A/N: Dear Lord, sorry that took me so long. Here you are, and thanks for reading, and I do hope you enjoyed it. I'll give you one more - an epilogue - because I feel it's necessary, and thank you again for sticking with me through it all.

Warning: Porn.

John hadn't been watching for the headline when he saw it on Sherlock's morning paper. After the business was over and done with he'd simply put it out of his mind, only thinking of it when he Yard came calling in response to the missing persons he'd put in after disposing of Niles. He had acted concerned and Sherlock had hidden in his room - which they were still sorting out, though Sherlock seemed less than perturbed by John's things, which was surprising - mostly because they'd agreed to let the whole Niles business simmer down a bit before letting anyone into the knowledge that Sherlock was alive and back in London.

"You're a wonder, John, and I think I may have underestimated you," said the detective, folding the newspaper in his hands and setting it on the desk beside his pristine breakfast plate. "Graphic murder - beloved doctor found shot and mutilated in the Thames, no known suspects. St. Bart's patients mourn the loss of their 'guardian angel'…"

John only cleared his throat and dug into his breakfast, the click-clack of metal on porcelain all he would do to respond to Sherlock just then. He didn't feel like talking about it - about the hours of bleaching he'd done on the roof, the sneaking about the city at odd hours of the evening, the things they promised they'd do for Mycroft in return for his assistance in covering it up - and he certainly wasn't sure what to say to Sherlock that morning. It had been just a few days since their, John thought, rather traumatizing reunion, and things almost felt as though he'd never left, except for the sleeping arrangements. Sherlock had insisted on taking Niles' old room - post-mortem studying, he'd said - and allowed John to keep his, though there were hints of the arrangement being temporary.

"From the description, I'd say our surgeon friend was missing more than I cut out of him when he was found," continued the detective. John felt his eyes on him as he cut into his steak.

"Yeah, well… had to cut out some things. Might've been - you know. Incriminating."

"The only incriminating thing would have been the bullet hole, and that was clearly left in place," pressed Sherlock. "What cut of steak is that, by the way? Doesn't quite look like rib-eye or sirloin, does it?"

"I don't know, got it at the shop. I don't exactly pay attention to steak cuts, Sherlock." John flicked his eyes to the detective then back down at his plate, which was empty now. It had been delicious, John decided guiltily, almost sinfully so. And it would be the last time he'd have it. He couldn't quite explain why he had done it - nostalgia, maybe, or maybe Niles had had more of an affect on him than he'd realized - and it disgusted him to think of it, but it had been automatic, it had been a blur. Before he knew it it had been on the stovetop, then on his plate, then in his mouth. There was a very distinct taste to it, and John couldn't quite get it out of his mouth - it lingered, gave him cravings, set his teeth on edge - but John was absolutely sure this would be the last time. If only because John was no murderer.

"Are you alright, John? You have been eating people," came Sherlock's voice, and John dropped his knife.

"Sorry, what?" he blundered.

"You know. His victims. You two were sharing them for dinner, that was how he got rid of them. It'd be a traumatic experience for anyone, so I thought maybe you were… distressed."

"Well - yeah, of course. It's horrifying. I - uh. Bit in shock, I suppose. You know. Not quite hitting me."

"Would you like a blanket?"

John let out an awkward laugh, memories of Sherlock in a bright orange blanket floating up to his mind's eye.

"No, no I - don't be comforting, Sherlock, it doesn't suit you," he said with a small smile. It was nice having the detective back. No - it was more than nice. It was so absolutely… good that John didn't know how to deal with it, or with the way Sherlock had been acting. It was as if he was trying for amicability instead of what he normally did, which John didn't know what to call. Sherlockian abrasion?

"And how would you like me to be?"

The question caught John off guard and for a moment he simply looked at the detective, caught the stare of the piercing grey-blue eyes he'd been pretending had been there for the past half a year. He resisted the urge to rake his eyes over the detective's body, lounging in pajamas and fitted gray t-shirt and dressing gown, imagining him in less - he looked away. Sherlock would notice if he stared too long.

"Just… yourself. That'll be fine," he said, and he was glad when St. Bart's called him in to work that day.

The hospital was full of crying and condolence, but John almost preferred it to Baker Street. Having Sherlock home so suddenly was surreal, unbelievable and strange. He liked it, of course - the detective was all he could think about all day - but he was out of his mind with trepidation. How much did Sherlock know about what went on between him and Niles? Everything, was John's guess. Sherlock always knew everything, always bloody deduced everything, and the idea that he knew of the things he and Niles did together - of the times John had him play detective - it was beyond embarrassing. Except that John was sure Sherlock would have made more than a snide comment or two about it if he did know.

It was a strangely quiet flat that greeted him when he came home, signs of Sherlock's normal investigative activity absent despite his recent curiosity in the photos Niles had sent to his phone.

"Sherlock?" he called, anxiety leaping into his chest when he received no answer. The thought of the detective disappearing on him again was heart-wrenching. He barreled through the living room, went up into his bedroom, into the kitchen -

"Sherlock?" he called louder, finally moving into his bedroom - Sherlock's old bedroom - knocking over piles of books with the open swing of the door. John's breath screeched to a halt in his throat as he caught sight of the detective, sprawled out on the bed with his curls in a messy tumble on his face and distinctly lacking in the upper garment department. His eyes were closed, his chin tilted upwards, one hand clasped around a left forearm that sported three nicotine patches.

"Erm. You know if you want the room back, you can have it. I don't mind," said John, and the detective's eyes snapped open and he let out a gasping breath.

"Did Lestrade come to question you at the hospital?" he said, and there was a sunken feeling in the pit of John's stomach when he heard the liquid baritone speak.

"No, actually. No one's been by - "

"Good, then he'll be coming here. But he'll be a while yet. Have a seat," he said, and patted briefly at the edge of the bed by his right hip.

"Sit. Er - right. Why?" John shifted uncomfortably on his feet, aware of the increasing discomfort he was feeling in his trousers. He was glad Sherlock was staring so intently at the ceiling - if he'd seen him then he'd likely have read something inappropriate into his body language, and John wasn't ready for that kind of conversation, he was sure.

"Because I need you for something."

"I can send a text from here, thanks."

"No, John!" He turned his head, dark curls bouncing, and John retreated into the doorway. He saw the slight twitch of the detective's lips as his eyes snatched a survey of the doctor's posture. When he spoke again he sounded self-righteously miffed, making John roll his eyes fondly at him. "It's not a text. It's much more involved, and much more important! Now come here."

Reluctantly the doctor sat himself on the edge of the bed, his back to the detective. He tried to focus on something other than the fact that he was sharing a bed, however innocuously, with Sherlock Holmes for an undisclosed scientific experiment.

"Alright, now what?"

Suddenly he felt slender arms wrapping around his waist, the lean-muscled frame giving him a mighty tug and sending him sprawling on top of the topless detective. John felt himself hit the surprising warmth - for some reason, he always figured Sherlock would feel cold, with all that pallor - and attempted to pick himself up almost immediately. Sherlock's arms stayed firmly set around John's waist, preventing him from pulling away. Heaving a sigh John turned, propping himself up on his hands and knees atop the detective and offering him what he hoped was an exasperated glare. Sherlock's hands moved here and there on his back, as if unsure where to seat themselves, finally settling for gripping his belt loops.

"Okay. What are we doing, then?"

"Hiding. Our dear surgeon had contacts, but he was supposed to make it seem as if he was acting alone, which he did, up until he sent you these photographs. Now, why exactly he sent them to you is irrelevant, but the fact remains that his contacts don't know that we know that they exist, and our best chance to discover them is to keep it that way. Do you see?"

John did not, in fact, see much of anything past Sherlock's face and its proximity to his own - aside from, that is, the chest and neck that were attached to them.

"And… why aren't you wearing a shirt, then?"

"Minor details, John! Pay attention!" Sherlock said, reaching up and grasping the doctor by the sides of the face. Had John been focused at all he might have seen the mischief in the detective's eyes, but he was far too distracted. "We can't let them know that we are investigating. Distraction is what we need - we need to seem distracted! Don't doubt for a second that they're watching, though I'm fairly sure I checked thoroughly enough for listening bugs… " the detective trailed off and John blinked at him thickly. Distraction, he had said. Was he really implying they do what John thought he was implying they do? All for a cover-up for their investigation?

"Sherlock, there are a multitude of other ways to pretend we aren't working!" he said, but his throat was dry and his protest came half-hearted.

"Yes, John, however… given your recent habits I assumed this would be the most enjoyable method."

John's stomach sank. So Sherlock did know about the things he'd done with Niles. The doctor hung his head.

"No. I - I'm not doing this. Not like this," he said, shaking his head. "It shouldn't - this isn't something you just do, Sherlock."

"Isn't it? Observation would indicate otherwise."

"That was… different. That's not the way it should be with you, alright? That's… not the way I want it to be with you."

Avoiding Sherlock's eyes he tried to pull away, found that the detective wasn't quite ready to let him go, and sighed. John was frustrated. He was used to Sherlock handling things insensitively, but this? This was just the slightest bit too far, and the tiniest bit too tempting. He swallowed hard and tried in vain to will his growing erection away.

"Look, Sherlock, just leave off, alright? I'm not doing this if all it is is a cover to you."

"I never said it was. Weren't you listening?"

The doctor hesitated, hazarding a glance at Sherlock's face. It was unreadable, as always, but for the slight smile and the challenge in his eyes - but there was something else, and he wasn't quite sure what to say about it, mostly because he wasn't quite sure what it was.

"What d'you mean?"

"When I said it would be the most enjoyable method, I never said that was only in reference to you. Don't be self-centered, John, it doesn't suit you."

John licked his lips, unsure how to proceed.

"Then - you… you want to do this? With me?"

"Yes, obviously," came the reply, and John thought he saw a hint of red tinge the detective's cheeks despite the arrogant smirk.

"But have you - are you sure? I mean, have you ever done this before, Sherlock?"

Letting out an exasperated sigh of his own, Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Oh, what does it matter whether or not I've done it before! I want to, I've said as much, and you want to from the obscene bulge in your pants, your diaphoretic skin and your rapidly escalating heart rate, so get on with it and stop stalling!"

John couldn't suppress a smile. A glance downward at the pajama pants that clung to his hips gave him the evidence he needed that the detective was being honest, and the poor doctor almost drooled thinking of what was hiding underneath the tent Sherlock was pitching. But he shook his head and leaned in, simply resting his forehead against the detective's. This was Sherlock's first time, he was sure of it, and he had to make sure it went smoothly.

"Actually, it matters, Sherlock. There're some things we've got to do, or it'll… well, hurt. We've got some lube leftover from before and - " he was interrupted by the sudden flurry of movement as Sherlock used the grip he had on his waist to roll them over, and suddenly he had topless detective hovering over him and devouring him with his eyes.

"It would matter, John, if you were right in assuming you're going to be the one entering me," growled the detective, and at once John wondered if the knowledge of what he did with Niles had any affect on Sherlock sexually, and whether or not he'd been frustrated all this time, had wanted to do things all this time. His aggression certainly seemed the product of a long, long while of pent-up tension. He stopped wondering how far back Sherlock began to want him - as much as I wanted Sherlock, he mused - when the detective's lips captured his in a kiss, and all coherent thought came to an explosive, decisive halt. The kiss was hungry and experimental. Sherlock's inexperience was matched by his innate ability to read people - he was a quick study, if his motions were halting and unsure at first. The kiss deepened and John thought he felt a sneak of tongue, his pants twitching at the feel of the soft muscle between his lips. Then Sherlock pulled away, a devilish smile on his features and a matching spark in his eyes in the low light.

"But you couldn't be more wrong. I'm going to be coming in you tonight."

John didn't find the heart to protest as Sherlock dug at his shirt, dexterous fingers undoing buttons and stripping away clothing from the doctor's quickly warming body. In short time Sherlock had him naked underneath him, and the doctor quivered under that stare.

"The tension in your hips and legs… your limp came back shortly after I left, didn't it?" whispered the detective, slender fingers trailing up John's thigh, pressing into muscle, probing. John swallowed and nodded.

"Wasn't quite… the same, without you to run me about London…" he answered. He bit his lip when the fingers danced teasingly close to the rock-hard member waiting nestled in a bed of sandy curls. Sherlock, his Sherlock, was pouring over his body, taking every inch of bone and muscle and sinew and reading him in it, and it was enough to melt John against the bed sheet and make him want nothing more than to have the detective melting into him.

"Forgive me," said Sherlock, his lips pressing against the shell of John's ear. The passion and hunger with which he'd stripped John remained, but a flicker of genuine apology bled out into those words, and the doctor nodded. Sherlock brought their lips together for another kiss, his hips grinding forward against John's, bare, hot skin touching the cool, silken pajamas and the warmth of Sherlock's own erection underneath it. John groaned and canted up into him, making the detective's breath catch from the sudden pressure against him. Impatient, John reached down and gave a tug at the waistband of Sherlock's pajama pants, dragging them down to his knees. Sherlock struggled out of them then kicked them off the bed, and John was treated to a view of stark-naked detective.

"My God, you're gorgeous," he breathed, and he took in the image, the entire image of the detective's form - the well-sculpted muscles, the pale skin, the perfectly-Sherlock mess of dark curls, the slant of his eyes, the high-set cheekbones - and was floored. He was Sherlock, really, completely, entirely Sherlock. And was he blushing at a compliment?

"I'm partial to the soldier type myself," said the detective, and John let out a breathy giggle, pushing gently on Sherlock's shoulders.

"Sit back. I want to do something for you," said John, and he sighed at the questioning expression in Sherlock's features. "No not - with my mouth, Sherlock." The realization came hot and pink to Sherlock's face and John grinned at the detective's ignorance. He sat back, and at John's bidding leaned back on his hands, his legs parted to give the soldier access to the erection throbbing needily against his lower abdomen. John was the slightest bit ashamed when he leaned in, trailing his tongue up sack to tip, the movements of his tongue and lips very carefully learned from Niles - but they were making Sherlock Holmes shiver and buck against his lips, so John decided to ignore the guilt. He wrapped his lips around the tip of Sherlock's cock and slid down, his tongue teasing against the slit of his opening, circling his crown before pressing flat against the bottom vein, making the detective cry out.

"John," he moaned, and there was something about Sherlock moaning his name that set John's body on fire. He sucked and he licked and he moved, up and down on the firm, slender member, watching Sherlock's chest begin to heave, his hands fist the bed sheets, his skin start to shimmer with sweat. It was from practice - and he had to thank Niles for this, too - that he could take quite a bit of Sherlock into his mouth, only gagging once or twice at the start when he hit the back of his throat. Then he picked up a rhythm and Sherlock stopped him, his voice a hiss.

"Careful, I… I can't…" and John nodded and pulled away, eliciting another hiss from the detective as the cool air hit his wet skin. Of course Sherlock was going to be sensitive - John doubted that he even masturbated, though the thought of Sherlock clutching at his privates in a darkened room did things to John's nether regions. Feeling mischievous he leaned in and gave the detective a sloppy kiss, for which he was awarded a bite on the lower lip and a shove back against the bed sheets.

John didn't have to question what would happen next when a clear tube and a condom appeared in Sherlock's hands.

"Are you ready?" he asked John, looking uncharacteristically uncertain, and John nodded.

"It'll be fine, Sherlock. It'll be better than fine."

One pale hand lifted a leg up against his shoulder, the other coating his cock in a healthy amount of lube before guiding it against John, the warmth making the detective let out a breath. Another moment's hesitation and Sherlock was pushing in, sliding slowly, and it was all John could do to try and relax. Seconds of tightness, of brief pain, and Sherlock was in all the way, tip nudging against a spot that made John rock back against him.

"G-Good, Sherlock. You okay?" he said, worried when the detective paused again. Sherlock nodded.

"It feels good, John. You feel good." John nodded, reaching up to cup the curl-framed face.

"Sherlock, I… " and the detective cut him off with a kiss.

"Shh."

John didn't dare try to speak again because Sherlock was moving now, in and out of him, deep, careful thrusts that were perfectly aimed by the deductions the detective was making from John's reactions. But John was grasping at him, clutching at his arms, his body rising and squirming.

"How do you want it, John? Tell me."

And John knew instantly it wasn't because he didn't know.

"Faster, Sherlock. Please," he gasped. The possessive edge in his eyes made John whimper - he wanted to hear it from the doctor that he wanted him, Sherlock, to fuck him faster, to take him harder, not any substitute, not anyone else. John had a guilty love for how jealous he was being of his time with Niles.

The detective obliged, picking up speed, beginning to pant and groan deep gutteral noises that sent John into deep, dark realms of his imagination.

"H-Harder," he managed, his voice nothing but frantic breaths. Soon Sherlock was pounding him, and the bed was shaking so hard against the wall he was sure someone would hear and investigate. In the midst of his cries of 'Sherlock!' and 'Jesus Christ!' he heard the whisperings of his name on Sherlock's lips, saw the glazing of his eyes and felt the tensing of him inside him. He reached for his own cock and Sherlock batted his hand away, and his world dissolved into the motions of the detective's hand around him and the detective's cock thrusting in and out of him. Sherlock seemed determined to do everything, to claim John - and his orgasm - entirely as his own. John marveled at how easily he could coordinate, the thrusts falling into rhythm with his hand perfectly after the first stumbling attempts.

"Sherlock - dear God - you're fantastic!" he cried out, seeing stars. "I'm going to - I'm - " and he shot stickiness all over his chest and abdomen, his body tensing and quivering around the thrusting member that, consequently began pumping its own juices inside him.

"John - John!"

The detective thrust in deep, the feeling of him pulsing making John grip tight into the bed sheets, his cock throbbing and leaking over Sherlock's hand. When they were spent and the detective pulled out, disposing of their used protection with a grimace and collapsing in a heap at his doctor's side. It was a while before either of them spoke, though John moved and wrapped his arm around the slender figure and pulled him close. Nothing in the world mattered in that moment, nothing but the fact that Sherlock Holmes was next to him, allowing him closer than, he imagined, anyone had ever been.

"Sherlock?"

He was greeted by a snore. John chuckled and laid a kiss against his forehead before tucking his head in against the curls.

"Good night, Sherlock."