Just for reference, I walked a thin line this chapter between making the sex scene satisfying and making the sex scene explicit. I really don't want to have to bump the rating up to M, but I wanted readers to be able to enjoy the sex besides the fact. So hopefully I accomplished that. There are only a handful of intimate scenes throughout the fic so I have a limited number of chances to get this right, but hopefully I at least did better than last time.

Anyway, enjoy.

Neither of us had been Mycroft's current palace-home before the Christmas party, but you seemed to think that because you knew Mycroft so well, you had the layout of the building under your thumb. No stranger to your talents, of course, I assumed the same. It wouldn't have surprised me if you could figure out how many toilets were in the building by your brother's turn-ups. But as we went deeper into the left wing, the expansive hallways and staircases took both of us by surprise.

"We should try not to be away for too long," I said, watching as you opened a door and shut it again after half a second's glance.

"The party's boring." You huffed, moving on down the hallway. "I'll go insane if I don't find something to occupy myself."

"Why don't you just make conversation," I offered. "You seemed pretty content when you were talking."

"Reginald was satisfactory. But his daughter was being troublesome. She wanted to introduce him to some of her fellow coworkers; he won't be open to much conversation the rest of the night. Needs to investigate a bit himself. He's unsure about how some of the male officers have been influencing his daughter." You pushed through another door and cursed. "Why does Mycroft need so many rooms."

"The man told you all that?"

"Oh, of course not. We were discussing Hemingway." You threw yourself up the stairs, skipping three at a time, while I stumbled to follow you. But without skipping a beat, you continued. "You seemed to be enjoying your conversation a little too much, on the other hand."

"What? You mean with Anne?"

You turned to shoot me one of your annoying looks. I broke into a wide grin.

"Is that jealousy?" I laughed. "Is Sherlock Holmes jealous?"

"I'm not jealous." You insisted, disappearing around the bend. "I'm a drama queen. I need my fair share of attention."

"You've gotten your fair share of attention the past week. Hell, the past six months," I grumbled, limping my way up. "Anne's a nice girl."

"Too nice. Lestrade's after her for her hips. If he wasn't he'd see how obviously fake she is. Trying so hard to be charming. She has one of those pestering all-too-bright smiles."

"Yep. Definitely jealous."

"I'm not jealous."

"I can deduce things too, Sherlock."

"I've never had much of an appreciation for feminine beauty. They all seem the same. Loud, happy, simple. Dull."

"What about Irene Adler? She wasn't like that."

"The Woman was a prostitute and professional blackmail artist, she's not a good example of my better judgement." You stood at the top of the stairs, holding the door open and waiting for me. You had a little bit of contempt in your eye as you watched me. "Can't you walk any faster? It's only psychosomatic."

"Psychosomatic or non-psychosomatic, it's still painful." I glared, walking past. "You of all people should know that."

"Whatever." You buzzed straight past me and started to poke through doors again.

"You could've talked to Lestrade," I continued. "He seemed bogged down in work, you could've helped him out. Gotten a few new cases, hmm? Work is pretty slow right now, isn't it?"

"I don't care about new cases, I just want to find this damn study." You growled, opening another door. This time, you gave a short chuckle, remarking "Here we are." You stepped inside carefully, not bothering with the light-switch, immersing yourself in the thick darkness of the room. I pursed my lips and came in after you, leaving the door open behind me to let some light in. But you didn't like that, and kicked the door shut with a distinctive click.

"Sherlock?!" I thrust my hand out in front of me, looking for something to take a hold of. "Sherlock, turn on the light. I can't see a bloody thing."

I felt your hands slide around my waist, and I chirped a little louder than I'd meant to. You shushed me, lowering your head so that your curls fell across my cheeks. "The party's dull, John."

"Sorry, I didn't plan it," I grumbled back.

"Entertain me."

"Sherlock, not here. Not now."

"John."

The way you breathed my name made my knees weak. You must've felt my pulse flutter, because you pulled me closer, rubbing your hands across my sides.

"Where are we?" I asked, bracing myself against you.

"The study."

"Mycroft's study?" My heart dropped into my stomach. "Oh, God, Sherlock. No, no."

"Yes." You pulled me back, dropping onto a sofa, and I fell on top of you, my legs twisted across your lap. I tried to push you away, but you grabbed my wrists and pushed me down into the cushions. The thought of doing this in Mycroft's personal study stirred up something in the pit of my stomach, and the darkness was starting to severely disorientate me.

"Sherlock, stop, hold on." I angled my knee to press against your side. "We can't shag in Mycroft's-"

"Mycroft has been treating me like a fool from the day that I moved back into the flat. He deserves to have sweat between his velvet pillows." You pushed my legs out of the way and settled between them. My heart skipped a beat and I reached out to grab your shirt, but instead grabbed your hair. You grunted.

"This isn't decent," I whispered firmly, "People will talk."

"People have already been talking. We're engaged."

"It isn't right. I don't want to." I batted your roaming hand. "Stop it. Stop touching me."

"Why? You're enjoying it." You fondled the zipper of my trousers. I wrestled against you, but you pinned my wrists above my head, and I couldn't break free. "Just once, John. Then I'll be satisfied."

"You'll make a mess of his study. Are the gifts even in here?"

"Where is your belt."

"Damn, Sherlock! You know that's not my belt!"

"Sorry."

You loosened your grip and I pulled my arms free, angrily grabbing at the front of your shirt. We grappled, our panting becoming heavier, the little room progressively getting warmer. But you eventually won out, your lips pressing hungrily against my neck while I caught my breath again.

"Alright, alright..." I rubbed your back, trying to relax your grip on my knee. "If we're going to, y'know... could you at least pull back the curtain or something. I can't see a thing."

"Since you asked nicely." You huffed, then got up. Your footsteps echoed across the room, and you carefully tied up the window-shade, allowing the light from the London street to stream in. The glass was streaked with rain, casting strange shadows all over the room, streaming through your curls and dancing across the wallpaper. The dark red loveseat came into view, with a few of the pillows having already fallen off. Looking further made me feel even more guilty. Everything looked expensive, clean, well-polished. Except you, standing beside the window with your ruffled shirt and dangerously constricting trousers.

I swallowed, shifting as you came closer. Heat washed across my body as you eased back down on top of me.

"You never were one to approach sexuality subtly, were you?" I chuckled nervously. But it was incredibly true. You had never slept with anyone before me, and so I was still a sort of guinea pig per se for your sexual escapades. Because it was a relatively new experience for you, I gave you some grace for not knowing how to correctly initiate it. But besides, wasn't exactly normal for me, either. I hadn't bothered with anything homosexual since Afghanistan, and it wasn't necessarily textbook there either. You and I sort of figured it out as we went along, just doing what felt right and what the other person liked.

It would only be honest to say that sex was an important part of our relationship now. It was a major defining point of our change between flatmates and lovers, and the sexual attraction between us fanned the flames of the relationship we previously had. Our sex was imperfect and sometimes got sloppy, but it was intimate and satisfying for both of us. It was different from the sex I'd had with my girlfriends over the years, obviously, but I didn't mind. You could melt me with a word, and the warmth of your hands was intoxicating as they took every part of me captive.

Gently, you pushed up my jumper and began to kiss my chest, your lips wandering from my stomach to my ribs, nibbling and sucking over fresh skin and old hickey-marks. My heart beat faster. You slid my pants down, adjusting yourself to kiss the dip in my waist, and I shivered. A short groan escaped my lips before I could stop myself, but you just smiled, your eyes filled with lust.

"It feels good, doesn't it." You smirked, positioning yourself a little farther back.

"Bastard," I muttered, leaning my head back.

You tsked, lowering yourself. My face flushed as I grasped the pillows beneath me. My stomach rolled, confused between the pleasure and the guilt of intimacy in Mycroft's rooms. I felt like something was wrong, but I couldn't place where it was coming from. Was someone else here? Maybe there was a camera? or had we left the door unlocked? But soon enough I realized that the fear wasn't coming from anything around me. I was too dizzy. I couldn't seem to catch my breath.

I let you continue, running my fingers through your hair, hoping the uneasiness would pass. I closed my eyes and concentrated on my breathing and the warmth of your hands on my hips. The colors of the room swirled behind my eyes, accompanied by a sharp wave of nausea. I grabbed a fistful of your hair, and you stopped.

"Sherlock, quit it..." I wheezed, lifting my head.

"I've barely even started." You pushed yourself up, wrapping an arm around me and pulling me close to you. Your heat made the nausea even worse, and I tried to push you off, but I was too weak. My lungs seemed to tighten, refusing to allow air in, no matter how hard I panted. I let my head fall back against the arm of the sofa, and you nuzzled my throat, unaware of what was happening.

Your weight became too much. I clawed at your hair, shoving my knees up into you sides as hard as I could manage. There was a sudden surge of panic as black squares started to build in the corners of my eyes, adrenaline shooting through my veins like poison, spinning faster and faster.

You fought me at first, but then realized that something was wrong. Your held my hands to my chest, trying to calm me down, but nothing helped. My throat constricted and my heart raced even faster. I struggled to hear you as blood thundered in my ears.

"John. Calm down. What is it?" You looked over my face, over my chest, frustrated, looking for a wound, for a problem.

But I couldn't breathe. All the oxygen in the room seemed to race away from me like water off a steep incline. My eyes darted around as the wall behind you collapsed, black blossoming from every direction. You cupped my face, pulling it close to yours, speaking loud and firm, but I couldn't hear you. I tried to yell, but my voice had rushed away too. The only thing that I could think was heart attack. Heart attack. I was going to die. I was having a heart attack. I was dying. I was going to die.

You were shouting now, but I couldn't see you. I couldn't hear you. My feet went cold, then my legs, then my arms. My lungs collapsed and my heart went numb. Vertigo and blackness swallowed me, and like a light-switch, I was gone.

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Next chapter up on Sunday.