Since that night all Sherlock would initiate were kisses. Granted, many of the kisses that were exchanged became heated when there was nothing more interesting to do in the evenings. But they never turned into more than that. Which, more than just teasingly frustrated, confused John. Based off the first interaction, John had thought Sherlock would be determined to go all the way. After all, that was how Sherlock worked: all or nothing.

Yet, days went on. John went to work, came home to a flat that either had a deeply in thought Sherlock or a Sherlock who was in the middle of an experiment. There was a steady stream of cases that came in, some given answers on the spot while others were kicked out because they were boring. Lestrade called once in that time, but the crime must have less than a six because Sherlock hung up and continued on with whatever he was doing.

It was like a reel from a movie that depicted their old life in which anyone peering into their daily routines would think everything was back to normal. Mrs. Hudson certainly thought so given her cute, naive comments about their "domestics". And John did his best to keep up those appearances, to pretend to the best of his ability that things were in fact getting better and that Sherlock was indeed "fixing him".

Then one evening, about a week later something finally became more. John was in his chair watching TV inattentively and Sherlock was perched on the sofa, fingers clasped under his chin. During a commercial, the detective regally pushed himself off the cushions and in an instant was on the doctor. His strong but lanky legs straddled John, diving in for a heated kiss.

The sudden "attack" wasn't surprising, for Sherlock had done this plenty of times whenever he deduced John was far too deep in broken thoughts, and John accepted the intimacy in stride. Expected or not, it only took three seconds for Sherlock's complete attention to melt all sensible thoughts from John.

Despite all the times they had kissed and Sherlock had rendered him a senseless mess, John's mind still tried to send off warning bells. The warnings weren't coherent, just flashes of emotions that shook John from the inside, but they weren't loud enough to keep him from moaning and arching into the touch.

Like all the times before, Sherlock was encouraged by the sounds his partner made and he pressed into John with more fervor. His kisses because like live bites and his muscles tightened around John passionately tease at the blood that was quickly rushing to his groin.

Then, like all the previous times, when it was clear that John was pliant and willing, Sherlock took the attention away from John's lips to suck seductively down his neck. This was about the time that Sherlock would pull away, leaving John aching without release, cautious that this was the part of their interactions that John had stopped that first time.

John couldn't allow to be left alone without the proper release now. Desperate, John gripped onto Sherlock's hips, not to take control but to encourage the moment to continue. Though he instinctively knew things would eventually go bad, his desires were at a point of urgency that could no longer go unattended.

"Sherlock," he groaned breathlessly in need as the man on top of him gyrated against him with brilliant rhythm.

Hearing his name seemed to provide the incentive that Sherlock needed because, with a promising bite a lustful thrust, he was on his feet, pulling John up with him. The moment John was standing, lips attached themselves to him again as a lead body crowded into his space and maneuvered him backward into his bedroom. "You're sure about this."

It was said like one of his observations, but John took it for the question that it was meant to be. "Yes," he moaned as his back hit the doorframe of the bedroom.

There must have been something in his expression or the ways he braced himself, for Sherlock paused momentarily to study John with his defective focus. Whatever he saw led him to declare in his softened tone, "John, you can trust me."

Trust him to be gentle. Trust him to know exactly what needed to be done and when it needed to be done. Trust him to fix him.

But John wasn't sure if he could trust Sherlock in those matters. Trust ran both ways, and John knew for a fact that Sherlock didn't trust him.

Still, as much as Sherlock thought that this was about trust, or that trust needed to be involved in this, it wasn't. This was about physical intimacy, about providing an extra piece to their new way of life as a means to bridge the tension that had come between them. So, he simply kissed the man that had him against the door, locking him in place with prominent hips.

Sherlock took the action for affirmation, gripped John's sides with an almost bruising force and quickly moved them to the bed. Eyes closed, lost in the overwhelming presence of Sherlock, John allowed himself to be manhandled onto his back. He let his senses rule him, wanting nothing but what what Sherlock felt the need to do.

John was laid out perfectly for what Sherlock planned to do to him. The genius man above him peppered him with insistent kisses, generously applying small, pleasureable bites and greedy swipes of his tongue, distracting John of the fact that his clothes were being meticulously taken off.

He wasn't aware of such a fact until he was completely naked beneath his flat mate, along with the realization that Sherlock himself was still very much clothed. Following his instincts, the ones that always made him want to give more than he received, he took a hold of Sherlock's dress shirt, but Sherlock nipped at John's bottom lip and took his hands in his own to place them above John's head. "It's okay," he whispered into the doctor's mouth, his words vibrating within his throat. "Let me do this for you."

John wanted to argue. It felt wrong to just do nothing during something like this. Sherlock didn't give him that chance. He held his hands in place with a strong hold at his linked wrists. Generally, being held down wouldn't be an issue since John was stronger, but his muscles were too laced to do much fighting.

Completely in control, Sherlock took advantage of the needy body under him, playing him as dedicatedly as he would his violin to bring about groans, moans, and other whimpering sounds.

Gentle teeth had found themselves at John's left nipple, teasing it to hardness before moving on to the right. His free hand caressed his inner thigh, giving attention to every little reaction except for the one that ached the most.

"Sher...Sherlock," John caught the man's name in his throat. He knew it sounded like he was begging, that he was begging, but he couldn't stop himself from doing so.

Lips smirked against his skin, which should have been annoying, but was, in this moment, decidedly seductive. "Yes?" The cool breath against his licked, perked nipple sent shivers throughout his entire body. "What is it you want from me?" Unable to form the words, all John could to answer was to thrust his hips upwards in an attempt to find friction.

He was hard and leaking, straining for more and weeping at the sensations that wracked the rest of his body. It suddenly occurred to John just how long he had gone without this, without the intimate presence of another, of being brought to such levels of heightened pleasure.

And those pleasures were at their extremes as calloused fingers moved wonderfully to the shaft of his erection. Though they were light touches, after all the sensations that Sherlock had engendered, it was enough. John moved along with the talented, beautiful fingers that teased him with lustful strokes. When Sherlock's mouth left his chest, John opened his eyes to watch the man that held so much sway over him.

Brilliant, indescribable eyes peered at him and it was like there was a sun beaming down. The moment their gaze met, one lit in wonder and the other blown wide in arousal, the touches became more demanding, wrapping around his length in urgency and passion.

"Sh...Sher…" John mumbled, thrusting himself into Sherlock's hand.

"Shh John," the other cooed, reaching his lips to nibble at John's earlobe, putting more pressure on his wrists that were still captured above his head.

Nonsensical sounds were made in response, which only led to further smirking.

"It's alright John. Just let go." So he did.

Breathlessly, he crashed into the mattress and pillow, semen coating his stomach and Sherlock's hand.

All at once, the thrumming energy that had flowed through his blood, came to a calming stop. His body was putty, lacking the ability to move, but more than willing to let Sherlock mold him however he wanted. He closed his eyes just briefly, drained from the attention, but when he reopened them Sherlock had managed to escape. Before he had the chance to fully begin to lament over being used and left behind, Sherlock then returned with freshly washed hands and a damp rag, preparing to clean the mess from John.

"From your spent, satisfied state, I'd say that was a success," Sherlock grinned victoriously.

"Hmm," John murmured.

"So, then am I to assume that you will allow for this to happen again?" John wasn't sure why was bothering to ask when the man already knew the question. It wasn't like Sherlock to ask something he already knew, unless the question was being used to mock one's intelligence.

"Of course," John replied anyways. Because as much as he still didn't fully believe that this would actually fix him, it was definitely a start.