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New chapter! Full of feels and then there is Lestrade!

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Chapter: 8 Consequences Of A Kiss

Whenever I'm alone with you

You make me feel like I'm home again

Whenever I'm alone with you

You make me feel like I'm whole again...

-"Lovesong" by Adele.

Sherlock waited for the door to close, went to the bed and slid down on the floor, resting his back against the edge of the bed.

John kissed him.

John.

Kissed.

Him.

Sherlock wrapped his arms around his folded knees and brought them closer to his chest.

It was his first kiss.

His first.

Kiss.

Why did John kiss him?

In the past there were people who offered him sexual pleasure in exchange for favours- mainly academic, but sometimes to stop him from revealing their crimes. He never accepted anyone; never felt attracted to anyone; never needed anyone. But John? John wasn't anyone. John was...John. John didn't ask for any favour. He didn't have any dirty secret to hide. Then why?

Why did John kiss him?

That night when John hugged him, he felt his body responding to that touch. He wasn't surprised not feeling any kind of revulsion from that touch. He knew he wouldn't. It was John, after all. But what made him stop and ponder was that he actually wanted that touch. He wanted more. At that time he blamed it on the situation that made him loose his control and let his emotions run wild. But what explanations or excuses he had now? The situation wasn't anything like before. It wasn't heavy or much serious. He was practically yelling at that stupid, stupid John one moment and the next, he was being kissed. By John. On the lips. Lips! Maybe it was the abruptness that pushed him into his Mind Palace momentarily; though highly unusual, it could be a possibility. But then again, if that was true then why didn't he push John away? Why did he want to get closer, to reach out and touch John?

Sherlock put hesitant fingers on his lips. They were still tingling from the sensation.

Why did he like it?

Maybe because it was something new and not unpleasant.

Why did he want to feel John's lips again?

Maybe for collecting more data.

And why his stomach was in knots?

Maybe it was the excitement before discovering the truth.

But why did John kissed him? What was his reason?

People defined kissing as an act of showing affection, love and acceptance. But ever since Sherlock learned to observe things, he saw people performing the act without meeting any of those terms. The world Sherlock roamed through didn't have a place for meaningless sentimentality. People touched each other for money; they kissed before stabbing the knife deep into their lovers' flesh. He tried to see the world through the eyes of a commoner, of someone who was not a freak like him, who was oblivious of the battlefield this city really was. He really tried to, but all he could see was pretended affections, veiled revenge, hopeless persuasion. It was Mycroft who taught him that caring was not an advantage; it was his experiences which proved this theory. But his world turned upside down when John entered his life.

John cared about him without any inhibition. He reminded Sherlock of all the positive things that Sherlock had forgotten, or at least tried to. And now he had kissed him.

But why?

Was it to shut him up momentarily? Or was it to show him that he-

There was a knock.

A pause.

Then, "It's me."

Of course, It's you, John. I would have recognized you anywhere.

After a while when there was another soft knock and another, "Sherlock, can I please come in?" Sherlock realized that he hadn't responded yet.

"It's open."

The door opened slowly, reflecting John's hesitation. Sherlock never averted his eyes from the door since he heard the first knock, and now he saw John standing there, one hand still on the door knob, the other clenched tight in a fist, resting by his side. Sherlock couldn't see his face clearly in the shadowy darkness of the room, but John's posture screamed guilt and embarrassment.

Is he embarrassed because he kissed me? Was it not what he wanted?

"Can I come in?"

"Yes." Sherlock noted that John was avoiding his eyes.

John took two steps into the room then closed the door after a moment's hesitation.

"I-uh- I wanted to talk to you."

"Alright."

He knew John was debating whether to come closer or not. When he exhaled audibly, Sherlock very discreetly shifted to make room for John, and seconds later John sat down beside Sherlock. It didn't escape Sherlock's eyes, despite the low light, that John flinched while folding his right leg.

He is distressed then, Sherlock thought.

John wrapped his arms around his folded knees just like Sherlock, and stared at the far wall. Sherlock kept watching him out of the corner of his eyes.

Nobody said a word for a long moment.

"I am sorry."

"About?"

"...about kissing you without your consent."

"Should I put the emphasis on 'kissing' or on 'consent'?"

No answer came.

"Why did you kiss me?"

"I am sorry."

"No, I don't need your apology, I need an answer. Why did you kiss me?"

John took a long moment to answer, "I...don't know."

Sherlock's jaw clenched tight.

"Oh. So, it was an impulse then. Or was it to shut my inane babbling?"

John was prompt to answer this time.

"No! No, it was not impulsive. I wasn't trying to shut you up. I wasn't, Sherlock. It wasn't."

Sherlock's eyes met with John's. They remained like that for a few seconds.

"Then why?"

John lowered his eyes and looked away. Sherlock waited for his answer.

"Do you know how difficult it is to see you from afar when all I want is to reach you, to touch you, to assure myself that you are real, you are with me, that I won't lose you again? Do you know how difficult it is for me to control my bloody emotions when you are just a touch away from me? You are the reason, Sherlock...you are the reason I wake up in the morning, thinking that I have a life to live, I have someone to live for." John had to pause to stop his voice from choking up. He tried to swallow the rising emotions down, to ease the pain he was feeling in his heart. "I kissed you because-because I couldn't not kiss you anymore. When you told me about your box, I couldn't control myself anymore, Sherlock. I had to touch you somehow; I had to express myself somehow, anyhow. I kissed you because I wanted you to know what you do to me, what your presence means to me."

Sherlock was no longer looking at John. He couldn't. His grip around his legs tightened. He stared at the floor and gulped. Sherlock knew what all these things meant. He knew exactly what it was that John wanted him to know. But he refused to accept the truth, wanted to be oblivious deliberately; he wanted more. There should not be any place for an assumption, any guessing, any 'maybe' or 'perhaps'. His desperate heart wanted to be assured more profoundly. More. More confession. More John. More proof that his doubts were baseless.

"It is called sexual frustration what you are feeling. It is normal and expected from those who have had active sexual lives. You had one too, before the accident. Now that you have recovered more or less, your body is craving its old habit. The reason behind that kiss was nothing but your need for physical contact. I should have expected you to under-"

He had to stop as he turned to face John. John was frowning yet there was so much pain in those blue eyes. They looked wounded, bruised. John looked as if someone had denied him his right to live. Sherlock's senses halted by the sheer vulnerability John portrayed. The instant pain he felt in his chest left him breathless.

"Please don't."

It was barely a whisper. If he wasn't sitting this close to John, he wouldn't even know they were words and not the murmur of the wind.

John shook his head slowly, in a dazed way. "Please don't."

All Sherlock could do was to look at this man who held the ability to break Sherlock at any moment yet who chose to be broken by Sherlock instead. This amazing, infuriating, unbelievable man.

"Don't put my emotions on the same level as sexual craving. Don't assume to know things which you clearly don't. No matter how smart you are, there are still some things which are beyond your grasp. I-I am not smart like you. I don't know how to be eloquent, how to look elegant. I don't know how to solve crimes, how to control my emotions. Hell, I don't even know whether I can pay my half of the rent next month...But I know what love is, you know. I know how to love. And I love you." John's eyes were no longer looking at Sherlock. He couldn't. He hugged his knees more tightly to stave off the mild shaking his body was experiencing. "You may not understand it, may not be able to analyze it with your deductions, may not..may not want it, but I love you and it is the truth for me. What I did was wrong, but it wasn't some hormone driven impulsiveness. It was my way of expressing my-my….." John trailed off.

Sherlock's mind was chaotic and blank at the same time. He felt too numb to move even a muscle. Silence prevailed between them until John's quiet voice broke it.

"I'll move out as soon as possible but it may still take some time to arrange a bedsit. No, you are not forcing me, or throwing me out, but what..happened today, I can't guarantee that it won't happen again. I am not some randy teenager, but I also can't take that risk. This was one of my reasons for refusing to share a flat with you before. So I…um…-"

"You want to leave me?" Sherlock had found his voice at last.

"No. But I have to."

"Why?"

"Because this is not what you want."

"Aren't you doing the same thing which you told me not to do?"

"What? What thing?"

"Assuming to know something which you clearly don't."

John's confusion was written all over his face. Sherlock looked away.

"You assumed that I would be ready to let you go before you went to that damned mission. You assumed that you wouldn't be good for me after you came back. You assumed that I would be at risk if you shared a flat with me. And now you are assuming that I don't like it, don't want it, don't need it. Do tell, John, what else do you think that I think?"

John gaped. "You liked it?"

"I need more data to conclude."

"More data? You mean…you want me-want me to- you want-"

Sherlock huffed in exasperation, "Yes, John, kiss. I want you to kiss me once again to confirm my opinion about it. I need more data; therefore, you need to ki-mmph"

This time, John really pounced on Sherlock, shutting that smart mouth by sealing their lips together. After a moment of coping with the suddenness, Sherlock melted into the touch.

John's right hand was tangled in Sherlock's curls and he cupped his face with his left. Sherlock grabbed the front of John's shirt for leverage. An involuntary moan escaped him when a supple tongue traced the curve of his still closed lips, trying to probe them open. John lightly bit the luscious bottom lip, gently sucking on it. Sherlock gasped and John's tongue plunged into his mouth without missing a beat.

Sherlock was drowning. His limbs felt numb, he couldn't breathe. With closed eyes, he grabbed what was in front of him and pushed himself towards it. As a result, he ended up almost in John's lap. Neither of them took any notice of it as John's tongue kept exploring Sherlock's mouth, and Sherlock kept losing himself in that sensation until John's tongue touched his and coaxed him to join. Sherlock's eyes snapped open at that, he let go of John's shirt and circled his arms around John's neck, just when John was about to withdraw, sensing Sherlock's loose grip. Sherlock finally kissed back.

The kissed started with renewed passion. Time had stopped for Sherlock long ago.

~0~0~0~

John rested his forehead on Sherlock's shoulder, panting and hyper aware of the painful pressure in his pants.

He had no idea how things had come to this. One moment he heard Sherlock talking about kissing, the next there was soft plump lips and a warm pliant mouth, and then he found himself with an armful of Sherlock, wrapped in a sheet, sitting on his lap!

Once his breath became less erratic and his arousal abated somewhat, the reality came crashing down.

He had kissed Sherlock. Again. More like snogged his tonsils out, actually. Without even asking for his permission properly. Oh. God.

But Sherlock's arms still clung to his neck and from the rising and falling of his chest, it was clear that he hadn't stop breathing like before. So, those were positive signs, right? Sherlock had asked for more data, more kissing, so he didn't take advantage of him, right? Right?

John slowly pulled away from Sherlock's shoulder to look at him. Sherlock's eyes were still closed. Those cupid bow full lips were wet, red, well kissed. John licked his own lips to capture the remaining taste of passion, desperation and…..love. Yes, he could say the word now. Love. He loved Sherlock, was in love with him. And the kiss was his heart's confession.

He brushed his thumb over that chiselled cheekbone. A shiver ran through Sherlock's body.

"Sherlock?"

In the silence, even a whisper sounded louder.

Sherlock's parted lips were the only reaction John received. He traced those lips with his thumb.

"Sherlock?"

The molten silver eyes slowly opened at last. Their usual sharpness was replaced by raw palpable emotions which increased John's heartbeat instantly. Sherlock's eyes focused on John.

"Hey."

"John?"

"Sherlock?"

"John."

"Are you alright? Sherlock?"

John received no response. Sherlock just kept staring at him and John held his gaze. He had the feeling that Sherlock was searching his own answers in John and John would let him have it. He opened his face as much as he could, and looked back at Sherlock.

He probably found what he was looking for as moments later Sherlock closed the distance between them, pulling John to himself with a viciously possessive force, and nuzzled his face in the crook of John's neck.

"Don't leave me."

Three words. Common. Much used. Conveyed emotions closer to need than romance. But John had all of his questions answered with those three words. The instant he heard them he knew his feelings were reciprocated. He knew that Sherlock had confessed, in his own way. John knew that Sherlock was his now.

But he had one more answer to give.

"Never."

John rested his cheek on Sherlock's messy curls and breathed.

He felt complete.

~0~0~0~

Greg Lestrade knew that the world had come to an end at last, when Sherlock's landlady warned him to give Sherlock some privacy.

"And why should I do that? That bastard doesn't even know what that word means."

"Oh! Such language. Didn't your mother teach you any manner?"

Greg eyed this small woman- who was currently escorting him to Sherlock's flat- very suspiciously.

"Are you sure you are Sherlock's landlady?"

"Oh, hush. Now, be a good lad and stand or sit over there. No no, not there, that's John's chair, Sherlock throws a tantrum every time someone else takes it. Oh, no not that one too, that's Sherlock's. Sit on the couch if you want, just don't touch the skull, dear. Alright?"

"I'll just stand here, thanks."

Wait, John? Who's... "Who is John?"

That must be Sherlock's room, Greg thought, as he watched Mrs. Hudson tip toeing towards a closed door down the hall.

"Oh, you'll know in a minute." The landlady replied casually, without turning, but then, as if on a second thought, she paused to look at him and added in a whisper, "they had a little domestic earlier, that' all. Oh, no need to look so worried, dear. You just go and make yourself comfortable, alright?"

Sherlock. Domestic. 'they'. What?

The DI rechecked Sherlock's message, in case he came to a wrong address. But it was 221B, and he was pretty sure there was only one Sherlock Holmes in entire England. Then...what the hell?

"Yoohoo, boys, come out now. You've got a visitor, Sherlock."

"Just a moment."

"Go away."

Greg heard two muffled voices yelling, and it didn't take a genius to tell which one belonged to the great git.

"They will come out in a minute. They have settled things down, it seems." The old lady beamed at him, making him think, once again, what the hell?

"Want a cuppa?"

That pulled him back from his musings.

"What? Oh no, but thanks."

"I'll leave you to it, then. But don't steal anything, young man."

An index finger shake followed that warning. Greg sputtered.

"I'm with the Yard!"

"Good for you but no stealing."

With that this bizarre woman left the room, leaving an exasperated Detective Inspector who, not for the last time, thought, what the fucking hell?

There were some muffled sounds coming from the still closed door. Greg strained his ears to listen.

"Not like that...why...put on something...no...just Lestrade...you're naked...no...fine... yeah..."

Greg wasn't sure if he should bang on the door, in case Sherlock was high again and someone, namely this John fellow, was taking advantage of him. Because, there was definitely something wrong when Sherlock Holmes was behind a closed door, naked with another man, refusing to put on clothes.

Before he could decide to do anything the door opened and glided in a very sulky looking but fully clothed Sherlock, followed by an ordinary but decent looking blond bloke, who looked extremely sheepish.

"Sherlock." Predictably, the greeting was completely ignored, but Greg didn't notice as he was busy assessing this John.

Sherlock stomped his way to his chair and flopped down. John scowled at him. Greg narrowed his eyes.

"No, he wasn't taking advantage of me; No, he is not a drug dealer; and no, I am not high." Sherlock said to the kitchen door, stroking his steepled fingers against his chin.

John scowled at Greg now who, in return, scowled at Sherlock.

"Sorry, mate didn't want to be rude, but that one," Greg gestured at Sherlock, "had put me through so much trouble in the past that I have to be suspicious all the time. I'm Greg, by the way."

John's scowl dissolved and he took the extended hand, introducing himself as, "John. John Watson."

"And you are...?"

"I'm-"

"He is mine."

Both heads jerked towards the speaker who was still staring at the kitchen door.

"I'm what?"

"He's what?"

John's gawked. Greg looked between them. Sherlock ignored them both, of course, and continued on.

"So, what brings you here this time? I seriously hope you didn't come here for the sole purpose of chit chatting about my private life."

And just like that he was on familiar ground again. Greg switched back to his DI mode without any further delay.

"There is a case."

"Of course, there is. There always is. But I won't take cold ones anymore."

"No, not cold. The investigation is ongoing for this one."

Sherlock was rocking softly back and forth, but as he heard those words, he sat completely still. The DI knew he had gotten Sherlock's full focus now.

"Five weeks ago the local police department got a complaint of a hit and run. The victim died on the spot an-"

"A hit and run? You brought to me a suspicious hit and run case?"

"No, it's not that simple, it's-"

"Nothing is simple for you imbeciles. If Scotland Yard is engaging themselves to solve a hit and run case then I must congratulate you for finally hitting the pit of- oh! No, it's not just a hit and run, no. No local police department contacts the Yard for such a case unless that department is run by someone like Anderson, no. There is more to it. What is it? More homicides?" Sherlock's eyes shone with this manic gleam.

Unlike Lestrade, who was well aware of Sherlock's glee when someone got murdered, John winced.

"Yes, there is more to it. And this is why you need to listen for more than three seconds when people are trying to talk."

Sherlock glared. "It's not my fault if you decide to present a case in such a boring manner. It's your fault that no one pays you any attention."

"Oi, I never have trouble catching attentions. Now, you want this case or not?"

Sherlock grumbled in response, which suspiciously sounded like, 'dying to get Mycroft's attention', but chose to be silent otherwise.

John was bubbling with questions. But he, too, forced his curiosity to shut up for now.

Greg marched on.

"It was just like any other hit and run case, where there was no trace of the car or of the driver, nothing out of the ordinary until there was another report of a homicide in Westminster, a couple of weeks after that hit and run. The victim died of a bullet wound." Greg took a brief pause here but hurriedly continued just when Sherlock was about to open his mouth. "Two different types of accidents, apparently separate and didn't draw any unusual attention till it was revealed that there was a close link between these two victims."

"Which is?" Sherlock's unblinking piercing eyes were on the DI.

"They were twins."

Sherlock leaned back on his chair, steepling his fingers once again, and narrowed his eyes.

"Identical or non-identical?"

"Identical. And no, it wasn't a mix up. That was the first thing that came to my mind, but we had to chalk that out quickly as-"

"Had to?"

"As there was another report, a few days later. A homicide again. Poisoning this time. Didn't strike as exceptional till we discovered that the victim had a twin brother, and that brother was reported to be missing for a while. And there was no apparent relation between these four."

Sherlock was ramrod straight now, eyes wild with excitement. But before he could utter a word John beat him to it.

"Wait, so you're saying that someone is killing twins deliberately?" His voice reflected the incredulity he felt.

"Yes, John. Someone killing twins on purpose. Some kind vendetta against twins. Or a very large and messy plan. Oh, this is great. Not case wise great, of course. It could be a three in the end. I don't have enough data, but finally, finally a real case. But so much time has been wasted already. No time to dilly dally. Must move fast."

Greg bit the inside of his cheek to fight back the smug smile which threatened to appear. This Sherlock was familiar to him. He wanted to see this manic, crazy, arrogant prick instead of that washed out hollow shell of a man he saw at the rehab. And he had a feeling that this John played a vital role in bringing back Sherlock.

Sherlock looked insolent and brilliant. He looked happy and sated.

He looked at the two men- who were busy talking animatedly- and smiled to himself. Sherlock was not exactly like a brother, God no, he could never handle a brother like him, but he held a special place in Greg's heart.

"Alright, so..uh..are you coming?"

Sherlock blinked twice before shaking his head, "no, you go ahead. We'll drop by later."

The DI arched an eyebrow, "'We?'"

"Obviously."

"Right. Alright, I'll just go then. Nice to meet you, John, see you later." With a nod, Greg left.

~0~0~0~

"Sherlock! Sherlock! Stop jumping around. Stop it."

"John, don't you see? Three homicides and probably more. A real case. This may not turn out to be as exciting as it sounds but it has potential, no doubt. Oh John, John, John. The allure of nice little murders..."

"What the fuck are you prattling about? Three people are already dead and probably that missing one too. A killer is on the loose, and you are bouncing around like a tennis ball? Allure of murder? What the hell, Sherlock?"

"..."

"..."

"I am not a nice man, John and you know that very well. I never tried to hide mys-"

"Oh, shut up, you drama queen. You are an over grown five year old, is what you are. Now, put something warm on and tell me more about Greg while we head to NSY. What exactly does he do? Oh, for God's-! Stop grinning like that; it's scary."

"Can I have more data before we leave?"

"Data? About what?"

"About the...um..thing we were talking or rather doing before Lestrade interrupted."

"You want me to kiss you again?"

"Very astute, John."

*muffled soft sucking noises*

"So...was that okay?"

"Mm, I'll need more data to confirm that."

"And I'll be happy to provide them."

"Is that a promise?"

"Umm...you'll have to find out. Now, put that coat on and let's go. We have a case to investigate."

"Three murders. Yesss."

"And then we will talk about that 'he's mine' thing, alright?"

"No time to talk, no time to waste. Hurry up. Move move, chop chop."

"Hey, stop pushing me, you brat."

"The game is on, John. Shall we?"

"Oh God, yes."

~0~0~0~

This was my first attempt in writing anything physically intimate. So, if you are weirded out by something, please be considerate. *puppy eyes*