A/N: Sorry for the delay. I wanted to get this up sooner, but I changed my mind a dozen times about what direction I wanted this chapter to go. Or more like, I needed to write and fail a few times before the chapter told me which way it wanted to go. Thanks for your patience and for reading and reviewing!

John melted into the kisses, but his brain was struggling. There was something he couldn't stop thinking about and soon he was pushing Sherlock away. "No, no, Sherlock. Stop … stop."

He could feel the force of Sherlock's gaze in the dark: indignant, confused, and wounded. He was panting softly with need. "Why, John? What's wrong?"

"This. This is wrong," John said. He could still taste Sherlock on his lips and god knows there had been times where he'd wished the man would offer himself to John the way he was now, but something was wrong. "We've been living together for ages now and you've never shown one iota of romantic interest in me. Completely unaware of my interest in you. Then, one day, Moriarty spirits us away and clearly opened your eyes to the world of sex and you're in my bed. You are in my bed because of Moriarty. It's insane, Sherlock."

"Why does it matter how I came to be here? All that should matter is that I am here."

"I don't think you really want me," said John softly.

"Don't be absurd. Of course I do." Sherlock snatched John's hand and presses it against his hard cock. "Does that feel like I don't want you?"

John blushed and pulled his hand away. "I found it, you know. The day it happened. You left all of your clothes in the bathroom."

"Found what?" Sherlock was petulant. He wasn't used to not getting his way and he'd been so incredibly certain that John would accept his advances.

"Moriarty's tie. You kept it. You still have it, as a matter of fact. It's part of your sock index now. Doesn't take a genius to deduce some pretty telling facts from this information."

Sherlock flinched minutely and stared down at his hands. "Go on. Share your conclusions."

John took a deep breath. "He did something to you. Moriarty. Opened you up. Got inside your head. You desire him, but you don't want to admit it, so instead you came to me."

A pained expression flickered briefly across Sherlock's features, but he quickly banished it and turned is face to stone. He stood up, feeling ridiculous and ashamed. Shame at being rejected. And shame because it was possible that John was right.

"I'm sorry I bothered you," he said tightly, and quickly left the room, ignoring John's calls for him to stay and talk things out more thoroughly.

Sherlock returned to his bedroom and paced the floor. Questions whirled around his head and his body still demanded completion. It felt like clutter was building up in his head and soon a match would be tossed and the whole thing would go up in flames.

There was only one way to find out.

Sherlock picked up his phone and sent out a text.

I need to see you. SH

Moments later, his phone beeped.

I've been waiting. Will send a car in 10. xoxo M

Sherlock nodded, then quickly busied himself getting dressed. Opening his sock drawer, he paused and withdrew the silk tie. It was wrinkled and bore some semen stains. Sherlock remembered the force of his orgasm and feeling the hot ejaculate shooting over his skin and the tie. He shivered and stuffed the tie into his jacket pocket.

His phone beeped again.

WE NEED TO TALK ABOUT THIS. DID I EVEN GET IT RIGHT?

He really needed to have a talk with John about texting etiquette. The all-caps missives were driving Sherlock mental.

I'm going out to find the answer. Don't wait up. SH

Moments after the text went out, Sherlock heard an exclaimed "No, no, NO!" from upstairs and a thump as John's feet hit the floor.

Sherlock swept into the sitting room and shrugged into his coat.

"Sherlock!" John yelled out as he pounded down the stairs. "You are NOT going to see bleeding Moriarty! The man is insane … this is a trap …"

Sherlock hurried down the stairs, calling out over his shoulder. "It's fine, John. I need to do this."

He opened the front door and parked out front was the same car that had taken him to Moriarty on that fateful day. The chauffeur got out and opened the door for him. Sherlock nodded at the man and was about to enter when John threw open the door to the 221B and ran out barefoot in his pyjamas, dressing gown billowing out behind him.

"Christ, at least let me come with you," he pleaded, clutching at Sherlock's arm, his hot breath forming smoky plumes in the cold night air. There was desperation in his eyes and Sherlock actually felt a pang of guilt.

But he shook his head. "No, John," he said softly and far more kindly than was his usual nature, gently extricating himself from the doctor's grasp. "Not this time. I promise you I will return in one piece."

"So I get to lose my mind wondering about you all night? Again?" John's jaw set hard. "Wonderful. Has anyone ever told you what a total fucking tit you are?"

"Not recently, no. Now please go back inside before you catch your death." Sherlock made a wan attempt at a smile and closed the door, leaving the doctor fuming on the sidewalk as the vehicle pulled away from the curb.

Sherlock was taken to a hotel this time and shown to a lavish suite. He removed his coat and sat on a couch in the sitting room. It was a far cry from the secretive country location and sparsely decorated room of their previous rendezvous. Clearly Moriarty … Jim … understood that this was not to be a confrontation. That was still to come.

Nonetheless, he was aware of the bodyguards just outside the door. A gentle reminder for Sherlock to behave himself.

Jim emerged from the next room and Sherlock stood up. As usual, Jim was immaculately attired in suit and tie. His eyes gleamed and he grinned mischievously, pressing his palms together. "Ohhhh, Sherlock," he trilled. "This is such a nice surprise. I didn't think you would ever be able to surprise me. To what do I owe this pleasure? Is the good doctor not putting out?"

Sherlock scowled.

Jim mock-pouted. "Oh, did I hit a sore spot. So sorry. That's okay …" He boldly stepped up close to the detective and slid his hands over Sherlock's shoulders, then leaned in to lick his earlobe, whispering, "I don't mind being second prize. I really don't."

"John doesn't think that you are," murmured Sherlock, shivering in response.

Jim stopped, then chuckled, stepping back just a fraction, his dark, liquid eyes meeting Sherlock's pale blue ones. "Oh. Oh, my. Sherlock … is he jealous?"

Sherlock shrugged noncommittally and Jim broken down into a fit of hysterical giggles. "Oh! Oh … that is precious! And so very wonderful." He straightened up, gasping for breath and wiping his eyes. "Oh, truly marvellous, Sherlock. You've really made my night."

"I don't find it very funny, myself," Sherlock growled.

Jim cocked his head, his manner shifting. His moods and delivery changed from moment to moment and Sherlock found it both fascinating and worrisome. "Of course you wouldn't," he said in a lower tone. "Not very funny to admit that I got to you."

Sherlock pressed his lips into a grim line.

Jim nodded toward Sherlock's bulging jacket pocket. "Now what's that? Is that a grenade in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?" He reached out and shoved his hand inside as Sherlock twisted to prevent him, but Jim was too fast and he withdrew the tie.

His face shifted again, this time into the astonished visage he had jokingly demonstrated for Sherlock that night at the pool, only this time it was genuine. And brief because Jim was giggling again. "What have we here? This looks familiar …" he held the soiled tie up and pretended to examine it closely, then he brought it to his nose and sniffed deeply. "Mmm, oh, yes, darling. You were fantastic. I had no idea you kept this little souvenir." He looked up at Sherlock and batted his eyelashes dramatically, slipping into a childish voice, "I didn't know you cared."

"Neither did I," said Sherlock quietly. "Though I'm not sure that I do. That's why I'm here."

Jim rolled his eyes. "Oh god. So what, you're all confused by these scaaaarry new feelings and you want me to sort it out for you." He threw his arms up into the air, the tie trailing from his fingers as he paced the floor. "My work never ends!"

"I don't know why I kept the sodding tie!" Sherlock said sharply.

Jim turned hard on his heel to look at the sleuth. "Bollocks, Sherlock. You know exactly why you kept it. Stop lying and start saying something intelligent or I will get angry."

Sherlock exhaled noisily through his nose. "It is a souvenir."

"Yes." Jim nodded.

"Because you forced me to feel things I'd never felt before."

"Mmm, wasn't it delicious?"

Sherlock forced out the last sentence from between his teeth. "And I want to feel it again."

"Ding-ding-ding-ding!" Jim mimed ringing a bell. "We have a winner. Very good, Sherlock! And you thought you wanted to feel it with your precious doctor."

"Yes."

Jim came close again and started unbuttoning Sherlock's shirt and Sherlock let him. "But something went wronn-nng," he sing-songed.

"Yes."

"I can only imagine what your addled idea of seduction might be, darling. What did you do? Send him a text?" Jim leaned in and licked across Sherlock's collarbone. "Draft a scientific experiment proposal with a hypothesis centred around shagging? Slip a condom under his teacup?"

Sherlock shuddered, sliding his hands into Jim's jacket and sliding it off his shoulders. "I went into his room tonight and kissed him."

Jim paused and looked up, raising an eyebrow. "Oh? Were you naked?"

"Almost."

Jim giggled softly and pushed Sherlock's jacket off as well, taking the shirt with it. "And he turned you down. Poor little Sherlock. All riled up and nowhere to play. Well …" he trailed off, rubbing his thumbs over Sherlock's nipples, and then sliding his hands down to open his trousers "… you did know of somewhere you could go to play."

Sherlock nodded, his breath growing shaky as Jim slid his hand inside his trousers, cupping his hard length in his palm. "He found the tie. He's suspicious of my motives."

"Mmm, that's a beautiful thing," whispered Jim. He leaned in even closer, murmuring against Sherlock's lips. "Your cock, I mean. Oh, you've gone and made such a mess, Sherlock. But don't worry. Daddy's gonna it make it all better. Just this once. Because playtime is almost over. But you know what you have to do for me right now, don't you?"

Sherlock hesitated, his body taut with tension — torn between pride and physical need.

"Sherlock …" Jim warned in a darker tone.

"Surrender," Sherlock murmured.

"That's right." Jim kissed his neck softly. "Let me take over and all will be well. Just this once more."

"Once more," whispered Sherlock. "Yes, Jim."

Jim claimed Sherlock's mouth in a deep kiss and then took his hand and led him into the bedroom.

Hours had passed. Sherlock wasn't entirely certain as to how many and he wasn't certain he cared, though he knew he was supposed to. John was waiting for him. Worrying. But it was so hard to stay focused with so little blood in his brain. He was smoking again. Not good? Bit not good. No … bloody fantastic.

Jim was sprawled out next to him on his stomach. Sherlock, on his back, took a moment to appreciate the softly rounded curve of his ass.

He heard a low, throaty chuckle. "My god, darling, haven't I worn you out yet? You are a frisky one." He dragged hard on his own cigarette and exhaled slowly.

Sherlock sighed softly. "No … no … I believe I am spent."

"Thank Christ. I was going to have to put a call out for my special toys because … and I can't believe I'm going to say this … but I just can't fuck you anymore right now, Sherlock! I can't!"

Sherlock chuckled softly, raising the cigarette to his lips. "You promised to have me on every surface in this room. You lied."

Jim rolled his eyes. "Forgive me for getting such a huge, well-appointed room. I rather doubt that antique armoire would have survived our thrashings."

Sherlock tapped the ash away in the ashtray resting between them. "You said you were going to fix everything just this once. My problem is only half solved."

Jim groaned. "You know, I should be relishing the fact that you are asking me for help. It's really quite pathetic, you know."

"Piss off."

Jim tsked softly. "You want my help or not?"

"Go on, then."

Jim let out a long-suffering sigh, took a drag, then began to speak. "All right. This is what you do and you do exactly what I tell you to do. It's very simple. First, you're going to finish that fag and go into the bathroom and take a shower so you don't reek of sex when you go home."

"All right."

"Then you go home and you go straight to bed. Lil' doctor-man will want to talk. He'll be all concerned and 'Oh, Sherlock, what did the bad, bad Moriarty do to you?'" Jim's voice squeaked as he did a terribly unflattering and inaccurate imitation of an agitated John Watson. "But you don't do it. You tell him you need to think. You need to be alone. Whatever it is you tell him when you want him to sod off without hurting his feelings and having to apologize for it later. Regular people are so touchy, aren't they?"

"Indeed," said Sherlock dryly. "And then …?"

Jim stubbed out the cigarette. "Next morning, you bring him a cuppa. And look real cute doing it."

"But I never make the tea."

Jim rolled his eyes again. "Duh. He'll be suspicious, but curious. Continue to look adorable. You're good at that."

"I am?"

"Oh, please, Sherlock. Don't be so thick. Now, this is the hard part. Tell him you're sorry."

"Well … I am."

Jim looked at him a mixture of pity and disgust. "Really? Ew. Living with him is really dulling your edge, my dear."

Sherlock shrugged and stubbed out his own cigarette — in the ashtray this time.

Jim sighed. "Fine, whatever. I think you can figure the rest out, smarty-pants. He wants you and all you have to do is convince him you're all sorted out. Make sure you put the ball in his court. You pounced the poor sod in your pants last time. Let him come to you this time."

Sherlock nodded, absorbing and analyzing the instructions and finding them acceptable.

"There's just the one last tricky bit."

Sherlock sighed. "I have to lie."

"Of course you have to lie. No one ever asks me for help because they want to tell the truth. You can have all you want with the lovely doc as long as you don't tell him that we fucked all night and you begged me for more. You'll note I was considerate enough not to leave bruises or scratches on you this time."

"I wasn't quite as considerate."

Jim looked down to admire the marks he was able to see — bruises on his hipbone, scratches on his arm. "These? Oh, my darling, these are souvenirs. And I'm keeping that come-stained tie, if you don't mind. You don't need it anymore."

Sherlock nodded and sat up, stretching carefully before getting up and moving toward the bathroom. He didn't have to explain to Jim that while technically he should feel bad about lying to John, in actuality it was something Sherlock did quite routinely. All for John's protection, of course. This really wasn't any different.

He heard a huffy sigh and then Jim yelled, "YOU'RE WELCOME, you ungrateful little shite. I've killed people who've shown me more respect than you."

"I am not 'people," Sherlock said haughtily before shutting the bathroom door behind him.

When Sherlock emerged from the bathroom a short while later, Jim was only half-dressed, having only put his trousers back on. He was standing barefoot, drinking from a glass of rich, red wine, his hair mussed, fixing his gaze — his dark, sloe-eyed gaze, satiated in a way Sherlock had never seen before — on Sherlock's naked form as he went to fetch his clothes, which were strewn in a trail leading to the bed.

"Ugh, put some clothes on before I decide to ravish you again," Jim muttered, waving his hand vaguely in Sherlock's direction. His tone was more serious than not.

Sherlock smirked slightly, depositing his clothes on the bed and beginning to dress. His skin was still damp and slightly flushed from the hot water. He'd used the blow dryer attached to the bathroom wall to take most of the wetness out of his hair, but it still clung damply to the back of his neck.

Jim cocked his head, looking more closely, then rolled his eyes. "Oh for god's sake, Sherlock. What did you do to your hair?"

"What? I dried it. John will find it odd if I return with soaking wet hair."

"I assume you don't normally use a blow dryer?"

"Whatever for? Waste of time and energy. I have better things to do with my time."

Jim let out an agonized sigh and put down his wineglass before heading for the bathroom. "Of course your hair just dries naturally that way in those angelic curls. Of fucking course. Beauty is wasted on you, Sherlock."

Sherlock shrugged into his shirt and began to button it. "I have no idea what you are talking about."

Jim returned with a plastic tube in his hand. "Sit down."

"Why?"

"Sit." Jim's tone left no room for dissent.

Sherlock scowled and sat on the edge of the mattress.

Jim climbed up on the bed and knelt behind Sherlock, squeezing some of the hair product into his hand. "God, you're such a boy. You dress like such a dandy that I'm surprised you don't know that you can't just blow-dry curly hair with one of those dreadful hotel dryers and expect to look normal. You look like you've been electrocuted. Doc's going to think you fell on the Tube tracks."

"Oh, please," Sherlock snorted. "Don't exaggerate."

Jim gently pushed his hands through Sherlock's hair, smoothing it down and shaping the curls with his fingertips. "I've worn a thousand disguises, darling. You pick up tricks along the way. Besides, you knew from the first moment you saw me that I don't go anywhere without product in my hair." He inspected his handiwork, then shoved Sherlock off the bed and in the direction of a nearby mirror on the wall. "Take a look."

Sherlock stumbled to his feet and looked in the mirror. His expression shifted to one of grudging agreement. "That does look much better."

Jim flashed his Cheshire-cat grin. "As if there was any doubt."

Sherlock sat in a nearby chair to put on his socks and shoes. "Should I be expecting the car, or am I to find my own way home?"

Jim shifted off the bed to retrieve his glass of wine. "Take the car," he droned, taking a long sip, savouring the flavour on his tongue before swallowing. "Last nice thing I'm going to do for you, Sherlock. It's all going to get quite nasty quite soon."

"So you've been saying."

Jim grinned again, swirling the liquid in the glass, watching it catch the light. "No less true than it was before." He looked at Sherlock with mock sadness. "So you better enjoy your time with the doctor while you still can."

Sherlock slipped on his jacket, followed by his coat. He noted that the tie was left behind with Jim's things and he intended for it to stay there.

Jim approached and dramatically showed Sherlock to the door, gesturing the way with his hand. "Please, sir, after you."

Sherlock nodded. "Talk to you soon, then."

Jim nodded solemnly. "Soon enough." He paused for a long moment and looked almost regretful. "Oh, Sherlock. The world could have been ours. Wrong time. Wrong place. It's a pity, really." Then he leaned in suddenly and captured Sherlock's mouth in a long, goodbye kiss, letting the other man taste the wine off his lips and tongue.

Sherlock was left slightly breathless when the kiss broke.

Jim placed his hand on the door handle. "Oh, and one more thing," he said, voice teasing. "I lied about one teensy thing." He held up his thumb and forefinger half an inch apart.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

Jim's voice dropped, serene and deadly in tone. "This isn't the last time you're going to surrender to me, Sherlock. There is one. Last. Time. But it will be very different from this."

Sherlock pressed his lips together, his jaw set like stone.

Jim opened the door and all but pushed Sherlock out. "Give my best to Mycroft! Tell ol' Fatty he needs to try a new diet!"

Sherlock's head whipped around in alarm. "Mycroft? But how —"

"Ciao, bella!" Jim called and slammed the door in the detective's face.

Sherlock texted John as the car delivered him back to Baker Street.

On my way home. You can stop worrying now. SH

He received nothing in return. Not that he expected to. John was not the kind to text when he was livid.