A/N: I know I said I'd post 3 chapters yesterday but... enh. Here's this, hope it makes up for my lies. Do I post too often? Legitimate question: tell me.

Angsty BUT I'm not sorry for this! Remember: I'm taking baby-steps! I know I keep mentioning them as lovers and then reverting back but remember; these aren't in any particular order of events. I'm sure I'll get to every moment eventually (this does not seem to be slowing down in any way) but I just write them as they come to me, update as I finish. Hope you're enjoying it, even though I keep teasing you… Eventually you'll be subjected to my take on a steamier scene. Eventually…

Sherlock's Lesson in French

He was in a state of bliss, steam rolling around him like a blanket of warmth, wrapping him in some serene cocoon. It was his first shower in almost a week, as he and the live-in detective had been running after some cult of some overly excited murderers. It was so calming, so peaceful to just listen to the pattering of water falling over him, falling around him like a rain, and not that deep, grating, arrogant baritone…

"John?"

The ashy-blonde man in the shower jumped and nearly fell on his arse.

"John?!"

Swearing venomously the doctor turned off water and took three deep breathes…

"John!"

Third breathe ending in a growl, he pulled a towel over his hips and left the bathroom.

"What, what could it possibly be?"

His eyes were closed and his fingers were steepled under his chin in that upside-down 'V', indicating the detective was deep in thought. John closed his eyes tightly before looking up to the ceiling, praying to any diety at all to give him strength enough not to strangle the man before him. "Sherlock…"

The detectives eyes opened suddenly, "Ah, yes, there you are. I was reviewing a case for Lestrade and the killer left some evidence and I wanted your take on it." He held out a plastic bag containing a ripped piece of paper.

Taking the baggy John looked in and his brow drew together in confusion. It was only two words, written in red lipstick with a kiss left on the side. It read, 'French Kiss'

"A kiss is simply a kiss no matter what geological location, I don't see why anyone would have written- "

"Sherlock…"

"-such a preposterous thing. It makes no sense, what does it mean?"

John narrowed his eyes at the writing, then a figurative light-bulb clicked on in his head. With a quick look at the tall man before him, John did a mental high-five with himself before his face took on a smug expression. "Well, I know what it means."

Sherlock looked up quickly, "Really? Tell me, now, an alibi may very well depend on it." As his doctor's face erupted into a smile which seemed suspiciously gleeful, the detective's eyes narrowed. "What is it?"

"Well, I think it'd be better if I simply showed you what it means."

Still wearing nothing but his towel, the shorter man moved over to the leather sitting chair. His friend and lover leaned back as the shorter man bent over, his hands holding the arms of the chair. Sherlock's eyes widened only to close softly as he felt the first brush of lips against his own, soft as a feather. "John, what-"

"Shut up; I'm giving you a demonstration," he ordered and Sherlock was unable to form a coherent reply as his top lip was caught between John's before being bit lightly. "Surely as a scientist you can appreciate the premise…" the curly-haired genius whimpered as his ashy-haired doctor tugged more out of him; he could feel everything but saw only red mist behind his now tightly closed multi-colored eyes.

Sherlock tasted strawberry, soapy water, mint and John. He felt a rough unshaved cheek scratching on his pale skin but he couldn't care less because it felt -tasted- sinfully deliciously. There was an exquisite terror of losing control and Sherlock couldn't care less because he was lost in the raging need for everything; for John.

Though his limbs felt fluid he reached up and grasped still damp shoulders the younger man's thumb stroked fleetingly over the scar blemishing the left; it was the older man's turn to shiver and groan. The kiss deepened and Sherlock's lips parted instinctively, giving way to a flood of new sensations. There was the smooth taste which caused the most expensive of delicacies to pale in comparison; there was the velvet soft movement of tongues like silk on skin. The head which held more facts and technique than many could dream of went gloriously dark as Sherlock gave in to the only man who knew how to make him dumb with need.

John could feel the fingers tighten on him and God, that felt good. It all felt good, brilliant, just all around hot. If his body was any warmer the leftover drops from the shower would simply turn to steam.

Moving closer he tilted the angular head in his hands, forcing that beautifully long neck to stretch upward. He could feel himself brush against the posh shirt beneath his own bare chest; it made him want to rip it off the thin body it clung to. He could taste the gasps of the man below him-or were those his own? John gave a groan as his fingers clung to the curly locks and gave one final tug to Sherlock's full bottom lip

Far too soon for the detective, his lover pulled away. They were both breathing heavily and the doctor could see a rose-colored blemish staining the marble of those sharp cheekbones. The fancy white shirt was now ruffled and those usually impeccably pressed trousers were temptingly tented… John smiled triumphantly and stood straight, though his back was now throbbing and he was sure his towel was lying anything but flat.

"That, love, was a fucking good French kiss."

With that, John turned on his heel, the smile still lighting his face.

He only got past the refrigerator before he heard Sherlock spit out in a rather frustrated tone, "But why would the killer write that?!"