A/N: I decided to upload this in the middle of the night so I knew I would have to go to bed and not have to look at it again for another 12 hours… I can hide away in fear for at least that long… hopefully it doesn't stink as much as I seem to think it does? Please let me know. First attempt ever at slashy smut ever. Tell me what you thought? Please?

Oh, yeah, by the way, warning! The rating HAS been changed to M; proceed with caution! Also, my translations are all offline; I do speak a bit of French but honestly I was just lazy. Anyone who can correct me PLEASE do.

Johns Lesson in French

Sherlock felt his grin widen as John looked at him with attractively wide eyes.

"Sherlock, why are you doing this?" the shorter man looked nicely baffled, exactly what the other was hoping for. His voice had just a touch of pleading in it; wonderful.

"Tout ce que vous voulez dire, John?" the detectives grin was now devilish. [Whatever do you mean, John?]

The taller man was taking slow steps towards his friend, who was nervously attempting to stand his ground. Ah, the bravery of a soldier…

John didn't feel a speck of brave. He felt targeted, stalked, cornered; he dared not look at the taller man. With his hands clenched and his heart racing, he damned the whole French language and that baritone voice; the voice which was now laced heavily with seduction; it practically dripped, rained, poured sexuality.

"Je parle français tout le temps, mais qu'est-ce qui est différent aujourd'hui?" His cat-eyes were teasing and John's held panic as Sherlock's words traveled lightly down his spine; it caused all the blood to travel and pool dangerously low. [I speak French all the time, what's so different now?]

"OH, No; I heard that: you said 'different'. I'll tell you what's different, you arse: you weren't playing fucking cat and mouse before and you weren't looking at me like you're going to eat me alive."

The doctor swallowed hard and tried to hold his chin up as the man wearing the attractive purple shirt raised one eye-brow suggestively.

Indeed, Sherlock thought fleetingly, he had never tried to use the French language like this before. He had been fed-up with John dancing around him like a wimpy teenager, he had been very tired, thoroughly bored of just waiting for the doctor to simply look, really look, and see: Sherlock was attracted to him. And what's more, the dark-haired detective knew that the feeling was very much mutual.

He'd done his research, though it was exceedingly tedious and surely killed thousands of healthy brain cells. In the secrecy of his room he had used his (or perhaps it was Johns? Not important) laptop to search 'Seduction techniques'. Really, he only had to type the first word and scroll down once; apparently this was a popular topic among the commonwealth. Curious, he scoured through the many pages; most meant for women. He decided that since John's experience was most likely limited to that particular sex those articles were bound to be the more helpful. Many turned out boring, telling him to 'dress to impress' [done; John had a great appreciation for the tight-fitting suits, obviously] or to take the 'apple of your eye' (Sherlock shuddered inwardly and repressed the urge to vomit) out on expensive dates [did interesting cases and thrilling trips count? He decided they would have to]… it was all stupid, irrelevant drivel that did not help him.

Then he found some interesting advice from a particularly racy site:

'Be exotic. '

Hmm. Promising.

'Make him want you.'

Getting better…

'A real woman knows how to… Give a man an erection as hard as a December icicle… from across the room!'

Finally, he thought with a triumphant smile. Something useful!

That is what had inspired Sherlock to develop this particular battle plan: cause John Hamish Watson to want desperately you by speaking French; Erection sure to follow.

So far, it was working beautifully.

"Est-ce que je vous rend nerveux?" [Am I making you nervous?]

"Sherlock…" John felt his back hit the wall of the hallways and he cursed the fact he couldn't just disintegrate right there. If Sherlock was any closer, he was certain he'd simply melt into a gooey pile of lusting mush right then and there.

"Puis-je vous faire chaud?" [Do I make you hot?]

"God, just stop," now feeling the heat of his friend's body, even though his eyes had closed, John knew Sherlock was close. Too close. The blood was pooling below the waist-band; that was the most probable reason for his dizziness, he was sure of it. He had to stop this, he had to do something; he lifted a hand to the silk shirt in front of him but instead of pushing it only grabbed hold tightly.

"Mais je me suis amuser…" it was a hot whisper loaded with innuendo and it made John's head spin. He didn't know what it meant but it sounded… just sounded like every neuron in his brain had fired all at once. [But I'm having fun]

"Et il fonctionne," the last word had the effect of a punch to the abdomen and John blew out the breath he had held for who-sodding-knows how long. He was a goner. [And it works]

As Sherlock closed the distance between their bodies, any blood left in the shorter man's limbs was swiftly pushed to his loins and still lower to his hardening erection. Hair stood up on the back of his neck as long pale fingers ghosted over the side of his face, tracing shadows.

"Arrêter d'être stupide et pense," as Sherlock leaned in slowly the foreign words meant nothing; it was their sound, their cadence, the promise they held in them which caused John's eyes to close. John had fought in a war, he had bravely taken lives to protect loved ones but it was too much effort to keep those heavy lids open. It was too much effort to fight this time. [Stop being stupid and think]

Those pale cupids-bow lips hovered over thin chapped ones, "Arrêter d'être stupide et embrasse-moi." [Stop being stupid and kiss me].

John felt Sherlock's breath like it was rain on the dry desert of his lips; he needed to relieve the pain he now felt in his lower abdomen. He needed this and he wouldn't let the attraction rule him. Sherlock was his friend; he probably had some experiment going on; turn on the flat-mate and try to determine the amount of time someone can hold a fucking erection before the blood begins to circulate again…

Giving the pained looking man a shake Sherlock looked into John's now opened eyes; the dilated pupils told of desire and arousal but there was a fear in them as well… why was John afraid?

"Idiot," the word was the same in either language but John was inclined to believe he hadn't truly heard it, that it was his imagination; long fingers grabbed hold of his hips and pale lips met his. All thinking stopped as if the batteries had gone dead in his mind.

It was hard and uncoordinated and demanding but God, John had never felt so hot. Lips fused with his; he could feel a tongue sweeping low and outlining his lip as if there were secrets hidden in that shape, coded messages Sherlock had to decipher. John moaned, and then the gasp which escaped his mouth, as Sherlock bit his lower lip none-too gently, caused it to part invitingly. Immediately taking advantage of the opening, the detective's sharp tongue, the one used to cut people down or slice their pride in half, slid softly over John's, exploring as if somewhere inside the detectives mouth lived an undiscovered taste or flavor.

Ending the connection, Sherlock smirked at the sound of John's protestant groan. Moving his mouth instead over the strong jaw of the shorter man, Sherlock reveled in the feeling of scratchy stubble on his lips. "Cesser de mentir à vous-même, John," the words left tiny fires on skin, causing a slow burn to course down the spine. The doctor's breath came out in a shuddering huff and he almost laughed as he realized the front of his pants was beginning to feel uncomfortably tight. [Stop lying to yourself, John].

Full lips kissed the delectable spot hiding between jaw-line and neck, tongue traced the curve of the bone there; it played lightly over the shell of an ear before whispering in that richly posh voice, "Je veux que tu me touches." The sounds danced a sexy waltz on the doctor's eardrum, the cool breath over the dampened earlobe caused shivers through the entirety of the nervous system; John gasped and, as if he could have understood the promise-laced words, laced his fingers into the mass of hair which now bit and sucked at the corded muscles of his neck. [I want you to touch me].

Sherlock moaned lightly as his hands tugged up the horrendously patterned shirt, exposing hard, tanned chest. Plunging under the annoying garment he spread his palms out wide, feeling ridges of scars, feeling the bumps of ribs and the tightening of tantalizing muscles. There was also the feeling of an erratically beating heart… this is why he slowed. This was John; something, someone, worth taking cares with. "Je te desire," he said quietly against one blushing cheek, hoping his words of longing were as true and honest sounding as they felt. "Je te desire," whispers against closed eyelids, Sherlock moved still closer till their bodies brushed against one another; the slightest of touches with the effect of a bomb. "Je te desire." [I want you]

John's hands were no longer exploring Sherlock's mass of hair but gripping; he dragged the bowed lips back to his own and tongues went back to battle, a war for dominance. He felt the hands on his hips tighten, fingernails digging into skin in desperation. John bucked at the electric sensation, breaking the kiss as his head fell back against the hard wall. The taller man pushed up against him, the moan torn from John was almost pleading as he felt Sherlock's own arousal roll against his own. His cock was throbbing, awake and aware and he hadn't been this turned on in… the train of thought was lost and replaced by lights and bells and whistles as a hand rubbed against the zip of his jeans suggestively.

A long, pale finger traced an outline around the pressing muscle, as if he were mapping out an exotic new world. Closing his eyes, John could feel soft, teasing kisses trailing down his throat to his collar-bone. Breath played lightly at the skin as Sherlock whispered, voice deeper than ever, "apprends-moi à se sentir, John..." Quickly unbuttoning the front of the shirt with impatient fingers, Sherlock traced the lines in John's chest with tongue and touch and kiss. Thin fingers moved over ribs which caged heaving lungs, traced the lines of battle-wounds… John gasped as Sherlock kissed each rib, made each scar feel like a trophy with only his lips worshiping them. [Teach me how to feel, John…]

"Sherlock… God, I need-" he was interrupted as an unmanly whimpering sound ripped out of his tightening lungs; Sherlock's nipping teeth left a pleasing red mark on the defined hip of his doctor and, as John looked down with half-closed eyes, his efforts were rewarded with an arched back. Taking the hint, the silver eyes never left the deep blues as careful fingers make quick work of zip and button, pulling both trousers and pants off at once.

"…effacer toutes mes pensées," Sherlock's voice ran over the inside of John's thigh and the older man didn't care to stifle the surprisingly imploring exclamation which answered; he could have died there with no pride left and been happy. […and erase all my thoughts]

Sucking the skin between naval and groin the detective felt a tremble as he moved lower, the body before him erupting into gasps and unintelligible whispers and strangely arousing profanities. Sherlock's hand rubbed teasingly over the throbbing length before him. John's hands fisting in the curling brunette hair; he rocked his hips uncontrollably, feeling those long dexterous fingers wrap around his aching cock.

Stroking roughly, Sherlock could see John on that ledge of control. He wanted to see the ever composed man fall, wanted to see him let go. Licking the head teasingly, he tasting salt and sweat and the pure taste which could only be distinguish as unadulterated, uncensored John. The combination was better than any aphrodisiac. He took a deep breath before placing hot kisses up and down the length, "ah, John, vous êtes ma toxicomanie; je t'aime, je t'aime..." [You're my addiction; I love you…]

"Fuck, Sherlock… I'm almost…" John never wanted the torture, that slow burn, to end but he felt the tightening, knew the impending orgasm was threatening to erupt at any moment. He felt a tongue- Sherlock's fucking genius tongue- run a slow journey up the length of his cock and John could swear he saw stars as he threw his head back intensely, his hips thrusting outwards to meet it. The sensation as the younger man took John's entire length in his mouth was violently arousing and he barely had time to register his breaking before the blinding orgasm raced through him.

Sherlock lapped at the remnants of John's fall. He smiled devilishly up at the man who was still gasping for air. "Encore une fois…"

John let out a ragged breath which ended in a laugh. "Encore, huh? You fucking… beautiful, infuriating man you're going to kill m-"

He was cut off suddenly as Sherlock captured his lips again. John could taste an erotic mix of himself, Sherlock and tobacco.

As the taller man pulled away, his eyes reflected both danger and want; John decided he'd never liked another combination more.

The voice was a deep rumble, thick with newly found longing and barely restrained arousal:

"Mon tour."

[My turn]

A/N: I regret nothing.

Except that's a lie, the only thing I regret is deciding I would definitely post this cos' I need to get over this fear of posting smut… Pleasepleaseplease, tell me anything at all, reviews will ease the nerves and anxiety after posting this! You could be the reason I don't die of a heart attack brought on by the fear of terrible work!

Also, I did do research on seduction techniques for Sherlock and yes, one site actually referenced a December icicle… most really were boring though.

Just a side-note, posts should be back to daily now. Thanks for reading, I really do hope you enjoyed it at least a little bit.