Okay, It's been over a week (damn exams). I could spend an hour apoligising, or I can get straight to the new chapter. Let's do option two, shall we?

First though, if you're reading this, you are what keeps me writing. All of you. I wouldn't be on chapter six without you guys. I might not have gotten past chapter one. So many thanks and cookies to go around. Thanks for all of your lovely reviews as well, you guys are MUCH too kind.

I still don't own Sherlock. But I love writing stories about him and John. If you have questions, concerns, comments, don't hesitate to let me know. Just this chapter to go, then we dive right back into Moriarty's game. Hope you're ready.

I can't wait (the suspense is killing me more than it is you, I promise.) For now though, enjoy the Johnlock. Not your bag? Sorry, loves. No regrets, I needed this. Ratings have been changed accordingly.

"You want a cuppa?" John calls into the sitting room, question aimed at Sherlock. He's once again lounging on the couch, fingers steepled under his chin, ankles crossed opposite him. Thunder booms outside, and if one would merely glance at the window, they would almost assume someone is literally throwing buckets of water against it.

London.

"Black, two sugars," the detective calls back, eyes closed. After a moment, and rather to his surprise, he adds a quick and quiet, "Please."

John very nearly jumps, slightly baffled - Sherlock rarely said please, even fewer times was it genuine - but ignores the urge. The detective hasn't really been himself in the general sense lately. Even different then before. And how he interacted with him... something had definitely changed. Not drastically mind you, but enough to make the doctor think a bit, re-evaluate his views on their situation. But isn't this whole process getting tiresome? Hadn't he already perused every detail of his feelings (and Sherlock's)? Nevertheless...

Was he gay? That was the tough question. John didn't feel gay. Nothing had changed in that aspect, not really.

Was he attracted to Sherlock Holmes? He could confidently say that yes, yes he was. Yesterday evening's happenings on the couch had proved that.

Did he love Sherlock Holmes? Easy. The answer made itself known before the question was even properly formed in his mind. Yes. He absolutely did.

Where was this relationship headed? This one... this was the question John really didn't want to think too much about, though it kept finding its way into his thought process, shouting at him whenever possible. Where were they headed now? What was going to happen?

Oh God, the doctor thinks, already envisioning their first major fight as a couple, the awkwardness that would ensue afterwards. Both of them avoiding each other, lashing out at little things because they couldn't get used to sharing the same space again. One of them would have to move, and Christ, then what-

Everything goes suddenly dark, cutting off his horrid thoughts.

"Sherlock?" he calls out cautiously, even though he knows the power must have gone out. The detective affirms this in the same bored tone he uses for nearly every situation.

"Storm blew the power, John. Just turn off the stove and come out here, we can wait it out."

James is nearly vibrating in his chair. They're so close now, so close, to the beginning of the game. The blackout makes it an even more perfect opportunity.

Everything is ready and dapper, but as much as he would like to move things along now, Moriarty still wants this to be as painful as possible for both John and Sherlock. More fun for him.

So he'll sit, and he'll wait in the flat just below his targets, his playthings, in the dark with only the wire he planted in 221 B keeping him updated. Jim has to admit, though, he's disappointed Sherlock hasn't discovered any of the cameras, nor the wire by now. But that will only make it more of a surprise, if the consulting detective is unsuspecting.

Christ, the suspense is killing him.

It takes John a moment to think that over. "Just turn off the stove and come out here, we can wait it out." What did that mean? A million and one lewd thoughts are flying through his head, and the doctor has to resort to reciting multiplication tables to himself to keep them under wraps.

As he walks out, Sherlock bends his legs at the knees and draws them up, opening a space for him. John sits down gratefully, fingers laced in his lap. They sit there in perfect silence for a few minutes, savoring each other's company. But Sherlock, one to easily get bored - especially with John right at his feet - sits up suddenly, facing John with his ankles crossed under him, legs splayed slightly, and gazes at the doctor intently. His pale eyes glow in the gloom, and the doctor feels himself drowning in them. His own dark eyes flit about trying to focus on something else, and John makes an extra effort not to stare at the way the detective's blue pyjama bottoms are stretched across his hips and groin.

A smile stretches Sherlock's lips breifly and they share a soft look, evaluating each other, the situation at hand. What were they going to do with all this space between them? The doctor has a short chance to run through a couple options as he turns his head to the open door across the room before a gentle hand is turning his head back to face his friend. The detective offers a wink before a short, light kiss is placed on his lips. It lasts only a moment, then Sherlock draws away, though not far.

Their faces are centimetres apart, eyes half-closed, waiting for someone to make the next move. As fate would have it, John reaches up and pulls his detective right back in, nibbling that full bottom lip slightly. Thunder rumbles outside, shaking the flat. Electricity crackles through the air intensely between them, and John feels the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck stand on end.

'He's a virgin, you know,' Mycroft is suddenly whispering in his head, the remnant of a rather unpleasant conversation they had after the Moriarty ordeal. Sherlock had refused to let him out of his sight - hell, the man barely let him get two inches away, holding fast to his sleeve - but the older Holmes had somehow managed to get close enough that his younger brother hadn't heard. 'Do behave yourself and be mindful.'

John jumps and breaks the kiss, eyes wide, and Sherlock seems to stare right through him, brows knitted. A pitiful expression sweeps across his features momentarily before the detective forces it away, and John knows Sherlock thinks he did something wrong. The smaller man offers a smirk before he sighs, cradling his detective's face in one hand, letting the pad of his thumb swipe over a perfect cheekbone.

"Have you- ah- um-" he tries to ask, and recieves a head-tilt from the other man.

"Have I what, John?" Sherlock's brows furrow even more, obviously confused.

John attempts to think over how he should phrase this type of question. "Um- well... have you ever- you know- ah..."

"Had sex?"

"I was thinking more along the lines of 'been in a relationship,' and I mean a real one, 'that didn't involve a corpse' but alright."

The detective shrugs, and John almost swears he sees a faint blush spreading across those pale cheeks. "No," he rumbles quietly.

Smiling to himself, the doctor watches as the lightning outside throws intriguing shadows all over his friend, and something tightens in his lower abdomen. The urge to have this brilliant man in as many compromising situations as possible is tearing him at the seams, and slightly overwhelms him. John takes a minute to compose himself then looks into those beautiful eyes again. Like the brilliant observationist he is, Sherlock only needs a moment to see the question in them. 'Do you want this? Me?'

Both men have had far too long to think this over. Sherlock's answer is immediate and comes in the form of a hungry kiss. John easily tastes the need and responds to it hungrily. Leaving his one hand where it is - caressing that perfect face - the doctor lets the other trail to that slim waist and tugs the taller man's dress shirt out of his trousers slowly, carefully, coaxing a low, quiet moan out of him.

Eventually, John comes to the conclusion that Sherlock doesn't quite know what to do with himself. He pulls them apart and they share another look. He stands suddenly, pulling Sherlock with him. "Your room or mine?" he asks, hoping things will be easier there than on the couch.

Pale green eyes flick to the door leading upstairs, and the doctor takes that as an answer.

"Okay," he says softly and takes Sherlock's hand. "Let's go upstairs."

Sherlock follows willingly, fingers locked nearly in a death-grip with his own. John can't help but notice the detective's odd behavior and how open he's being about it. The doctor can't decide whether this is good or bad.

When they hit the hallway, John turns around, giving Sherlock one last opprotunity to safely back down. It's still dark, but he can see the excitement and want glowing in the other man's eyes, overpowering the apprehension he also finds there.

"John," the detective mumbles after a while. "Can we move this along?"

The shorter man jumps, he hadn't realised that they had been standing there for quite sometime now, Sherlock's hand still clenched in his. He had been too focused on the shadows being thrown across his friend's body, wanting every detail burned into his memory. But the prospect of an even better picture urges him to move forward. A quick once-over of the man in front of him brings him the realisation that Sherlock is suffering as much as he is.

John clears his throat. "Right. Right, Sorry."

Sherlock nods. His eyes aren't on the doctor's face, but are roaming other regions. John feels a little delighted at the fact that his best friend is checking him out.

"Right then, where were we?" he asks those full lips before they crash together again, all tongues and hands and fingers exploring as they make their way upstairs. John quickly disposes of Sherlock's satin robe, satisfyed when he hears it hit the floor. Next to go is the doctor's jumper, and the button-down underneath. He feels his face burning as he moans rather audibly into the detective's mouth as Sherlock's hands caress the bare skin of his abdomen, hears the soft chuckle leave the other man's lips. John's fingers fumble on the buttons of Sherlock's plum-coloured shirt as he reaches the landing, and (surpisingly) skilled musician's fingers come to help him. By the time they reach John's room, they're both in nothing but their trousers, panting rather heavily, foreheads pressed together. Watson can't remember the last time it felt so good to be sharing someone else's air. He's suddenly very thankful they don't have to worry about Mrs Hudson finding them later (the woman had finally taken a [much needed] holiday.)

He doesn't have long to dwell in his own thoughts, however, as Sherlock takes the initiative and propels them onto the bed rather forcefully. John suddenly regrets not using the other room as they try to make do with the narrow bed, the smaller man coming to lay flat on his back with Sherlock crouching between his legs in the cramped space. But his friend (is that what he can call him now?) doesn't seem to mind, satisfyed to suck on the doctor's neck for the moment, leaving dark purple marks there. John simply obliges - for now. He wants Sherlock to find what he likes, learn what John likes, on his own, at his own pace. He wants Sherlock to enjoy himself - for once - without a case or corpse involved.

A hot tongue is suddenly running across his collarbone and stops at his clavicle, making an absolutely pathetic whine sound from the back of his throat. That bastard. He found something already. This was an absolutely new sensation - of all the women John Watson had been with over the years, not one had kissed him like this. The intamacy of the action pushes him further towards the edge. He hasn't felt like this since his first time, but he supposes this is a first - for both of them. John pushes a hand into those dark curls carefully and runs his fingers through them, eyes closed. Sherlock's hands are roaming every inch of his exposed skin, and John can see the man taking notes whenever his breath hitches in his throat.

Pale fingers stop suddenly at the waist band of his jeans. (Now) deep green eyes glance up for a moment before John offers a smile of approval. Without further hesitation, he's left in his (dull!) grey boxers. Sherlock rubs his bare thighs briefly, nibbling at his bottom lip. He glances up again, and the only reason the word "helpless" doesn't fly into the doctor's mind is because "helpless" simply isn't a word one can apply to Sherlock Holmes.

As the storm goes on outside, John sits up, then moves his friend so he's kneeling, hands braced on the blond doctor's broad shoulders. Placing burning kisses on that smooth, pale chest, John slowly pulls down the detective's black trousers and throws them across the room. He pulls Sherlock into his lap shortly afterwards, erections brushing, and both of them gasp at the contact. But it's not quite enough.

It seems like an eternity before they both struggle out of their pants, abandoning them where they land on the floor. The brilliant detective is back in his lap and John pulls them together again, and God, he can't remember being this hard in his life. They rut against each other distractedly like bloody teenagers before John manages to compose himself.

"Jesus, Sherlock," he murmurs, more to himself than the detective, and runs a firm hand down his spine, all the way to that perfect arse. The image of Mycroft stepping on that bloody sheet comes to mind, when Sherlock grabbed the white fabric at just the right instant, his rear peeking out, taunting him at how close his friend was to being completely naked. John would have had him right there in that damn palace, but damn Mycroft for being there and ruining the moment.

But now he has him. He has Sherlock right now, in his lap, in this bloody flat with no distractions. The landlady is out, there is no power, there is no case, and no one would dare go out in this weather. This is absolutely perfect.

Sherlock doesn't seem to share his sentiment though, and John is made aware of the keening noises his friend is making at the lack of movement. So the doctor shifts, dropping the taller man softly on his back on the mattress, and drapes his body over him. He gets right down next to Sherlock's ear, brushing away his dark hair, and whispers, "Any idea what you want to do now?"

There's a short pause before the detective's hips take a long pull forwards and back, and John sucks in a breath at the friction. It's simple friction, but it's enough. Still rubbing their dicks together, the doctor steadies himself. He's not ready for this to end, not yet. Sherlock's brow furrows harshly, and he places long fingers on the back of John's neck, brushing his lips along the shorter man's jawline. A lithe hand is groping down John's back and slides to his arse while another glides across his neck and shoulders in the most innocent way. Their lips meet again, Sherlock clashing their mouths together in desperation, for lack of a better term. The doctor can feel the new sensations beginning to overwhelm his partner. Sherlock's breath is hitching in his throat as his hips snap back and forth rapidly. John can feel the muscles twitching in the other man's calves and thighs, feels fingers clenching and unclenching in his hair and claw at his back. He loves every second as Sherlock's tongue invades his mouth, claiming new territory as he gets closer and closer to the finish.

To his amazement, John is reaching his own end. All it's taking is snogging and rutting against his flatmate and he's already about to bloody climax.

He lets Sherlock go at his own pace, which is becoming more erratic by the second, John's name everywhere on his lips, which is doing it's part to speed things along for the doctor as well. He loves hearing his name entwined with those lust-filled moans. He never thought he would see Sherlock like this, so... bendable (?). Was that the word he was looking for?

Christ, leave it to him to be in the middle of the best shag of his life, thinking about the right word to use to describe his best friend writhing beneath him. His eyes are slits, John can't keep his eyes off the man under him, mouth working against his, pulse hammering in his throat, eyes screwed shut, pale chest heaving. White begins to spot his vision, but he holds himself back. Sherlock is thrusting faster now, movements spasmodic. He's so close now, so close. John watches the detective swallow dryly in an audible gulp before a loud cry leaves his lips before he can bite it back. Dark curls splay across the sheets below them as Sherlock throws his head back as he comes, spilling on his stomach and against the doctor. John rides him through it and follows shortly after, biting his tongue, though an embarrassingly high-pitched moan manages to find its way out into the open.

When their both finished, John rolls onto his side next to his partner, and Sherlock in turn places his head on the doctor's shoulder, absentmindedly running a finger around the bullet-shaped scar he finds there. It doesn't surprise John that even after all this, the detective still manages to be as curious as usual. He tries not to flinch as a long finger explores every inch of his old wound, and eventually, he finds it soothing. In his post-orgasmic bliss, Sherlock doesn't seem to notice, too intrigued by this new piece of flesh.

Finally, a hand rests on John's chest, feeling the muscle and fair dusting of hair there. Sherlock sighs content for the moment, and the doctor manages to pull up the sheet over them without disturbing the other man too much.

"Thank you John," Sherlock finally mumbles, voice deeper than usual. A particularly loud crash of thunder sounds outside then, though neither one reacts.

John coughs and nods. "Yeah, uh- you- you too."

They lie in silence for a while, the doctor's eyelids turning heavy. He's right on the brink of sleep when he hears what he never would have dreamed come out of Sherlock Holmes' mouth - at least not without any prompting.

The usually-brash consulting detective seems almost shy, embarrassed even, but he needs to say it. He needs to say it now, because this has been eating at him for weeks, and the timing finally seems right. Or, at least he hopes it does. He hopes to God this is the right time and it won't ruin everything that just occured.

Sherlock swallows harshly. "I love you, John Watson," he whispers despite himself. It shocks them both for a moment.

John had always thought he would be the first to say those three little words, and he's shell-shocked to say the least. 'I love you too, Sherlock Holmes,' he thinks loudly and clearly, but for some reason his mouth isn't working. Instead, he rests his cheeks against that dark mess of curls, breathing in the scent of Sherlock and sweat and cold, fading adrenaline. His detective seems to understand, and isn't put off by the lack of a response to an apocalyptic admission he would never voice to anyone else. John sighs and closes his eyes, and after a long while, Sherlock goes limp in his arms. Shortly after he follows. Both are happy. Both are at peace for once in their lives.

At least for the time being.

I had a lot of trouble with this chapter, because all my brain wanted to focus on was next chapter and how I would set everything up, so if this started out slow and then flew off the wayside and was absolutely atrocious, I apoligise. At least I managed to get those two rascals in bed (together), aye?

Normally I don't beg for reviews, but feedback on how Sherlock acted and reacted would be highly appreciated. Does it seem possible? Would he act this way, or does this seem ungodly out-of-character? I did a lot of John's POV, since I wasn't sure exactly what would be going through Sherlock's brilliant head at the moment... Also, I've never written a trashy story in my life. Hahaha. This is my first (shy grin). Hope it was decent.

Next chapter will be up soon! Not in a week this time because school has finally ended!