Everybody Loves John Watson

Note: So much sex it's not even funny. It's pretty much the only reason I wrote this fic. For the sex. And to make John sex all the handsome people. (and I do mean all) Basically; pwp.

Now with more BigBluePudding! (many thanks)

Do Not Look Directly into Jealously Lest You Go Blind

John Watson: is Mr. Sex

Day One

He had to find out what Moriarty wanted and he had to find out fast. John unlocked the front door, leaning against the frame for support. Everything hurt. He was glad it was minimum, but he would have loved it even more if Moriarty didn't think he had something he bloody didn't. He closed the door quietly behind him, though he was sure Sherlock was awake, and began the seemingly endless trudge up the stairs. Sure enough, Sherlock was wide awake and watching him carefully from his chair. John wasn't sure how he would explain this, but he wasn't going to put anyone in danger. He knew Moriarty and he knew how far he would go and John cared too much about them to let even the smallest possibility slip through.

Instantly, Sherlock looked distraught. He should really stop thinking he could hide things from this man. Instead of demand things that he shouldn't possibly be able to know, the taller male turned away a little as if he were a child faced with undeniable facts. John grasped his neck with a discomforted groan. He'd deal with Sherlock in the morning. He needed a shower and sleep before he could even think about handling anyone. He couldn't even deal with the mess in the bathroom. For once he just wanted Sherlock to get his bloody clothes into the bloody hamper. John stripped down, groaning at every new bruise he revealed. He'd been hurt worse before, definitely, and he was lucky he got away with bruises alone.

John climbed into the tub and the warm water made his bruises ache even more. He turned the water down and took several minutes to simply not move before beginning to wash himself. His thigh hurt the most. He actually had a reason to limp now, he thought grimly. Just as he began to grope at the sore area of flesh, he heard the door open.

"Sherlock?" The man didn't respond. John leaned back a little to peek out the edge of the curtain and was met with his boyfriend partially stripped. Apparently partially was all he needed. He stepped into the shower, still in pants and his button up shirt unbuttoned and hanging loosely from his shoulders. The tub was too small for the both of them, but Sherlock didn't seem to care. He was more forceful than usual with his kiss, which surprised John. None of them ever came to him and he had to assume that there was a reason for it. Sherlock seemed upset. He pushed a hand to either of the blonde's shoulders, and John did his best not to flinch as pressure was applied to his already sore body.

"W-wait," He breathed. Sherlock did as he was told, shiny lips hovering just centimeters away from his own. John shifted his grip to splay his hands on the pale chest before him, making a sort of barrier even if he wasn't looking to push his boyfriend away.

"What's come over you, Sherlock?" John questioned, adjusting himself under the cold stream of water to relieve the pressure on his bruises. Sherlock didn't seem to notice. He frowned pointedly, but his displeasure swiftly turned to worry and his brows knitted together.

"Nothing." He answered with far too much delay for John to believe him.

"This isn't like you."

"According to sources, we're at a point in our relationship where we should 'take the next step'," Sherlock explained. He didn't attempt to steal his lips again, but rather attached his mouth to John's collar. The man flinched at initial contact, but quickly seemed to relax. His hands fell a little further to meet Sherlock's sharp hips.

"Sherlock," He began to argue again. "You don't have to-"

"I want to," Came the almost vicious response. "I've been practicing." John stopped arguing. The thought of Sherlock 'practicing' was arousing for so many reasons. He'd already come to the agreement with himself that he was, at the very least, bisexual. A straight man would not be so tempted by this situation. Or be in this situation. However, he was still just as attracted to females, even if he was in no position to date anyone at the moment. Anyone else would be the proper term, but that made him feel filthy. This wasn't his choice. He didn't exactly convince each one of them to fall madly in love with him, not that John was completely convinced of that just yet. That was what he kept telling himself, but it was hard to think otherwise with Sherlock so desperately pressed against him saying and doing very un-Sherlock things. What other explanation could he make? If this was simply a ruse to keep him away from Lestrade and Mycroft, he wouldn't have jumped to such drastic measures.

Sherlock's lips followed the bruising along his throat, leaving several of his own that hurt far less than the ones left by 'Seb'. John relaxed a little, trying to organize his jumbled thoughts to somehow respond to the tongue sinking lower on his chest. A warm mouth found a fawn nipple. Such a strange sensation it was and John gasped quietly. Sherlock's clothes were soaked through by now, as was his hair where John gently grasped. His skin jumped and he left out a small hiss as his thigh was grabbed. There was definitely something wrong with his leg. It shouldn't hurt like that, even with everything that had happened.

His mind fled completely when Sherlock's mouth found his cock. John's hand flew to his mouth, teeth sinking into his palm to prevent himself from letting out too many noises, though he'd never been very noisy.

"W-wait." This time, Sherlock did not. He had no idea how he managed to practice doing that, but it was fantastic. John trembled against the cool tile wall as the warm, velvety mouth worked him over with a precise tongue. How did he know how to do that? He groaned low in his throat, trying to find something in the tub to grab a hold of. Much to his chagrin, though, Sherlock stopped. He stood and knocked the water off with a single blow. He stepped out of the tub carefully and drew John by the wrist. Immediately, they were together again, but this time far more fierce.

John wasn't sure what came over him, nor Sherlock for that matter. Mostly Sherlock. Later, John could count this out to pent-up frustration and the violent need coming off his boyfriend. At any sign of apprehension, John was ready to reel back, but there was no sign. Sherlock's mouth attached firmly to his, his warm, tobacco flavored tongue thrust firmly against his own. Wait. Tobacco? He'd have to talk with his flatmate about that later.

Gracelessly, they stumbled through the house, loose limbs flailing out to grope at their surroundings and backs bashed against foreign objects in an attempt to make it to the bedroom. John found the edge of the bed and tripped over it. Sherlock pressed between his legs, his long fingers grasping at either side of his head and threading into his sandy-blonde, wet hair. They only finally stopped kissing when air was needed. Sherlock really, really liked kissing. The smaller man momentarily gasped for breath and his counterpart watched him with questioning approval.

"Are you sure you want to do this, Sherlock?" He asked a final time. "You don't have to do this."

"I want to." Sherlock repeated in his stubborn way. He pressed his pale pink lips against his doctor's momentarily before moving away from him and to his dresser. When Sherlock wanted something, he knew exactly how to go about getting it. He rustled through the drawer for a few seconds and returned with a small bottle and a package. He might have been determined, but the air of shyness about him was unmistakable and adorable. Not that it stayed long. Sherlock climbed onto the bed and John shifted to follow him. He nuzzled the other against the bed gently and explored the slim, but still obviously manly, body with curious hands. Sherlock's skin was just as it looked, smooth and pleasant to the touch. The slim form arched into his touch sweetly and made matching noises.

"John," He begged. John slipped his fingers into the waistband of the wet pants, gently sliding them off with ease. He ran his hands down the cool skin of his back and along his wonderful arse. Sherlock parted his legs eagerly. John's breath caught in his throat at his willingness. He drizzled the scented lubricant between his legs. He momentarily wondered why Sherlock had chosen the sweet strawberry scent. John had never done this before, but after agreeing to these circumstances, and making it very clear to himself that he would pursue at the very least one of these relationships, he'd done himself a favor and did a little research.

Sherlock, as usual, was calm and relatively quiet, but his blue eyes watched him with intensity. His eyes fluttered closed momentarily, assuring John he was doing something right. He graced the pale skin between his thighs with a single slick finger, caressing the tender flesh. Sherlock shifted himself impatiently and John took the hint. Gently, he pressed a finger against the pink ring of flesh. The man under him made a nearly nonexistent whimper that urged him on further. Sherlock sucked in a breath suddenly when John found his prostate. Being a doctor always proved to be useful when it came to Sherlock. He steadily thrust in a pair of fingers until Sherlock began moving his hips against his hand. It wasn't often John got to see Sherlock tremble.

"John," He somehow managed to demand. "John. More." He parted his legs more. John couldn't get the condom on fast enough. He nearly asked again if Sherlock was alright with this, but his pale face was fleshed with a bright red 'yes'. Sherlock brought a long leg around his thigh, pulling him closer faster.

"John," It was completely unfair that he had such a voice. It began slow and sensual as John sheathed himself in the tight, amazing heat. Sherlock groaned aloud, grasping handfuls of the sheets and delicately arching off the bed. John held his hips lovingly and gently moved with his boyfriend. Then he was reminded that Sherlock was not a tame man. His impatience shined through as he began to move his hips quicker and desperately again him.

"John!" John was forced to find a better angle and fast. Sherlock's fingers found his shoulder and his nails found his skin. He was louder than John imagined he would be and the headboard striking the wall wasn't helping at all. Most of it wasn't coherent, but what was, was definitely Sherlock.

"Fifteen millimeters to the left. My left! Yes! Mm! Yes! John!" He brought their mouths together in an intense, vicious meeting of teeth and tongue. John wrapped his fingers around Sherlock's stiff cock and his thin form arched into him with need. He mewed louder obscenities. Sherlock came with his head thrown back and his throat exposed, covered in sweat and impossibly beautiful. Semen oozed over his pale stomach in thick globs as his body wracked desperately in orgasm.

"Sherlock," John breathed under all of the other's noise. Pleasured bliss blinded his senses momentarily and he loved every second of it. The room fell to the calm collection of the two men catching their breath. Sherlock was on his mouth again, gently this time but only because he was too worn-out at the moment. John discarded the bit of plastic and laid himself on the bed beside him.

"Brilliant."

"I know."

Day Two

John wasn't sure when he fell asleep, but he was awakened by mentally kicking himself in the back of the head. What the fuck was he doing? He was in danger and needed to be working on finding this stupid thing! He climbed out of the bed quietly, as to not wake Sherlock. It was the first time he'd slept properly in a couple days. He was unaware of the knowing periwinkle eyes set firmly on him as he left the room. John made himself a cup of tea, holding his forehead and face as if it would slow time for him. It didn't. He checked his phone and was reminded that he had a date with Mycroft today. There was no way he could waste anymore time.

As he began to text the man, though, he realized that he couldn't refuse, either. It was suspicious enough without what had happened last night. The last thing he needed was to give any of them a reason to be suspicious of him. He had the situation under control, at least for the next two days. Technically, there was no danger yet. Moriarty was dangerous, but as long as he found it, no one would get hurt. He could handle this. John rushed a shower just to get the smell of sex off of him. Even if it was their idea, he wasn't going to go on a date with his other boyfriend smelling of his – first boyfriend? Oh god, what was his life coming too?

John dressed in a hurry, ever single ache coming back with vengeance, not to mention the new ones from Sherlock. He was out the door before Sherlock was awake. This was probably something they needed to talk about, all things considering, but John was having a hard time scrapping everything back onto his plate right now. He would definitely talk with Sherlock later. If he was still alive when this was all over with. He stopped on the front step, holding his temple again, but for another reason: the migraine forming over every inch of his head. There was absolutely nothing that would make this anymore awesome than it already was.

Outside, a car waited for him. Thankfully, Anthea was inside, making it much easier for John to deem the ride safe. He climbed inside and as usual, she ignored him. He was too busy to attempt to be nice to her today. Mycroft wanted to have a meal in his office today before he went off to a meeting meaning he had at least seven minutes of silence to think. Whatever it was Moriarty wanted, he couldn't have had it very long before he'd been hit by the car. He'd gone shopping, as he always did, and there was nothing unusual about that. He went to work. He didn't touch anything at the crime scenes. He certainly didn't let Sherlock give him anything anymore, not after he unknowingly hid evidence by the 'hold this for a minute, John' technique. He hadn't picked up anything when he got hit and he'd been in a bed for weeks after that. There was nothing on his clothes, or in his wallet, or in the bed or drawers, and the nurses didn't know about anything else he had come in with. Of course, all three of his boyfriends had been in his room while he was unconscious, but none of them claimed to have taken anything from him while he was out. He wouldn't put it past Sherlock to have something to do with this, even if he had made it very clear about not informing him about life risks.

Anthea was watching him, John noticed offhandedly.

"What?" He really didn't need this right now.

"You're injured." She knew about the arrangement, though John wasn't sure he was okay with that. The less people that knew about this, the better. It was bad enough it sounded dirty and completely insane to him, he didn't need other people thinking it too.

"You have met Sherlock." He said firmly without actually lying. She looked unconvinced and he felt the need to argue with her silence. Thankfully, the car came to a stop and he helped himself out. John tried not to run to Mycroft's office, deciding on a brisk walk. The sooner he got this over with, the sooner he could take care of his psychopath problem, and the sooner he could sort out his wadded mess of a relationship- Relationships? -Of his love life.

He paused outside the doors, making sure he didn't look too distressed, before calmly and casually entering the office. Mycroft scrutinized him instantly. Oh god, this was an awful idea. Mycroft was twice as brilliant as his brother. He would realize something was wrong immediately and it was impossible to lie to him. The older man motioned him closer and John, feigning fearlessness, approached the desk.

"Morning."

"Morning, John." Mycroft answered, though he could have been happier about it. He set his hands on John's hips and the smaller male forced himself not to flinch. It was stupid how uncomfortable the pressure he put down was. It was absolutely on purpose, though. Mycroft knew. His beige eyes fluttered closed against his will and he knew any attempt to get away with this was long gone. Maybe it wasn't all bad. Maybe he was giving Moriarty too much credit. He couldn't honestly expect to get to a consulting detective, the British Government, and a DI. On the other hand, he blew things up. John had the right to be worried.

He felt a hand on his neck, but it wasn't tracing the hand mark there.

"Sherlock?" It was posed as if it were suppose to be a question, but it was very plainly a statement. John felt relieve almost instantly. He was still in the safe, then. He nodded in response. It took a few seconds for him to realize that the boat he'd put himself in was no better than any other boat he currently had. Why brain! Why would you tell your boyfriend that your hickey is from your other boyfriend who happened to be his brother? Get your shit together, brain!

Mycroft murmured something that sounded like 'he shouldn't have', but it was likely it wasn't for him to hear. John knew there was no way he could explain this to his boyfriend. Any argument he had in mind sounded awful in the real world. He wasn't even sure if he needed an excuse. Technically, he was dating Sherlock, too. That sounded awful even inside his mind. He watched with a frown as Mycroft exhaled. He couldn't tell if he was calming himself down or disappointed. Mycroft brought him between his legs, John's back pressed against the edge of the oak desk.

"Are you okay?" The older asked gently. He was probably assuming that all of his bruises came from Sherlock. John couldn't tell him otherwise. Could Mycroft really think his brother was capable of something like that, though? He positioned his hands on the broad suit shoulders lovingly and nodded.

"Of course. Are you?" If John had long enough to think about it, he would have found that the sex wasn't what bothered him. Nor did the multiple relationships. What bothered him most was one, or all, of them getting hurt by any means. If Moriarty threatened him alone, he wouldn't have been stressing so bad. However, that was exactly why that wasn't the case.

Mycroft didn't answer. He shouldn't have had sex with Sherlock. That wasn't fair to Mycroft or Lestrade. John leaned away from the table and further into his boyfriend. He tilted down and touched tea flavored lips thoughtfully to the cake flavored ones. Yes, he'd come to realize, Mycroft always tasted like cake. Thankfully, he didn't seem to be too upset. He still responded thoroughly to their kiss; the elder Holmes' warm tongue confidently invading his mouth and roaming skillfully. Mycroft was a very calm and collected man through and through. He would say that any kiss from Mycroft was romantic, but that it didn't seem fitting. They were warm and calculating and he could easily make John weak in the knees with a kiss alone.

Fingers pressed into his shoulders and the base of his neck, gently working the sore flesh there. John groaned and his whole body went lax. However Mycroft was doing that, it was fantastic. He wrapped his hands around the other's neck, brushing his fingers through the almost ginger nape fondly.

"Mm." It was easy to relax around Mycroft. His lips trailed down his neck and John gladly exposed more of his throat to the sensual, open mouthed kisses. His hands fell lower, working over his lower back and hips with much more gentleness than he had originally used. John's sandy eyes closed in pleasure and he breathed heavily over the head against his chest. Mycroft's hands slipped under his shirt and followed the embossed marks where Sherlock had clawed at him the night before. His knees pinned John's thighs together, alerting him to the hard on stirring between the younger man's legs.

Brunch was out of the question now. John was actually a little relieved, becuase he wasn't sure he would have been able to stand a nice, quiet meal with his stress as high as it was. Mycroft would have definitely known something was wrong. And now he was using sex as a distraction. He was disappointed in himself, but not enough to stop, as it seemed. Mycroft's soothing fingers against his sore body were intoxicating.

John made small noises under the mouth that assaulted his collar and the fingers that were working their way under his shirt and over his chest. His noises sounded louder in the quiet room than they did the night before with Sherlock. John moved with him, helping remove his jumper. The cool air chilled his skin on contact and he shuddered softly. He latched onto Mycroft's tie, booth loosening its grip on his throat and giving him an anchor. His trousers were undone and his throbbing erection was freed from his pants. Mycroft fingers found their way down his stomach and over the length of his cock, swirling around the dripping head. John uttered more quiet gasps and pants. His head was tilted back ever so slightly, but he was aware of Mycroft's pale green eyes focused on him with smooth, seductive graces. It made John shudder by having so much attention, he wasn't use to it at all.

Mycroft slowly dragged his jeans down over his hips, his mouth following the tender line of little blonde hairs over his belly and found his unbruised hip bone. John trembled as a round, tooth outlined mark was made there. Mycroft traced it with his tongue only adding to the heat boiling under his skin. Fingers flowed further back, brushing over one of his 'reminders' and sliding under the banner of his pants. John pressed a knee on the leather covered chair, helping remove the pesky clothing, and then the other so he was straddling Mycroft's lap.

Smooth hands touched every inch of him, though this time they were more set on tracing the deep purple bruises spread out over his body. They were the worse on thighs and back where the larger man had knelt and pressed him against the floor. Then around his mouth and neck where he'd been held, and finally his chest, where he'd actually been struck. Mycroft must have thought they were from his brother and John couldn't think of a way to correct him without sounding like an awful liar or getting too close to the truth. They strayed away, thankfully, and found his arse.

John watched him open a desk drawer and retrieve lubricant. A small pin of uncertainty ran through him, but he swatted it away quickly. There was no reason to doubt Mycroft. A newly slicked hand returned between pale cheeks and John arched away slightly. He hung his head over Mycroft's shoulder and the older man lavished his neck and jaw with heated, corporal kisses. He was stroked with one hand and the other circled his virgin entrance. When he relaxed enough, a lubed finger intruded in, making John whimper.

Mycroft went leisurely and patient, steadily working more fingers into him as John trembled and moaned in his lap. He rutted against Mycroft's stiff suit, leaving a wet spot on the dark fabric, but neither man noticed. John was both thrilled and startled by the new feeling. He had experimented when he was younger, but this was completely new. Mycroft's fingers reached spots inside of him he wasn't even aware as a doctor he had.

"John," His voice just seemed to belong in the room, unlike John's. "May I?"

"Yes." John responded without any further thought required. He pressed his face into the other's collar, the material of his suit rough against his bruised face, creating an awkward arch but giving him enough room to undo Mycroft's belt and trousers with hasty hands. He was handed a condom. He was too well prepared for this, but John would over think that later. He dressed the hard cock in thin plastic and worked copious amounts of the unscented lube with both hands. Mycroft wasn't any louder than himself, but he didn't have to be to know that he was enjoying this. Hands were on his hips again, directing him with minimum amount of force to prevent anymore bruising.

Mycroft's cock was hot against his stretched hole. John's breath caught in his throat and he tightened his grip on the saturated tie, the knot firm in his palm. He lowered his hips minutely; the bell shape proved to be bigger than the fingers and John flinched. The government soothed him with a skilled touch, keeping his erection firm in his hand and his lips gentle on his neck. John steadily rocked his hips, sliding down the heated prick until his bare skin was pressed flush against Mycroft's suit.

"Are you okay?" Mycroft ran his hands over his back and butt, offering a small grind to tease every hypersensitive nerve. John let out a shuddered breath but managed a nod.

"Yeah," He breathed warmly against his boyfriend's neck. The husky need in his voice went straight to Mycroft's cock. "Fine. Just- new." John murmured as he attempted to adjust his weight on the man's lap.

"Not bad," he added swiftly, "just different." He didn't dislike it and a bit of discomfort was expected. After a few moments of allowing his body to accept the organ, his ache melted away. It pressed firmly against his sweet spot and John moved his hips to get more traction. He slid his hands over Mycroft's shoulders, giving himself some support to help him thrust against. The office filled with John's pants and Mycroft's delicate hums of pleasure.

His hips and thighs were gripped and scratched, leaving long lines in their wake. It wasn't on accident or even in the heat of their passion. It was purely to stake claim and rivals his brother's marks. Unlike Sherlock, Mycroft's marks were hidden far out of sight secretive but darker and more possessive. In the back of his mind, John noticed his boyfriend's fingers avoiding touching a patch of his skin, but he was currently too high to think anything about it.

"Mycroft," even in the middle of sex, John would never confuse his boyfriend's names. Mycroft met each down thrust in rhythm, intensifying the sensation without increasing speed or roughness.

"John." Mycroft whispered calmly, catching his lips momentarily and following through with a line of firm kisses following his collar and the web of his war wound. The coarse material of the suit against his cock drove John to work his hips faster at the edge of his orgasm. He bundled handfuls of the dark fabric between his fingers as an assortment of his muscles convulsed under the blindingly blissful orgasm. Mycroft let out a groan a little louder than the previous and he closed his eyes. Again, the office ran quiet. That was fantastic. So much for his back-up plan. If worse came to worse, John had been counting on being able to chose based on the sex. This wasn't helping.

A hand pulled him down a little by the back of his head and Mycroft's lips met his lovingly.

"I still have a meeting," he murmured.

"Oh god! Your suit." John leaned away at once, partially horrified at the mess he had left in his climax. "I'm so sorry, Mycroft."

"It's fine, I have a change." Mycroft assured him. John was sure that was true, but his suit was probably expensive. Not that this was his fault. He shared another casual kiss with the other man before beginning to clean himself off and redress.

At least the whole day hadn't been wasted. He didn't notice Mycroft watching him worriedly as he left.

Day Three

There wasn't anything here! John hadn't slept yet, though living with Sherlock, that wasn't always a strange thing. Which brought on the question, where was Sherlock? He hadn't seen him since dinner yesterday. Was he working on a case? He couldn't even remember. John had to push it out of his mind for now. He'd turned his room, and part of the flat, upside down looking for anything that Moriarty could possibly want. It was hard to distinguish with Sherlock's things, however. He probably looked over it thinking it belonged to Sherlock! Oh god. So John had to look again and again, he had ended up falling asleep without even realizing he had.

"John!" He was startled awake by his boyfriend's voice and panic sent him reeling back into the bookshelf. John threw a hand out to prevent it from toppling over and brace himself to be attacked. Sherlock came into his line of vision and he relaxed. Only for a moment, unfortunately. He scrambled to check his phone. It was already noon! He had twelve hours, give or take Moriarty's chaos, to find this thing!

"Are you okay, John?" Sherlock questioned none too gently. John mumbled something that was supposed to be an excuse but was completely illegible even to himself. He forced himself to his feet, wincing as he put too much weight on his sore leg. It wasn't his knee, but he was worried that all this stress was bringing back the phantom pain in his leg. He was almost to the point of having to use his cane again. This was different, though. He didn't 'forget' about this pain. It didn't feel like it was inside of his head, either. He wanted to claw at it until it stopped, but John knew better than to make it worse.

"Awful lie. You don't believe me. I pretend I don't know what you're talking about. Move on. Did you want something Sherlock?" John's mind was already elsewhere. He'd been checking books when he passed out, in case Sherlock really did know more about this than he was letting on. He wasn't sure Sherlock would actually use a normal hiding spot like inside a book, not to mention he still hadn't the faintest idea of what he was looking for, but John was getting desperate. He'd just have to tell Moriarty he didn't know what he was looking for. The criminal would at least have to give him more time and a description.

Who was he kidding? He was royally fucked.

"Lestrade found a body. He wants us to come take a look." Sherlock explained. He watched his boyfriend with suspicious eyes, but didn't mention John's strange behavior. On top of that, he seemed to be completely immune to the feelings that came with 'taking the next step'. John was thankful for that. He didn't have the time or patience to talk out what their relationship meant now. John had no idea what their relationship meant now thanks to Mycroft.

"Oh god. Greg." He hadn't even thought about how Lestrade would react to this. The Holmes were Holmes. They handed things different than normal people did. Lestrade wasn't going to be happy with this. John massaged his temple in one hand. He would feel awful to have done this to the older man. The whole reason he'd left his wife was because she was sleeping with other men, granted the circumstances were different. He could tell Sherlock was watching him as he wandered into the bathroom to swallow a few pain relief pills. He usually had to keep them out of the house because of Sherlock and his 'experimenting', but he had to do something.

"Come on John!" Sherlock complained. John uncovered his cane from behind the hamper, and hurriedly returned to follow Sherlock out of the flat. He did his best to cover up his bruises with his coat, but marks around his mouth and cheeks were clear now. The tainted skin was shaped firmly like a hand. On closer inspection, it was obviously too big to be Sherlock's, but very close to Mycroft's. Again, he wouldn't be able to tell him any different. He was sick of having to play Moriarty's mind games.

The cab ride was quiet, though Sherlock watched him as if there was something stuck to his face. He was probably deducing that his bruises were not from where he thought they were from. He wasn't sure what he would do about it once he assured himself that they weren't from Lestrade or Mycroft. Would he even care? John wished the cab ride had been just a little bit longer. He still hadn't formulated any kind of excuse to feed to Lestrade.

Moriarty did this on purpose. These were the kinds of games he played, after all. He was trying to stress him out with clever lies John had to believe or risk endangering the people he cared about. John had no proof of that, though. If he was wrong, it wouldn't be without consequences. He attempted to remain behind Sherlock for as long as possible. It didn't work.

"Sherlock. Afternoon Jo- John? What happened to your face?" Sherlock wouldn't ask. Mycroft wouldn't ask. They would simply see. Lestrade saw different than the brilliant Holmes. All he saw was that John was hurt not how or by who or why.

"It's nothing." John said after a skip of the throat. He couldn't even blame it on running around with Sherlock, since Sherlock was here. He doubted the man would deny it, but he couldn't let Lestrade think any worse of his boyfriend.

"It's not nothing. Look at your face!" Greg insisted, stepping closer to him. John took a swift step back, but steeled himself. A tender finger traced the bruise as gently as he could without hurting him.

"Is there a body or not?" Sherlock demanded viciously.

"Did you do this, Sherlock?" If that wasn't a fighting tone, John didn't know what was. He really hoped they didn't start a fight right now. Sherlock didn't answer immediately, but rather than stare at Lestrade bitterly, he looked a little confused. It was so brief, though, that John knew he had all the information he needed to finish his deduction. On normal circumstances, that would be great, but not now. The taller man turned away and was on his phone in an instant.

"It wasn't Sherlock, don't worry about it." John insisted, grasping Lestrade's wrist mildly. The DI slipped away, entwining their fingers instead.

"You look like shit." He grumbled. It wasn't an insult, but a statement.

"Thanks." The blonde responded sarcastically.

"I'm serious, John. And your leg. What did you do to your leg?"

"Greg. Please." He begged firmly. Lestrade's worry seeped through his lips, but he stopped. Instead, he met John's height and attempted to sooth his bruise with a flirty, still a little shy, kiss. Sherlock cleared his throat sharply.

"Body's over there, Sherlock." Greg informed him just as pointedly. John was getting used to being around both of his boyfriends at the same time, but it could get very tense sometimes. He felt like he was dancing around glass whenever they were in the same room, but in reality, it was his boyfriends who had to be careful.

"Why don't you come to by flat tonight?" He suggested gently. John had picked up on the pattern long before. Sherlock, then Mycroft, then Lestrade. They seemed to have some unspoken agreement between the three of them which was the only reason this was working at all. John would have liked to be informed of these things, however. He began to refuse, but again, stopped himself. He'd searched everything he owned, he didn't have it. He was doing nothing more besides running himself ragged looking for this stupid thing. If he had to face Moriarty tomorrow, he was going to do it after a night of being with his boyfriend. He could always count on Lestrade to make him feel better. He could relax around Mycroft, but only Lestrade actually brought up this mood.

"Sure." John agreed with a faint smile, "that would be great."

"John! I need you to do your doctor thing!"

o-o-o

John had given it one more go, but in the end, had taken a few more pills and called it quits. He truly didn't believe he actually had whatever Moriarty thought he had, or was making him think he had. Surely Moriarty hadn't convinced himself he had something he was trying to convince John he didn't actually have. John's train of thought had stopped making sense hours ago, it seemed to work for Sherlock (at least what he said out loud did), but it wasn't helping John at all. He wasn't brilliant, but he could pass as manic at this point. The need to tear at his thigh to make the pain go away was growing. He wasn't crazy, he just wanted the pain to stop.

Sherlock's attention was on the new case, even if John had the sneaking feeling that the man was watching him when he wasn't looking. When he left for Lestrade's flat, Sherlock almost seemed worried. Not jealous or even upset; worried. Had he ever seen Sherlock worried? Truly worried? He must have been mistaken. John left and took a cab in the setting sun and pretended to be interested in where they were going. Lestrade's flat was familiar. He'd moved closer to the Yard when he left his wife, but John never knew where he'd lived before. He knocked twice and there was a bit of a rustle behind the door.

The door opened quickly and Lestrade smiled at him.

"Hi John."

"Hi Greg." It was just so natural. Lestrade gave him a welcoming kiss and hurriedly invited him in to the very manly bachelor flat. It was probably due to all the hours he put in at the Yard, but it didn't bother John. It wasn't any worse than the mess Sherlock made at home and this one was distinctly missing body parts and potential contaminants.

"A night in, then?" He questioned. Lestrade didn't wait for him to take his coat off rather he did it himself, making John move with him and shift his weight around to stay balanced.

"Yeah. I thought you could use a bath." There was no ulterior motive behind it and there never was. Lestrade was still juggling things he knew about his past relationships and his naturally acquired people skills. Still, John hesitated a moment. However, Lestrade was going to find out eventually and a warm, uninterrupted bath did sound nice. It was probably clean, too. He nodded and Lestrade smiled happily. The DI was really the old romantic type. Twice now he hadn't been able to stop himself from buying flowers, which John really didn't mind. He'd never been bought flowers before. That stopped, though, after John reminded him that Sherlock destroyed nice things.

He was led to the bathroom and couldn't hold back the small chuckle as he was met with candles. Romantic indeed.

"Don't laugh, I have dozens of these stupid things." Lestrade grumbled playfully as he ran the tub full of warm water. John had heard the story before. Lestrade had been planning an extravagant anniversary when he and his ex had the fight that finally broke up their marriage. So of course, he found himself in possession of things he didn't actually want or use. He suggested 'donating' them to Sherlock's experiments. John suggested he didn't lest he wanted to clean the 221B flat for the next dozen months.

The tub was filled and Lestrade left the room to fetch a lighter. John began to undress while he was out, partially hoping he'd be able to hide before the rest of his bruises were seen. It was too much to ask, as it always was. He was just undoing his trousers when his boyfriend returned. John glanced over his shoulder and watched the pained expression that came over Lestrade's face as he took in the eyeful of bruises and the much smaller scratches. He probably knew instantly that the bruises were not from either Holmes. He didn't have to 'see'. He knew neither of them would actually hurt John in such a way.

He said nothing.

John climbed into the tub. The warm water felt nice against his skin, but his pain was far from gone. Numbed by the pain pills, and momentarily soothed by the heat, but still very much there. If he clawed his leg open, maybe that would warrant getting morphine. He watched Lestrade light a few of the candles and lay the lighter beside the sink. He watched John for several long moments, eyes flickering over the marks distorted by the water.

"Are you going to get in?" John insisted.

"What?"

"It's not much of a date if you don't get in," he assured him with more than enough permission. Lestrade eyed the size of the tub, but that required grazing over John's nude form and that was all the decision he needed. He undressed and the smaller male noticed he wasn't without a few bruises of his own.

"These are from work," his boyfriend informed defensively. "After a criminal was so kind as to tackle me into a brick wall." John shifted enough to allow the taller male to slip into the tub behind him. It was a little too small, but there was nothing wrong with that. Lestrade tapped gently at either side of the tub and John leaned his head back on his shoulder gently.

"You'll have to tell me what happened eventually."

"If it helps, I didn't tell Sherlock or Mycroft, either."

"It doesn't. They probably already know." He complained without really meaning it. Lestrade was okay with not knowing. It was what gave good relationships that little spark of mystery. Preferably, 'mystery' should be more careful with his John, though. He traced John's war scar with his middle finger.

"You know, they really don't look that bad. Makes you look manlier, if that's even possible." He teased flirtatiously making John crack a smile.

"It's too bad they hurt like a bitch." He murmured back, moving to rest a hand on Lestrade's leg. He knew his boyfriend could tell the difference in his marks and probably put together the marks and scratches to know that he'd had relations with one or both of his boyfriends. Less than six hours left in today. There was no point in holding back now. Lestrade took his hand, combining their fingers and brushing his lips against the nape of his neck.

He knew the differences in his boyfriends. Sherlock was eager and intense, but downright cold when something else had his attention. Mycroft was warm and calculating, but secretive when it came to things about himself. Lestrade was loving and romantic, but clumsy when it came to how to treat John. The silver lining? If Moriarty killed him, he didn't have to choose.

"You really were fantastic today, John. I don't know what I like better; you being all professional or completely fearless." His lips were slightly colder than the heat rising from the tub, sending goose bumps over the back of his neck whenever Lestrade would breathe over the wet marks he left. The hand on his shoulder brushed along his collar and down his chest to stroke a smooth circle around his nipple.

"Greg," John breathed with a pleased tremble.

"I'm serious. You keep doing that stupid thing with your tongue when you think and I just stare. I'm surprised I can get any work done with you around. It's really not fair, making me all giddy like I'm some sort of teenager again." He continued on with more tongue and lips. Finger's roughened by work followed the small bump of his stomach and over the hickey on his hip straight to his awakening cock.

"And your arse in those trousers. Perfection." Lestrade purred. John allowed himself to be seduced by the compliments. He felt his boyfriend move under him and he climbed out of the tub. He helped John out and embraced him heatedly. Lestrade led them the short distance from the bathroom to his bedroom and crashed onto the mess of a bed simultaneously. The DI kneeled over him, resting on his forearms against the pillow on either side of the feathered blonde hair. He broke away from the kiss and examined his boyfriend's face.

"I feel like I should be asking permission." He laughed lowly, nuzzling a leg between John's.

"Who's exactly?" John teased back with a small smile. He was kissed again and Lestrade caught his lip between his teeth. He groaned pleasantly, running his hands through the older man's wet, silvery hair. Lestrade wrapped his lips around his pulse, but didn't add to his collection of bruising. He was very careful about that. Heavy hands came to rest on his waist.

"Roll over," he instructed with temptation. John submitted without worry, allowing the other to turn him onto his stomach. He wrapped his arms around the pillow at his face and curved his back into the bed slightly. It was very comfortable, actually, and he could smell his boyfriend's cologne in the material. Lestrade kissed down his neck and the center of his back, and his fingers traced the outline of his ribs. It was nice knowing that his boyfriend was very straight forward and just as happy with simple displays. His lips followed the natural arch of John's back, stopping right above his arse. Lestrade reached for his drawer in a familiar motion.

With his position on the bed, he couldn't see properly and was required to wait patiently for the sound of the cap being snapped open and the cool sensation of the slick liquid being dripped over his back and butt. It wasn't cold for very long though, being warm almost instantly on contact with his skin. John shuddered and pressed his face into the pillow.

"You're skin's so beautiful." Lestrade's fingers pressed into his lower back and his palms followed over his plump bottom. A single digit carefully pressed against his hole. John winced as it slipped inside, quickly discovering he was still very sore from yesterday's brunch. He adjusted his hips, moving to sit on his knees a little more.

"Sorry," The detective said swiftly. John shook his head to assure him it was fine. He could deal with sore and the warming lubricate helped. He was going to have to learn to time these things better. He was definitely manic to think that something like this would ever happen again.

"Just- gentle please."

"Yeah. 'Course." Though Lestrade didn't seem convinced with his excuse. John offered a small buck of the hips to get him to continue. A second hand cupped his scrotum and he moaned into the pillow. Perhaps he really was a sexual deviant. No. This was completely natural. When faced with imminent death, it was natural to rush to pass on genes. That was John's excuse and he was sticking with it. Lestrade wasn't very skilled and it was obvious. His fingers were gentle, but blindly searching. John didn't complain, but his toes curled whenever the padded fingers came close.

"Oh!" John gasped when he finally did press against it and his knees went weak. Lestrade smirked. The spot was abused repeatedly with two fingers until the smaller man was shaking and groaning into the crisp, white pillow. He arched his back into the bed and his hips into his boyfriend, all of his pain momentarily forgotten. There were lips on his neck and shoulders again and Lestrade's stiff prick rubbed between his cheeks eagerly. John reached an arm back, wrapped it around the older man's neck and exposing more of his throat for his kind lips.

"Greg." He whispered lowly, giving all the permission Lestrade needed. With one hand on his waist, he slid in painfully slow. John shakily groaned, digging one of his feet into the bed to give himself some sort of leverage.

"Does it hurt?" He murmured worriedly.

"No." John hushed back. "You can move. Please." He insisted. Lestrade nodded against his neck and the bed shifted a little as he moved. He moved slowly, but firmly, grinding against his sensitive insides and making John let out the smallest, more delicious noises. Stray hands wandered along his ribs, tracing the hidden bones, over his waist and hips and gripped him. Rather than scratches, the DI bit his nails down beyond the ability to scratch, he left little round finger impressions. They wouldn't bruise, but John would know they were there. Then they were under him, neatly pressed between his heated skin and the cotton sheets.

"Greg," John whimpered again, unable to find a grip to properly meet either force.

"John," Lestrade uttered back in a throaty voice. He stroked John in time with each thrust, momentum gently rocking the bed with the faintest little squeaks. He nudged himself onto his forearms and Lestrade's head came to rest over his shoulder, their breathe mingling. His hand sped up and he thrust a little harder when he came closer and John threw back his head. Lestrade grunted loudly in his ear and orgasm washed over them simultaneously. John basked in the sweet sensation, closing his eyes against the little light in the room. The DI rolled them over, more than happy to stay joined.

For a while, so was John, but the clock was staring him down. Two hours until tomorrow. He made an excuse that he didn't entirely remember and left Lestrade's flat for home. John didn't notice the man watching him leave worriedly from the window.

Sherlock wasn't in, yet again. John wasn't sure what he could possibly be up to in the dead of night, but there was nothing he could do about it. He limped to the bathroom, skillfully avoiding the mess in the hall. His clothes were all over the place. Not for the first time, he would have to explain to Sherlock that it wasn't okay to go through his things without permission, nor scatter them all over the house. The pain pills were wearing off and pain was coming back fiercely. John couldn't stand it anymore. He clawed at his thigh viciously, trying to sooth the spot by any means necessary even if it meant breaking his own skin. There was a bump. It wasn't bone, he knew. He stopped scratching and instead, searched the spot with his fingers. There was something under his skin!

Without thinking, John snatched up one of Sherlock's scalpels from where it certainly shouldn't have been beside the sink. Desperately, he made a cut in his own skin only about two inches long and ignored the blood that began to drip down his leg in a steady stream. He dropped the blade and used the bathroom tweezers to search out the foreign object lodged in his flesh. Of course, it wasn't bone.

It was some sort of computer part.

It was what Moriarty wanted.