A/N: Here's the second part, lovely readers! Thank you all for your reviews, they mean a lot to me and did indeed get this out quicker than any of my other ongoing fics!

This is the longest smut scene I've ever endeavored upon, so please please please review and tell me what you think! Whether you found it fantastic or flawed, I want to know so I can improve :)

I had a lot of fun writing this short story, so thank you all for reading it and I hope you enjoyed yourselves!

WARNING: Keep in mind what I just said: this is a healthy dose of M-rated men-going-at-it.

As John ran down the narrow corridor, eyes searching and ears alert, he could smell gunpowder and grime, tasted blood on his tongue from his split lip, and damned anything or anyone to cross his path.

The pistol was a bittersweet relief; only fired three times, still heavy enough in his grip to be reassuring, still heavy enough to be deadly. As his right thumb ran over the cold black steel, he turned left and stopped dead, quickly crouching.

Across the hall, in a large open space, was a single chair with a man tied down to it. The curls were unmistakable, as was the voice which ran out through that full-lipped mouth. Even as a hostage, Sherlock was impudent and infuriating; he was deducing the abductors cheating wife, porn addiction and his bloody Oedipus complex.

John smirks as the man gives Sherlock a disbelieving glare, then, as he raises the hand holding the tire iron menacingly, John takes a deep breath.

There is always a sort of slow in time as John raises his gun, takes aim, strokes the trigger gently. That small span of time where his lungs are full of air, his hand is steady and his eyes are sharp; mere seconds between raising the arm and pulling the trigger, John is in control. Complete control of his leg, his mind, his tremulous hand and his life; John exhales.

The man in front of Sherlock staggers back and falls as a daisy-bloom of red stains his white shirt, just to the left of his heart.

John looks around quickly, in search of retaliation and, finding none, stands up and starts walking briskly towards the middle of the room, stuffing the gun in the back of his jeans. Sherlock looks back at him, and John inhaled sharply; the pale face was bloody and faintly bruised, a cut just above the blackening right eye and another streaking over the left cheek; it looks worse than it is, but it still staggers John to see him as such. But the smile on Sherlock's face is excited, almost manic; John takes deep breaths as he goes to the back of the chair to release his friend.

"Knew you'd get here eventually," Sherlock begins hurriedly, "I got a lot out of that man you've just put on the floor – nice shot by the way – and he says that-"

"Stop. Talking."

The order is ground out from deep within his body, and came out sounding more like a growl than John had intended; he didn't care. Sherlock rose from the chair and turned carefully, getting close as he held on to Johns shoulder for support.

"But John, if we go now-"

"NO, Sherlock," taking a deep breath as the yell rung out between the rafters of the building, the soldier closed his eyes and recited the phonetic alphabet in his head. He had gotten as far as 'Foxtrot' when he finally opened his eyes to find the detective looking down at him, frustrated and confused. With a sigh, John took out the phone he knew was in his friend's coat pocket. "We're calling Lestrade and having him do whatever it is that needs to be done. Then we're going home and you're getting that head stitched."

Before Sherlock could argue John sent him a scathing look.

Closing his mouth, the detective sniffed and looked around awkwardly. After John got off the phone, he found Sherlock already walking towards the exit. "Let's go."

And with that, they walked out and caught a cab.

They were silent the whole way home, and as they went upstairs. Mrs. Hudson was away visiting her sister and the house was quieter than it had been in a long while, almost eerily so. John had been turning over the events of hours prior the whole way, trying to keep his temper in check as he did so. Sherlock had done it again, run off on his own and gotten himself in trouble, almost been beaten to death for Christ's sake, and John was… well, he was fucking angry, tired and damn it he wanted a bloody apology this time. He wanted it to be different this time; he wanted Sherlock to realize that this sort of thing was not right, that he had to think of more than just the work, he had to think of what his death would do to… to him.

At the sound of a pained hiss, John turned swiftly over to look down the hall – he had just realized he'd stood there far too long, just staring at the black and white wall – and saw Sherlock in his room, inspecting his own bare chest in the mirror.

John walked slowly over to the bedroom, looking over the grisly painting of beating on his friends ribs and chest. There were bruises lining over ribs, a few shallow scratches around the hip and pectoral areas, and John didn't even want to think about what damage may be hiding beneath the skin and muscle.

He stood in the doorway of the room as Sherlock continued to look over himself. "Well? Are you going to lecture me tonight on the dangers of pursuing criminals alone?"

The doctor remained still and silent for a long moment, simply staring at the eyes in the mirror as they held his own – unwavering and inexpressive. "No, Sherlock," he replied tiredly, "not tonight." Walking into the room almost carefully, he knelt down beside the taller man and, knowing Sherlock would understand, asked, "May I?"

Sherlock looked at the man below him, the only change in expression a slight widening of the eyes. With a huff, he looked up into the darkness of his wardrobe, "If you must."

John went to work at feeling the man's ribs for any breakage, any signs of internal damage. It was, truthfully, a lot better than it looked; no signs of internal injury at all. He then went about cleaning the wounds, taking out the mini-medical pack he had taken to carrying in his back pocket. "I'm going to have to stitch up this cut here," he said, pointing to the cut on Sherlock's head. "And here," he traced the edge of the deepest cut, just to the right side of the left hipbone. He was surprised when he felt Sherlock inhale and tremble slightly, and debated whether or not it was simply out of pain or perhaps - possibly, maybe - something more.

"Fine," Sherlock said, through clenched teeth. He drew in a shaky breath, and ignored the questioning gaze of his doctor.

John took a moment to study the bloodied, beautiful man, before he took the thin fishing wire in hand, and went to work.

Running the towel over the last of the dried blood surrounding the wound, John looked over his work. "All set, should heal up nicely." As he stood, he took in the stiffly standing detective, whose hands were tightly clenched over the lip of the sink. "Are you alright, Sherlock? Was there something else?"

So wrapped in his doctoral concern, John failed to notice the ragged exhale and slight tremble before Sherlock had him pinned against the doorway of the bathroom, one long-fingered hand holding Johns wrist at his side and the other on his hip.

Eyes wide and adrenaline coursing through his veins, John fought the instinct to fight the man away as Sherlock leaned in close in close, his hot breath drawing Goosebumps up from the smooth skin below Johns ear. "You have absolutely-" John felt the brush of lips on the crest and he stopped breathing "-no idea-" the tip of a tongue tracing the shape down to the lobe left Johns legs numb "-what you do to me," John let out an embarrassingly pleading whimper as he felt teeth pull on his earlobe.

"God, Sherlock, I-"all words were cut off as the detective brought their mouths together, wet and hard.

There was the clash of teeth before a tongue invaded John's mouth, tasting faintly of mint tooth-paste and tobacco, and something pure and hard beneath; sharp and sweet and very Sherlock. It only took the doctor a second before he joined in, his free hand gripping those errant curls; soft and pliant and so easy to pull.

Tongues battled for dominance as both men groaned deeply, Sherlock's hand gripping John's hip like a lifeline, releasing the wrist held tightly in his other before pulling at the thick jumper, rucking it up to splay long fingertips onto the hot skin beneath.

John was helpless to the desire he had repressed for the past weeks, almost a month now, and he moaned as he felt the man above him run both hands over his stomach, around to the small of his back where they seemed to mapping landscape upwards, over John's shoulder-blades, then tracing lightly down; John trembled, utterly lost in sensation. Sherlock moved his mouth to Johns jaw, nipping and kissing and leaving a wet trail with his tongue down down down the column of his doctors throat, tasting aftershave and tea and afternoon stubble, nudging the collar of Johns jumper with his nose to get to the hidden tastes and textures beneath.

"Sherlock- please," John wasn't entirely sure what he was asking for but all he could hear, repeated again and again in his head, was more; Sherlock lifted the jumper, taking Johns shirt with it, and threw it on the floor of the bathroom beside them. Sweeping his eyes quickly, Sherlock began to back them out of the bathroom as his mouth collided with Johns for a scorching kiss.

With those deliciously graceful hands tracing the muscles of his chest, John faintly realized where they were headed and felt a thrill chase through his spine. His hands went around running over Sherlock's firm arse and as a tongue slipped on the chapped skin of his thin lower lip, John felt Sherlock's bed behind him.

It was fairly obvious this was a man he was kissing; the firm shoulders, lack of breasts and persistent erection mirroring his own were pretty big hints.

What was truly amazing, thrilling and fucking hot was that it was completely, undoubtedly Sherlock. The spark of adrenaline that coursed through Johns body lit a flame and he felt almost aching with the need to take this brilliant man apart.

Sherlock let out a helpless whimper as John flipped them over on the bed, the shorter man's legs straddling his hips. As John rutted their far-too-clothed erections together he took his time kissing, sucking, nipping at Sherlock's jaw, his obscenely long neck, and exposed collarbone. All the brunet could do was lose himself in the lust fogging his mind, grab those hips and moan.

Tracing the line down the middle of Sherlock's chest and running his hands over the ridges of the almost too-exposed ribcage, John ran his fingers over the line where trousers met bare skin just above Sherlock's hips; the arch of the detective back left John grinning wickedly.

Sweeping his tongue into the dip of a belly-button before placing wet, sucking kisses above either hip-bone, John looked up at the flushed and needy face of his friend before running light fingers over the prominent trouser-clad erection. Sherlock gasped and someone let out a very unmanly moaning-whimper and neither the doctor nor the detective cared who.

John unbuttoned the trousers and watched Sherlock as he slowly pulled the zip down, looking for any negative reaction or protest. When none came and Sherlock pushed his hips up in an undeniably sexy invitation for John to pull the trousers off, the blond didn't think twice, pulling the silk blank pants off with them.

Sherlock's erection was long and hard and John peppered kisses around the base before licking a wet line up the shaft. Shallow breathing and whimpering moans chorused above him as John took his time retracing the line again, before, with a long fingered hand in his hair, he took the tip of Sherlock's cock in his mouth and sucked, hollowing his cheeks and moaning at the silky taste.

The vibrations ran through Sherlock's body as he let out a chocked gasp, feeling Johns tongue sweep across the sensitive glands and his small hands running over the length his mouth couldn't quite reach. After a few minutes Sherlock was far too close and, taking control, he pulled the ashen-blond hair he clutched and brought Johns wet, filthy mouth to his own for a fiery kiss.

"You-" Sherlock ran blunt fingernails down the front of Johns chest till he reached the button of the shorter man's now tented trousers "-have on-" flicking open the button and palming the straining erection through the tight jeans "-far too many clothes, mon amant" John groaned as those nimble fingers traced the head of his frustrated cock, aching almost painfully. Both men made short work of John's trousers and pants, bringing their salt-sweat skin together with an obscene slide of tongues and hips.

Hands everywhere at once, Sherlock traced the well-muscled abdomen above his before following the lines to John's bobbing erection, where he continued on to run a teasing finger over the perineum, then lightly over shaft, up to the leaking head where he grasped and flicked with his thumb. John's knees fell out weakly as he gasped with his lips still against Sherlock's smirking ones. "Fuck, please- Sherlock," the answering chuckle fell on faint ears as John felt his cock being slotted next to the brunets.

"Not quite yet John," Sherlock focused on pumping his fist around them both, precome and sweat sliding nicely.

Hands in those dark curls, Johns face fell into the crevice between Sherlock's neck and shoulder. He mouthed at the muscles there, sucking and kissing and, as he felt his orgasm rush through him, biting hard enough for that thrill of almost-painful electric shivers to roll through Sherlock's nervous system. Both men came hard, Sherlock's back arched as he moaned John's name, with the doctor's breathe hot and labored against his neck.

Neither knew how long they lay there, sticky and messy and drained, but neither particularly cared. John opened his eyes languidly and Sherlock shivered at the feeling of eyelashes on his skin.

"This is going to look ugly," John said as he eyed the purpling hickey he'd left on Sherlock's neck. He gave it a gentle peck as apology.

"Is that something I'm supposed to care about?" Sherlock asked, and when John propped himself up with his elbow, he saw a sly grin playing on the detectives lips.

With a smile John grabbed an errant shirt from the floor below and used it to wipe their stomach's before tossing it aside once more. He looked back down at the debouched man, those dark curls spread out on the pillow artfully, and an internal conflict began. Should he stay here? Would Sherlock even want that? What was "that" anyways; a relationship, fuck-buddies, what?

Just before he stood and awkwardly tried to ask, John felt Sherlock's hand tug on his arm. "Come here," the detective said, pulling John down until he was on his side, Sherlock behind him. John hadn't realized how tired he was - or how much he had actually wanted all this, the sex and the laughter and even the damned cuddling – until just now.

As he felt Sherlock's breathing even out behind him, one arm wrapped around his middle and legs tangled under the sheet, he thought, posh git made me the little spoon, just as sleep overtook him.

It was by no means a perfect life then on in 221B Baker Street.

There was still rows and arguments over etiquette and body parts and whose responsibility it actually is to do the washing up or the laundry. There were still times where John needed a walk, where Sherlock sulked on the couch for hours, where both men wanted to shoot the bloody wall.

But between those times there were whispered declarations, screaming orgasms and hands held while watching telly. There were naps on the couch after tiring cases, hot kisses in alley-ways and long looks where the meanings were blatant and unforgivably lust-filled.

And, to John's amusement, Sherlock still left his – their – bedroom door open, constantly.