Rated M: for smut. Lots of teasing and a brief bit of M/M sex. You have been warned.

Chapter 41

After a long day of plotting with Oscar … well it was really more like planning, then sorting out the armory and then setting up the impromptu gun range, John was exhausted. Then too, riding on the on that emotional roller coaster known as dealing with the Holmes brothers was a bit draining. So John was grateful to be back in his quiet, peaceful room… er…cell, yeah, prison cell.

At least John wasn't alone tonight. He watched his boyfriend, Sherlock, pace. (His boyfriend, and wasn't that a turn-up? In less than a month John Watson had finally, irrevocably fallen in love and not with a woman. And not just any man, for that matter. No, John had fallen for a handsome, genius, madman who was determined to drive John round the twist.) Still, as challenging as Sherlock Holmes was, he was worth it. He was more than worth any aggravation or hurt feelings…no wait, John didn't do hurt feelings. In fact, he was tough enough to mostly ignore feelings. It was better to be hard-bitten like Bogart's Rick; yeah, John was really just like Rick in Casablanca-only British...and blond.

The former army doctor, sitting back on his bed, came out of his daydreams to watch his boyfriend pass by him again.

Sherlock stopped to stare at the wall, his eyes narrowed at a movie poster showing a sleeping dragon and a tiny man in a cave full of gold. It was preposterous; as if a giant flying lizard would want either gold or that ridiculous (albeit somewhat attractive) miniature warrior with mutated hairy feet.

The other movie poster was equally unbelievable. It was supposed to be a science fiction, and sported a dark, Goth-type man glaring out from a ruined city. With posters like these, it was no wonder that John had nightmares.

Sherlock glared back at the tall, dark, handsome man from the poster. Honestly, the actor looked like Sherlock, which was flattering of course, as long as John never met that actor, obviously.

It was quite clear that the formerly straight John Watson had a type. And that type was tall, dark, handsome men. Regrettably, Sherlock's newest rival, Oscar, fit that type admirably. Fortunately, Sherlock was much, much more intelligent than the ox, so he was sure that John would never choose Mycroft's minion over the consulting detective-probably. There was no cause for concern, a genius could outmaneuver a muscle-bound idiot such as Oscar.

Sherlock considered the posters again. They were clearly gifts from one of John's admirers. Like the other gifts in the room. How fatuous. As if John's affections could be purchased with ridiculous bribes.

The detective resumed pacing, eyeing the former army doctor as he sat on the bed.

It was stupid, but Sherlock would have to bring John a gift next time he came. Perhaps several gifts. Sherlock remembered the robes that he'd made Mycroft buy for John and his face lit up. An excellent idea, he'd bring John those robes and that blue jumper.

The consulting detective huffed, pleased with his plans. He strode back to the bed, flinging himself down next to John. The blond turned towards Sherlock and pulled him close. Without a word, he happily began to run his fingers through Sherlock's dark, unruly curls.

"I don't understand, something," said Sherlock frowning, even as he leaned into John's touch.

"Hmmm, that's unusual," said the ex-army doctor mildly.

John's comment was ignored.

"After everything you've been through, I would have thought that you'd be glad for a safe, comfortable refuge," said the younger man. "Yet you insist on trying to escape. If you actually succeed in escaping you'll be captured, and most probably you'll be tortured, raped or even killed. It makes no sense."

"Ahh, well…when you put it like that…" said John uncomfortably.

"Those are the facts, John Watson," said Sherlock. "Is it because of me? Are you trying to get away from me, because it…"

"You're an idiot!" interrupted John, sitting up. "You're the most brilliant man I ever met, and you're still an idiot. I was trying to escape so that I could be with you! You need me to watch your back."

"I've managed to live for thirty-four years without you watching my back," said the younger man with a puzzled expression.

"Yeah? Really? You'd be dead already if I hadn't watched your back when you met up with that cabbie," said John, crossing his arms stubbornly. "It just so happens that I…Look, I just found you and I don't want to... lose you. So yeah, I worry."

Sherlock pressed his peaked fingers against his lip and considered this. "I cannot tolerate the idea of you leaving here as long as Moriarty is on the loose," he said. "I also find that I don't like the idea of you worrying, which is odd. I never care when Mycroft worries."

The doctor's thin lips pressed together, trying to remain tough and hard-bitten.

"I am unused to this, John. I never worry about anyone. I do not waste my time or my mental energy on worry at all. Not for myself and not for anyone else."

John nodded silently, furrowing his brow in concentration.

"And then you came along. After knowing you for only a few hours, I found myself worrying about you. And ever since then, I've continued to worry about you. Now I even worry about whether you're worrying. It's ridiculous. It's exhausting. It's distracting, and it's just the tip of the iceberg. I have to worry whether some other man is manhandling you. I have to worry whether you're safe. I have to worry whether you'll wander out into the streets to buy bread and jam and end up kidnapped by a psychopath. You attract trouble the way light attracts moths. Have you forgotten that you nearly died in my arms?"

"I'm sorry?" said John uncomfortably. He felt bad for Sherlock's distress, but John wasn't a child who just wandered out into the streets.

"I accept your apology," said Sherlock.

John blinked since he hadn't really intended to apologize, because he wasn't a child…

"I find myself completely unprepared for all this…" Sherlock flapped his hands in the air, "all this worry, all these feelings, all these sentiments."

John stared at the flapping stork who was his boyfriend, and decided to drop his objections to the earlier comments about wandering the streets. Instead, should probably calm Sherlock down.

The ex-soldier placed his hand on the detectives cheek, "Look, Sherlock, it all sounds..."

"Stupid! It sounds stupid, John, because it is stupid, and it must stop!" demanded Sherlock petulantly.

"Well, what do you expect me to do about it?" asked John.

John tried to maintain a straight face, even though the pouty brunet looked a bit ridiculous with his lower lip pushed out.

"I want you to make it stop, John!" demanded Mr. Stroppy.

"Well…erm…" a giggle escaped from John's lips. "Sorry." The doctor nodded, and then covered his mouth with his hand, coughing to hide another giggle. He tried to look serious and dignified. However, his sparkling blue eyes gave him away.

The affronted detective narrowed his eyes, then somehow managed to stick his lower lip out even further.

It was just too precious. John began to giggle in earnest, slowly collapsing onto the other man's shoulder.

The World's Only Consulting Detective sat stiffly, his features sharp with disapproval. "Clearly your brain is addled, John Watson."

A crooked grin illuminated the addled blond's face, and he looked up, wiping his eyes. "Sorry, sorry…I..." he dissolved into more laughter at the sight of the glowering brunet.

Sherlock found that John's laughter was a bit infectious. Indeed, his absurd, high-pitched giggles soon became irresistible. Sherlock's downturned lips twitched.

John saw his boyfriend fighting off a smile, which made the ex-soldier giggle even more hysterically. He grabbed Sherlock's shoulder in a vain attempt to stay upright. He fell onto Sherlock's chest still giggling, which set off a chain reaction. Sherlock began to chuckle and soon the two men were laughing uncontrollably, clutching each other close, as if their lives depended on it.

Still gasping, John lay back against the pillows. After a hiccup, Sherlock settled with his head in John's lap once more. They each slowly caught their breath, while John brushed his fingertips through Sherlock's soft curls.

The consulting detective rubbed his right side, "Is it supposed to hurt this much, John? I think I broke a rib."

"Oh don't be such a baby," said John gently tugging on a dark curl. "You just have a stitch in your side, a side cramp, from laughing so hard. It'll pass; I promise."

"It hurts," whined the six-foot preschooler. "I knew there was a reason why I never laughed. It really hurts."

"I could kiss it to make it better," said John with a smirk.

"Oh for God's sake! That won't help!" spat the brunet contemptuously. The sulky detective did allow his boyfriend to continue to massage his scalp.

"Of course," suggested Sherlock with a sly, sideways glance, "if you kissed other parts of me that might make it better."

"Yeah, well, maybe we'll try that in a few minutes, Mister Stroppy," said John, sliding down and then pushing the other man around. Finally, the former army doctor tucked himself up against the other man's side, rubbing the offending ribs. "But we were talking about your worrisome problem," continued John with a quick, little smile.

"It's not a problem right now," said the detective, nuzzling the top of his lover's head. "And the pain in my side is better too. In fact, I think we should take advantage of this bed…"

"You know, Sherlock, we can't solve everything with a good shag," said John.

"I beg to differ," sniffed the detective, "However, I suppose this is a thinly veiled hint that you need some tea, and that I should acquire it for you?" preparing to get up.

"No. Even tea can't solve everything," said John a bit mournfully. "You said you wanted to make the worrying stop, and I agree. That's what we need to talk about."

"More talk? Must we?"

"Yes, we must. I think the problem is that we don't talk enough…"

The sulky detective settled back into the pillows; Sherlock was certain that they did talk enough, more than enough. He ignored whatever John was blathering on about, breathing in John's scent…shampoo, sweat, Remington oil and gunpowder.

John's tousled hair tickled his chin and, and all the different colors in the soldier's hair distracted the detective. John's hair was actually a pleasing mixture of blond and gold and a soft, mousey brown; there was even a hint of early grey, which only made John more handsome in Sherlock's eyes.

"...Hey, Sherlock? You even listening?" asked the blond.

"Yes, yes of course, John," responded the consulting detective without paying attention. He watched John's hair sway seductively each time that Sherlock exhaled. The younger man gently played with his boyfriend's fine, blond hair.

"Well, then we are agreed that we can't go on like this, yeah? I mean, we can't just keep worrying all the time. So, like I said, one solution is plan B," continued John trying to hide his anxiety. He worried that Sherlock was looking for a way out of this whole worrisome relationship thingy. "Plan B always means runaway which applies here as breaking up. So if you want to go back to your old life, without worries. Well then, I understand. We'll break up and never see each other again. No more worries, problem solved." The ex-army doctor, determined to be an officer and a gentleman, smiled bravely if unconvincingly,.

Sherlock Holmes stared blankly, then squawked."What?"

The detective struggled to sit up, accidentally elbowing John and almost knocking the blond to the floor. "That's the stupidest, most idiotic plan I've ever had the misfortune to hear. Are you saying that you want to break up? Is this about that Oscar?"

"No! No, it's not that I want to break up! And Oscar isn't an issue for me. He just isn't!" growled John as he rubbed his own ribs. "Would you let me finish! You know, I really don't think you've been listening to me."

"Hmmf," muttered the glowering brunet.

"I only offered you plan B for Break-Up because you stayed away for so long and now you say you're too worried, and I figured maybe you wanted to breakup but didn't know how to break it to me and..."

"No, John I do not wish to break-up," sniffed Sherlock, still offended. "I certainly hope that wasn't your only plan."

"No, I have another one," said John, looking up speculatively at his tall, disgruntled boyfriend. "It's fairly extreme though. It might be more than you can handle."

"I doubt that, John. I can handle almost anything…aside from your asinine plan B."

"Well then, we could try trusting each other," said John.

"What?" exclaimed Sherlock. "That's not even a plan. That won't help."

"Will you just listen? I thought you just said that you could handle anything?" demanded John. He propped himself up on his elbow. "I think we need to trust each other for real. Working as partners…"

"Partners?" snapped the consulting detective. "Absolutely not. You can't leave here while you're in danger; not to mention while you're injured!" Then Sherlock gentled his voice, "John, be reasonable; you can barely walk."

"I am well aware of my temporary physical limitations," barked John, who was tired of everyone reminding him about them. "So, thanks very much for nothing. And I wasn't planning to leave here, not yet anyway. When I said partnership, I was talking about sharing ideas, you know… communicating?" said John.

"We do communicate," announced the consulting detective. "If you recall, we were in communication via your blog for the last couple of days."

"Wrong!" growled John. "You were teasing, and I didn't even know it was you. That does not count as communication."

"You should have known it was me by…"

"I'm not the deductive genius! I didn't know it was you until the very end!"

"When I practically had to spell it out for you!"

"Yes, exactly," said John irritably. "Look, Mister Genius, it's bad enough I'm sitting this bit out with a bum leg, but I can't stand being kept in the dark and wondering if you're alive or dead or hurt or..."

"What's your point?" demanded Sherlock.

"Well, at the risk of sounding like, like a…look maybe you could contact me once in a while. Just a word, one word so that I know…"

"Well maybe that would help you!" Sherlock almost whined. "How does it keep me from all this stupid worrying, How? How? HOW?" demanded the consulting detective.

"Because, if you actually contact me occasionally, you'll know that I'm fine, and you'll know that I know you're fine, so I won't be worried, so you won't have to worry that I'm worried."

"Ah. That has potential I suppose. And will you also agree to send Oscar away," asked Sherlock, "preferably to Chechnya?"

"No, Sherlock! NO! Just…" the smaller man scrunched away, fuming. "Look what is it with you? I'm not interested in Oscar, well, not that way. And he and I've agreed to be friends, which was one hell of an awkward conversation, let me tell you!" added John, nodding his head and raising his brows.

"Oscar has clearly not given up, John. He still lusts after you."

"Oh bloody hell," muttered John, "There's no difference between Oscar and me and Lestrade and me…"

"I knew it. Lestrade is making a play for you as well…"

"For the last time, Lestrade isn't interested in me."

"Your powers of observation leave much to be desired, John."

"All right fine. Have it your way. After two decades of no interest, I've suddenly become Mr. Gay Sex-Appeal, and no one can resist me."

"At least finally you admit it."

"That was sarcasm, Sherlock!" shouted John, raising his chin belligerently, as he shook his finger at his boyfriend. "Look, even if I was some kind of gay hunk magnet, has it occurred to you that I'm not interested in anyone not named Sherlock Holmes. I'm in love with you. I don't love anyone else. I don't want anyone else. I want you, just you. End Stop."

John instantly wanted to hit the magic rewind button, because somehow, without warning, the dreaded, four-letter L-word had left John's mouth. And that was bound to scare his still new-ish boyfriend all the way into Chechnya.

John risked a nervous half-smile, only to see that Sherlock had frozen. His glacial eyes stared blankly across the room.

Oh God. I've ruined everything, thought John, his shy smile drooping. It was time for damage control.

"Oh, God," said John, "Look…it's too soon isn't it? I shouldn't have said that, should I? Sherlock, listen to me, please. I'm not asking for anything more from you, I'm really not. I don't want to…"

"Shut up, John," said the consulting detective, raising his steepled fingers to his mouth as he evaluated the new information. He otherwise remained like a statue, barely breathing.

John shut his mouth and worried at his lips, as the furrows between his eyebrows deepened. He waited for the kiss off…something along the lines of, 'Frankly my dear John, I don't give a damn.'

Finally Sherlock slowly said, "You just said that you…that you…you said…"

"Ummmm, I love you, yes. Yes I did," said John, bravely. He swallowed and tried on another sickly smile, and again, it faltered as the brunet remained sitting stiffly in apparent shock.

"Sherlock?" asked John worriedly. "This doesn't have to change anything, you know. I'm not asking for, well you know, a commitment or anything. That would be silly," The soldier forced a fake chuckle and added brightly, "Hey! I know! If it bothers you so much, maybe you could delete it?"

Sherlock blinked and finally looked intently at the anxious blond. "You're wrong; this changes everything." "I am perfectly aware that you haven't asked for anything." "And you are an idiot, if you think I will ever delete anything about you." "I was in fact processing your declaration and ensuring that it is properly immortalized in my mind palace along with all pertinent details as to the occasion."

"Which means-what?" asked John who was confused by this complicated response. "I don't understand."

"I just answered all your questions, John," said Sherlock.

"Did you? Oh, well then…" John thought hard. He twisted and bit his lips in concentration. "Does that mean that we're… fine?" asked John.

"Yes, of course, John," said Sherlock. He tilted his head and looked more closely at the nervously fidgeting man who loved him. The man who loved Sherlock Holmes. John Watson-Sherlock's lover…

John Watson, the man who loved Sherlock Holmes and who was shifting about, while trying to hide his discomfort…in vain of course.

"You do not seem happy, John Watson," began the detective. "Slight narrowing of the eyes indicates suspicion. Pinching your lip, while simultaneously wrinkling your brow indicates unease. nervousness, fear even."

"Could you not do this?" asked John with a huff. Then he desperately tried to remember his own questions to match them up with Sherlock's rapid-fire answers.

"Aaannnd, you are crossing your arms defensively as your hands form into fists," said the detective, "not to mention you are attempting to stand at attention while lying down, which will only hurt both your back and your shoulder, so I advise you to cease at once.

"This! I'm asking you not to do this. No deducing me," demanded the fretful, irritated ex-soldier, who not only couldn't remember his own questions; he'd also forgotten all the answers except that John was an idiot, again.

"You're definitely upset. Why are you upset?" Sherlock froze, only his lips moving soundlessly.

"Oh God. Not the mind palace again. Not now," said John. "Sherlock!"

After only a minute or two, the World's Only Consulting Detective looked at his lover. "Oh! Oh! I have it!" John's eyes widened apprehensively. "You labor under the misapprehension that I do not return your devotion. Well, I undoubtedly reciprocate fourfold." The genius smiled delightedly; his huge grin stretching across his face.

"I don't understand. Does that mean…" John scrunched his forehead and ruffled his hair into spikes. Sherlock thought this particular look, the thinking hedgehog look, was just a bit endearing. He considered telling this to the former soldier, but fortunately, he was interrupted by John's deduction.

"So reciprocating means you like me?" asked John, closing in, yet missing the mark.

"Does it echo inside your skull, John?" asked the detective with fond disdain. "Surely all of that empty space inside your head allows your feeble thoughts to resonate wonderfully." His insult seemed less than severe, because he al reached down to comb his fingers through the blond's disheveled hedgehog-hair.

"So reciprocating doesn't mean you like me?" said John, flushing with humiliation, hurt and no small part confusion.

"Idiot!" snapped Sherlock. "You said love. I said I reciprocated, ergo…"

John slowly nodded as comprehension flooded him, "Umm, you love me too?"

"Finally, John!"

"You could have just said it straight out, you know?" groused the ex-soldier.

"No, I don't think that I could have."

John sighed, but turned to hug his lover.

The contented brunet hummed as his soldier squeezed tightly. Then Sherlock gave a start as John then began to unbutton his lover's shirt, delivering kisses to his chest.

"Mmmm," hummed the World's Only Consulting Detective, "Ands does this mean that the talking portion of our evening is over?"

"Umm humm," murmured John, whose lips had reached the skin just above Sherlock's waistband.

"Good! Because I want to take you now, " said Sherlock, pushing the blond onto his back. "I intend to remind you just who you belong to. I plan to shag you so hard that you'll be able to feel where I've been for days afterwards. For many days afterward. It will be a constant reminder that you belong to me."

"Oh, God…" said John with a shudder. "Oh God, yes."

The former soldier gasped when his tee-shirt was roughly yanked over his head. Sherlock's large hands stroked up his arms and down his chest. His clever fingers teased and twisted a tawny nipple. John arched his back with choked back moan.

Sherlock swooped on to his prey, licking and then gently biting a tawny nipple. Sherlock rolled his tongue across the sensitive flesh, tasting salt and the heady tang of sweat.

Sherlock' teasing opened the floodgates of burning desire, as pain and pleasure mixed in the ex-army doctor. And of course John wanted more of his lover now. He tugged on dark curls, then pulled his lover up, crashing their mouths together. They fought for control tasting each other hungrily, before Sherlock twisted his head and attacked John's sensitive skin just under his ear.

The detective kissed and bit his way down and then back up his soldier's neck; meanwhile, his large, pale hands strayed lower, caressing and possessing this man. He had to have all of John for himself.

John had jokingly called himself irresistible. Well, he was irresistible to Sherlock. It was no surprise that others felt the same way. Others like Lestrade…Sherlock bit down harder, right where John's shoulder met his neck. And then there was that Oscar...Sherlock sucked hard, leaving a bruise and making John whimper his name. Even Mycroft or that Paula woman wanted his golden soldier, thought Sherlock, who raised his head to proudly admire the telltale bruise. That would show everyone that John Watson was taken. Oh, yes, they all wanted a piece of John, but they couldn't have him. He kissed the bruise and then bit it again gently. John belonged to him.

John cried out when Sherlock marked him, but his cry was not from torment but rather from the torrent of arousal that followed. Sherlock was almost feral in his attentions; he'd never before been this aggressive with John. Nevertheless, the younger man kept his attacks just this side of provocative, never causing serious pain.

John recognized that jealousy and remnants of fear drove Sherlock tonight, much like the arousal following a battle. John, too, felt the need to affirm their bonds by joining body and soul. He rocked his hips up to let his lover claim him.

"You are mine!" growled Sherlock driving a lube-slicked finger into his soldier. "Mine and no one else's. You do not belong to that ox. He doesn't get to touch you. Not ever."

"God, yes," gasped John, arching up again. "Yes, your, yours." Always and forever, thought John.

John cried out as talented fingers drove into his sweet spot. " Fuck yes, Sh'lock," the soldier babbled. "Yes, yess fuck yes. Take me…ahhgh….now."

The detective surged up to ravaging his John's lips, forcing himself inside this lover's mouth. John, suitably pliant and needy, let him in, as he wantonly sucked on Sherlock's tongue.

Sherlock finally lifted his head to take a breath. Panting heavily, he looked down at his golden soldier, who looked up at him with desire and adoration. Despite his John's insistence that he was ready, Sherlock continued to prepare his lover. He had no intention of allowing John to be hurt ever again.

When he deemed the soldier was loose and ready, the taller man gently set John's wounded leg onto a pillow. He used another pillow to elevate the shorter man's hips.

Less gently, he pulled the blond's other leg up and entered-not too fast but steadily, with out pausing once. John gasped, his wide eyes staring as they joined. When skin met skin, Sherlock finally halted, his intense gaze locked onto his soldier's dark eyes. He leaned his forehead against John's, their ragged breaths mingling as one. Soon, his lover began to move, rocking his hips and clutching Sherlock's arms. Sherlock pulled back and rammed home again with a deep, rumbling groan of, "Jahwn!"

Yes, once again, John had surrendered fully to him. John was his. John was his love, his lover and his life.

He felt the fire gathering and burning. He stroked his lover and pistoned in synchrony, until John screamed his name. Still pounding, he watched victoriously, as John tensed and shook, nearly weeping with his climax. Sherlock drove in one last time, and let the raging fires consume him. His release was shattering, blinding and he fell, dazed onto his gasping lover.

Sherlock clutched his lover tightly. He buried his face into his soldier's neck, chanting John's name, an invocation and a prayer for his own salvation.

John blinked and then blinked again. It was pitch black in the room slash prison cell. At some point, Sherlock must have gotten up to switch off the lights, although in his euphoria, John sure as hell hadn't noticed.

The marksman was grateful that his lover was still in bed with him (John was a bit fond of repeating that word to himself...lover; it had a nice ring to it.) The consulting detective laid half on top of him. John held still, reluctant to wake his lover and break the spell that lay over them. He refused to move, even though his shoulder ached terribly, and his leg throbbed with pain. A burning ache echoed deep inside him too. One that would surely last for days, as promised.

The marksman smiled, smugly satisfied. John was inordinately pleased with that particular painful sensation in his nether regions. It would remind him of tonight for days to come. As promised.

John sighed in contentment, then he felt warm lips press against the top of his head.

"You're awake?" John asked. He winced, immediately regretting the question.

"Ah, John. Once again you ask the question when the answer is obvious," said the brunet. Nevertheless, he kissed John's head again, so everything was all right. "I have been awake for a while, thinking. I noticed that you were awake when you began trying to think. You are very loud when you think. Not to mention that you were smiling, no doubt at some little joke you thought of."

John smiled again in the dark. Obviously Sherlock had been reading his mind again.

"What time is it?" asked John. "Do you have to leave soon? Do we have time for a another shag?" asked John.

"I estimate it to be about 4:30 am." "I should leave when Lestrade leaves, because I will pretend to be his bodyguard, and he leaves at 6:45." "Thus there is in fact time for something, but given the fact that I may have driven you a bit hard, I think an actual shag is entirely out of the question."

"Oh, right." said John trying to process all the answers while not fully awake. However, Sherlock was right; a real shag was out of the question…unless John did the shagging. Hmmm, he wondered if Sherlock ever considered bottoming?

"Actually, I am a bit sore," began John.

"Ah, you're not hurt though?" asked Sherlock, who suddenly felt a funny bit of a twinge in his abdomen. Worry yet again. Caring for someone was a very worrisome business.

"No, not hurt," said John with an embarrassed giggle. "Just…um, just well and thoroughly shagged. I guess I'll be feeling it for days to come."

The 'as promised', remained unsaid.

Sherlock smirked proudly into the darkness before planting a gentle kiss on his John's rough cheek. John leaned up and began worshiping his lover's long, corded neck.

"John before we get distracted, I wish to discuss what I've been thinking about. After all, one can't cure everything with a good shag," he said, mimicking John.

"Oh, yeah. Sorry," said John, reining himself in.

"Now, when I leave, I am not going to be able to concentrate on this case if I have to worry about you …"

"At the risk of repeating things, which I know that you hate," said John, sliding his hand along a strong lean arm, which sent a rogue thrill of desire up the older man's spine. "I, hmmm. Well, didn't I promise, hmmm. Yes, I promised...not to escape...as long as you keep agents with you. Yes. So no worries, yeah?"

"Yes, yes, yes. That is plan T, which is certainly settled and did not bear repetition. And I wish that you would concentrate on our communication right now," scolded the genius, who could feel the results of John's illicit thrill. "I am now discussing the fact that I also seem to have to worry about you pining for me."

"I don't pine. That's ridiculous," scoffed Captain John Watson, who was too much of a soldier to ever admit to pining.

"You do."

"And you don't?"

"At the worst, I may have reciprocated your concerns."

"Why do I have to do all the sticky feelings, and you get to just reciprocate?" complained the former army doctor. "I sound needy, and you get to sound cool."

"You worry about the most preposterous issues, John."

"And you use the biggest words you can think of, just to sound superior."

"Do you want to hear my solution to prevent your pining or not," said the consulting detective coldly.

"Oh yeah, I'm all ears."

"And, you do have delectable ears, John," said Sherlock his voice had gone from glacial to smoldering as he softly nipped one of John's ears for emphasis.

To begin with, John was getting vertigo from Sherlock's mood swings. On top of that, John was uncertain whether the love bite was punishment, reward or just reassurance. He was too dizzy to care much anyway. He let his head drop back into the pillow as Sherlock's hot breath branded his skin.

"Pay attention, John."

The soldier's eyes snapped open in the dark. It wasn't fair…

"That's not fair," he said, trying not to sound so breathy. "You distracted me."

"Nonsense," said the smug sleuth. "My solution is to improve our communication."

"But that's what I said…"

"John, do try to listen. I shall acquire a phone that will connect to the bunker's network, rather like your laptop, but more private. Others won't tap into it... Except for Mycroft. Naturally, my overstuffed brother will eavesdrop, but that can't be helped. So no sexting."

"What? I wouldn't," exclaimed John indignantly, as he immediately imagined sexting with the World's Sexiest Consulting Detective.

"Well, John? What do you have to say about that plan?

"Umm," John was still thinking about sexting. "Wait…what good is a phone, if I can't call you?" asked John.

"Think, John," said the exasperated detective. "You are substantially smarter than most ordinary people… not a genius, obviously…yet you are not completely stupid either."

"Wonderful. I'm only partly stupid, and I have tasty ears," muttered John with a just tinge of resentment. "That probably explains why I'm a gay hunk magnet. But I still don't understand…"

"Dear God, you should get a tee-shirt with 'I don't understand' stamped on it," snarked the consulting detective. He rolled on top of his stubborn but not completely stupid lover.

"How can you have forgotten already?" said Sherlock breathing into a delectable ear, "Thanks to my superior skills, I am able to access this computer network from anywhere. I gave you ample proof of that when I posted on your ridiculous blog as Shezza," he explained. "I can text you through the network and even upload your responses. It will make it easier to communicate almost privately while we are apart."

"Oh! Right. Well, that's good then; I just have to wait for you to contact me," said John with growing enthusiasm. "So you'll be texting me, sort of often?"

"I shall endeavor to make contact almost everyday, so that you won't pine."

"Ah," said John, as the light bulb finally turned on. "I see; this way I won't pine, and you don't have to reciprocally worry about me pining."

"Precisely."

'And what you really mean' thought John smugly, 'is you won't be worrying about me, because you can contact me whenever you want. You clever, sneaky tosser.'

"Reciprocal, my arse," muttered John into Sherlock's chest.

"John, you are mumbling. I can't understand you," said Sherlock suspiciously.

"I said it's a brilliant idea," lied the ex-soldier, successfully for once.

"Yes, it is rather brilliant," said the modest detective, smiling in the dark.

John was more than a bit chuffed that the World's Only Consulting Detective worried about a plain, old, battle-damaged soldier. He channeled this excitement into kissing his beloved tosser. He started just below Sherlock's scratchy unshaven jaw. John still found the feel of facial stubble terribly masculine and arousing. He worked his way down to Sherlock's Adam's apple which was even more arousing and...

"There's just one last point."

"There's more?" murmured John into the column of the brunet's neck.

"Do stop mumbling, John," grumbled Sherlock, even as he stretched his neck to allow his lover full access. "As I was about to say, there is still the matter of your latest suitor, Oliver."

"Oh for the love of…" growled the former soldier, pushing himself off of Sherlock and rubbing his sore leg irritably. "You can be a real tosser, you know that?"

"But I thought we were making progress, John. Didn't you once say that I should compromise more often?" said Sherlock, with a subtle hint of petulance to hide his grim determination. "I agreed to change my entire modus operandi. I agreed to work with Mycroft's minions hampering my every move. I offered to call you frequently to assuage your pining for me. All I ask is that you give up Omar…"

"You are ridiculous!" said John. " I know you know his name. It's Oscar, by the way and I'm not interested in Oscar. I love you, not him. Also I can't give him up because there's nothing to give up except a nice, casual, comfortable friendship, which I certainly shouldn't have to sacrifice as long as we are just friends, which we are and I refuse to waste what little time we have together arguing about Oscar, when we should be shagging…"

"All right! Then say it again," demanded the sulky detective.

"Which part? The part where we should be shagging instead of…"

"No! The part where you said you loved me and will at least spend less time with Oscar, because my feelings are important to you and because he is still after you."

"Oh my God, I didn't say that!" exclaimed the soldier smacking his own face with his hand.

"So, you don't love me after all? You've been using me for your carnal pleasures?"

"No! I mean yes. I mean…yes, I love you and no I haven't been using you for…whatever!"

"But I do pleasure you, don't I?" asked the misdirecting, manipulative genius.

"Oh for God's sake. Don't I scream every bloody time you make love to me?" snapped John, who was immediately overcome with embarrassment. The blond buried his burning head into a pillow, muffling his incoherent curses.

"Well, then, if you love me, and if I bring you pleasure, then I can't understand what the problem is," said the World's Most Manipulative Consulting Detective.

"This is the stupidest argument I've ever had!" complained John, lifting his head to speak.

"Then stop arguing, you'll only lose in the end, anyway."

"That's it; I've had enough of this," snapped the former captain.

The ex-soldier scrambled out of bed and limped across the very cold floor to find the light switch. His bum hurt, his leg hurt even more and his feet were freezing.

"Jesus!" shouted John suddenly, hopping awkwardly around in the dark.

"What, what happened?" exclaimed Sherlock.

"I stubbed my toe," muttered John, adopting Sherlock's sulky tone. "It's fine, no thanks to you." And now John's big toe hurt too, bloody fantastic.

"Don't sulk, John. It's very immature," said Sherlock who magically materialized directly behind his lover.

John turned slowly and carefully, to prevent any more injuries.

"I do love you, you know," said John firmly, wrapping his arms around the detective. "But I have nothing else to say about Oscar except that you'll just have to trust me, even if you don't trust him."

Sherlock was loath to give up his campaign against the tall, dark, nefarious agent who clearly lusted after Sherlock's boyfriend.

On the other hand, perhaps he had pushed John far enough for now. And John felt pleasingly warm and solid in Sherlock's arms. Besides, John was right about one thing; precious time was being lost as they argued about that stupid ox.

"Fine," said Sherlock, acquiescing temporarily on the matter of Agent Ox. "But I will be watching."

"How?" challenged John, feeling as though he'd won a small victory. He ran his hands over Sherlock's smooth skin grabbing hold of his hips.

"Honestly, John, you've wasted too much time on Oliver already…"

"Me? I'm not the one…"

"John, I was under the impression that you were eager for another go before I have to leave."

"Well, yeaaahh. 'Course I'm not the only one who's eager, Sherlock Holmes. You do realize that I can feel your reciprocation rubbing up against my hip."

"I believe that it's time for me to take a shower," said the detective. John felt a cold rush of disappointment dousing his arousal. "But you certainly need a shower too. If it is agreeable to you, perhaps we could shower together."

His ardor rekindled, John wondered how Sherlock's deep voice managed make the word together sound quite so filthy.

"Oh, God yes," said John enthusiastically. "Let's go, so we can have another go," he added suggestively, grinding against his lover.

"John, you're an idiot," chuckled the detective, leaning down to nuzzle the blond.

"Yeah, but I'm your idiot," said John.

"Say that again."

"What, that I'm your idiot?"

"Yes, exactly."

"I'm your idiot," said John, his voice becoming husky with emotion. "As long as you want me, I'll be your idiot."

"Oh!"

"What?"

"I think you mean it."

"Of course I mean it! I don't say things I don't mean," sputtered John indignantly. Whatever else he was going to say was lost in a deep kiss, a filthy kiss. Indeed, thought Sherlock, it was a perfect kiss.

A/N

I'm not certain that I have been clear enough on one point…I am eternally grateful to everyone who has continued to read and support this story. I am grateful to those who follow and favorite this fic. I am over the moon with happiness whenever you send in a review or a PM. So here is my heart-felt gratitude to all of you.

And a note to the gracious reviewer who asked and I paraphrase here, why this fic isn't done yet?

Well, that is a very good question. And I don't have a perfect answer, but it may have something to do with a) I read to much when I should be writing. b) I keep digressing and that makes the story a bit too long. c) My boss insists that I actually show up to work or else I do not get a paycheck.

Now I personally think my boss's attitude is totally unreasonable. But that's real life for you, full of unreasonable people and not enough cake (Mycroft made me say that). Anyway, this serves as a reminder for me to a) finish this chapter and publish it. b) finish this darn fic once and for all. c) Repeat once more how grateful I am for everyone who keeps reading this behemoth of a story.

THANK YOU! THANK YOU! THANK YOU!

Special thanks for the reviews from: Winnie69, k8ec, Wicked Winter, dana-san, 107602, Quiet Time, JC Black, HelenaHermione, Lexisfightingrobots, SamuelE8688 and Biomess

Disclaimer I do not own the rights to Sherlock and John, but apparently it's ok to obsess about them as long as I do not make a profit while doing so. :D