A/N: Thank you to all my reviewers! You guys keep me going :) So here's part 2 of 'Eating'. I do not have a jam kink by the way... far from it xD But I think anything could be turned into a kink with those boys. Hope you enjoy reading ;)

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Chapter 4: Eating (2)

He squealed as Sherlock's body brushed against his erection and moaned at the loss of contact. It was such an unnerving experience, not to know where he would be touched next. He was certain Sherlock would tease, and obviously wouldn't touch him where he most wanted to be touched right now, but he wondered if he'd be merciful enough not to delay it too much.

Suddenly he felt a tongue lap up the sole of his right foot, while a jam-coated hand palmed his left one. He yelped and bit his lower lip fiercely, desperately trying to muffle his moans.

Not merciful, then.

Sherlock slid his fingers between his toes and started massaging his sole with his thumb in a way that was both tickling and arousing. Exploring, John thought. With his other hand he spread jam on the left foot and licked tentatively, swirling the squirmy tip of his tongue over the coated skin. John let out a little cry of surprise and arched his back, squirming under the tantalising licking and thumbing. But Sherlock would have none of it. Grabbing his ankles, he held his feet onto the mattress forcefully, and bit the big toe he was sucking in warning.

"Sherlock!" John protested. He was appalled to hear how wanton his own voice sounded, and groaned.

But his protest seemed to have some effect, as Sherlock suddenly stopped his ministrations. John bit his lips. Had there been too much reprobation in his tone? He was about to open his eyes and reassure his partner when...

"Say that again."

John's heart missed a beat.

"... What?"

"My name. Say it again."

The air was squeezed out of John's lungs and he blushed furiously.

"B.. but... what... you..." he babbled.

"My name, John," came the demanding voice, along with a bite.

"Sherlock!" John moaned.

He could almost feel the smirk against the sole of his foot and fidgeted, his neglected hard-on becoming more difficult to ignore by the second. Sherlock was now alternatively nibbling and licking, pinching and stroking, pressing and caressing. Testing.

"Again."

"Sherlock..." John groaned weakly.

"Again!" he said running his jam-coated hand swiftly up his leg and grabbing his thigh.

"Sherlock! Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock..."

Now that he was babbling, Sherlock seemed satisfied and kissed his foot reverently, sneaking a hand up his calf to pet the crook behind his knee. He licked his lips clean and gave a peck on the tip of John's manhood.

"Sherlock! Sherlock, please..."

"My name, John," he susurrated, crawling on the bed to kiss his partner's belly that was trembling in raptures.

"Sherlock... Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock..."

"Good," Sherlock murmured, a smile in his voice.

Sedulously avoiding the groin and thighs, he spread jam under John's knee with taunting strokes.

It was a sweet torment and John was now entirely failing to maintain a semblance of control. He wasn't dazed enough not to realize how fluttered and depraved his chanting was, and at first he had to force himself to utter the beloved name in such a voice. He actually had to want to say it, not just let it out, because it didn't come naturally. He wasn't one to beg, and if he was always a gentleman, this kind of worship was far beyond his ground. But the thought that Sherlock derived pleasure from his babble was enough to compensate the shame.

Soon the name came trippingly on the tongue. When Sherlock started licking the crook at the back of his knee between the calf and thigh, he jolted with a groan. He didn't see his partner frown, but was well aware of the hand that pressed his thigh back into the mattress firmly, palpating the flesh with wonder, titillating the skin until John felt his blood turn to liquid fire.

"Sh... Sherlock, won't you stop teasing already?"

"Umm... Nope."

He bit the sensitive flesh of the crook and sucked. John couldn't believe how silly it was that a love-bite in such a place made him moan so lustfully.

"John?"

"Uh...?" John emitted, crazed with need.

"Won't you keep saying my name?"

The tone was almost pleading and there was so much insecurity in that voice that John's eyes snapped open. He looked down and the sight of Sherlock was almost enough to push him over the edge. His lips were red and swollen, his lower face completely covered in jam, his hair dishevelled. He blushed.

"Close your eyes!"

John chuckled, beaming.

"Sherlock."

"Mm?"

"Sherlock. Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock..."

John felt a pair of lips devotedly kissing the inside of his thigh and he shivered. He was gripping the sheets tightly so as to refrain from touching himself. He desperately wanted relief, but knew that if he got it by his own hand, Sherlock would think he wasn't good enough – which was very, very far from the truth. His going back and forth between tentativeness and domineering boldness was so endearing John thought he'd never get enough.

Suddenly he felt a hand palm his right fist gingerly and Sherlock's mouth licking its way up his thigh and hip, sparking fire on the skin that wasn't used to be thus stimulated. Everything Sherlock was trying on him felt so new to his body that John wondered how come he'd missed that during his entire sexually active life.

When his partner started nibbling his curled fingers, John relaxed his arm and let his hand open in surrender to the touch. Sherlock kissed in thanks and lapped the exposed palm like a dog would his owner's. John shivered. Soon his whole arm was covered in jam and he heard the jar being tossed to the floor. He squirmed.

"Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock... please... please touch me?"

"I thought I'd been doing that for a while now, John," Sherlock commented breathlessly before he began to suck on John's fingers suggestively. John groaned and tried to take his hand away.

"Sherlock!"

He gasped as his partner grabbed his wrists and pinned them securely on each side of his head. He was so startled he opened his eyes, which widened at the sight of a frowning Sherlock whose pupils were dark with lust.

"I'm not done with you," he growled.

Abruptly leaning in he kissed him forcefully, ravaging his mouth and sucking the air out of his lungs while he slid his thigh between the doctor's legs, parting them roughly and rubbing his knee against his groin. John moaned helplessly into the kiss, the touch sending electricity throughout his body. He went up in flames, the heat and pleasure so intense it almost hurt. When Sherlock broke the suffocating kiss, John was seeing starlike shards of light, feeling like a teenager all over again.

The detective kissed his way back to the jam-coated arm, mouthing the shoulder, nibbling the elbow and suckling at the wrist where John's pulse was hammering. Still pressing his knee to his partner's now throbbing hard-on, he lapped and licked the inner arm where the skin was most sensitive, lacing his fingers with John's and keeping him securely pinned onto the bed.

"Say my name."

"Sherlock... Sher... Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock!"

He screamed as the overly talented tongue started playing with his armpit and he arched his back, unintentionally pressing his groin more tightly against his partner's knee, turning his cry into a moan.

"Sh... Sherlock, stop it! it's dirty..."

"You've just taken a shower, John," Sherlock murmured against him, nuzzling up against the hair, his burning breath inflaming John to distraction.

"And I'm damn well gonna need another one," he grumbled.

Sherlock sneaked his right arm under John's back, his hand resting behind his neck, fondling his nape. The ex-soldier felt his cheeks burn as he was being treated like some breakable woman, but didn't have time to protest as Sherlock's mouth left his arm and resumed licking his palm and sucking his fingers.

"Sherlock! Please, Sherlock, Sherlock... "

The detective was now pounding into the bed, grinding his thigh and knee against John's groin rhythmically. The sounds they made and the creaking of the bed were so suggestive John could no longer take it and wrapped his free arm around his friend's torso, spreading his legs lewdly and thrusting his hips with fervour in a desperate attempt to get more contact, more friction, more...

"Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock..."

Sherlock was too busy sucking his fingers and mouthing his hand whole to answer his delirious pleas, but he shifted just so to rub his knee against the most erogenous spot on his partner's body and John entirely lost it.

"More give me more please please please Sherlock I need more I want you so much I love you!"

He screamed wildly, spreading his legs as wide as he could and giving one last thrust, coming all over Sherlock's trousers. The wave of incandescent pleasure hit him so hard he was momentarily knocked out, his eyes rolling back, his whole body convulsing. Sherlock held him tight, rocking his abandoned figure soothingly as John rode one of the best orgasms he'd ever had.

Finally the spasms decreased in number and intensity and soon he went blissfully limp in his lover's embrace. Lover... He snapped back to reality with a start. "I love you!" Oh God. He'd said it, hadn't he? Maybe Sherlock hadn't noticed... idiot! Sherlock always notices. He groaned.

"John? Are you all right?"

The tone was worried, and a little shaky too. Shaky? Oh what had he done? John rolled on the bed to get a better look at Sherlock's face. He was breathless and blushing, his brow wet with perspiration, basking in the afterglow of... wait.

"Sherlock, did you..."

"Shut up," he growled, burying his face into the pillow, his ears turning red. John was incredibly relieved to see he hadn't been shocked or upset by the confession (which really was no secret – but saying it was something else entirely). Melting, he nuzzled up to him lovingly, a smirk on his lips.

"Did you come just from seeing me coming, Sherlock?" he teased.

"Shut up!" the other mumbled against the pillow. John chuckled and pulled it from under him, gently pushing his curls back from his face, toying with a lock. Sherlock glared, attempting to look frightening and failing miserably. He was so adorable with his pout and his pink cheeks John felt compelled to smother the sulking face with butterfly kisses.

"Stop it! If you think kisses are going to.. humpff!"

Kisses did.

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It was already afternoon when they got out of their second shower. They had come to a mutual agreement they should shower alone this time, or they'd never get anything done. To which Sherlock had sulked and said: 'There is nothing to do anyway.'

As he was typing one of their last cases for the blog, John couldn't help but wonder if that was part of the reason his flatmate was so... affectionate. Because there was nothing else to do. John closed his eyes and felt a twinge in his chest. Well, it was no use racking his brain about it anyway. They'd see how it'd turn out when Sherlock would get a case.

At this very moment they heard someone run up the stairs and Lestrade burst into their living-room. Sherlock was sprawled on the couch, sulking because John had told him there would be no more experiment for today – at least not until tonight. When he saw the D.I., his face lit up.

"Hello you two."

"Hi Greg," John said as he stood up to greet him. "What brings you here?"

He hoped his tone didn't sound too anxious. A case would be good for Sherlock after all.

"Well, I'd like to have your opinion on a case," he told Sherlock, who left his couch to grab the file Lestrade was presenting him.

"Only my opinion?" he asked smugly.

"Your help, genius. There's been a murder. John Openshaw, son of Joseph Openshaw and nephew of Elias Openshaw."

"And that is relevant because...?" John inquired.

"They're both dead," Sherlock indicated, frowning.

"Yes. John Openshaw came to us a few days ago, saying both his uncle and father had died mysteriously after having received five orange pips in an envelope by the post."

"What?" John said, disbelieving.

Lestrade shrugged.

"Of course we looked into it, but there was nothing to go on. His uncle drowned himself and his father fell from a cliff."

Sherlock gave back the file.

"Not interested."

"What? Sherlock, just a moment ago you were complaining there was nothing to do!"

"I wasn't complaining," he replied curtly. Then in a sullen tone: "There could have been something..."

Lestrade goggled and John took a deep breath to restrain from laughing.

"Furthermore you don't need me for that case. You already have a lead and it's not something that requires my talent."

"How can you..."

"Because John Openshaw died two days ago and you only decided to see me today, in the afternoon. If you truly needed me you'd have come in the morning because you'd have thought this over during the night, but you didn't. You even came with a file, which means you had time to prepare one. You didn't come here as a matter of urgency, you planned it. Now why would you do that? Because someone would ask you to. Someone who couldn't or wouldn't come himself, but thought sending a guardian would–"

"Sherlock!" exclaimed John indignantly.

Lestrade's face darkened.

"You're such an idiot. Yes, you're right, I don't need you for this case, although you would certainly help me gain some time and catch the killer sooner. I did plan it. But I wasn't contacted by your brother. I came because I was worried about you. I can see it was quite unnecessary."

He turned around and left the flat crossly.

John looked at Sherlock.

"What is wrong with you? He was truly worried! You didn't have to send him away like this."

"I didn't send him away, I only told the tru–"

"Oh yeah, well that was brilliant."

"So what if I was rude? Aren't I always?" Sherlock snapped.

"Yes. You are."

John took his jacket and walked to the door.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock asked tensely.

"After him. To apologise!"

He didn't bother to close the door behind him.

Sherlock stared at the empty chair in which John had been sitting just a moment ago and shivered. It hurt. Had he really 'hurt' Lestrade? Did 'hurt' feel like this? He hadn't done anything wrong, he'd just deduced and...

He froze. He'd just deduced and... he'd been wrong. His conclusion hadn't been correct. A wave of nausea hit him and he felt fear gnawing in the pit of his stomach. He'd failed. At something as simple as deducing Lestrade. Had he really become that worthless?

Pacing nervously around the room, he tried to calm himself down. So what if he'd been wrong? It had happened before, especially when concerning people's feelings. But what about criminals, then? What about cases?

He stopped dead in his tracks. Cases. Of course. All the information from the file the D.I. had just showed him flashed before his eyes.

John had to run after the police car – had he been less irritated with Sherlock, he probably wouldn't have bothered. Lestrade lowered his windowpane but didn't get out of the car.

"Look, I'm sorry. You know how he is. He's just..."

"A total prick, yes. I'm glad to see he's his old usual self again."

John bit his lips.

"He isn't exactly... Listen, I think we're going to have to be patient with him."

"Aren't we always," Lestrade growled.

John laughed.

"Yeah, we are, aren't we?" Then more seriously: "I'm sorry he snapped at you. I'm sure he is too."

"I highly doubt that. Whatever. When I get a good, dreadful and confusing murder, I'll be sure to come by," he said with a little smile.

"Please do," the doctor replied, grinning back.

"Oh, and John? Take care of yourself, mate. I know you're taking good care of him, but..."

"I'm fine, Greg. Better than fine."

Lestrade shrugged, but there was a twinkle in his eyes.

John walked back up the street and as he entered 221B, ran into Mrs. Hudson.

"Oh hello dear! I just came back from Mrs. Turner's. How was your afternoon? Did you try the jam?"

John blushed and stammered:

"Oh... yeah. Yeah, very good, great."

"I'll give you the recipe then!"

"Yes... yes please do!" he said running up the stairs. "Good evening Mrs. Hudson!"

"Oh dear." She shook her head and scurried back into her home.

"Sherlock!" John called as he burst in the living-room. The lights were on but Sherlock was no longer on the couch. "Sherlock?"

He went to the kitchen, checked the room and bathroom... Nothing. Filled with a sense of dread, he ran upstairs to his own bedroom.

"Sherlock?"

But it was empty. John suddenly felt very cold. Very guilty, too.

"Oh Sherlock... where have you gone?"

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tbc