Rated M for swearing, violence, reports of violent deaths, and M/M intimacy. Yeah, that pretty much covers it.

Spoiler Alert. I make references to events from The Great Game.

Bit 'o fluff in there too. Sorry it just happens.

Obligatory safety notice:

As always do not read fanfic while drinking the beverage of your choice. Also do not read fanfic while driving or performing emergency surgery. But do keep your inhaler on hand.

Once again, for quotes and timelines, I borrowed from the fantastic transcript of The Great Game provided by Ariane Devere

All errors were caused by the approaching new moon.

Chapter 47

Sherlock, still wearing his great-coat, reclined in his favorite thinking position. His index fingers gently tapped his lips and his eyes were half-shut as he waited.

Certainly, it was regrettable that the old woman had refused to follow Moriarty's instructions and so died. It was unfortunate that several other people were killed in the ensuing explosion.

Yes, of course, all of those deaths were undesirable. After all, Sherlock was not a machine. It's not as though he wanted people to die. In fact, he had acted to prevent the deaths of the hostages.

But it was not his fault, contrary to the opinions of some at New Scotland Yard. And it was not his fault if he did not feel any personal loss from those deaths. Besides, wearing sack cloth and wringing ones hands wouldn't it bring back the deceased nor would it prevent further loss of life. People were idiots, and sentiment was not an advantage.

It was unfair for everyone to blame Sherlock for not wallowing in lamentation and outcries of mea culpa. It was particularly unfair for John follow the herd like dark blond sheep. It was wrong for John to blame Sherlock. But apparently John was blaming Sherlock, because he wouldn't even answer Sherlock's texts.

Not that this hurt Sherlock. He was used to everyone misunderstanding him. And he would not be personally injured when John rejected him for being a freak, for being inhuman, for being a machine.

At long last, detective heard someone fiddling with the lock to John's door. It was obviously John; no one else would have that much trouble trying to operate an electronic lock.

"Damn these locks!" exclaimed John, as the door opened. "What the hell was wrong with normal, ordinary keys! Sherlock! Hey, I'm sorry if you were waiting, I was all tied up!" The ex-soldier rushed into his room wearing his black tactical clothing and carrying body armor and some straps, harnesses and miscellaneous (read unimportant) combat gear. The load was dumped unceremoniously into a corner.

That drew a raised eyebrow from the consulting detective who was stretched out on John's bed.

It was unlike John to treat his gear so cavalierly. Normally, the former army captain was very neat with his possessions; indeed John was almost obsessive in the care he gave guns and assorted combat paraphernalia.

Sherlock immediately tried to deduce the reason for this uncharacteristic behavior. The blond looked exhausted (more wrinkles, dark under-eye circles, another pound lost), flustered (he was red-faced and nearly hyperventilating) and disheveled (hair on end, jumper pulled up, shirt not tucked in). Tired, flustered and disheveled and surprised to see his boyfriend? Add that to the fact that John wasn't responding to important texts...the detective's hackles rose as he assumed the worst. He slowly sat up.

"You have terrible timing, y'know," continued John, oblivious to the gathering storm clouds. He tossed his jumper carelessly onto the floor.

Sherlock sniffed, he smelled…both perfume and aftershave (And not John's cheap, yet surprisingly pleasant aftershave.) Perfume and aftershave? Dear God, had John been involved in an orgy?

Sherlock's eyes narrowed, as he noted the mauve lipstick smeared just below the blond's chin.

John began untying his boots as he nattered on nervously. Nervous? Nervous because of a guilty conscience? No wonder John complained about Sherlock's timing. The consulting detective stood up, tilting his head to glare darkly at the perfidious blond.

"Y'know, I never heard," John continued. "Did you solve the Connie Prince case? I'm guessing yes, since you're here. Was it the brother? I thought it was the brother.""

Sherlock blinked. John hadn't heard. He didn't know about the Botulinum toxin and the houseboy. He didn't know about the explosion. This only made things worse. Sherlock could only think of one thing that would keep John from noticing the end of a case and yet also put lipstick on John's chin. So, John had already moved on, although not because of the hostage's death. That was the part Sherlock had got wrong...there was always something.

Sherlock was neither angry or hurt. He was above such things. The lanky brunet straightened to his full, imposing height, and began to stalk proudly towards the door.

"Well, John, evidently it was bad timing for you, as I have all but caught you in flagrante delicto. Clearly, I am not wanted here…"

"What?" exclaimed John freezing for a moment, his blue eyes were wide with frank astonishment under his half-removed black tee-shirt.
"What the hell are you on about now?" demanded John again. "I haven't had time to be flagrante anything, mate. I've been climbing up and down ropes in the bloody elevator shaft like a…like a…like an English bird spider." John smiled feebly at his little joke. The joke crashed like a dead duck as Sherlock scowled. John frowned too, and tugged at his belt.

"No, really, what the hell is going on?" demanded John again.

Sherlock pause to reconsider the evidence, bringing his fingers to his parted lips. Elevator? The lift had in fact been out-of-order, forcing the detective to use the stairs. He had indeed passed several minions, dressed like John, at the bottom of the lift-shaft on his way to John's room. As a matter of fact, the milling minions had been playing with ropes and blithering among themselves and to others up in the shaft.

That didn't explain why John had ignored Sherlock's texts all night long.

"You didn't answer any of my texts!" accused the detective.

"I was busy! Most of the time, I was holding on for dear life several stories above the bottom of the shaft, Sherlock. The rest of the time I was tangled in the bloody ropes," John raised his brows and added suggestively, "When I said tied up, I really meant it!" When SHerlock remained impassive, the doctor sagged a bit, pursed his lips and continued. "Honestly, there was no way I could even read your texts, even if I had heard them, which I couldn't since I had some bloody techno-wonder, specially enhanced, damned distracting and all-together inconvenient Blue Tooth thingy stuck in my ear," said John, pointing to his ear with one hand while working angrily and inefficiently at his fly with the other.

A flushed, half-naked John working at his fly was distracting. Sherlock was tempted to help John with his fly.

But Sherlock wasn't so distracted that he couldn't see the damning lipstick, which taunted him from John's chin like a neon sign flashing betrayal, betrayal, betrayal.

"None of which explains the lipstick on your chin." He pointed an accusing finger at the errant blond.

John wrinkled his brow, "Lipstick? I...Wah...what lipstick..." stuttered the blond raising his hand to his mouth.

"Lip Stick!" snapped the jealous detective. "I thought Oscar was the primary threat, but I can see that you have reverted to type and snogged the nearest willing female. I am clearly not wanted…"

"Will you stop saying that!" shouted John, who was becoming angry now. "I bloody want you! Everybody knows, I bloody want you. People the other side of the bloody Atlantic know, I bloody want you. And I sure as hell haven't reverted to…to Paula or whatever. Look, the lipstick isn't…"

"Oh, please John," said the looming detective condescendingly. "Please do not give me, the 'it isn't what you think it is' line."

"Well, it isn't!" said John, jutting his chin out belligerently. "I didn't want to tell you but…"

"They never do," said Sherlock tiredly.

"What? Who never do?"

"Adulterers, John," said Sherlock with a heartbreakingly resigned smile. "Adulterers never want to confess."

"Adulterers?" whispered John incredulously. "How could I... But we're not even…No. Really?" John's face went from wide-eyed surprise to a stupid, crooked happy grin and then and back an angry scowl, "You are entirely wrong, Sherlock Holmes."

Despite his internal protests that Sherlock Holmes doesn't do emotions, the detective was too hurt to take issue with the accusation of being wrong. "Still," said the brunet smiling sadly, "I don't see how you thought you could hide your sordid little affairs from me, of all people?"

"Affairs? No. Christ! No, what I didn't want to tell you…"said John, wearing only his wrinkled-brow thinking face and his red pants. "…waassss", John pursed his lips. "…that I... fell. Yeah, I fell 'cause... in the end I refused to wear the safety harness… and I fell hard enough to…"

It was now Sherlock's turn to stare incredulously. "What?" demanded the lanky detective. "Am I supposed to believe that you fell and knocked the wind out of your lungs and needed resuscitation?"

"Yes!" exclaimed John, snapping his fingers. "Yes! That's it. That's exactly it. Thank you. Yes! Yes, well, of course I didn't actually need resuscitation, but… Paula didn't know that. She saw I wasn't breathing and panicked and started rescue breathing. I guess she got lipstick on me then."

"That is not her usual lipstick."

"Well it's still her lipstick," groused John. "It is certainly Paula's lipstick. It came from Paula. All you have to do is ask her."

"Don't think that I won't," challenged the detective, ready to head for the door.

The thin but muscular former soldier, turned around with a huff. He dropped his pants and then, he bent over to pull off his socks.

Sherlock goggled at the presentation.

"I seem to see... no injuries from this, this alleged fall," said the consulting detective in a half-strangled voice. It was nearly impossible to think, let alone talk, not while John brazenly pointed his naked posterior right at Sherlock.

John, standing back up, muttered something about only having the wind knocked out of him and of course there were no real injuries. He'd never said anything about injuries. He added that someone was being a right tosser tonight.

Sherlock muttered that perhaps he had made a slight error in his deductions but that he knew that John was up to something. And furthermore he knew when someone was trying to take unfair advantage of him utilizing someone's disturbingly distracting buttocks. Finally, Sherlock planned a thorough discussion about whatever John was hiding and another discussion about taking undue risks in lift shafts for no apparent reason…later.

John blushed incandescently, as he finally realized how his nakedness appeared. He seemed to pause to considered his options. Then he plucked a small Blue Tooth out of his ear, holding down the button and dropping it carelessly onto his discarded trousers. It was odd that such a simple action greatly fueled the heat gathering in Sherlock's groin. Then the blond looked over his shoulder and winked at the detective.

Sherlock frowned slightly at the coy wink, because he had never, ever imagined a coy, winking John Watson. Once more, the older man was full of surprises. Then the blond tease, still blushing a furious carmine, murmured that Sherlock might want to take unfair advantage of his exposed position.

In slow motion, Sherlock dropped his heavy, dark coat on the floor. He then dropped his voice an octave lower, suggesting that John drape himself over the bed, before Sherlock took him on the cold, hard floor.

John complied instantly, which was gratifying. Then, his own voice hoarse with need, John requested that a certain tosser hurry the hell up.

Sherlock, with slow deliberation, removed his suit jacket and began rolling up the sleeves of his white shirt. John's dark eyes watched hungrily. Sherlock's voice rumbled impossibly low, and he suggested that a pillow placed under John's hips would make things much more comfortable for everyone involved.

Once more, the ex-soldier instantly complied with charming eagerness. He looked around again, then fixed Sherlock with a meaningful look.

The room was silent except for heavy breathing.

The consulting detective admired the view, as he very slowly unbuckled his belt and opened his fly, keeping his trousers on.

"Dammit, Sherlock," growled the former army doctor, as his hands impotently fisted the duvet in frustration. "If you think I'm going to just lay here with my bum in the air for…"

John choked on his words, as nearly 80 kilograms of consulting dropped on top him. He groaned as several inches of consulting detective frotted against him. He cursed as his partner began excruciatingly thorough preparations that never seemed to end. John babbled that he didn't want them to ever end and if they didn't end soon he might just die because he needed, he wanted more.

And before the aroused blond died, preparations did finally come to an end. John clung desperately to the bed, burying his face in the bedding and gasping out half-uttered expletives and delicious moans, as the World's Only Consulting Detective claimed his doctor systematically and with great force.

Sherlock was inordinately pleased at the final, desperate, inchoate sobbing scream he elicited from John.

He himself raggedly cried out John's name once and only once, at the very end, when he found exquisite completion inside his brilliant army doctor.

John held his still fully dressed detective tight against his own bare chest. Of course the trousers were un-zipped otherwise, Sherlock couldn't have shagged John's brains out, which in fact he did. John tried to keep his shagmented mind from wandering, as Sherlock related the day's events beginning at the morgue and ending with the explosion, which had all but destroyed a block of flats killing the poor hostage and several other people.

After he shook his head in amazement, wonder and then dismay, the doctor wondered briefly if he should be worried at the macabre sort of pillow talk he and Sherlock shared. But he was happy, and Sherlock was happy. He decided he couldn't be arsed to care.

Besides John remembered that Sherlock had (falsely) accused John not of cheating but of adultery. Sherlock was a master of spoken language. He would not misuse a word like adultery, which implied marriage or something along those lines. Amidst the talk of murder and explosions and then more tragic death, John purred contentedly. Which was surely wrong, but Sherlock had definitely implied marriage (or something along those lines). John was more than happy to go along with this implied union; he was more than happy (just this once) to be the regency heroine who was ravished and then forced into (implied) nuptuials. He tightened his hold on his partner (read implied husband) and he hummed happily.

The brunet looked up, as his companion incongruously hummed. In fact, the little blond was smiling stupidly (read adorably). The idiot (read beloved) was happy instead of being angry at Moriarty or disappointed with Sherlock or just upset, as the great had detective expected.

"John are you listening to me? The point I was trying to make…" continued Sherlock. "was that I solved the puzzle. I technically won. Ergo, she shouldn't have died," whined Sherlock loudly, breaking into John's gilded reveries.

"Yeah. It is terrible," murmured John soberly into dark curls. Now John did feel guilty. Moriarty's ,machinations were beyond terrible, thought John. It was just like in the war with people losing their lives unexpectedly and for no reason. This was no time to act the blushing bride. The ex-army doctor blushed and sighed. "I don't understand. Why'd he have to kill her? Why'd he have to kill all those people?" asked John, focusing on the matter at hand.

"She tried to describe him, and he killed her. It made sense from Moriarty's point of view," said Sherlock. "But it wasn't right."

"No it wasn't right," said John sadly. "He killed her for no good reason. I'm sorry, Sherlock, you must be sad about her death."

"Of course I'm not sad," stated Sherlock acidly. "I don't do sad. I am above such sentiments. I'm angry because I technically won. What Moriarty did was unfair, because I solved the case. I won!"."

"So...you don't care about the hostage at all?" asked John. "Or the other people…"

"Caring is not an advantage, John. Caring wouldn't have helped her then, and it won't help her now."

"Right," said John, his voice hard.

"You're disappointed," accused Sherlock sharply. He rose up on his elbow to glare at the blond, who glared right back.

"Well, John, this is who I am," hissed the detective, defensively. Sherlock prepared himself for the inevitable disgust and rejection. He could already hear the words 'freak, machine, monster.'

There was silence as Sherlock readied for the recriminations and the hand wringing. It was a good thing he still had his clothes on…

"Would you care, if I'd got blown up in that flat?" asked John finally.

Sherlock stiffened at the unexpected question. His imaginative brain immediately supplied the visual of John's body being pulled from the wreckage. John's battered body. His bloodied body.

It wasn't difficult to imagine. It wasn't that long ago that the detective had held a battered and bloody John in his arms, a John who thankfully had not died but still...

The younger man shuddered, overwhelmed at the unspeakable idea of John's death. He caressed John's stubbled jaw with his free hand and shook his shaggy head, wordless.

"So you do care; at least about me?" demanded Captain Watson, looking into Sherlock's mercurial eyes.

John waited and heard only silence. But in those silvery, tear-dimmed eyes, John saw what he wanted. Sherlock cared and was willing to admit it (albeit non-verbally, which was fine.)

It was all fine. It was more than fine, decided the ex-army officer.

"Guess that's good enough for me," said the army doctor burrowing under his lanky git. "I'll worry about the rest of the sentiment."

Sherlock was still tense and a bit confused. John did not sound upset at all. John sounded content…even a bit smug. The blond was snuggling his face into Sherlock's neck. Apparently John loved him anyway. Obviously, John was not going anywhere. Six feet of tense consulting detective slowly relaxed into his lovers embrace.

"As long as you...um, care about me," murmured John, pressing lazy kisses to the detective's long neck. "That's just another reason," kissing back up under Sherlock's jaw, "why I love you so much, Sherlock Holmes."

A/N Thank you to everyone who has followed and favorited this fic.

Thank you for reading fanfic responsibly.

Thank you to everyone who has reviewed this fic including the most recent reviewers HelenaHermione, 107602 and meep484 who made me very happy with their kind reviews.

Disclaimer I do not own the rights to Sherlock.

*sighing with a sad face*

END 47