A/N: A bazillion thanks be to starrysummernights for being absolutely freaking brilliant and reviewing a ton of chapters; I beamed like the sun all day, they made me so very happy, truly. Thankyouthankyouthankyou!

As a result, I happily stayed up really late to write a long smut scene ;D

Hope you enjoy, please drop a review! I'm not lying when I say they all make me smile as wide as the Cheshire cat!

Warning: Adult Content ahead! Avert thine eyes, young ones!

Coming Home

"Sherlock, I'm back."

John came into the flat, the early morning light expecting to find his friend and colleague sitting at his leather chair or spread out on the couch reading some boring book about ash or something. Instead, the doctor came in to find neither to be true; Sherlock didn't seem to be home at all.

Walking through the living room to the kitchen, he found it surprisingly clean. Sure, he had only been gone a day but it only took Sherlock about an hour to have their counter bloodied or burned. He'd popped in downstairs to see Mrs. Hudson, ask her if everything had gone well while he was gone; nothing but lots of stomping and fussing about, she had told him. It was better than bombs and gunshots.

Knocking softly on Sherlock's door, John received no reply. He opened the door slowly, peering around the corner to see an empty bed. "Hm…" looking back down the hall then back into the empty room, he sighed. Must have gone out, he thought. Taking out his phone, he texted quickly 'Where are you?' not really expecting an answer. Probably at the morgue ignoring Molly for the company of cadavers. Giving a small smile at the thought, the ashen-haired man went into the bathroom and striped off his clothes, putting on the shower.

The water ran down him enveloping him in hot and cold all at the same time; his face was hot with the steam but as the water hit the back of his neck in that one spot, it made his body shiver in freezing heat. He ran shampooed fingers through his hair, mint scented soup over the lines and ridges of his muscled body. Holding his breath and closing his eyes, he let his face fall under the stream directly. It was like being under water, except all the water was rushing down on you. Perhaps it was more like being below the surface of a waterfall.

It was over quickly though, army habit. Not bothering to get dressed, he threw on his blue robe and walked to his room as he rubbed his damp hair with a towel.

Going into the bedroom and closing the door behind him, he looked up and stopped in his tracks. The hands which had been holding the towel up dropped mid-air as John sucked in a breath.

The morning light poured through the window at the farthest side, illuminating the bed in a kind of foggy blue light which would hurt the eyes upon opening. The door was slightly opening, letting in a gentle breeze and the sounds of the waking city around them; the cars and footsteps of the common wealth below them was soon a dull noise behind the sound of John's own heartbeat in his ears. It was getting louder.

His eyes were glued to the middle of his bed, where a dark mass of curls was starkly visible on the plain white sheets. One hand rested under the angular face, an almost innocent position like that of a child who hadn't heard of the boogeyman yet. The pale length of torso connected to the body was spread out like a cats, lazily yet authoritative as though he was claiming ownership of the expansion. John could make out the outline of angular hips and long legs under the mercifully placed thin sheet which covered his… friends, lower half.

Steady breathing could be seen in the gentle rise and fall of Sherlock's chest, which meant he was, thankfully, still asleep. Moving as quietly as he possibly could – perhaps quieter than he knew he was capable of – John moved to the foot of his bed. The pale face was lit with that ethereal morning light, dark eyelashes outlining the fascinatingly shaped eyes. Like a cats, truly, angular and slashing. Everything about the man was sculpted, thought John fleetingly. Everything about him was so bloody exotic and interesting, so tempting and…

John gave a heavy sigh as his eyes ran over the gorgeous man in his bed. Sherlock had probably been going through the older man's drawers, exploring for the hell of it, and gotten tired. Simply meant to take a short bit of sleep, Christ knows he gets little to none most of the time. This was someone who could have anyone he wanted, bloody walking sex in a button-up shirt. Why'd he ever want a battered army doctor with suppressed PTSD and a bad addiction to thrill?

Taking the chance, the shorter man sat on the side of his bed carefully. He had barely moved the mattress but, even in sleep, it seemed Sherlock was observant as ever, even in his sleep. The younger man stirred slightly, grunting. He didn't seem to wake, as far as John could tell, but those bowed lips parted slightly. Suddenly, with the effect of a sucker punch to the abdomen, there was a breathy whisper from those lips, "John…"

He was about to turn and ask the man beside him what was wrong, then he froze, realizing what had just happened. Sherlock had said his name. In his sleep. In a not-so-innocent way, for that matter.

Turning to face Sherlock, he watched as the ever-composed detective opened his mouth again and sighed, his eyes blinking fast. He watched as those full lips smirked groggily, and a hand raised to trace the outline of John's jaw. Apparently Sherlock was still drugged by sleep because the vitally aware and awake man above him was truly flabbergasted as he felt the smooth, long fingers holding his jaw pulling him down.

Soon John was close enough to feel Sherlock's sleepy, shallow breath on his lips. The older man's tongue peeked out to trace his own lip as if trying to taste that expulsion of air. His tongue felt dry, his blood felt hot and his stomach felt knotted and tight, as if he would explode right there just from-

"John…"

The train of thought was interrupted as he felt – tasted – his own name on his lips. He groaned helplessly and hoped beyond hope he hadn't ruined it. Months if fantasies, of sexual frustrations and questionable thoughts all came to a head and shattered in the striking force of this one moment in a mid-morning sunbeam, through a cracked window that needed washing. It all paled, fucking bleached, in comparison to the heady rush John felt course through his body as the hand – still on his jaw – pulled down.

Everything was blue and grey and fog and light as lips met, thin against full. The latter parted slightly with a sudden intake of breath while the others were frozen in place. Was Sherlock still sleeping, was he aware they were actually kissing, was he dreaming, or were they both dreaming? John decided if this was just some kind of dream, he didn't want to ever wake up. He'd happily live in this version of reality, the one where Sherlock's hand moved into his short hair and pulled possessively, the one where his tongue licked at John's bottom lip, the one where sensation was a drug.

John's unconsciously closed eyes opened as their lips parted, and he found himself looking straight into icy eyes so dilated the blackness nearly dominated the multicolored iris'. They looked aware and alive; John was, for the first time since he was at war, scared. Scared for Sherlock to realize what had just happened and push him away, to realize who he was and deny the feelings, to realize what this was and stop it.

He almost cried with relief as Sherlock sat up, grabbing the tanned face with both hands and bringing their lips together once more.

The kiss wasn't so much soft as it was hungry; Sherlock's lips, tongue, teeth were ravenous as if John was a buffet of only his favorite delicacies. The doctor was overwhelmed, bringing his hands up to the pale skin of the taller man's shoulders and holding on as though they were the edge of a cliff and he was about to fall.

Sherlock's hands, on the other hand, were on the skin of John's chest, those long fingers running over muscles and ribs, scars and light, dusty freckles. Everything was novel, everything made him want to kiss every bit of newly discovered mass. He had woken from one dream into another and he was undoubtedly sure he would certainly not wake up from this one. His tongue explored the inside of John's mouth, silk and velvet, all things soft and warm lived there. He wanted to see if his friend was like this everywhere.

Moving his mouth from thin lips to the corded muscles of John's neck, Sherlock groaned as he felt those strong hands grip his shoulder tighter. Bowed lips peppered soft kisses over collar bone before the sharp, sarcastic tongue licked a line inside the hollow of the throat. He smiled against the tanned skin as he felt the vibrations of John's ragged exhale. His long, nimble fingers brushed over a taut nipple and pinched there, eliciting a gasp from the opened mouth. Quickly replacing fingers with tongue, Sherlock laved the hard nub before nipping it lightly. To accompany the second gasp, he was rewarded with John's heartbeat hard and erratic under his mouth and the rock hard erection brushing against his abdomen.

Lips connected once more and now both men groaned. John had gotten over the ignition shock by now and was running fingers up and down the pale chest before him, trying to draw the same trembles and tremors which those clever hands seemed to drawn out of him. He licked his own line around Sherlock's mouth and felt a pulling on his arms. Realizing it was Sherlock removing the dressing gown, John quickly removed it.

Skin moved against skin, heat radiated and festered in any area left between. Laying back down, Sherlock brought John to stretch atop him. Never breaking contact, he kicked still covering his lower body down to the foot of the bed, releasing his own erection. Running fingers down to the small of his doctor's back, the detective pushed down till their cocks brushed against one another. Both men moaned at the heady sensation, the feeling of muted fireworks in their minds, in their loins. Sherlock captured John's lips once more as he reached between then and began to stroke their cocks simultaneously.

John gasped, "Sherlock," before he threw his head back at the sensation of a thumb flicking over the heads teasingly, spreading pre-cum generously. He began to move with the strokes of Sherlock's hand, his own fingers lost in the dense mass of curls, still holding onto that cliff; now he wasn't so much afraid of falling as he was of shattering completely.

He tore his mouth away to hide his lips against the long pale neck, kissing it feverishly before simply moaning and rocking against it weakly. John felt those oh so scientific and precise fingers around their cocks, stroking generously, enthusiastically, fucking hotly. Everything was becoming blurry as John felt his orgasm creeping up, felt Sherlock begin to shake below him. He was gasping out words into that pale ear next time him but he couldn't be sure if it was even English, he couldn't hear anything at all besides those deep moans and the pounding in his head. Suddenly and without warning, Sherlock's fingers rolled over the heads of their cocks and John lost what slippery grip he had held.

Closing his eyes tightly, he saw reds and purples and felt full of everything all at once; moaning out his lovers name in time with his release, John felt a hot spurt on his own chest and realized they had shattered together. It made him want to cry and smile at the same time.

Instead he collapsed onto the sweaty body below him, careful not to lay his full weight onto the skinny frame. He kissed lazily at the now reddening spot. John hadn't realized he had bitten. "Sherlock…"

There was a hum from the long, pale throat and John felt long, pale fingers tracing circles on his back. It tickled and trembled all at once. "Sherlock… I'm sorry if I, uhm… I don't know, hurt you or something."

The fingers stopped moving and John bit his tongue. He felt Sherlock move till they were face to face, one look of worry watching a look of confusion. Silvery-blue eyes studied the tanned face. Finally a small smile crept upon those cupid-lips. 'Impossible."

With a smile and a sigh, the still completely baffled man lied back down. He thought to himself, if this was all he got, if this was the only moment he would have, he could accept that. Just don't let it end yet. He kissed the corner of Sherlock's jaw and just held onto the taste, the feel, the everything. Trying to make it last.

Running a hand down the ribs and muscles lying next to him, Sherlock wondered how long it would take to convince the older man to let him move into this bedroom permanently. As he ran his palm over hip and felt a tremor, he decided it wouldn't take long at all. Thoroughly satisfied and surprisingly happy, the dark-haired man placed a kiss on the soft brow of his lover.

"Missed you, John."