in the pillow – Sherlock's pillow. It smells like him – everything in the room smells like him, and John feels a prickling tingle spread through his limbs. The same prickling tingle that ran through his whole body while Sherlock was kissing his neck.

The experiment.

John's eyes snap back open and his head shoots from the pillow and everything that's happened in the past twenty-four hours rushes back to him. He's warm now, recalling the feel of Sherlock straddling his lap, the feel of Sherlock's hips in his hand, the feel of Sherlock as he sunk his teeth into the sensitive spot on John's neck. John drags a finger across the spot that Sherlock spent so much time 'analyzing', and he shudders. He closes his eyes again and he wants to memorize everything about that moment. He wants to memorize the way Sherlock gasped as John pressed his fingers into his hips. He wants to memorize the way Sherlock curled against him and bit his ear. He wants to memorize everything about that moment.

"I'm going to pin you to the couch and kiss you for an hour. That's the next experiment."

John can't help the squeak of excitement that comes from his throat. He sits up straight in bed. He can't wait. He swings his feet over the side of the bed, fixes his jumper, and leaps towards the door. There's a definite pep in his step – more so than any other time John has woken up. When he opens the door and slips out towards the sitting room, he's positively thrumming with anticipation. He expects to see the detective, perched in his chair, or staring out the window, or flipping through his notebook. Instead, he finds the sitting room completely empty. How disappointing. John's chest deflates a little as he gazes around the empty room.

"Sherlock?" He tries. Silence.

He sighs heavily, scrubbing a hand over his head. The laptop is sitting wide open on the desk, and from where he stands, John can properly listen to the music playing. He still likes it, really like it. He wonders who sings it, or where Sherlock found it. He listens.

I feel like more. Tonight, I feel like more.

He sighs again. With an empty flat, and an unsatisfactory feeling in his chest, John's not sure what to do now. He's wide awake, so going back to bed is out of the question. Perhaps a cuppa and bad telly? Anything to distract him from his bloody disappointment. He walks to the lap top, and his hand hovers over the 'mute' button for a second before he decides that he'll listen for a while.

Beep, beep.

Sherlock's phone. John looks over to where the mobile sitting on the arm of the chair. He frowns towards it, agitated that Sherlock left the flat –again – without it. He looks down at Baker Street from the sitting room window, half expecting – half wanting – to see Sherlock strolling down the street towards 221. He doesn't even know what he'd do, though, once he entered their flat. What would he say?

'So, Sherlock… are you going to pin me to the couch now and snog me senseless? Because I'd really enjoy that, thanks'. John rolls his eyes at how ridiculous that sounds. He's not sure how long he stands there, gazing out the window and listening to the music, but when Sherlock's phone beeps again, John turns his head towards it.

"I'd answer that, if I were you," John hears behind him. Mycroft. He reaches over and mutes the laptop, frowning slightly towards the archway.

"Hello, Mycroft," He pushes out, his manners getting the best of him. Mycroft invites himself in, stalking towards the arm chair with a theatricality that reminds him so much of Sherlock.

"Doctor Watson," Mycroft nods once he's settled into the chair, crossing his legs. He gives John a tight lipped smile that John can't read. Surprise, surprise. He feels Mycroft's eyes sweep him, and he steps away from the window, jamming his hands into the pockets of his trousers. Before John can say anything, however, he hears a door open down the hallway.

"Go home, Mycroft." Sherlock.

John looks down the hallway to find the bathroom door wide open with Sherlock sitting on the tiled floor. His notebook is open on his lap, his legs propped up on the bathtub with his back pressed against the sink. John feels an indescribable rush run through his chest.

"Sherlock, are you – " John starts. Sherlock cuts him off, as per usual.

"Yes, John. I'm sitting on the bathroom floor. The smell of cleaning products helps me to think," Sherlock informs, flipping through a page in his notebook. He looks back up for a second, "By the way, thank you for cleaning the bathroom yesterday."

John's brow furrows at the oddness of thinking in the bathroom (and being thanked by Sherlock), but Mycroft projects, "Ah, yes. There's scientific proof that the smell of cleaning agents helps the brain process information easier. Cleanliness, or the smell of it, 'eases' the mind. Honestly, John, you're a doctor. It seems as though they'll make anyone a 'doctor' these days."

John feels an agitated prickle run up his spine. Sherlock rises from the bathroom floor and moves to stand at the end of the hallway, "Shut up, Mycroft."

He looks over at John, and his eyes narrow as he analyzes him, "You only slept for two hours and four minutes. Is that sufficient, John?"

John's cheeks flush at their own accord, and he clears his throat. He gazes down at his bare feet. Just a few minutes ago, all John could think about was snogging Sherlock – could he see that? Could he deduce that?

Mycroft lets out a huff, drawing their attention, "How's the blog, Doctor Watson?"

Sherlock openly scoffs. John turns to him, surprised, "My blog? You read my blog, Mycroft?"

Mycroft gives him a satisfied smirk, "Of course I read your blog, John. You've even inspired me to start my own blog."

Sherlock groans and flops down onto the couch, "What's the name of your blog? Do tell us. No, wait. Let me guess – Late Night Stops at My Reproductive System?"

John sniggers. Mycroft sighs, unamused. Sherlock, clearly on a roll, continues, "'Dear Journal, today is the third day of my menstrual cycle and I'm really craving Jammie Dodgers'. Does that sound about right, Mycroft?"

Mycroft's mouth flattens into a tight line. He taps his hand on his knee before looking up at John, "I was only asking about the status of your blog because I was curious if you'd be writing about a certain Christian Dorian Grey."

Silence. The flat is so silent and Mycroft smirks into the quiet. John feels his stomach fall and crash onto the floor. He quickly looks to Sherlock, whose face is ashen as he glares towards his brother. John wipes his now sweaty palms down the front of his trousers and stutters, "Y-you know about that?"

Mycroft rolls his eyes dramatically, "You hung a dead, male prostitute off a building in almost broad daylight. Did you really think I wouldn't know about it?"

Beep, beep.

Sherlock's mobile cuts through the agonizing silence like the sharpest of knives. Sherlock makes no move to answer it. John has no idea what to do. Mycroft taps his knee again, "That would be Lestrade." He pauses. "Or that could be Miss Hooper. While performing her routine work in the morgue this afternoon, she noticed some rather questionable things regarding Mr. Christian Dorian Grey. If you would have answered your phone an hour ago, you would have been able to run over and nip her curiosity in the bud. Now, she has had no choice but to inform Lestrade."

John feels like he's going to faint. Blood pounds through his ears, and he can feel his heartbeat in his entire body. There's no way – no way –they'll get away with this. They had their 'fun', him and Sherlock, and now, they were fucked. Christ, they didn't even use gloves. They didn't use gloves because they were so sure that this would be a simple suicide. A toss away that Lestrade would roll his eyes at over his morning coffee.

Sherlock stands, straight and tall, and crosses to John. He slides a hand over John's shoulder, smoothing his palm across his scar. He squeezes, reassurance, his long fingers dipping down past his collar bone. It brings John back, Sherlock's touch. His heart beat slows, and he melts a little at the feel of Sherlock's fingers against him. He edges closer to the detective, until his shoulder is ghosting against his lean chest. Sherlock takes his hand and runs it down John's back until it rests just under his shoulder blade. John sucks in a breath, an audible gasp that piercing the quiet room as violently as the mobile.

"Is Lestrade at Bart's yet?" Sherlock asked, but John can feel his eyes boring into him, warming him, comforting him. Mycroft stands and straightens out his expensive suit, "He hasn't left the Yard yet, but he'll be on his way. I can stall him, Lestrade, if you two can get to Bart's. Shut Miss Hooper up, and I'll make sure the paper work hits the desk without any further issues."

Sherlock and John blink at Mycroft's kindness. John asks, "How are you going to stall Lestrade?"

Mycroft's mouth slides into a mysterious smile, "I have my ways." His eyes harden though, and he jerks a finger towards the door, "Now, get to Bart's."

John feels Sherlock's fingers squeeze the skin just under his shoulder blade. John looks up at him, into his piercing gaze. Sherlock moves closer, until John's shoulder is flush against his chest. Despite the serious nature of the situation, John can't help but notice how close they are. All John would have to do is turn, just a little, press himself against Sherlock and kiss those incredible bow shaped lips. When Sherlock speaks, John can feel the rumble of his chest, his rich baritone, vibrate through his whole body. He wants to feel it again. He wants to feel it for the rest of his life.

"Are you ready?" Sherlock asks him, his warm breath dusting his face. It reminds John of hours before, of feeling Sherlock's lips and tongue against his neck. He swallows and nods but all he can think is kiss me, please kiss me, right here, I don't care that Mycroft is here, kiss me, kiss me, kiss me. Sherlock takes a second, to glance over John once more, before grabbing his coat and leaving the flat. John stares after him then shakes his head. He grabs his coat. As he's putting it on, he notices Mycroft hovering around the archway with a devious look in his eyes.

"Don't worry, John. I'm sure there will be plenty of time for experiments later," He says. Smarmy git. John bristles a little and pushes past Mycroft, not caring what he can deduce. As his feet hit the stairs, John turns to him. He says, "By the way, Mycroft, you look fat in those trousers."

He descends the stairs with a satisfied smirk and joins Sherlock in the cab.

"I just told your brother that he looks fat in his trousers."

"Well, that's because he does. Did you see his waistline? It was practically screaming for help."

John wishes that the cab ride to St. Bart's was uneventful. Boring. Dull.

He should be focusing on the fact that he will probably be on his way to jail in less than an hour. Instead, all he can think about is how close Sherlock is to him. Every time the cab hits a bump, Sherlock's knee brushes his and it sends a shock through John's entire body. Like lightening. His hands curl into the fabric of his pants. John looks out the window, to distract himself. He jumps when he feels a hand slide across his shoulders. Sherlock.

His nimble fingers crawl around his neck and John stops breathing. Each tap tap tap of Sherlock's fingers against his skin tingles. He looks at Sherlock from the corner of his eye, and even though his head is turned out towards the street, there is a small – almost nonexistent – smirk on his lips. John wants to kiss that smirk clean off his face. He wants to swallow that smirk.

A strangled noise slips from John when Sherlock's finger strokes against the spot under his ear. His eyes slip shut, his fingernails cutting into his palms as he clenches his hands tighter. It's still sensitive, the magic spot, from the bites and licks and kisses he received from Sherlock. He wants to groan as Sherlock ghosts his fingers up under his ear, but he remembers where he is. He's in a cab. With Sherlock Holmes. And the cab driver keeps glancing in the mirror at the two of them so he obviously recognizes the two of them.

But oh my God, Sherlock – he can't stop his head from rolling back against the seat as Sherlock scratches a line from under his ear to the nape of his neck. Sherlock pushes closer, nudging his nose through John's hair. His hand wanders to Sherlock's leg, grasping his thigh, wanting to touch him. Needing to touch him. He squeezes and Sherlock sucks in a breath against him, rustling his hair. John shivers. Sherlock's hand cups the side of John's neck, pulling him closer. He lowers his head and John gasps as he feels the gentle nip of Sherlock's teeth against the shell of his ear.

The cab comes to a stop. Sherlock pulls away, "Ah, we're here."

He leaps from the cab with a dramatic 'swish' of his coat, leaving John slack-jawed and embarrassingly hard and rosy-cheeked. The cab driver coughs and John wants to die a little, but he shoves money towards the front of the cab and exits with an unsatisfied grumble.

He finds Sherlock in the morgue, stalking around the examination table with a tittering Molly close behind him. Christian Dorian Grey is flat on the table, blue and cold and dead dead dead. It slams John in the chest, bringing him down from his Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock cloud to the cold hard ground of reality.

"Oh hello, John," Molly smiles to him. John manages a curt nod, his eyes shifting from Christian Dorian Grey to Sherlock and back again. She doesn't seem to notice that he doesn't reply. She tucks her hands behind her, "I'm sorry to call you two in, but I just noticed some strange things that didn't settle with me right. I thought maybe you should take a look. I've called Lestrade in, when I couldn't get a hold of you, but he called to say traffic is awful and he'll be a while."

Fucking Mycroft. John breathes a little easier. Sherlock stops circling and stares down Molly, whom blushes furiously. He asks, "What are these strange things you claim are so important?"

John huffs at Sherlock's lack of manners. Sherlock glances over to him before he bends over Christian Dorian Grey as Molly lowers the sheet.

"I found these bruises. They don't look right, especially if there was belief of malicious intent," She explains.

"Because his shirt was on backwards," Sherlock interjects.

Molly smiles a little and continues, "I knew it probably wasn't a huge thing, but something about them doesn't sit with me right."

She pulls the white cotton past his chest, where she runs a gloved hand over the skin just under his rib cage. The skin is a deep purple, an angry bruise right above where his kidneys would be. John inhales.

Rewind back twelve hours and some change. John's hands are grasped underneath Christian Dorian Grey's shoulders as he and Sherlock struggle to carry him out of the bedroom. Sherlock has his feet and John is huffing and panting as they jostle the body around the particularly sharp corner of the sitting room. John stumbles a little, and jerks forward. Sherlock fumbles around, pushing Christian Dorian Grey away from him and into the sharp corner with a loud 'thud'.

John winces and regains his footing, "Jesus, Sherlock, careful. I think that was his kidney."

John lowers his head to the bruise, pretending to scrutinize the wound. Sherlock does the same, pushing close to him, his chin brushing over John's shoulder as he analyzes the bruise. John starts to warm again – he feels the static shock run through his body now that Sherlock was so close. The want, need, itch to touch the taller man returns. He fights the urge to turn in his arms, bury his hands in Sherlock's hair, and crush his body against him. Feel every hard line of his body against his own. Would Sherlock burn like John?

Did Sherlock tingle like John did?

Sherlock lifts his head away and circles the table again. John feels the bite of a chill, cold. Molly, oblivious to the world beyond the swooping detective, pulls the sheet down more. She exposes Christian Dorian Grey's hip where an even uglier bruise had form. Sherlock stops his pace and stares. John closes his eyes.

Rewind back twelve hours and some more change. Sherlock slips down the stair case and drops Christian Dorian's Grey's feet completely. The sudden movement rips his shoulders right out from John's grasp, and the two of them watch as Christian Dorian Grey sails down the stairs by Mrs. Hudson's door.

Thud, thud, thud.

CRACK.

Christian Dorian Grey's body slams against the bottom bannister with a sickening crack. Sherlock makes a choked noise and runs down the stairs after him, "Shit, shit, shit."

John is breathing hard, panicking, because fuck, fuck, fuck, Mrs. Hudson is going to wake up and see this and have an absolute heart attack and then they'll have to dispose of TWO bodies and John was going to jail and holy shit, Sherlock is fucked because he has such a pretty mouth and –

"John," Sherlock hisses up to him once he reaches the bottom landing where Christian Dorian Grey hit. He seizes his legs and blinks up at John with wide, nervous eyes. He takes a deep breath and runs his hands through his hair before hurrying down the stairs.

"Shit, I think we just cracked his pelvis."

Molly steps away from the table and smiles nervously at Sherlock and John. Sherlock bends over Christian Dorian Grey, and John watches apprehensively. He's much calmer than before, Sherlock is. He stands straight, and stalks around the table to stand in front of Molly.

"Dull, dreadfully dull," He states, bored, "Really, Molly." He rolls his eyes.

Molly blushes a vibrant red and tucks her chin down, "What do you mean?"

"Are you not aware of this man's profession?" Sherlock asks. Molly opens her mouth, but Sherlock waves a hand, stopping her words before they could even start, "No, don't answer that. Obviously, you don't."

He sweeps a hand behind him, gesturing to Christian Dorian Grey, "This man was a prostitute. Judging by the various marks around his chest and back, he was regularly abused. Either by clients, or perhaps by his pimp. Going by small bruises along his wrist and neck, I'm going to say both."

Molly's brow furrows, "But the bruises look post-mortem."

Post-mortem bruising is possible if the force is inflicted closely after death. Within the first three – five hours depending on the overall health of the person before death. These were of regular occurrence in the military. That's why they look weird to her. She probably hasn't seen many of these before. John's mind was racing. His eyes tracked between the bruises. He puts a glove on quickly and reaches out to touch the raised skin under his ribcage. There is a pocket of coagulated blood underneath the skin – it almost feels like gelatin. Blood pockets form under post-mortem bruising because blood isn't being pumped by the heart. Christ, this looks like such a murder.

Sherlock clucks his tongue and rolls his eyes again, "Must I always explain everything? Honestly. John, please."

He looks to John, who catches the mysterious – devious – glint in the detective's eye. Molly is flustered and sputtering and John takes the opportunity to seize moment. Auto-pilot on. "He was at the very late stages of AIDS. One of the very common side effects is horrendous bruising. The body has a low number of platelets which are essential for normal blood clotting, thus causing more severe bruises than normal. Low platelets also cause these nasty blood pockets. Blood isn't being pumped through the veins probably, so blunt force often severs blood flow, creating pockets of coagulated blood."

John has no idea what he just said. He's pretty sure that it was a solid minute of purely talking out of his ass. Reciting medical textbooks.

Sherlock shoves his hands into the pockets of his coat, puffs out his chest, and beams proudly at John. John's cheeks heat. Molly ducks her head down and knots her fingers together. She apologizes profusely as she bustles about. She waves the clip board around, "Of course. Silly me. I'll get this filed away. I should let Detective Inspector Lestrade know that you two have the situation under control."

John breathes a sigh of relief. Molly collects some paper work and flees the morgue, her hurried footsteps echoing down the hallway in retreat. There's a moment, when John and Sherlock stand in silence. There's a thrum, a beat of reprieve knowing that it was over. It was in Mycroft's hands now, and though John wasn't his number one fan, he could count on him to handle a scandal such as this one.

Was it really that easy?

John turns to Sherlock, to smile at him maybe, or crack a joke, but Sherlock crowds him against the wall until his back is pressed flat.

John gasps, his hands immediately rising to Sherlock's shoulders to anchor him. Sherlock presses tight to him, his hands fumbling past John's coat and jumper until his cool fingers slide across his sides. John's skin feels so hot against Sherlock's touch, and he arches back into the hands that move to rest on the small of his back. He wants his hands everywhere. He closes his eyes and rocks his head back against the wall. John releases his grip on Sherlock's shoulders to sink his fingers into the detective's hair. He tugs and Sherlock makes a soft noise as he rests his forehead against John's.

Oh my God, was that a moan?

The arms around John's waist tighten, the fingers on the small of his back digging and scratching into his skin. John licks his lips and tugs Sherlock's hair again, desperately trying to pull him closer.

Kiss me, Sherlock. Fucking kiss me.

Sherlock moves closer, his chest so flush against John's that he can feel the rumble of every breath he takes. His hot, hot, hot breath rushes across his face, and John is panting with the anticipation of smoothing his lips across the man pressed oh so close against him. He wets his lips in a thick, lewd lick of his tongue, aware that Sherlock is watching with a heated gaze. He pulls the curls at the base of Sherlock's neck, and the detective's eyes slide closed in delight as John pulls him down.

Kiss me. Please, please, please kiss me.

His lips just barely brush Sherlock's, and he groans. There's a crack of electricity that shoots down his spinal column, sending waves of pleasure ricocheting through John's entire body. He grips the hair entwined around his fingers and tries to bring his lips down to his own, but Sherlock resists, keeping it to a teasing brush. John murmurs in frustration, "Please, kiss me."

Sherlock leans down and brushes his lips over John's again. John gasps, "Please."

Sherlock teases him again. Sherlock. John groans, "Sherlock."

The footsteps echoing down the hallway alerts them of Molly's return. Sherlock pulls back to look at John, his gaze dark and hungry and once again, John is embarrassingly hard and rosy-cheeked. He's panting hard, and when Sherlock moves away, John has no choice but to release his grasp on his hair. He steps back, his eyes still boring into John's, even as Molly enters the morgue with Lestrade following closely behind. John doesn't even attempt to try and compose himself. He's hot and frustrated and so bloody horny and all he wants to do is hurl himself at Sherlock and snog the living day lights out of him. Sherlock is watching him, and he knows. He knows what he's doing to John. The sly smirk that stretches across his lips gives Sherlock away completely.

"Have you two got this squared away yet? I'm done with this bloody suicide. This shouldn't have even hit my desk," Lestrade is annoyed as he walks into the morgue, waving a hand towards Christian Dorian Grey.

Molly mutters to herself and looks down, blushing profusely. John would almost want to feel sorry for her if he could think about anything other than jumping Sherlock. The detective smirks, his eyes never leaving John, and he replies coolly, "Yes. Once again, you all have bored me with a completely transparent case. It's taken care of. Can we please let Christian Dorian Grey rest in peace now?"

Lestrade scratches his hand through his hair, "Right. Agreed." He turns to Sherlock, "Got a case that just rolled in. Double homicide, two sisters, missing husband and possible lover."

Sherlock diverts his gaze to Lestrade, "Guaranteed it's the jealous husband." His eyes narrow as they slide to John, and there's that damn mischievous glint in his eyes again. "But there's not enough data to conclude properly. Lead the way."

As Lestrade and Molly and Sherlock make their way out of the morgue, John's hand shoots out and grabs the arm of Sherlock's coat and stops him in his tracks, "That's it?"

Sherlock looks at him expectantly, "That's what?"

Now he's hot and frustrated and angry because he understands now that Sherlock has been teasing him. Fucking Sherlock. John bristles, "You know what I'm talking about. You can't just –"

Sherlock interjects, "I can't what, John?" He moves closer to John, fingers closing around the hand on his arm tightly. He draws his full bottom lip suggestively between his teeth, knowing full well that John was watching his every move with bated breath. He repeats, "Can't what?"

"All I want is for you to pin me to the couch and snog me senseless, and you know that, and you have been teasing me ever since we left our flat!" When John finishes, he realizes that in his frustration, his voice was projecting across the entire morgue. Molly and Lestrade stand frozen in shock just past the door, staring dumbly at him. Sherlock's eyes widen briefly in surprise, in disbelief that modest John Watson would ever say anything like that. It hits John, what he just said. What he just broadcasted across the entire morgue.

But then it hits him that he doesn't care. Because he's hot and frustrated and angry and so bloody horny. And Sherlock is smirking at him, AMUSED, now that his shock is gone. And John wants to cover that mouth and kiss that fucking bloody beautiful maddening smirk right off his lips. And John doesn't care if Molly and Lestrade and the BLOODY FUCKING DAILY NEWS knew about it. And SHERLOCK is SMIRKING at him because it's all just PART OF THE BLOODY EXPERIMENT.

John huffs and pushes himself away from the wall, moving with determination in his stride. He storms past Lestrade and Molly, who hastily move out of his way.

"John, where are you goi-" Sherlock starts.

"I'M BLOODY GOING HOME!" John shouts back, echoing angrily down the hallway.

Stomp, stomp, stomp.

"Stupid, bloody Sherlock Holmes with his stupid bloody experiments and his stupid bloody lips and his stupid bloody cheekbones and his stupid bloody swishy coat and stupid bloody perfect fucking face and – TAXI!"

"Sherlock," says Lestrade, almost a question. Definitely measured. "I'm not sure what I just witnessed."

Sherlock glares, "Telling the man who solves all your cases about your lack of observational skills is annoyingly redundant and completely unnecessary."

John's anger starts to simmer once he flops himself down on the sofa in the 221B sitting room. (That is however after John stomped to the taxi, shouted at the taxi driver, slammed the taxi door shut, and stomped up the stairs of 221).

He feels silly. It's all just an experiment – a silly little experiment, just like all the other ones Sherlock conducts.

But John's feelings were very real. His frustration was very real. His want, need was very real. These images of Sherlock in his head were very very real, and the more John thought about it, the more it drove him mad. All of this (all the teasing in the morgue, in the cab, on the couch) was part of an experiment. Information that Sherlock would scribble down in a notebook then store away. John's feelings were data. John's chest hurt.

Data. Sherlock would come home and observe him and take notes because John's reaction was exactly what he was looking for under his (X + Y + TEASE = ? ) equation. He would take a hair sample then bend over the table the rest of the night, over his microscope, analyzing his data.

John frowns and leans his head back on the sofa. He feels embarrassed. How embarrassing for him – getting emotionally involved in one of Sherlock Holmes' experiments.

Of course he was data.

Of. Fucking. Course.

John scrubs at his eyes and he's so mad. Not at Sherlock, but at himself because John should have known better. This was all too much – these past twenty four hours being terribly unkind of to John Watson. He should sleep – 48 hours at least – and maybe it would all be better. Maybe he was just sensitive from the lack of sleep. Sensitive? Bloody woman.

He runs his hands over his mouth and closes his eyes. This is ridiculous, he decides. This whole situation is just bloody ridiculous.

He's not sure how long he sits there, with his head back and his eyes closed. It's quiet and peaceful and the silence is like Heaven to his mess of a mind. He thinks he hears the soft flutter of fabric, and he opens his eyes to find Sherlock before him. John's surprised, but not in the way he thinks he should be. Sherlock stands guarded in front of him, hesitant and wary, with his hands shoved deep in his pockets. He looks at John with apprehension and John is just so sure that Sherlock will tell him how immature he is and how average he is and how he's nothing more than an ordinary male thinking with his prick.

John lifts his head, and leans forward. He presses his elbows into his knees and sighs, long and tiresome and unfulfilled sounding, "I'm not your experiment, Sherlock."

His words surprise him. He didn't mean to blurt what he was feeling. Right?

Sherlock's brow furrows, confused. He says, "I know you're not."

John's not sure what his face does – maybe it relaxes, maybe his eyes brighten, maybe his lips twitch into a smile – but Sherlock's face hardens. He stiffly takes off his jacket, his mouth flattened into a hard line, "I seem to have made a tactical error."

John blinks, "Excuse me?"

Sherlock breathes hard and drops his head – he's angry, his mind and thoughts racing faster than he can process. He sputters, rethinking, rephrasing, "John-I- I never… making you feel like an experiment was never my intention…"

He stops and squeezes his fist together at his sides. He takes a moment – one, two, three – and walks towards the laptop. He fiddles around on the desk, ejecting the disc in the laptop and placing it inside a case. Sherlock holds the case in his hand, staring hard at it as he turns back to John.

"There was a study done, a few years back, at Cornell University which concluded that if a song is heard upon waking, it has an 83% chance of being 'stuck in your head' the rest of the day," He pauses. He rubs his thumb across the front of the case. He starts, "I thought it was such a cleverthing to do – fill a disc full of songs that might portray my feelings and then play them in the morning as a romantically obtuse alarm clock. I knew you had an affinity for classic rock, and that weird 90's music."

John is too busy listening with rapt attention to notice that Sherlock has been holding the disc out to him for quite some time. He stares dumbly for a moment, then reaches out a hand to take it from him. Sherlock drops his hand back down, then snaps it up to run a hand through his hair. Nervous. Sherlock is nervous. He mutters, "It didn't work, obviously. So, I went about looking for different approaches which involved a lot asking questions which then led to…"

He trails off, and looks towards his notebook on the coffee table, but John gets it. 'Which then led to Christian Dorian Grey'. John looks down to the disc in his hands. The music – the Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd, Stones, Tori Amos, Moody Blues, Elton John – it all meant something so much more than John could have thought. So, this wasn't an experiment. This was just Sherlock's eccentric way of telling John how he feels.

John blinks – this isn't real life, is it?

Buzzzzzzzzzzz.

Fast forward just a few minutes. John stops buzzing, and Sherlock cries a little, but that's okay because now he's staring down at John with this almost carnal gaze and John is really loving every second of it. John reaches a hand up and slides his palm across the smooth skin of Sherlock's cheek, running his hand back until it threads through the hair at the nape of his neck. He smiles, and Sherlock's eyes soften –adoringly – and lowers himself onto John until their chests are flush. There's no tease this time – Sherlock's hands cradle John's head and he kisses him so lovingly that John wants to cry.

It's so intimate, the gentle slide of Sherlock's soft lips against his own – slow, unhurried. It's almost like the movies, the way Sherlock swept him right off his feet. Just one kiss and John is melting into the cushions, melting into Sherlock. He runs his free hand up Sherlock's side before wrapping around it around his back – he wants him closer - he's melting. Tiny, tiny firecrackers of pleasure are sparking everywhere in John's body, starting from his toes and working all the way up to where Sherlock's hands are buried in his hair. His whole body is warm, on fire, and when Sherlock's fingers tug at John's hair, he groans softly into Sherlock's mouth.

It seems like they lay there for hours, gliding their lips together in a tender kiss that's perfect. Oh, it's so perfect that John never wants it to end and all he can think is this is happening, oh my God, this is happening and this is magnificent, actually incredible, really just tops. But Sherlock shifts and his hips rub against John's just right, just enough for a bolt of desire to shoot through him. He gasps and groans and tugs at Sherlock's hair.

Sherlock pulls away, sitting back on his feet. John lets out a shameless whine at the loss of warmth, the loss of Sherlock. He reaches out, fingers twisting for the brunette, searching for anything to grasp on to, something to pull him back and kiss him more. He licks his lips eagerly, and his fingers wind through Sherlock's belt loops. He tugs, the pull making Sherlock shift his hips, and there – that was the spot. When he raises his hips now, there is an insatiable twinge, rub, of pleasure that makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up straight.

There's a gasp that comes from Sherlock, a gasp that John is quickly becoming addicted to hearing. He shifts and moans and there's the gasp again, choked and so very sexual. Sherlock seizes John's hands and pulls them away from his belt loops. He threads their fingers together, and for a moment, John is touched by the tender intimacy that Sherlock has shown him. But just when he settles, Sherlock lifts John's hands and pins them straight above his head. He covers John's body with his own in seconds, flush and possessive and his fingers squeeze John's in the grasp held above his head. He wasn't going anywhere.

Oh. John likes this much better.

The primal, carnal, animalistic gleam is back in Sherlock's eyes. He looms over John, like a lion to his prey, and claims his mouth in a scorching kiss that takes John's breath away almost instantly. With the utmost of pleasures, John relinquishes what little control he has of the kiss and lets Sherlock guide with the hot, feverish presses of his mouth. John doesn't mind at all, because Sherlock is kissing him like a man of thirst drinks water, and he can't get enough of it. He feels a little vulnerable with his hands above his head, but it's Sherlock. He trusts Sherlock… and there's something about the trust he possesses for the detective that makes it's that much better. Hotter.

Sherlock runs his tongue along John's bottom lip before sinking his teeth into it, and John arches off the couch with a whimper that he should be ashamed off. He tugs and pulls and John writhes against Sherlock until he releases his lip. Sherlock pulls back, an almost coy smirk on his face, and he growls, "Is this alright?"

His voice sounds so sinful. He could make Catholics kiss their crosses and do countless Hail Mary's with a rasp like that. He releases John's hands and runs his arms underneath his shoulders, lifting him until John is crushed tight against him. John's hands immediately grab for Sherlock, twisting his shirt in his hands as he bows in Sherlock's arms. He captures John's lip in his teeth again, and bites, harder this time.

"Yes," John gasps. "Sherlock."

Sherlock gives a hum of satisfaction and his lips are on John's again, and he's drowning. Absolutely drowning and Sherlock is his buoy, his life jacket, his everything.

They actually do lay there for hours this time – or an hour at least. When Sherlock pulls away and sits back on his haunches again, John's jaw is sore and his lips are numb and his hips ache from being spread open in front of Sherlock. It's okay, because Sherlock in front of him is worth it. He looks tousled and well snogged and he's gasping between his beautifully swollen lips and John just wants to kiss him all over again. For another hour.

John props himself up on his elbows, and Sherlock smiles at him and presses a kiss to his lips that's final and tender. He reaches for his notebook, and his smile slips to an apologetic one before he focuses on the notes he begins writing. John's not disappointed. He feels so very content and he sits in comfortable silence, watching Sherlock as he scribbles. He stays like that for a while, his eyes drifting around Sherlock, from detail to detail. There is one curl jutting out wildly, straight out from his forehead. John chuckles warmly and reaches out, running his fingers over it gently.

Sherlock stops writing and leans into John's touch. There's a smile on his lips and his bright eyes shine in a way John hasn't seen before.

"So, all this data… from your experiment? What have you concluded?" John asked, rolling Sherlock's soft curls between his fingers. Sherlock bows his head, giving John easier access, and all but purrs against John's hands. His heart aches a little at the sweetness of Sherlock's demeanor. Sherlock lifts his notebook again, flipping to the last page. John watches his eyes skim over the words he's written, and thinking that the subject has been dropped, he settles back into his spot on the couch.

"We were made for each other, did you know that?" Sherlock starts. He doesn't look up from his notebook. He states it so obviously that John blinks in surprise. "I've had time for a lot of thinking, staring at a blank expanse of the wall and mulling over all the misfortunes and glaring stupidities, and the one logical conclusion that I was able to draw was that you and I belong together."

His hand reaches out for John's and squeezes his fingers affectionately. John is sure he's so very starry-eyed staring the detective, but how is he supposed to help that? Sherlock gives him a soft, tight lipped smile, and flips another page. His fingers rub the skin on the back of John's hand, and he whispers, "Something made the both of us with the intention that we should find one another. I'm the dark to your light and you're everything I'm not, but it's okay because that's how it was meant to be. All that matters is you and you've always got this lovely light coming from your skin and sometimes I can feel it in my chest. It swells inside me and light fills up my lungs with each breath I take that smells like you. Always you. Don't you see, John? You're my everything."

John wants to cry at the sincerity of his words – he sounds so sure of it. How had John not seen any of it before?. It was so obvious now that John actually looks at it. It was so obvious how mad they were about each other. John's waited his entire life, searching in and out for this and all this time, it's been sitting right in front of him. Literally.

Sherlock looks up for a moment, long enough to receive the firm kiss John presses to his lips. He makes a small, satisfied noise in the back of his throat and coasts a hand across John's cheek before turning back to his notebook. What a Sherlock thing to do – pour his heart out between paragraphs of analysis. John is beaming (truly, like someone's mum) and wanders out to the kitchen to make tea. He smiles stupidly around the entire kitchen, his skin itching with the urge to jump and maybe dance around the kitchen table. Instead, he leans against the sink and looks at Sherlock out of the corner of his eye until his tea is ready.

Tea cup in hand, John moves back to the couch, to snag the forgotten CD that sits on the coffee table. He's sure Sherlock is watching him, he can't hear the scratch scratch scratch of pen against paper. He walks over to the laptop and loads the CD and scrolls through the songs until he hears the one he loved so much from earlier today.

He stands there, listening, and God damn – John Watson was one content human being. All seemed right and well and usual, with John drinking his cuppa and Sherlock with his experiments except they just snogged the living daylights out of each other on the couch and John can't help but think that it just made it better. It was all better.

You move like I want to, to see like your eyes do.

He sits back down on the couch and takes of sip of his tea and notices Sherlock smirking down at the pages on his lap.

"What?" John asks. "I like this song, who sings it?"

Sherlock's smirk widens into a full smile, "Deftones. The song is called 'Digital Bath'."

John nods. "'Digital Bath'," He tests, then nods again, "Well, I really enjoy it."

Sherlock is grinning down into his notebook and John's had enough of that. He kicks his feet up into Sherlock's lap, and the detective chuckles and rests his hands on John's ankles. His fingers rub smooth circles on John's skin and it feels nice. He lifts a foot to tap Sherlock in the chest, "Go on. What are you giggling about?"

Sherlock lifts his chin up and listens for a moment, "This song is about electrocuting a girl in a bathtub."

John blinks, "I beg your pardon?"

"Yes. It's quite obvious actually. To the simple mind though, the lyrics are quite romantic," Sherlock nods. Obviously, John.

John rolls his eyes good-naturedly and sips his tea, "So much for the romantic 'grand gesture', eh?"

Sherlock chuckles again, a deep rumble that melts John's hard edges, and rubs the tops of John's feet, "I knew you'd appreciate a 'grand gesture'. No where did it say that it had to romantic."

John dissolves into laughter, and leans forward to cup Sherlock's face. He places a few wet kisses along his cheeks, each bubble of mirth being broken with every press and pucker of his lips. He places one final kiss on Sherlock's lips before leaning back onto the couch and returning to his tea. Sherlock shakes his head, and returns to his notes, and John sits in silence, but that's okay because in five minutes John will want to kiss Sherlock again. And he can now. He can touch Sherlock whenever he pleases, and run his hands through his hair, and kiss his face, and curl up next to him, and John likes it so much better.

It was all just… better.