A/N: I am in new territory, readers. I've WILLINGLY written more than two sentences of dialogue AND we're going to be seeing our boys get a bit steamier from here on in. Which I have never written before… wish me luck? This one kind of skimmed but I'm taking baby-steps! Rating will be going up to M as well. Anyways I listened to Finish Your Collapse and Stay for Breakfast by Broken Social Scene while writing this, feel free to do while reading if you'd like. I like the juxtaposition of hard and soft in it, kind of what I tried to do in this.

Thanks to all the followers and reviewers! Special thanks to TheReturned; she is a brilliant writer (go read her work right now, you're missing out on magical things!) and a lovely person :D

Warning: Language. And BAMF!John, I hope. That's what the aim was.

Transport

"I've told you before, John, my body is simply transport. I will give it nourishment when I feel it is needed and recharge time when it is required but I will not let it rule my mind!"

"You haven't eaten in four fucking days and you look like a walking corpse, Sherlock. I'm not telling you anymore I'm ordering you as your bloody Doctor, you need to take care of yourself!"

"I suppose I can't expect you to understand, you're so calm, so wonderfully vacant in that silly little head of yours."

"You complete and utter dick," with that, the shorter man walked quickly, right up to his flat-mate, so close their heavy breath mixed in the small bit of atmosphere still left between them. He practically growled, "I'll show you transport."

The usually cool eyes closed tightly, mere seconds after John brought their lips together. It was hard and smothering, causing the normally hyper-aware detective to think of nothing but JohnJohnJohn and wish for nothing more. The doctor was breaking his defense down bit by bit, bringing a monsoon to the desert where Sherlock's feelings had been left to burn and wither.

John almost smiled as he felt the low vibrating moan. He knew he had won this battle, and he'd be damned if he wasn't going to enjoy it.

The shorter man gripped the dark hair of his lover, twisting the curls in his fingers. Sherlock whimpered helplessly as John juxtaposed the tugging of his hair with the quick sting of teeth tugging on the detectives lower lip. There were too many sensations, too many things to compute it was all JohnJohnJohn and there wasn't anything-wasn't anyone- the detective could have wanted more.

Backing his flat-mate against the kitchen table, John could hear the clatter of beakers and test-tubes. For a second he thought Sherlock might become aware of his surroundings and stop this-God, John hoped he wouldn't stop this- but all thought was erased as Sherlock gripped the jumper-clad doctor tightly by the shoulders, pulling him closer.

Moving his lips and teeth and tongue slowly from jaw-line to ear-lobe then to pulse-points living below the skin of his friends pale neck, John made a slowly torturous journey; Sherlock could only stand there on ever-weakening knees, only able to gasp and shiver and give. He'd have given anything to the blonde doctor in that moment, have begged him twice to never stop. Every touch left the detectives blood throbbing in his head, colors dancing and leaping behind his tightly closed eyes. He was being engulfed, choked, burned and he couldn't think to care; couldn't think at all.

It was absolutely breathtaking.

Then John's lip returned to Sherlock's, giving another hard, dominating kiss before moving a hair away. The air was electric between them, both eyes were dilated and both bodies were hot. It was John who finally spoke, only a whisper with the effect of a scream:

"Transport, my arse."