So you see, my good people, when John had awoken precariously that fine fateful morn, he had found his supermegafoxyawesomehot jam flavored jam missing. As in gone. As in no longer in the pocket of John's boxers. He felt a swoon coming on and staggered wildly to and fro, the backs of his beautiful life-giving hands hitting his plasticine forehead in an alternating, jerky rhythmic. "My precious" John whispered fiercely as he forcefully ripped his shirt in twain, his jaw muscles clenching with unadulterated FURY. It was then that he knew what he had to do, he had to confront Mycroft about his lecherous, jam-stealing ways. John dressed with the vehemence of two teenage girls who were late for their very last day of high school, in which they only had to show up, but spent their time wisely, coloring pictures from a Harry Potter coloring book and slugging monsters. The walk to Mycroft's office was short and angry, much like man who walked it. As John pelvic-thrusted the door to Mycroft's office open, the entire building quaking and trembling with the aftermath of his masculine exertion, back at Baker Street Sherlock was stricken with dick-rigor mortis. In fact, everyone in a 200 mile radius got a bad case of the stiffies. Swaggering into the deep, dark, dank recesses of Mycroft's cake scented office, which was also suspiciously enough shaped like a cake, John bellowed Mycroft's name into empty vastness that pervaded the room, his hair prickling with hedgehog-ish fury. (That wasn't the only thing that was prickling. HOO.) With his every instinct screeching at him, so much, John began to suspect that Mycroft Holmes, might indeed, like waffles. John was exceedingly proud of his new found super-duper amazingly fantastic deductioning skills, so proud in fact, that he immediately pirouetted into a double-back-hand-spring, sticking the landing with a mighty "KER-CHUNK". (Let it be noted that John's feet didn't make that noise on the desk when he landed. His mouth did.) On Mycroft's desk. Which is when Sherlock burst into the room, the scent of cake so thick and repelling, that he nearly barfed everywhere. But, the scent of John's manly, musty musk expelled the thick cloud of noxious cake fumes, his body reeking of arousal, which smelled suspiciously like melting eyeballs. He had arrived just in time to watch John land, bow legged and masculine beyond belief on the top of the desk, his chiseled abs highly visible. Sherlock quivered with desire.

"Jawn, I have smelt your manly, musty musk from across the globe. And by globe I mean England. And by England I mean London. And by London I mean Baker Street. And by Baker Street I mean my dick." Sherlock paused, sucking in huge gasping breaths of air before rumbling shrilly "Get inside my butt." John placed his hands sassily on his hips, "Qwat" he replied, his lips pursed to the point of not existing. And that's an ass-ton of pursing. He may or may not be a purse-bender. But like, not actual purses. Like the verb. He might just be a purse-bending master. He's also a dick-bender. In fact, he might be the Avatar. Of Sex. "Sherlock," John snarled snarkily with a sneer "Tomorrow is Christmas, it's practically here." Sherlock had never been more confusedly aroused in his entire life. He was incredibly confaused. Or aroufued. Which ever butters your biscuit. "Also, did you eyeball the microwaves." That question didn't even need a question-mark, because he's so angry that his butt-cheeks clenched and vibrated with sheer unabashed, unadulterated, mind-numbing rage. Sherlock fainted with a girlish cry of horror against the shattered remnants of the door John had crushed with his masculine masculinity. Yes.

Sherlock's meat-wand was turgid beyond belief. His pants actually ripped a little from how unbelievably rigid his schlong-dong was. When he finally came too from his fit of swooning, it was to the truly glorious site of John being an awkward gym teacher against Mycroft's desk, his abs rippling gently as he undulated softly in the breeze. "You are majestoic as fuck," Sherlock crooned, writhing anti-clockwise and incredibly heterosexually against the door. John knew, deep in his butt, that 'majestoic' was a mixture of majestic and stoic. John found that it described him so perfectly that he wept salty, salty tears. Of joy. Sherlock also wept. Heterosexually. Still undulating softly, John beckoned Sherlock with his doinker. Sherlock felt compelled by John's soft undulations, his butt clunge clenching spasmodically as he windmilled forward with reckless abandon. John braced his hands against the desk, the wood splintering under his man, manly, masculine hands. John swept Sherlock into his arms like the hero of a cheap porn book, his hair blowing in the wind after being accidentally karate chopped in the head by Sherlock's wildly windmilling arms, stars of beautiful, beautiful, heterosexual agony exploding behind his eyelids as he writhed in asthmatic joy.

Still standing, John ripped off his own pants in one fell swoop using only a fingertip. Sherlock had never been more in awe of anything ever. Which, is like, really impressive. He's seen a man suck his own dick. It helps that that man was himself. He should know, he filmed it. It was damned impressive. Lestrade thought so too. John felt his eyes go moist with emotion, but mostly arousal, as Sherlock dropped down dramatically to suck John's dick. Heterosexually, of course. Sherlock licked the tip of John's gentleman sausage once. Then twice. Then six more times in rapid succession. John made a sound similar to that of a manatee in coitus and came with a screech like that of a dying hippopotamus, his jizz splattering artfully in Sherlock's curling locks. Like seriously. That shit rivaled the Mona Lisa. Smiling and everything. Bending his full, pouty lips down to Sherlock's angelically sinful ears, he snarled rakishly, "You haven't even begun to feel my milky wrath." Sherlock's knob ached with womanly pleasure as he rubbed his face against John's sensitive tater-tots, endlessly pleased by his splooged-upon hair. John patted his sneek into Sherlock's wildly curling hair and then, with haste, promptly threw his arms in the air like he just didn't care. Sherlock fainted. John settled into a ski-squat as he waited for Sherlock to return to consciousness, his thighs percolating with the strain of his manly manness.

When Sherlock came to, John roared like a lion who just had a pinecone shoved ruthlessly up its butt. This time, Sherlock's butt cheeks clenched and vibrated. Except this time, it was like fear and stuff. Sherlock squirmed and writhed as he undulated on the floor with unbridled passion. With a wail like that of an Australian Aborigine, his butt-hole tingling with joy, John snatched up Sherlock's badoobies in one perfect hand and wiggled them around like one would do with those metal balls that are Chinese that your goal is to keep them from touching. Just like that. Precisely like that, in fact. Sherlock screeched with the vehemence of your mother when your dog rubs its butt hole on the carpet and you're like, "What the fuck, dog? If I can't rub my butt on the carpet, then neither can you." With a manly war cry, John lifted Sherlock up, above his head, like Rafiki did to Simba and plopped him onto Mycroft's desk with a resounding "plop". Seriously, it was so resounding that the people on the next street over heard it quite clearly and were like "What the fuck was that."

John then plunged his hand into Sherlock's crazy pockets with ribald intent and extracted from its deep depths, a jar of shining, golden, joyously viscous honey. Sherlock's eyes swam with tears of confusion because, I mean, how the hell had John managed to slip that in there without him noticing? But mostly he was touched. Like his butt was about to be. "You remembered," he tittered. John recalled having said those words himself long ago and became chuflummoxed, which is a mixture of chuffed and flummoxed that left John suffering a severe attack of dick-Parkinson's, his eyebrows gesticulating wildly. After slathering his hand in the slipperiest of slippery honeys, John clenched his fingers so tightly that his knuckles where white with the strain of it, shoving his entire clenched fist up Sherlock's meat-compactor with a sound that went something like "Abloobloobloo". Sherlock swooned. Feeling so smug with himself, John danced an impromptu jig right there, a heartfelt whoop of aroufued desire escaping his boinloins. With everything prepared, like Sherlock's anus, John began to slide his gallantly streaming anal impaler which was streaming gallantly into the silky recesses of Sherlock's cozy anus. (Yeah, you read that correctly. That's two anuses in the same sentence. We don't give a shit. And hopefully Sherlock doesn't either. HEE.)

Sherlock clutched at the desk with lust and ecstasy and his hands as his buttermilk pectorals squished against John's chest. John roared and sprouted the wings of a dragon, scooping Sherlock up in his talons and soaring out the window. At least, that's what it felt like as he suffered a mild dick heart attack brought on by the rapid undulations of Sherlock's tightly clenched butt hole. John pumped his hips with elated fervor, sliding in and out of Sherlock's moist cavern like you would a slip and slide. Meaning, it's kind of painful and there's always the chance of rocks. John enjoyed it immensely and completely because he is a MAN. A heterosexual man to be exact. John leaned down and whispered huskily into Sherlock's promiscuous ear hole, "After this...we can have a tickle fight." When we say 'whispered huskily' we mean John screeched it as loud as he possibly could. Sherlock was momentarily deafened, his eardrums reverberating with throbbing intensity. When his hearing returned loftily to him, Sherlock wailed erotically like a banshee who had just had a cactus shoved up her nose, his body arching delicately and completely, off the desk.

John gave a hoarse shout of enamored passion, warbling in a guttural manner as Sherlock's hips very nearly catapulted him straight into Mycroft's cake room, the door to which so thoroughly ajar and open. Fingers scrabbling against the smooth, silken flesh of Sherlock's wildly flailing pelvis, John clung tightly to Sherlock's scandalously prominent bones of the cheek, his fingers obtaining small, papercut like incisions. But that only made him hotter. Hotter for sex. The feel of Jawn's manly marshmallowy man doctor man hands on his sensual Adonis-like cheekbones caused Sherlock to be rocked with so many orgasms, his body convulsing and flailing crazily, just like his pockets, and he shouted his own name as his love juices flowed freely. John was confuse. His jimmies were subsequently rustled. Sherlock's eyes were like limpet pools of desire as the overload of pure, raw ecstasy sent him careening wildly into a sexy abyss. Of sexy. Sherlock gave a whisper-soft shout of sheer mind steam-rolling mind pleasure as Jawn ruthlessly pounded his happy place. Otherwise known as his butt-bean.

John pressed his luscious lips to the center of Sherlock's macaroni like ear, his lips pulled back in a snarl as he growled raggedly "Can you feel me Sherlock? Can you feel me inside ofyou?" He sucked in a snarling breath, his melancholy, abundantly stiff nipples pressed to Sherly's decadent collarbone, "With my cock-willy." The last bit was whispered so angrily and with such vehemence that the ferns next to Mycroft's desk trembled and shook with terror. And with that said, he proceeded to pump in all of his hot, pearlescent sperms into Sherlock as they spasmed and wriggled as one. After the last orgasm had been had, John whispered lovingly against Sherlock's lush, full, kiss reddened lips, "I'm not gay," as their tongues tangled together, their teeth clacking against one another as they played a serious game of tonsil hockey. And when we say 'tangled', we mean like TANGLED. It took like, a solid fifteen to get them undone. The two lay blissfully still as the stinky, erotic scent of lovemaking billowed over and around the now sex scented room. Heterosexually.

Sorry it took so long darlings! I was a bit tied up, but it's done at last. And by done at last I mean there's two more chapters to come. Aren't you excited? I hope you enjoy this installment as much as you did the last. Till next time! -Moriarty. Oops, I meant Richard. Definitely Richard x.

I helped. xoxo Sebastian Moran. x.

You helped a little 3 Jim x.

8==== :D Seb x.

Careful or I'll cut it off, pet ;D Jim xoxo.

Try it and I'll delete all your Glee recordings. Sebby owo

Do that and your rifle will end up at the bottom of the Thames c: Hugs and kisses, Jim.

... :( seb

C: -Jim