A/N: Well... That was rather a longer hiatus than I expected. Unfortunately, I was taken prisoner for a month by a secret sector of the FBI and decided to take advantage of the opportunity to infiltrate their security systems, so internet access was difficult. BUT - I am back, and I bring an offering of very-almost-smut to appease you. Please forgive me, my lovely readers!

However - and, this is a fairly big however - there may be a little delay before the actual smut starts, because I recently discovered that typing the word "penis" in a sentence is harder than it seems; I have never written an intimate scene before, nor do I have experience. (This is also why this chapter is back to being short.) So, give me a little time, dear readers, because I shall study up on my M-fanfiction and biology, and smut shall be created, just for you.

Also, once I have learnt how to smut, I'm thinking of starting a John/Mycroft. Good idea, question mark?

Enjoy this little snippet, regardless! Forever yours,

The Plot Ninja

John was curled up on the sofa when Sherlock slammed back through the door not half an hour later, his gait more elephantine than his usual giraffe-like elegance.

'John, that's my seat.' Sherlock looked pointedly at his dressing gown, still strewn across the chair's arm.

'Eff off.'

Sherlock's eyebrows performed a miniature Mexican wave. He hovered uncertainly for a moment.

Expletives were highly uncharacteristic of John. Usually he was so understanding of Sherlock's quirks such as requiring that his chair remain vacant, and that without warning the bathtub might be repurposed for experiments in decomposition. (A shouting match about suitability of the tub for holding such experiments generally preceded sullen acceptance; but it was acceptance nonetheless.) 'Is something the matter?'

When the blonde man turned his head to look at Sherlock, the detective realised how lucky he was that John had never taken up the hobby of knife-throwing; the tone of his voice was deadly enough. 'No, Sherlock. Apart from having a flatmate who is an absolute arse and who sets venomous tropical spiders loose in the house, life is bloody dandy.' He pulled himself back into a ball, burying his face into the cushions to block out his misery.

'Right.' Sherlock perched himself on the armchair, wincing. He felt silence filling the air like soot; he cleared his throat a little in an effort to clear it away. 'Have you reconsidered what I suggested?'

'Don't even try that again,' a muffled voice grumbled.

Sherlock huffed, growing impatient. 'Well, why not? You obviously haven't self-serviced yourself free of your symptoms.'

'I tried,' John admitted, finally rolling over and sitting up. 'It's not... I wasn't... Satisfied.' He stared intently at the patch of carpet next to Sherlock's left shoe, his cheeks flushed. Whether this was the embarrassment that hadn't ceased from the beginning of the man's ordeal colouring his cheeks, or the effort it was taking not to curl back up into the foetal position, Sherlock wasn't sure.

As yet another wave of testosterone hit, there was one thing he was entirely certain of, however, and the realisation hit him like a brick wall on wheels.

He was highly attracted to Doctor John Watson.

The man's blond, tousled hair was sticking up at all sorts of angles, practically begging to either be stroked smooth, or for fingers to weave through, to grasp, to tug, to caress. His eyes were bright, his breath was coming faster than normal, and his lips were slightly open and oh so kissable. His shirt, unbuttoned most the way during his feverish stage, left a triangle of bare chest exposed, and his trousers were buttoned but unzipped, allowing the straining organ a little more room to push against the navy-blue material of his underwear.

Sherlock found that he had changed seats before his brain even had a chance to catch up. One of his arms looped around John's shoulders like a lasso, tying him in place, and he cupped John's chin with his hand, turning his head to look into the man's golden-brown eyes. 'Then allow me,' he demanded in a baritone murmur. He pulled John in for a kiss, dominating the man's mouth and exploring with his tongue. He heard him moan and give in to it, so he deepened the kiss and ran his fingers down John's neck, feeling rapid-fire pulse beneath his fingers. Working his way down under the shirt's seams, he caressed John's chest, pausing when his straying fingers found a nipple. The man jolted as if electrified, and Sherlock's chuckle of amusement was a hum against John's mouth. Reaching for the other nipple, he traced a circle around the pink bud before giving it a gentle squeeze.

This time John gasped, pulling away from the kiss as far as Sherlock's arm, still holding him around the shoulders, would let him. 'Sherlock, I can't do this. I'm straight.' He paused, panting, before continuing, 'I like girls, and besides, you're my flatmate, my friend – I don't want this to...' He searched for words. 'Ruin things.'

'We're adults, John. I'm sure we can handle this situation just fine without "ruining" anything. And although I'd be happy to dispute your sexuality any other time, now is not one of those times.'

'What?' Indignation ran through John's voice. 'I am straight, though!'

'I'm asexual,' Sherlock pointed out. 'That's not holding me back.'

Out of reasons, John simply started struggling. 'Sherlock, I don't want this. Let me go.'

The detective rolled his eyes. 'If I must pursue a stronger course of action, I will.'

'What?'

His left arm still holding John prisoner, Sherlock slid his right hand down over the bulging underwear poking out from John's trousers, and rubbed gently, a fiendish smile gracing his long face when the doctor let out a low, guttural moan. John's breathing was faster now; Sherlock was almost concerned about the possibility of hyperventilation. On the other hand, he thought, this was far too much fun to stop. 'So, you're straight and you don't want this?'

'Sherl- ngggh!' was all John could manage as he did it again. His body shuddered at the contact, and his breathing hitched.

'But that's just your conservative, safe side talking, isn't it, John? You want this, really.' He put torturously slow pressure on the hot organ through the material.

'I- I- oh, God,' John stuttered, incapable of anything else but moans and grunts.

'Oh, you don't?' Sherlock feigned confusion, and pulled his hand away from John without warning, which was met with a gasp and a groan. He frowned his puzzlement. ' Your decision, of course.' He waited.

The internal struggle was a fascinating watch. Like tennis – hypnotising. Sherlock smirked as he watched arousal and passion team up against John's sense of what was proper; two against one was hardly a fair match, but propriety put up an incredibly good fight. John's dignity went down with dignity, as was only fitting. 'Please,' he mumbled lowly. 'Don't stop.'

As soon as those three words had been uttered, Sherlock claimed his mouth again, devastating any chance John had of escape. 'Very well, doctor. Come along, we'll see if we can't relieve you of your symptoms.'

Then he scooped John from the couch and carried his prey upstairs.