A/N: Sorry again for the delayed update. Will update twice tomorrow, on time! Hope you enjoy, leave a review if it so pleases you!

Warning: Mild sexual stuff, loads of fluff at the end because I'm feeling fluffy :D

Staring Contests - Part Two

There were times – though few and far between, mind you – when experiments did not go as planned for the genius that was Sherlock Holmes. Those rare occurrences were usually attributed to an unknown variable, a change in the conditionals or environment, or – though it truly did only happen on significantly rare occasions – when he simply did not anticipate the outcome.

Now, as a scientist and a detective, he enjoyed finding and discovering things he had not anticipated, had not expected. Most of the time.

The last experiment, the staring at John which had truly not meant to be a contest but certainly turned into one quite quickly, was one of those times he did not in fact welcome such an occurrence. A metaphorical middle-finger from the universe was what it seemed to be. Not only did you lose, Mr. Holmes, but you also let your impromptu lover/flat mate take a glimpse into that hilariously vulnerable mind of yours. Cheers, jolly good show, cats pajama's.

Except, Sherlock wasn't happy about that sudden Freudian slip of facial expression.

Not in the slightest.

So he dedicated a 27 hours to the simple task of staring. He stared at his the decapitated head (which was there for another experiment, obviously), stared at the flats resident skull, stared at the smiley face spray painted on the wall. Of course the other entity would always win because, well, they couldn't blink or look away. But nonetheless Sherlock was confident they would have, and thus confident he would win against an uncharacteristically seductive John Watson.

With his strong, hard jaw, his flowing, tightening muscles, his attractive bedroom eyes basically undressing the flabbergasted detective from across the table… Hell, Sherlock supposed, it wouldn't be necessarily easy. Though it shouldn't be hard either… a challenge.

He had a plan.

"John, come here; we have to try the experiment again."

"Which one is that? If you mean the one where you test the amount of time it takes for someone's arm to turn purple when blood circulation is cut off then, no. If you mean the one when you kept giving Copernicus catnip laced water to see if ingestion of the stuff would affect her heart rate, double no. If mean the time you-"

Cutting the increasingly annoying little man off swiftly Sherlock explained that no, it wasn't any of those experiments, it was the staring one. John asked if he was sure, a small grin on his face - an infuriatingly suggestive grin. Sherlock wanted to wipe it off.

They took their positions, and went to their quick preparations: John took off his cardigan, showing off his muscled physic with the patterned shirt he wore beneath while Sherlock unbuttoned the top two holes of his shirt – thus revealing in full that preposterously defined neck and collar-bone. He had also worn his purple shirt, which meant he was one up on John.

Wonderful.

The only-a-bit-suspecting man in the large red chair took a deep, nearly shuddering breathe when he brought his eyes to his companion. They hadn't kissed for the past 27 hours – John was right when he guessed Sherlock hadn't been in fact losing his mind as he stared at dead things, he was preparing for battle – hadn't really touched. Neither a peck nor a poke. It hadn't been a problem really, not till this very moment.

Sherlock had moved his chair close to Johns, was now kneeling with bended legs so he was just tall enough for John to tip his chin. So close that the doctor could practically feel the heat of the paler mans lithe body, practically feel that smooth skin under his fingers, practically hear those small gasps if only he was to grab those slashing cheeks and pull forward-

"John."

It was spoken not as a question or even a statement. It was more of an order and John was surprised as he felt the tingling of arousal fall down and center like a match lit on his lower back.

Another deep breath.

Then another.

"Okay Sherlock."

Now, it was true the detective had devised a wonderfully vengeful plan to seduce the obviously aroused Dr. Watson and torturously play coy till the man declared Sherlock was forever the winner of the contest of staring.

That plan was already in effect, had been since they had walked into the sitting room approximately eleven seconds ago.

Eleven seconds was about as long as the plan lasted before being completely tossed.

Neither knew who started it, neither knew whose hand was the first to slide to the leg, knee, thigh of the other. If you were to ask John, he'd say Sherlock. If you were to ask Sherlock he'd insist upon it being John.

Plan was forgotten the minute Sherlock realized they were nearly touching noses, that their lips were mere millimeters apart, that John's tongue had just snaked out to wet his anticipated lips. Their eyes were still completely open, still hadn't broken contact for approximately thirteen seconds. Sherlock's mind struggled to stay online as he felt that peppermint tasting breath play upon his own full lips.

Suddenly he felt fingers on his jaw bone; he felt his fingers in John's close-cropped hair. Then, just as suddenly, still with eyes open and the game still on, their lip met with a stutteringly real hunger which did in fact wipe the genius' over-active brain utterly and completely blank.

The only thoughts which protruded either man's minds was the repeated mantra of tongue, taste, feel, bite, lick, fuck, good, yes and win. Sherlock estimated their snogging (biting, sucking, tasting, tonguing) lasted for approximately 24 seconds before, with a very definite bite from a subconsciously determined detective and a very animal moan from a consciously given-up doctor, John's eyes fluttered shut.

Somewhere deep inside, Sherlock knew he won. John knew he'd lost. But as that long pale body climbed on top of the red arm-chair to join, feel, touch his lovers muscled frame, neither man particularly cared.

Somewhere deep inside, Sherlock knew he was disregarding an experiment for another human being, another man, a lover no less. But as those strong hands unclasp his belt, pulled down his zip and began vigorously stroking his hard, pre-come lubricated cock, he didn't particularly care.

Somewhere deep inside, John knew Sherlock was letting his mind step back, letting his body, his heart and his feelings take control. But as he felt that perfectly sculpted mouth leave small little blooms of broken blood vessels on his neck, felt those hips buck and that hand on his crotch grab hold, he didn't particularly care.

At least, not then.

Later, as he lay in bed with his arms around the sleeping younger man, John would remember. He would smile broadly at the realization he had this power, this gift to turn this rare specimen of walking brilliance into a ball of sexual fire, a gushing mess of soft sentiment or even, as Sherlock's heart beat against his own, into something perhaps a little more human than before… John smiled again and kissed that curled mop of hair as he came to a second realization.

He had never cared more.