(Nngh, these boys are having issues with getting their mutual sexual attraction together enough to actually do something about it! I also apologize for some of the bouncing around between scenes and present and past tenses, and hope that my characterizations are enough to make up for it. Once I finish this I'll try and go back and edit this out a bit. And for the record, Sherlock still does not belong to me.)

SHERLOCK:

John sucked in a breath and narrowed his eyes as he stared into the mirror. I could tell that he could feel the itch of the gun in the holster beneath his jacket. Behind him, on the wall was a yellow slash of spray paint, perfect for practice. I saw him sight it, pretending to see it out of the corner of his eyes. He sucked in a breath, whipped around with perfect control, and aimed the browning right in the center of the mark. Yes, he would have hit. Good.

*click*. Empty gun.

Quietly I slid from behind the door to the easy chair by the door of his room.

"5 seconds. I don't think you can get much faster than that considering the state of your shoulder. Though your peripheral vision could use some work."

John whipped around to the easy chair next the door of his room. I sat there with a self-satisfied smirk, tight purple shirt, and a seductive, vaguely coy look on my face. I knew John would pull the trigger, it was automatic, and he was a soldier. What I didn't take into account was the blank, purposeful look on John's face, the look that could change his dark blue eyes almost black. Usually when I saw that face, he was aiming over my shoulder. Now he was aiming directly at me.

But the change from calm determination to horror to loss to relief is devastating as he sees who I am, and realizes that he can't stop as he pulls the trigger.

*click*

You didn't think I'd sneak up on you while your gun was loaded, did you John? John?

Look at us John, two ridiculous monsters, playing this game of life and death. You can hit me, I don't mind, I rather liked it when you did that the other day. Wouldn't that be fun? John?

You aren't supposed to look at me like that. John?

The look on his face is so terrified and stricken that I look down at my chest, half certain that perhaps he DID shoot me, and I just hadn't heard the bang or felt the pain yet. But my shirt was clean and smooth, my chest unbroken. "John, don't look at me like that. I knew your gun wasn't loaded."

He's on his knees, with his arms around my legs. His hands are shaking. "You idiot, I was practicing to protect you." As he talks, his mouth moves against my knees. It feels like kisses. It feels like worship. I had been amused by the thought of him worshiping me, but I didn't expect the weight of responsibility he conveyed by leaning into me. Part of me wants to pull away abruptly and walk out of the room, but I am truly obsessed.

Instead I lean forward and bury my hands in his hair. It feels just a little coarser than dandelion fluff, and the skin at the nape of his neck is soft. I slide my hand between his cheek and my leg, cupping his face, and he turns into it, breathing in and pressing his tight lips against it. It's not quite a kiss, but it's the closest we've ever been.

"I deduce things, John. I heard you pulling out your gun to practice in the other room. You checked to see if it was loaded, and I heard you empty the gun, but not reload it. I know you keep your bullets in the lock box since I gave the wall a pounding, and I didn't hear you open it. Plus I watched you pull the trigger once before I came in the room. I knew you'd turn when you heard me and pull the trigger on me, but I didn't know that doing so would hurt you. John, I'd never let you kill me."

I feel his lips quirk against my hand. "I'd never let you kill me, either." He muttered. His voice sounded tired, but relieved.

We sit like that for at least an hour, until even I lose track of time. I can feel his pulse through his temples; feel his system purge the adrenaline. It's nice in a way I didn't expect, feeling him sag into my lap. I press my hands against his shoulders; but he can't get any closer to me. I feel his breath shudder against my thighs. His breath is warm, and I am aroused, but I do not move. I begin to wonder how he is processing me being this close until I start to feel him twitch awkwardly.

"I'm still not gay," he mutters, lifting his head. I notice with amusement that he is turning his face away from my half-hard cock but is still glancing at it and running his tongue between his lips.

John is dreadful at lying.