Okay, this is the next section of the fic I had originally done as a one-shot (but the plot bunny wouldn't go away!) so therefore you have this, you'd best like it though I apologise in advance; I haven't done smut-writing in such a long time that I've had a bit of difficulty getting back into the mindset (I blame my TW fics for having drained me dry of my smut-writing ability).

Anyway, enjoy and tell me what you think (I'm going to try and get as much of this done as possible before I start college so you may or may not get a million, gazillion updates in the next few days... it depends :P)

Kasey

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CHAPTER ONE

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PASSION, DESIRE AND LONGING TOO

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"Passion, it lies in all of us, sleeping... waiting... and though unwanted... unbidden... it will stir... open its jaws and howl. It speaks to us... guides us... passion rules us all, and we obey. What other choice do we have? Passion is the source of our finest moments. The joy of love... the clarity of hatred... and the ecstasy of grief. It hurts sometimes more than we can bear. If we could live without passion maybe we'd know some kind of peace... but we would be hollow... Empty rooms shuttered and dank. Without passion we'd be truly dead." - Joss Whedon quotes(American Screenwriter)

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Standing in the bathroom at four-fifteen in the morning Sherlock absent-mindedly washed his hands for the third time since he'd awoke approximately two hours ago; he hated doing this, he hated falling back into such a habit as this but he had a sound defence, he'd just had mind-blowing sex literally. Alright, technically it had been nearly six hours ago since then but that's semantics and Sherlock didn't care for semantics unless he was the one who was pointing them out to people. His mind, against his strictest orders, kept flashing back to the previous night and to what had caused him to act upon his confusing and contradictive desires.

He was washing his hands after the partially sticky-substance from his latest experiment had been knocked by his elbow and in his hurry to stop it from actually sticking to his phone his hand had landed in the green, snot-like substance. It wasn't exactly a nice thing to have on his hands but it was much preferred to the phosphorous acid that had been in the beaker next to the sticky-snot; he quite liked the idea of having his hands and the layers of epidermis skin on them intact and not partially corroded.

Sighing quietly, for contrary to common belief he wasn't a fan of noise unless it was his violin or part of an experiment and so he was quite happy to sit in silence as long as his mind was occupied, he turned the tap off and began to towel his hands dry using one of the few clean and intact towels in the flat when he heard the sound of John entering the flat; he wondered why he hadn't heard him coming up the stairs but he reasoned that the water from the tap had overrode any other ambient sounds that he would have otherwise heard. He ran a hand through his hair in an attempt to tame it for it looked far too much like the hair style that Einstein had and he wasn't that crazy, not really at least, but he did wonder why he felt compelled to try and fix his hair now that John was in the flat; any other time and he would have left it to look like he'd been electrocuted. Muffled voices could be heard from the sitting room of the flat and as Sherlock began to briskly walk towards the sitting room, hurrying down the stairs and slipping on his suit jacket that he'd had the sense to remove before starting his experiment, he thought that John was talking to someone who wasn't Mrs Hudson because really, you could hear that woman a mile away.

The water pouring from the tap seemed to be alternating between boiling hot and freezing cold, almost as if it couldn't decide on which extreme temperature it preferred, and Sherlock repressed the urge to hiss out as the water returned to burning his hands. The memories from the previous evening were continuing to play out in his mind as though they were a film and he was a viewer.

He walked into the sitting room and looked around for John but he couldn't see him so he guessed he was in the kitchen and as he began to move across the room his eyes befell the obvious sign that there was indeed someone else in the flat, and not someone he liked. Striding towards the kitchen Sherlock froze on the threshold in abject shock at the sight he saw; Mycroft, his brother, and John, his friend, his friend, kissing. No not kissing, kissing was much too tame a term for what he was observing with wide-eyes; this was like they were trying to suck each other's faces off!

Something inside of his snapped, a finite blow to him and everything about him had landed and it spurred him into action, words and thoughts and reason abandoned him in such a flurry of activity that all that was left in their wake was a raw, burning, fiery anger. Anger so intense that it made him want to snap his own brother, his thieving brother; he never let him have anything!

Sherlock's hands shook slightly under the facet of now freezing water as he watched this scene play out as though he were an observer in the Globe Theatre in the time of Shakespeare; he so desperately wanted to reach out and to have stopped it from ever having happened, stopped Mycroft, but he was an observer and nothing he said or did now could change what had happened like a choreographed routine.

He was barely aware that he was moving as his hands balled into fists and his muscles all became taught and tension-filled but he was definitely aware of the fact that his right hand fist was suddenly coming up and colliding with Mycroft's left-hand side of his chest and he was also aware of the fact that he essentially threw his older, supposedly more-mature, brother bodily away from his John.

And then his arm was pulling at his John and wrapping itself around him as a passionate urge to show that John was his arose in his chest and he happily acquiesced to it without preamble. His words were growled out as he fought with the urge to attack and hurt his own blood, the traitor, the thief, and his grip around John became tighter for every moment that Mycroft remained in their flat.

Sherlock looked up at the bathroom mirror and glared, though he wasn't seeing his own reflection, as he thought of the behaviour that Mycroft had exhibited when he'd managed to, with relative grace, pick himself up from the floor and leave.

Mycroft's eyes took in Sherlock and John, one of whom was glaring the most deadly look at him and the other looking a bit shell-shocked, and for a brief moment, too brief for anyone but Sherlock to have seen, there was longing in his eyes, like he wanted what Sherlock now so obviously had and it had both confused and angered Sherlock long enough for his brother to slip out of the kitchen, down the stairs and out of the door.

The concept that Mycroft liked John, as in liked 'liked' him made Sherlock's stomach turn because he was terrified that he might lose John to his brother, Mycroft was better in almost every aspect compared to Sherlock; his brother was socially capable whereas Sherlock could probably offend a llama, his brother had power and never blew things up anymore whereas Sherlock had contacts who were homeless people and a penchant for making things that went boom, his brother was every bit the type of man that John would probably go for even though he wasn't gay, as he had so often reminded everyone, and Sherlock was the sociopathic nut-job that liked to whip corpses. When looking at it that way there really was no competition for normal people.

Though John was not what Sherlock would call normal, he was dull, predictable and boring when he wanted to be but no man could be considered to be socially normal if they liked running around London chasing after the criminals and shot them just to save someone they'd only just met. But Sherlock couldn't help but wishing that people were more like John and less like their dull, predictable, simple and mundane selves; but then that would mean that John wasn't as special, as unique as Sherlock knew he was and he liked the idea that he and John weren't really meant for normal society.

Finally turning the tap off Sherlock dried his hands and forcibly turned away from the sink and left the bathroom, quickly knocking off the light with a flick of his hand, and moved towards the sitting room. Clad in only his boxers and his suit pants Sherlock's plain and smooth torso shone with an ethereal luminescence that could have rivalled the moon with all of her pale mournfulness. The reflective glare of the street lamps streaming through the windows in the sitting area bathed the room with an orange glow that made Sherlock look like some sort of mythical creature, almost like one could imagine what an elfin creature from the old myths and legends would look like if they were real; marble skin clear of imperfection, startling eyes that glowed and flashed as each beam of orange light illuminated them, absolute beauty. A living statue that could bleed and cry and love and feel like he was able to fly when he held in his arms the other unique creature that no-one dared to believe could be real; together he and John were like endangered creatures and a rarity is what they were because there were none like them. They completed each other, they fixed each other, they l-loved each other more than a mere mortal of dullard standard could ever comprehend and it made Sherlock smile to imagine, to remember, how John felt.

Panted breaths were hot and fevered as they landed on his pure and ivory-white skin. Low keening echoed around the room as desperate wanton abandonment was yearned for. Impassioned gazes locked as eyes bespoke of what words alone could never do for words could never suffice when touch and sight could take the lead. Soft and feather-like swirls of long, delicate fingers ran mesmerizingly down the weathered and scarred flesh that whispered to him of all the pain and hurt ever dealt upon the one trapped beneath him.

"Sherlock!" Whispery words repeated over and over conjoined with the keening and it brought to him renewed feelings of overwhelming desire as he touches and his heartbeat became more and more pronounced, the thudding in his ribcage telling him he could feel just like any other whilst the feather-like fingers played tantalisingly with the naked flesh beneath his own body.

Desperate bucking from the one trapped beneath him and he smiled a passionate smile as his head lowered to meet the one straining to reach him, lips impacting with deliberate softness as words and keening was replaced with low moans of pleasure from both. Oh how this shouldn't end, oh how this should last for eternity for it was pure bliss for them both.

His tongue darted out, pressing with gentle permission upon the lips of the one beneath him, asking for entry without demanding in desperation; his tongue slipped in as those lips on his opened up and allowed him entrance into another world of almost divine experience. Sensual strokes of his tongue along molar and canine and gum and upper and lower lips brought about a cacophony of sounds and urges from both as it fired their synapses with such fierce passion that their light-headedness had nothing to do with the lack of oxygen and more so to do with the sheer majestic passion that their embrace heralded to them both.

He leant against the wall as the memories were played back, his legs weak and he wanted desperately to relive the experience because it had been beyond perfect for him; perfection was something he'd thought he'd never truly achieve but it seemed that his perfection was slumbering deeply, fitfully, in the room he was outside of, his hair ruffled and his face lax and smooth Sherlock knew John Watson was his way to perfection and he quite liked the idea of perfection as long as it included John along with.

When his legs found that they had the strength to bear his own weight he hurried down the stairs and into the sitting room where he curled himself up in his chair and grasped his violin silently in his long, talented fingers and waited for John to awaken so the man could see everything that Sherlock wanted him to.

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He had arrived home in silence, not speaking or acknowledging anything, as the car pulled up on the gravel outside the main entrance to his rather sizeable mansion. He had entered his home, only speaking in order to bid not-Anthea goodnight, and had moved straight to his master bedroom bypassing the dining room where diner had been lain out for him as it usually was every night he stayed in his own home and not some five-star hotel. In his room he had quickly stripped himself of his clothing, removing the suit he wore to show how powerful and sophisticated he was, and slipped into his hand-tailored, silken pyjamas and he lay down on his bed, not bothering to climb under the covers as he stared blankly at the high-ceiling that had been painted by a group of artists whose ability could rival that of Michael Angelo.

Mycroft stared at the various images high above him, focusing on one image in particular which showed two lovers holding each other tightly in their impassioned embrace, naked but their bodies each hid one another's modesty and Mycroft scowled at the faces because his mind, tired and confused, twisted the facial features of the two lovers into those of Sherlock and John... John Watson...

He snarled audibly at the image and thought to himself that tomorrow he was going to have another group of artists come in and redecorate as he hauled himself off of his bed and moved across the room to the double doors, which he threw open and revealed another room which was smaller but still expensively furnished. He looked up at the ceiling and smiled as he beheld nothing but plain white, he would sleep here tonight because he just couldn't bear to see those lovers, not now.

Throwing himself onto the bed he simply grabbed the other side of the covers and wrapped it around him, not bothering to climb under the covers, closed his eyes and tried to avoid thinking about John Watson and everything his mind was now conjuring up of what he would and could do to him if he ever bedded him.

No, not if, when.

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John came to awareness slowly but surely, stretching an arm out, his left one incidentally, and froze as his still sleep-addled mind acknowledged the fact that he felt... rested and as though he hadn't had a single nightmare; which of course he hadn't. It had been so long since he'd slept without experiencing night-terrors that the feeling of being fully-rested felt strange and foreign to him. He recalled nothing of burning bodies or missing limbs, nothing of bloodied sands and twisted screeches of pain and anguish, nothing of a burnished sun shining down on a battlefield, he simply recalled a warmth attached to him and something, someone, holding him as his mind drifted into unconsciousness.

Opening his eyes slowly he blinked once, twice and then a third time for good measure as his mind began to regale him with flashbacks of what had happened before.

He turned around and looked up into his face and before he could do or say anything those lips descended and he was suddenly being kissed in a manner completely alien and yet so normal to him that he couldn't comprehend anything beyond the feelings it elicited in him. It was over as quickly as it began though as the one who was kissing him was suddenly gone and an arm was wrapped around him in possessive anger; he quite liked it, to be wanted so much.

And then another kiss, looking up into Sherlock's face, the face of the one person he'd always thought would be the first one to kiss him in so long, and there was so much passion, so much raw feeling poured into it that he could do nothing but become pliant and submissive in the embrace of his detective.

Sitting up suddenly John's chest heaved as his mind replayed a rather intimate and highly provocative moment in the impassioned night he'd just experienced. He could feel his heart beating loudly like a drum in an orchestra; constant, repetitive, powerful and his breathing hitched slightly.

He was beneath him, trapped by those long suppliant legs with their sinewy tendons and flexible ligaments that gave the man above him such natural grace. Soft, teasing fingers trailed along his chest so lightly that it made his already sensitive flesh all the more charged, it was torturously magnificent and he keened and moaned and gasped with each sudden swirl of those pianist fingers as they played him as well as any musician could play an instrument. His heart was the drum, his breathing the cello, his gasps and moans the violins playing in unison liked a stringed concerto and his words gasped and shouted out were the highs and lows, the impassioned and sorrowful notes that rung out loudly from a choir of angelic praise.

Shivering John quickly and silently levered himself out of bed, wincing at the twinge he felt in his legs, proof that his memories were true and he hadn't dreamed it all. He slipped on his boxers and his pants, debating whether or not to pull on his shirt as well but he forewent that suggestion as he moved across the room and opened the door.

It was strange to him but not new, this feeling of someone inside of him was something he'd experienced before but it was the man who was sheathed inside of him now that made the difference. This was something he would never forget, something he would never have to fantasise or dream about, this was fact and he loved every second of it. Throwing his head back into his pillow he moaned loudly and almost cried out when Sherlock began to move inside of him, sliding out of him almost completely before slamming back in faster and faster as passion and desire overrode logic and reason and soon they were both gasping and moaning and crying out for each other. They came together as they kissed and he felt like he was in heaven when stars and fireworks exploded all around him, and the white muteness engulfed him for moments before he became aware of a panting mass of beauty lying suppliant upon him.

He bit his lip to stop himself from moaning as his mind conjured up that particular memory and swiftly stamped on the urge to go find Sherlock and drag him to bed just so he could relive the magic he'd spent a night immersed in. Stepping out onto the landing he listened for any sounds of Sherlock but he couldn't hear anything and he wondered, panicked slightly, where Sherlock had disappeared off to but he didn't have to wonder for long because the sound of a violin could suddenly be heard echoing around the flat.

He stood on the landing in silence not daring to move for fear of breaking the spell being weaved by each of the notes whispering around the confines of the flat, he listened to the soft notes, the high tension and the deep desire that the notes sang to him. It was beautiful and haunting, magical and heartbreaking in the sheer amount of emotion that you could tell was being poured into each and every note as they were created by the masterful skill of a creature of myth who was seated in his chair, eyes closed and a smile gracing his lips as the memories in his mind too conjured up this... this humanised divinity.

Slowly he moved along the landing, down the stairs and into the sitting area where his heart stuttered and his breathing hitched at the sight before him. But though he wanted to, he did not move nor speak as he listened and observed the man before him bearing his heart for all present to see and hear; him, John Watson.

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TBC...

Don't hurt me for this... you have to know what happens next so you can't hurt me otherwise you'll never know (master plan see :P)

Tell me what you think of this thus far please... :D

Kasey