Hi, before you read this you might want to read my oneshot Sherlock/John fic 'A Cup of Tea and a Mystery' because it's where I set up the relationship. Then the murder plot starts here! Hope you enjoy! Please send me a review, feedback is so helpful and makes fanfic less lonely!

We're walking away from Lestrade. He's standing in the massive glass and brilliant lights of Liverpool St station, his face streaked blue with the lights of the squad cars which surround the building and the ambulance that arrived too late for the victim. Sherlock had looked perfunctorily around the crime scene, seeming uninterested. He narrowed his eyes once. Asked some completely, as far as I could tell, random questions.

"Any money on the victim? £200?" He nods, Lestrade and I look at each other in utter bemusement. He nods again. Grabs Lestrade's notebook and jots down three more names and some numbers. He hands them to the confused policeman. "Watch out for these places in the next few nights." That's it. Lestrade stares at the bit of paper in his hand. It's blatantly obvious that he has no idea what Sherlock is on about. Sherlock smiles his shark's smile and turns, his long coat billowing out behind him like someone in a Victorian gothic novel. I trot after him, painfully aware of his brilliance and my utter incomprehension.

"That was exciting wasn't it?" He asks, glancing at me sideways as we enter the dark streets away from the busy crime scene. I glance back, still not understanding what is going on back there. Lestrade is silhouetted in the archway of the station, still looking at the notepad. I nod even though I have no idea what I was supposed to find exciting.

"Yes, yes it was. Very exciting." I don't sound convincing even to myself. Sherlock turns, stopping his long strides abruptly and fixing me with that look which has had me pinioned where he wants me ever since the incident with the note in the tea jar.

"Was it? Exciting?" His voice has taken on a darker, more intense tone. It's the sort of voice he uses to question people. I frown and swallow; I'm not ashamed to say he makes me nervous. He leans towards me; his breath is on my face, the heat of his mouth dangerously near mine. "How exciting John?" His hands push me back against the rough brickwork of the half concealed doorway we have found ourselves in. Then they begin a purposeful descent down my chest in the direction of the waistband of my trousers. There's a part of me wishing, hoping that the waistband isn't where they'll stop.

Sherlock is grinning, I am panting, it's not my fault, he's a force of nature.

"Exactly. How. Exciting. John?" The shark's face lowers to mine. I stop struggling. He chuckles. He's infuriating, his arrogance, his complete lack of concern for the fact we're moments away from a busy London street are maddening. And such a turn on. And he knows it. Cocky bastard. Commuters are walking to the station seconds from where he has me pressed up against the narrow doorway, his hands driving me to distraction and, from the hard bulge against my thigh, he's really enjoying himself. Like I said, Cocky bastard. He's grinning and it's one of those moments where I am convinced he can read my mind. "You love it." He whispers against my ear, the sensitive skin thrilling from his hot breath. I shake my head, not to disagree just in surrender. I wonder for the twenty billionth time how the hell this happened. How did I end up being molested by my genius, utterly infuriating flatmate? And enjoying it, I admit as he licks a slow progress down my neck, deft fingers undoing my buttons with stealth.

I decide that the best form of defence is attack. Sherlock isn't paying attention to my hands; his brilliant, frightening mind is on one thing. I slide my leg aside, he thinks it's so he can have free rein and he moans seductively at what he thinks is my compliance. He loves it when I let him do what he wants. The ego of the man, I sigh as he settles himself against me, not realising my hand is inches away from his now very hard cock.

He's busy now trailing hot, demanding kisses down my chest across to my right nipple. Sherlock's intensity and observation as to the preferences and dislikes of my body is phenomenal. I know and he knows that my left nipple is so much more sensitive, I have an almost imperceptible scar which slightly puckers the right and renders it a little numb. So he starts with that one, knowing that by the time he gets to the left one I will be putty in his hands. God, he is a genius. Almost painful bolts of desire short through me, not alleviated by the soft movements of his fingers at the inside of my thigh. If he wasn't so into it, so obviously aroused himself, I'd think this was all another case of Sherlock Holmes perfecting a skill. It's that too of course.

There's a noise down the dark road. One of the commuters has ducked down the side street to answer his mobile phone. Sherlock is perfectly still. His breathing is ragged as is mine and he presses against me, his body telling me to be quiet. I make my move. The fingers which have crept down without his noticing, I am learning new tricks from him every day, flutter by his erection. I am rewarded with a sharp intake of breath, it hisses through his teeth and the sound is erotic that I nearly just come on the spot. God. What has happened to me? I've shot people in a war for Christ's sake, and now this man has me trembling like a teenager. Sherlock's eyes widen as my fingers begin a slow circle over his hard flesh. Then he closes them in that long blink I have grown to crave. His body presses forward, pinning me securely to the wall and my fingers can't move about much but I manage to elicit another moan and maybe even my first whimper from those full lips.

The commuter is telling someone he'll be late, that he missed the tube. Sherlock, eyes closed beautiful mouth slack with desire, whispers.

"He's lying." I stop my movements; pull my hands up abruptly to cup his face. His eyes snap open.

"What?" he hisses obviously annoyed at the interruption. I raise my eyebrows.

"You're supposed to be paying attention!" I hiss back. He frowns, genuinely unaware of the problem.

"I was paying attention. Intensely." He pushes against me, bucking his hips against mine. The sensation is distracting to say the least. "I just overheard him." He's whispering directly into my ear now. Even though he's not saying anything particularly sexy just his voice is giving my legs a serious case of the jellies. He knows this, of course. "Now John, "he moans my name. "Please don't stop what your delightful fingers were just doing to my poor tortured body." I cave. You would too, there is something about the way that he is so self sufficient, so aloof and then he opens right up. It gets me every time.

The commuter's gone now anyway. No doubt off to his illicit affair or to meet his dealer. I push Sherlock away, just so I can reach inside his trousers and stroke along his erection. He puts his hands against the wall, either side or my head and leans towards me. For a moment I regret my actions. He's so involved in what I'm doing that he's forgotten all about my tortured body.

He is thrusting against my hand and moaning so loudly now that I clap my hand over his mouth. His eyes fly open, blue eyes piercing and eyebrows wickedly arched in surprise. I smile and increase the intensity of my stroking, squeezing and rubbing. I don't know if it's the hand on his cock or the hand over his mouth which makes him come so quickly. There's one to ponder John, I think to myself as I hear my name groaned out through my fingers over his lips. Maybe I'll bring it up next time he's being especially obnoxious, I grin.

If I was worried about being neglected I needn't have bothered. No sooner have I extricated my sticky hand from his trousers than Sherlock pounces. He bats my hands away and throws himself on his knees. To someone looking down the street the violence of his actions probably makes him look as though he's going to throw up. It's a carnal, visceral movement. Before I can regain my senses he has my hard cock out in the cold night air. The assault of the temperature only heightens my arousal. He probably knows that, probably did an experiment to prove it and could probably recite the formula for temperature drop to arousal ratio. Cocky bastard.

I'm not sure that Sherlock's interest in reciprocating sex is all altruistic. He definitely sees me like that bloody violin, something to be mastered, to be dissected by that massive intellect and played upon until it plays a tune to his liking but there is also a generous soul in that lithe, agile body. It took me a while to realise that his obvious delight in the power he has over me is based in lack of self esteem. I know, mad isn't it? Here he is, the world's only consulting detective, an IQ higher than the national debt of some developing country and he doubts himself. So every time I give in, every time I come for him, with him, in him, he knows it's because of him alone. Sherlock Holmes, the only man I've let touch my body like this. The only person I've let touch my life like this.

He smiles up at me, I swallow and I can feel my blood racing, crashing in my ears, hammering in my chest. I know what that mouth can do. I've seen it reduce people to tears, to wonder. I've felt it caressing my body until I didn't know whether to cry out in pleasure or frustration. But until now I have never felt it there. It was one of the first things I ever did with Sherlock; it seemed natural and right at the time. It still does actually. But for some reason we hadn't gone there with me. Not that I'm averse to the idea, god no. Sometimes I watched him eat or speak and I get all flustered just thinking about it. And he knew that, of course he did. All together now, cocky bastard. The amount of times he'd tongued a spoon with which he'd just stirred a Scotland Yard coffee, just looking at me that way so that only I knew just what he was thinking, well, one time I'd had to leave the room.

And now there was that mouth, grinning up at me. He even licked his lips. Argh.

"Don't look away John." His voice was dark and his eyes shone in the dim reflected street lamp. "I want you to watch." He blinked. All my defences were down and he knew it. My erection glistened only seconds from his face. He cocked his head slightly, put out his tongue and licked. Dear god. It was as though he was tracing liquid fire across me, his mouth was so hot and I was so cold now. Gentle lapping became more insistent, more determined. His tongue probed at the tip of my cock and I cried out despite myself, despite the commuters passing yards away from where we were. His hands were holding my hips and I thought that without them I would buckle under the enormous, overwhelming sensation of his tongue against me. So when he scraped his teeth lightly, I thought I might die.

Without thinking my head lolled back. His grip on my hips tightened. I looked down.

"Don't look away John." I nodded mutely. I couldn't do anything but feel what Sherlock was making me feel. I was that bloody violin. His mouth, his whole mouth was on me. He sucked a trail along the underside of me, flicking the fraenulum with his tongue. My hips began a rhythm of their own and his hands fought to hold me still. His eyes never left my face. I was simultaneously right there in the moment and also floating off watching John Watson shuddering and moaning while Sherlock Holmes put that gorgeous, divine mouth on my most intimate body parts. The image was so utterly erotic that I felt myself tipping over the edge.

He was still looking at me, holding me still with his eyes, his hands, when he opened his lips and swallowed me. His eyes narrowed slightly and some part of me wondered what he was thinking. Then every thought was swept away as he began to move against me. His tongue swirled fire over my tender skin and his cheeks, always chiselled and sharp like some statue of a god, hollowed out as he sucked at me. My hands were flat against the wall and his fingers left my hips and groped for them. He held my hand tightly, his eyes still locked with mine as we both felt the wave of desire rising and rising until I didn't care where I was or who I was. All I wanted was this man, this feeling, this intense experience of body and mind. I came, hard. I heard myself calling out his name. I didn't break his gaze.

It took me a while to regain my composure, hell to make sure I was still breathing. Sherlock bounced up on the balls of his feet, perky and pleased with himself. He grinned so widely I thought his head might fall off at the juncture of his lips. Then his expression softened and he leant against the wall next to me, stroking my head against his chest, gently kissing my temples. Bless him; he just has to remember sometimes that there are other people present. We stood like that for a few moments. I savoured the quiet, the feeling of mutual happiness, of togetherness. Commuters still buzzed along the street, oblivious to the earth shattering exchange we had just experienced. I looked up, breaking away from Sherlock's hands.

"Cocky bastard." I laughed. Sherlock smiled his big smile.

"Is it still cockiness if it's true?" he asked seriously, then he laughed too. From his pocket came the sound of an old telephone ringing. He grimaced, "Lestrade", he mumbled reaching into his deep pockets and pulling out my phone. I raised my eyebrows; I'd been looking for that all afternoon. He paused before answering. "I've lost mine," he said in a matter of fact tone. "I think I might have left it in the oven." He frowned, distracted by this train of thought. Then his face cleared and he continued "I think I've earned the right to borrow your phone now and again John. In fact I think a moment ago you actually claimed I was the son of god." He waggled his eyebrows, then frowned. "What does that make Mycroft?" He was still frowning when he answered the phone. Lestrade's voice was high and fast, there was obviously some problem. Sherlock wasn't listening.

"King's Cross or Marylebone?" he demanded before ending the call abruptly. "Come on, John, the game's afoot!" The excitement in his voice was unmistakable, this was turning into quite an evening.

Ok so this has a plot guys! Or hopefully anyway. :D thanks to Chandler1200 for just being. And to PrincessNala for the encouragement and enthusiasm! Write a review and let me know how I did!