A/NThis was originally part of chapter 11, but the chapter was too long and didn't like uploading to FF. So I was forced to break it up, that was the bad news. The good news is that there is only one day between chapter postings.
Warnings-none except fluff and stuff

Previously: John slid his feet into his boots. He did not want the disastrous kiss forgotten.

"Sherlock, you said you can tell when I'm lying?" asked John pulling his jacket on.

The consulting detective nodded. At least the berk wasn't comatose.

"Then you already know that I was lying," added the soldier softly, his hand on the door handle and his eyes on his boots. "So, yeah, I did kiss you. I did it because I wanted to; I did it because…dammit, I like you. And if you don't want me to do it again, I promise I won't. I know, you told me you were married to your work. I understand. I hope, very, very much, that we can still be friends." John finished in a rush.

The ex-army doctor tried to open the door but of course it seemed jammed. He struggled with the handle.

So much for not looking ridiculous, thought John.

Chapter 12

John wiggled the lock in desperation. This can't be happening. Please, please don't hate me, Sherlock. And why won't this bloody door open?

Sherlock stood up, straightening each of his sleeves, and then studied the man fumbling at the door. "It was not unpleasant, John. However…"

Oh God, here it comes, the rejection. God, what is wrong with this door? Just open. Just let me the fuck out of here. He wrenched desperately at the stupid handle.

"However, my research indicates that most couples find greater pleasure in the cooperative exchange of oral caresses," said Sherlock, tentatively.

What? John was flummoxed. Oral caresses? Cooperative what?

"What? What? What are you going on about now?" asked John consulting detective, with the handsome cheekbones, was much, much closer. His lips were parted almost as if they wanted to be kissed, which was ridiculous. John swallowed with difficulty.

"This is not my area, John Watson. I am extraordinarily ill prepared when it comes to relationships. And I will not be able to coddle you, or simper over you with poetry or cheap song lyrics," warned the redhead looming over him.

"O-Kay?" said John confused, Sherlock was very, very close and biting his lower lip. Wait, why the hell would I want to be coddled? "Who the hell said I wanted to be coddled anyway?" snapped John. "And simpering?"

John fumed silently for a moment, his brow deeply creased. Then his eyes widened, as he looked up to Sherlock's face. John licked his lip, nervously. The soldier tipped his head, and his eyes began to narrow. It was cute to watch John's cognitive functions display across his expressive face.

"Wait," said John, his blue eyes suspicious under his renewed frown. "Does this mean…can we? Um, do you…"

Sherlock bent down and pressed his lips to John's. In seconds, he had John pressed back against the door as the consulting detective exchanged oral caresses with the former army doctor.

Sherlock pulled back. The shorter blond leaned against the door with his pupils blown wide and his breath rapid and uneven. John's attractive blush had returned; indeed, he was a lovely shade of carmine. And his reddened lips smiled. The experiment was a success.

John tentatively took hold of Sherlock's larger hand, it quickly engulfed his own. John's eyes moved from their joined hands and locked on the flushed lips of the tall redhead. John wholeheartedly approved of oral caresses.

"Um, so can we give the oral caress another go? Or would that …"

The tall, younger man slammed into him again. The oral caress was a bit clumsy and rough, but passionate. John was fine with that. Still...

John tilted his head and slowing their kisses, controlling them. His tongue ran across the redhead's Cupid's bow. He kissed the corner of Sherlock's mouth and tracked his lips across Sherlock's cheek. Having never snogged a bloke before, the rough stubble on Sherlock's cheek was a shock.

It was brilliant!

He ran his lips over the stubble again and then rubbed his cheek against that stubble. He shivered; what an amazing sensation!

Sherlock had either just been warming up, or he was a very fast learner. He slowly kissed the corners of John's mouth, and ran his tongue across John's lips. John opened his mouth, and Sherlock's tongue entered to plunder the soldier's mouth. The kiss was deep and hard. Their tongues tangled, as John moaned into the taller man's mouth.

John brought his hands up fisting into Sherlock's fine cotton shirt. He dragged the tall man close. "Sherl," he moaned again as their lips locked.

As if the kissing were not enough, thought the detective, John was moaning. It sent electric chills straight down Sherlock's spine. And then John tried to say his name; John moaned his name. John clung to him as if he really wanted Sherlock. The consulting detective reveled in John's wanton response to him.

Had that Mary person ever enjoyed this aspect of John? Never mind, if she had; she never would again. He felt sorry for that Mary person now, well, a little bit sorry, a very little bit. Mostly Sherlock just wanted to catalogue these sensations. He hastily opened a new suite of rooms in his mind palace for all the new John Watson data. A single room was simply not going to be enough for the ex-soldier now.

He memorized the different sensations. He debouched the soldier's mouth, while his long-fingered hands explored. Blood scoured Sherlock's veins as he felt John's firm muscles bunching and tensing under his skin. The detective's long fingers caressed, probed and he mentally named John's arm muscles, biceps, and triceps, up to the deltoid, back down to the brachioradialis. Then there was the intoxicating taste and smell of this soldier... Sherlock breathed John Watson, in like oxygen.

No intimate encounter had ever felt like this. Of course, in the past, Sherlock had generally avoided kissing with his barely adequate sexual partners. Now he was glad, very glad that he waited to share kisses with John; it was if they two had just discovered this secret form of communication, unknown to any others.

Sherlock slowly dragged the tip of his tongue along the soldier's chapped lips. A copper flavor hit his mouth as he gently sucked over John's split lip. Entering John's mouth he tasted a sweet mixture of beer, tea and Thai food. His hand combed through the soft, short hair on John's head. His other hand ran up John's jaw, not very rough. John had shaved before coming to the hotel.

Of course, he shaved. I'm an Idiot. Consciously or unconsciously, John had treated this as a date all along! Realizing that John had desired him fueled his attraction even more. He wanted to taste, to touch, to possess all of this man.

Oh yes, this…this was better than drugs. This was better than anything, ever. And Sherlock would want him, need him like a drug. He couldn't allow John to ever leave; he could never allow anything to happen to his soldier.

His hand wandered down the soldier's neck and under his shirt. And there was the dressing under his fingers, and it was damp, wet. Sherlock stopped; he pulled John's cable knit sweater down roughly and yanked the shirt open.

"Sherlock? What the…" John was panting, and he gripped tightly with both hands onto the detective's shirt, to keep from falling.

"Dammit, John, you're bleeding. Your wound, it's still bleeding! What the hell did that bastard do to you?" snarled the detective, his passion turning into fury. That Mor-bastard would pay for hurting his soldier.

"I told you; the lunatic bit into me. It'll take some time to heal, is all," John panted, trying to crane his neck down to look at the dressing. "Look, it's just seeping a bit. It'll be fine. I've had lots worst" the blond smiled up with swollen, pink lips. "It's no…"

"Do not say, 'it's no big deal', John Watson. Just don't," said Sherlock. His fingers circled the injury lightly; his mind churned. What were the chances for infection? Should he force John to go to hospital? Should he force John into protective custody? Could he force John? John was fairly strong and quite stubborn... Could he trick John?

John drew Sherlock's attention back to him when he ran his calloused hand up over his long neck and pale face. John wanted the detective to look back at him, to touch him again. He used his blue eyes to plead, when his pride wouldn't let him say the words.

Sherlock had ignored that look in John's eyes on the night that they met, and he could have lost the little soldier as a result. In the future, Sherlock would find it difficult to refuse John anything when he looked like that. Strangely, the thought was less disturbing than exhilarating.

"Look," said John softly, "I promise I won't say it, if can I have another oral caress."

Sherlock's lips curled up ever so slightly, "Don't keep being an idiot John; it's called kissing."

"I don't care what you call it, Sherlock, but I'd like more," said John leaning his body into the taller man.

The tall man pulled his soldier away from the door. He folded himself down on the chair and pulled the doctor onto his lap. Sherlock did not trust his self-control if they sat on the bed, not with his arms full of John Watson.

John was in the detectives lap. It should have felt embarrassing. He was a soldier for God's sake!

But it felt safe. Somehow, it felt like home. It felt intensely erotic. It was not embarrassing to sit in Sherlock's lap and snog him breathless. It was very possibly the sexiest moment of John's life.

He pulled back when his body strained, wanting to grind down onto the lean, hard man underneath him. His entire body tensed as he fought to remain in control. Think of sighting your gun, he thought. Breathe in, breathe out. Those brown eyes bored into him, distracting him. What the hell? What was the real color of Sherlock's eyes anyway?

John could feel the rise and fall of Sherlock's chest. They were breathing in synchrony. Breathe in, breathe out. Feel your heart beat. Feel the control. John reached his head up and suckled on that great expanse of neck. Sherlock's neck sometimes looked almost fragile, like a swans neck, but it was corded with muscle and sinew.

Likewise, under the soldier's hands, Sherlock's arms were hard and strong. Christ, he'd never explored a man's body like this before, and John forgot to breathe.

The redhead moaned when John shifted in his lap, and when he gently bit and sucked first Sherlock's neck, then his jaw and finally returned to his mouth.

John began the kiss, but then Sherlock attacked his mouth. Some tiny part of John's brain said to fight back, take over, at least breathe. He could only part his lips, sucking on Sherlock's tongue, and he heard a deep, subterranean groan. The doctor's head swam and he pulled away. John gasped as his vision briefly failed. He rested his head on the detective's warm, broad chest. John's hands ran lightly up and down Sherlock's muscled arms.

Sherlock buried his face in John's hair. John. John must stay with him.

"John," murmured the baritone into the blond hair, "I play the violin when I'm thinking. Sometimes I don't talk, for days on end. Would that bother you?"

"UmmPh?" replied John who had unbuttoned just one more button so that he could kiss the top of that alabaster chest, that lurked beneath the fancy, form-fitting clothes. God, that chest was just as muscular as any soldier's. And that made John's pulse race, and he really couldn't quite understand what the baritone was saying. Violins? Not talking? Fine, it was all fine, with John.

"I've got my eye on a nice little place in Central London," continued the World's Only Consulting Detective, one hand gently gripped John's head. He really wanted to concentrate on John's lips, which were exploring his chest so very thoroughly, but this was important. "Together we ought to be able to afford it. We meet there tomorrow at five. John, it's big enough for both of us. You could, you could have your own room, if you wanted it."

"Um," John's brain was really not working very well. Did Sherlock just invite him to move in with him? He slowly reengaged his mouth. "but…but we've only just met? And we're going to go look at a flat?"

"Problem?"

John nodded slowly. This was indeed a problem. Oh he wanted it, He wanted it more than anything in the world. But it was a bad idea, a dangerous idea.

The former army captain mentally marshalled the list of reasons why this was a really bad idea. Mor-whatever readily came to mind. John and Sherlock really didn't know each other. John was really falling too hard and too fast, and that couldn't be a good thing. There was that pesky British Government brother that John sort of shot…

And then the devious detective began to nuzzle his hair. His hot breath teased John's ear. Oh God! He whispered John's name into his ear, and John's neurons all began to short-circuit again.

That tongue, that tongue was doing, doing things to his ear. The hot wet muscle, circled the outer shell of his ear. It trailed behind his ear and teeth gently nibbled the soft tender skin there. He felt hid body tremble.

His brain shut down. Problem. What problem? A flatshare? What a brilliant idea. A flatshare with the sexiest, most brilliant man in London? Fucking brilliant!

Sherlock was way the hell out of John's league. And it was fine. It was brilliant. Breathe this time. Yes, I'm brilliant too, because I can remember to breathe. The sexy, brilliant detective turned the doctor, so that John leaned back in his arms. Sherlock assailed his jaw and face, and God John's face hurt from all the bruises and all the snogging and all the smiling, and that was brilliant too. And here he comes again. The man's lips encased his own. They sucked on his lip, surely they drew blood. And it was absolutely fucking brilliant.

John could never be described as compliant. In fact, he was stubborn. He never surrendered to anyone, not even a lover. And for some reason, now he did. John caved in completely. He opened himself up to each kiss and returned it. He tangled his hands in the wavy, red hair.

"John, meet me tomorrow at the flat."

"Ummm," said John. He cupped Sherlock's perfect face and pulled that face lower so that he could kiss those perfect cheekbones and run his soft, chapped lips across the scratchy stubble.

Oh this man is amazing, extraordinary. He nuzzled an ear, licked it and whispered "She'lock…" the effect was galvanizing. His detective pinned his arms down and snogged him until John fought for breath, his vision blurred yet again. Brilliant.

"John, meet me tomorrow at the new flat," the baritone voice was harsh and breathy.

Breathy? Right. Breathe in. Breathe out. "Ummm," he gasped, "Umm-hmmm," John licked his lips. Answer him; answer the nice man. "Yeah," he gasped."Yeah. Sure."

Sherlock's heart lurched. John said yes. His soldier. His John. His hands, John's hands, gently cradled his face as he put place a chaste kiss on his lips. Then John stood up.

His John. John belonged to him and only him. Which meant that that rival had to go. That monstrous madman had to go to prison forever or, better yet, die.

No one had ever kissed Sherlock like that. No one had ever cherished him, as if he really mattered to them. John was leaving? Slightly bemused, Sherlock watched his blond soldier bend down to tie his boots .Wait, John was leaving? Now?

"John. Will you stay a bit longer if …if I get you crisps?"

The former soldier collapsed in a fit of giggles. "Crisps?" he sputtered. "Cr…Crisps?" His high-pitched giggles filled the room. He straddled Sherlock's lap, his thighs pressing down on each side of Sherlock's legs, pinning him in place. Sherlock's body was alarmingly responsive to the weight pressing down on it.

But John was laughing at him. John's hands were on his face like before, but he was still laughing at him.

"I think you're supposed to offer me fancy jewelry," more giggling and a kiss, "or, or, maybe you're supposed to offer me wine and roses to buy my affections,' John was laughing at him and biting behind his ear. It didn't make sense.

John's breathy giggles sounded in his ears like the waves crashing against the shore. Buy his affection? Was John here as a prostitute? Sherlock felt the first stirrings of panic. Did John sell his services whether as a sniper or as a prostitute? Did John really care about him or not?

"Dear God in heaven, you are the only bloody man in the whole bloody universe who can deduce that I'd rather have a bag of bloody crisps with you than all the jewels in the tower"

Teeth scraped lightly across his skin, more licking and kissing. Surely John isn't selling himself for a bag of crisps?

I'm an idiot, John is laughing at his joke. It's meant to be a joke.

"You bloody, brilliant genius," John's hands were on either side of his face, his thumbs caressing the skin overlying his zygomatic arches. How had John seized control? His blue eyes, sparkled like the waves of the Côte d'Azur.

So, John was not laughing at him. John was happy. Sherlock hadn't recognized it, mostly because he'd never seen John happy before. The blond looked years younger when he laughed.

"I'll bloody stay as long as you like; as long as you think it's safe," said John. "But I'm holding you to your offer; you owe me a bag of crisps tomorrow." John descended into giggles again. Sherlock began to chuckle with him. His face slowly split in a wide grin.

He looked across at the cheeky little soldier, giggling like a boy in his lap. He narrowed his eyes, a predator ready to attack. John's eyes dilated in response, and the giggles faded. Sherlock struck, his mouth on John's lips. He swallowed John's giggles; he swallowed John's breath. He stole John's heart and made it his own.

A/N Thank you so much for all the wonderful people who are following this story and those who were kind enough to favorite it.

A special thank you in advance to everyone who reviews this chapter. I'd love to hear your thoughts, comments, criticisms and suggestions.

THANK YOU to those who have reviewed this fic so far. Thank you to InuChimera7410, ruvy91, Kyuubigurl74, Wicked Winter, anyrei1, AiLoveS, power0girl, and EJ12212012 for reviewing chapter 11.

Disclaimer I do not own the rights to anything SHERLOCK.