Disclaimer: Not mine. (Sigh)
London Calling
London invariably buzzed with life, and this had always been something Sherlock revelled in. There was always something happening—burglaries, cheating spouses, drug deals, murders, and when he was especially lucky—serial killers.
He whirled through the city, racing from one crime scene to the next, and while his work was enjoyable, rewarding, what he needed to keep his demons at bay... there was always something missing.
Until John.
And then nothing was missing, nothing, and Sherlock dragged his doctor through the city, John with an amiable smile gracing his face, providing the stabilizing influence Sherlock never realized he needed.
Together they danced in London's darkness.
Shocked, Sherlock realized that London's relentless motion (something he'd never thought he would find annoying) became intrusive when he was with John. Things, people, everything moved around them, but when they were together, the only thing that should exist was them.
He took the plunge, and John apparently had felt it too (he should have deduced it, but John was just so damn intoxicating) and so they progressed to the inevitable.
Outside Baker Street, London whirred with life, ignorant of the passions of two men that so frequently raced through its streets. London relentlessly thrived.
Inside Baker Street, John and Sherlock curled around each other, sweaty and blissful, and sank into their perfectly still bubble.