A/N: Not entirely confident in this guys, my brain is kind of fried.

It's my birthday, I am officially an adult in the eyes of the US government! Yay?!

Anyways, I've had a very busy day but I wanted to put this up because I promised you all a chapter today. Hope it isn't as terrible as I think it is, I'll edit it and update when I have the time!

Hope your weekends are fabulous; leave a review if you wish! They make me feel oh so warm inside!

Part Four - Taste

When you're first-born, everything is new. Your senses are overwhelmed, essentially taking in everything as it is thrown at you, like a puppy being trained simultaneously how to sit, stay, beg, roll-over, shake and perform stunts with a hoola-hoop. Your mind forces you to forget things, to only remember the experiences it deems important. For example, Sherlock could remember he hated the taste of cough-syrup – more aptly described as pure acid down the throat at the pace of molasses – and peas. He remembered he loved cotton-candy - billowing fluffs of sugar which, at six-years old, he secretly imagined were clouds – and dark chocolate. He remembered those tastes, the joy and the dopamine spikes associated with them, and reveled in them even now.

He could not recall, even in his extensive mass of memory build-up, ever tasting anything like John Watson.

It was a particularly drugging sensation, the feeling of pure John on his lips, on his tongue. Soft yet sure, as if this kiss were simply experimental. But it wasn't, no. There was no experiment here, no way to collect data when the pure sensual pleasure overwhelmed all. Sherlock's full-lips brushed those chapped ones like they were two live wires; he was careful, almost afraid either one of them could spark and electrocute the other with their tightly coiled passions. Two more successful brushes and he felt John's mouth open to draw in a not-so-steady breathe. It was like a song.

Sherlock's tongue peeked out of his own mouth to taste at that bottom lip as it hung temptingly before him; there was the slight hint of mint on the tip of his taste buds, the feeling of the air in that ever-diminishing space between their mouths going heated. That tongue made a lazy sweep from corner to corner, then Sherlock tasted those two dips at the corners, feeling the laugh lines on his friends –Boyfriend? Lover? Amour? – face beneath his cheek. There was something terribly intimate at tasting the corners of John's mouth, a place only the man's own tongue had been, and something inside Sherlock hoped no one else had tasted this before. He wanted to be the first, the only, though he knew he was not.

The need to make John forget every single encounter besides this one was raging - the want to keep John entirely focused on the now, just as helplessly focused as he was. It spread through Sherlock like a wildfire. Suddenly the hunger consumed him, built him up yet broke him down into animalistic passion. Without a second thought to delicacy, Sherlock's tongue swept in between those still parted lips to plunder there roughly. Twin moans from both men rumbled out and it was like the steel-plated dam had broken.

There was the brief wisp of a thought here, the faintly glowing observation there, but other than those truly rare images, Sherlock's mind had gone alarmingly blank. It was as though he had only ever had chalk to use on the board of his mind, and John had had the eraser all along. More likely, John was the eraser.

The questions were the only things other than the repetitive notion of JohnJohnJohn vibrating in his mind. Questions such as, when had John's mouth been infused with sweet wine? How long could the taste of strawberry jam remain on the roof of it? Could one person cause another to physically choke from this invasive kissing? Sherlock hoped desperately the answer was no to the last, as he never wanted to stop exploring this cavern of novelty, of infinitely unique tastes. There had to be some kind of alcoholic quality to this, some kind of drug dissolved onto the slick walls of John's mouth. There had to be an explanation to this utter dizziness Sherlock felt, to the way he wanted to both rest here forever but move on to taste the man's every pore, ever bump or scar, ever blemished yet perfect inch. There was nothing Sherlock didn't want at that moment, short of being stopped now.

He doubted he could even if he tried.

If John had to compare it to anything, later he would say it was like kissing some kind of storm. Sometimes you could taste the eye and it was this honey-smooth, quietly sexual mix. The next second it would be all exotic spices, unadulterated wilderness and lava-laced scorching of tongues battling for dominance. He brought his hands up to grab onto the front of Sherlock's shirt, held on though he knew he was wrinkling that silk. Groaning, he let those lurid thought he had been indulging in earlier flood back like a tidal wave.

"God, Sherlock," it was somewhere between a plea and a promise, as though John had lost all knowledge of words and been reduced to a single driving thought, a single neuron repeating that one name over and over like it was encoded on the inner-most genetic messages. Maybe the genius' being was truly a part of John's now, as their tongues tangled for dominance. John broke away from that scorching mouth to trail lazy, sampling kisses and licks from throat to collar. He pulled at that posh shirt to try and find the secret delicacies which his in the nook between pectoral muscles, the beginnings of sweat tasting lightly salty under his plundering tongue.

The gasp and thrust the ex-soldier felt made him hot. The look he saw when he glanced back up, tongue laving at a pure-skin tasting nipple, made him humble.

Kissing a light trail up to that mouth once more, John sucked at that full lower lip like it was made of ambrosia; it tasted like immortality.

He sighed as Sherlock's hesitant tongue came out to outline his lips, instinctively parting them for this man he could never say no to, subconsciously or not. There was a lighter air dancing between them now, something which now waltzed with the need and found common denominators in the men's hearts.

When he felt Sherlock's hands frame his face, John sucked lightly at the tongue in his mouth. When he felt those dexterous fingers make their way into his hair and tug, it was his turn to moan. When the hands left his head to crawl lazily under his jumper, circling his shoulder blades, John felt his back arch to meet them.

This was a game of exploration, one Sherlock was becoming better and better at playing.

Slowly removing the doctor's jumper, the detective took a moment to observe and deduce anything he could from those scars, those muscles, those small bits of hair which trailed down from the man's abdomen to places Sherlock had yet to see… a sharp knife of desire penetrated his stomach and Sherlock nearly moaned just from the teasing view of what lie ahead. But did John want that?

"John, I-"Whatever he was going to say turned into a whimper, a weak surrender to the biting teeth at his neck.

With that silk cover off and on the floor, keeping the discarded jumper company, John was free to taste at those hidden places. The shadow of ribs tasted like the warmth of a sun, abdominal muscles tasted like rainwater, that tempting belly button tasted like pure Sherlock. He felt the rumble of a groan against his cheek as his tongue played inside that hole, felt the hands in his hair suddenly pull up.

Apply one soft kiss to John's fantastically clever lips before moving on to that strong jaw, those well-muscled shoulders, and those ever-sharp ears. He pulled teasingly at one lobe, feeling the gasp on his own neck. His mouth stopped moving and his heart nearly stopped beating as he heard John's whispered plea, in a voice not entirely steady.

"Touch me."