(Note: Warning for smut, dominance play, and what is probably the beginning of what would be to normal people a rather unhealthy relationship. There really is no way around it. These two men are stark raving mad. Thankfully they are stark raving mad for each other. I also hope it's clear that John's interaction with Molly in the previous chapter takes place around the "OoOoOoOo" spot. True to his nature, Sherlock is completely unaware of it.)

SHERLOCK HOLMES:

I couldn't keep myself from gasping as I felt John's throat convulsing against the tip. Oh that man, that man who could see through my admittedly bizarre courtship, rile me up until I couldn't be bothered to deduce him anymore, and finish the game with my cock in his mouth.

He was bad at it, of course, the blow job that is. He used far too many teeth and he kept stopping to shift a stiff jaw. He was new at it; I was his first man, but I had been thinking about this for far too long for it to matter. Rhythm and prowess means very little to me, in any case, what matters is not really the feeling but the analysis, the observation, the awkward but determined John-like movements as he slicked his mouth and tongue over my shaft and pushed my thoughts temporarily away from the case and toward both him and orgasm.

And my god, if he didn't keep playing the game. After a particularly painful jaw cramp, he growled with frustration and stood up. With me on the counter he only came up to my chest, but he grabbed me by the shirt collar and directed my gaze to where his hand was still gliding over my wet, wet… oh god.

"Are you deducing that Sherlock?" His voice was hoarse, but polite as usual, and it occurred to me that John wasn't really looking at my cock with anything like desire. He wasn't attracted to the visual stimulus of what he was doing, but he was looking with aroused, sensual triumph at my face.

"Nngh… John…please…"

He pressed his hand to my mouth. "Lick." He said softly, and "good." When I complied, and used my saliva to keep his hands lubricated against me. Then he leaned into me, and I could feel his breath tickle against my ear.

"I am looking forward to quite a lot of things from you, Sherlock. You know, I'm still questioning whether I'm particularly attracted to the physical, well…" He looked down at my cock, hesitated, then bent over and slid it into his wet mouth. I groaned, and grabbed his head in an attempt to keep him there, but he stood up again and whispered into my ear. "It is nice, it's very nice, but I'm more straight than gay. But I want to do so many things to you Sherlock. I want to see you look at me like you can't control yourself. I want to see you looking at me with my cock inside of you." He twitched against my cheek and licked his lips. His breath was hot in my ear, and as ragged as mine was right now. "We're both strong in different ways. I want us to keep fighting each other, and I want it to be good, and I don't want either of us to ever, EVER win."

My mind was so blasted by the case, the newness of John, and the way that glorious man was speaking to me that I couldn't think of anything to say. My mouth was open, I was sure my pupils were dilated, and I could feel my heart thrumming against my chest. His hand was getting dry again, so he stopped moving it, and pressed up against me. God, he was hard too.

"That," he murmured. "Is from the look on your face, just now Sherlock. God, if only you could see how beautiful you are."

When bent down between my legs and took me in his mouth again I saw stars. I tried to move into his mouth gently, but he looked up at me impatiently and I felt a guttural growl rising in my throat. I grabbed his hair and shoved my cock in his throat roughly, feeling his finger nails dig into my thighs. "Mine," I murmured with each thrust until he was coughing against my semen, "mine, mine, mine, mine… "

OoOoOoOo

I confirm my analysis, the men in this terrorist faction are all related, which is both a very good thing (all members of the faction probably know each other, this was not a Moriarty-style web, it would be easy to track them) and a very bad thing (they would be tightly unified, and even more prepared to commit senseless acts of violence to impress each other). One could roughly estimate from the data provided by the police and general knowledge of Afghani social groups that perhaps 5 men remained; a terrorist's age is ordinarily between the ages of 16 and 40, old enough to be an acceptable risk, young enough to MOVE when necessary. Of course what I hadn't counted on was the 6 year old boy cowering in the back corner of the garden next to a pile of scrap wood and metal shards, nervously glancing from his guardian to John to myself as we circle each other cautiously.

Reckless, John had said in irritation as I climbed over a fence just too tall for both himself and his shoulder to manage, and I suppose he was been right. While I had managed to unlock the gate on the other side for him with relative ease, directly after the latch was unhitched a man with a thick Arabic accent had pulled a gun of his own and was aiming it at the center of my forehead. So, when John followed me into the yard I saw his fluid transformation from blogger to soldier, the blue eyes turning black, narrowing, sighting along his gun as though the bullet didn't start in the cartridge but in his shoulder and was already running toward the barrel through his arm.

John is mostly focused but not completely. He keeps glancing over at the child, who stares back at him with the barest amount of comprehension on his young face, uncertainty flicking through his dark eyes.

I no longer sit at the foot of John's bed at night. It is now pointless as over the course of the past month I had felt him gravitating towards me emotionally anyway. Occasionally, however, I have heard panicked rustling from the bed upstairs as he is caught in a nightmare, and I go to his door, push it open, and say "John" sharply so it rouses him from the dream but isn't a steady enough disturbance (like my breathing) to fully wake him up.

Usually if he makes noise, it is a strangled grunt of alarm, but on more than one occasion it has also been the words, dully repeated: "No. no no no no not the boy, it was the… not the boy."

For some reason, that emotionless chant makes something sickening curl in the pit of my stomach the way no terrified scream ever could.

"Please." My Arabic is limited, but I hope it will be sufficient to convey my message. "No." I gesture toward the boy. "Please." I repeat, and point back to the house.

The man blinks in surprise, but nods, and shouts something to the boy, who glowers at us as he runs between John and I toward the house and relative safety.

"Now my brothers will be here sooner." The terrorist says, with an air of triumph.

I turn to John, and am surprised to see that he looks as though someone has kicked him in the stomach.

"Not good?" I murmur as I slowly move close enough to speak with him, but not close enough to concentrate the terrorist's aim. Normally I wouldn't have let the child through; the man was right, he would be able to alert other members of the faction to his aid, but I had thought John would appreciate the gesture.

"What? Oh god Sherlock, of course that was good. That was amazingly spectacularly good."

He still looks upset, but I nod.

The man's attention is split between John and myself. This is primarily going to be a matter of timing.

I let out a breath. "I am obsessed with you quite a lot, John Watson."

"Likewise." He says softly, studying the man's face, making as if to hold his gun unsteadily (as if John Watson was capable of such a thing) and working to catch his eye. Suddenly his motions became almost fluid, and his body twitches ever so slightly in my direction. "Vatican… cameos."

I was down, and it beautiful. There is an explosion of gunpowder both in front of me and directly behind me, and I am running, almost on all fours towards the terrorist's midsection, because I know my blogger, and know that he will aim off center because we work in perfect unison now and there is no reason why this man should be killed. There is another shot, but it is wild, up in the air. I take a page from John's book and sit on the man's chest, pinning him until I am able to relieve him of his gun. I phone Lestrade, who is apparently waiting for us at the bomb site; he assures us he will be there to pick up the terrorist and hopefully his faction promptly.

John has maimed the man's gun arm, and it is short work for the two of us to handcuff him to the garden gate. John's eyes are beginning to soften around the edges as he settles into his post-crime scene chuckle "God, can we get any madder?"

I smile wide. "John. This. Home." I gesture at him, at the incapacitated perp, the gun, my brain, the vibrating energy in the air and possibly just the whole adventure of it all. He looks at me for a moment, remembering this morning (god that seemed long ago).

You remind me of one thing I never had before I met you.

What is that?

Home.

John laughs so hard that he almost doubles over with tears in his eyes. "So every time you see me you think of crime scenes? My god, you brilliant, brilliant man."

As he kisses me, I note with a certain amount of pride the horror in the perp's eyes as he watches me with my wonderful doctor-blogger.

(I just wanted to mention that the comparison of John to a crime scene is done much more wonderfully in wordstring's series of Johnlock fics which begins with "Acts of Charity". If you want to read a Johnlock fanfic that truly explores Sherlock and John's madness, go read her stuff. You can find it with a google search)