Hello, and welcome back to my debauched little world! Thanks to some lovely requests and supportive reviewers I've decided to continue the "Not A Junkie" story. So, here is part one of the aftermath! This story can be read alone, I suppose. But the relatively meager amount of smut is at the end. There's a lot of feelings before it, that mostly relate to the events in Not A Junkie. But hey! That's why scroll buttons were invented. Or you can stalk my profile and read Not A Junkie. Whatever makes you happy, dear reader.

As always, a huge thanks to my Beta / Grammar Dalek Vivi Vivacious. Bitch, you rule the third world country that is my heart.

Disclaimers: I certainly don't own any of these characters, and all respective rights go to the creators (Doyle, BBC, Moffat *shakes fist*, etc). It's all in good (if slightly depraved) fun so please don't sue me. I don't really have much other than my cats anyway, and I'm quite certain you don't want them. They're high maintenance little bastards.

Warnings: Hot mansekhs ahead. If that's not your bag, I respect that but I don't think you'll enjoy this fic. And I do have an awesome drinking game I play to hatemail, so feel free to flame away if you want to make me happy and tipsy.

Other warnings: Light BDSM overtones, personal gratification, phonesex, Johnlock, implied Sheriarty, and some Johniarty? (Do we have a better word for that yet?)

All Apologies, Pt 1

Of all the uncomfortable situations Sherlock Holmes had ever found himself in, the train ride home to Baker Street was by far the worst he could recall. He was certain that he must have erased others that were more deleterious, but that meant that this moment reigned supreme. The longer it went on, the more his initial enthusiasm for the unknown situation waned.

He could practically hear Mycroft's voice in his head, reciting his usual speech about consequences that he had been giving Sherlock for as long as either of them could remember. It had never really stuck; actions were exciting and consequences were merely an afterthought. Something to tidy up (or rather, ignore) when the excitement had run its course. Now it seemed consequence hung over his head like the sword of damocles. The unknown was, perhaps for the first time, frightening rather than enticing.

It wasn't just Jim' ill fitting shirt that felt too tight; Sherlock's skin felt a size too small. The inane chatter of other commuters washed over him, more obnoxious to him than normal due to his agitated state. He wanted to bellow at all of them, make them all shut up so he could focus on the problem at hand.

John knew.

The lanky detective had a million questions, and one long fingered hand twitched against his leg as his brain ran through them all at a phenomenal speed. John knew. But for how long? How angry was he? How was it seemingly so easy for him to hide his knowledge of Sherlock's occasional dalliances with the devil? Did he find out on his own? Did Moriarty tell him? His questions went on, each inquiry becoming more and more painful each time his brain ran through the list.

Once off the train Sherlock grabbed the nearest cab, which crawled through the thick city traffic. Long fingered hands fluttered against one knee, tapping out an impatient rhythm in a failed attempt at distraction. For him, not knowing was akin to torture. However, once the cab deposited him in front of the shared flat, Sherlock found himself unable to unlock the door and enter.

He steadied himself with one hand on the doorframe. John was his colleague, flatmate, friend, and part time lover. The idea of damaging that, their wonderful arrangement, sent unfamiliar pangs through Sherlock's chest. They were so close to fear, but without the following endorphin rush. No, after these sensations he simply felt hollow. The words from their last conversation rang through his mind.

"Since you seem to love riding crops so very much, I've gone and found yours. Be prepared. And tell Jim he won't be seeing you again for awhile. I'm going to have you otherwise occupied."

John had sounded playful, perhaps? But his doctor notoriously covered up anger with other emotions. As much as Sherlock wanted to believe he could simply walk back into the same situation he left, he knew it was impossible. New factors had been added. The equation had changed, and now there would be a different answer to what John plus Sherlock equaled.

Summoning the last dregs of his stubborn determination, he turned the key in the lock and entered the flat.

John sat in his chair, impatient, tapping Sherlock's riding crop against his shin. There would still be another ten minutes or so before the detective made it back to their flat. Perhaps another few for him to compose himself before coming upstairs. He hoped, only half sincerely, that his and Jim's little game wasn't causing his dear detective too much stress.

Sighing, the doctor checked his watch again. Nine or so minutes left. He had been waiting for this day for what felt like forever, and time seemed to be moving impossibly slow just to spite him. At least living with Sherlock had augmented his already significant patience.

Once inside, Sherlock bolted up the stairs two at a time, bursting into the living room.

"John, I..." A familiar sharp crack stopped him mid-sentence. He could see the outline John, holding Sherlock's crop and sitting in his usual red chair, back to the door.

"Come around and have a seat, won't you?" One hand gestured towards Sherlock's seat, the comfortable gray chair across from him. John's voice sounded stern, but not angry. Or did it? Hundreds of different words and observations flickered across Sherlock's mental "screen", showing him the dozens upon dozens of ways that John's body language could be interpreted. He simply couldn't pick one; his lauded objectivism had gone to pieces.

With a sigh half made of resignation, half of anticipation, Sherlock rounded the back of the doctor's chair and settled in his own. His blue eyes flickered over John's familiar frame, reading all he could from the other man's appearance. The ex-soldier was vastly obvious today in his posture and tone. Shoulders straight, gaze even, chin tilted upward to give him the illusion of height even if Sherlock had a few inches on him even while sitting. Even the way John was dressed bespoke of a kind of military efficiency; a simple crisp white t-shirt and a pair of nicely tailored dark jeans. The detective could practically see each year of military service carved into the soft lines of his doctor's face and the harder lines of his body.

John watched him back with equal intensity, blue-gray eyes contemplating Sherlock's uncommon attire. The detective exhaled in relief when he saw the doctor's pupils widen some as they took in his close fitting shirt. It was tight enough on him that it sat just an inch or so above the waistband of his jeans. Playing at feeling exposed, Sherlock bit his bottom lip just a bit and tugged at the hem of his shirt, trying to pull it down over the exposed skin. Instantly, the riding crop shot out, and caught Sherlock none-too-gently on the back of his hand.

"Unless you're planning on taking it all the way off, leave it." No longer playing, Sherlock blushed, a slight pink creeping into his cheeks. "Ah. It's Jim's, isn't it?" The detective's color darkened from pale pink to dusky rose.

"Mmm. That's what I thought. 'Not a terrorist'?" John gave a short chuckle. "It's quite the statement." The doctor leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, lacing his fingers and using them to support his chin as he scrutinized Sherlock further.

"John, I..." Sherlock stuttered again, uncertain of how to begin. His flatmate watched him closely, face giving no indication on how to proceed. One elegant hand raked through dark curls in frustration, before he let it drop to his lap. This was more difficult than he had anticipated. The detective had expected John to take the lead, ask questions and provide answers. Without any of that, Sherlock felt strangely adrift. Finally, John's gaze softened some, eyes regaining some of their usual warmth.

"Yes Sherlock?" His voice was gentle, and a small smirk crept into the corners of his mouth.

"I. It's. Well." Words tripped over themselves in his mind in the mad rush to make a coherent sentence. All that came out was a garbled wreck.

"You've been fucking Moriarty." John finally took the lead, showing his partner a bit of mercy. Sherlock visibly flinched at the naked truth in the words. But John's tone wasn't upset. It was an observation, rather than an accusation.

"Well, yes."

"Mmm. Since the pool?" Sighing, the detective hung his head, dark curls falling into his eyes. It made him look impossibly vulnerable, and more than a bit lost. "I'm not angry, you know." That did it. The dark haired man raised his chin in defiance, sapphire eyes flashing.

"Yes John, well what if I am?" His doctor jumped somewhat, not expecting the venom in Sherlock's voice.

"You? You're angry? With me? For god's sake Sherlock, what have I done?" John looked positively puzzled.

"How long have you known?" It was less of a question, more of a demand. Sherlock's baritone had dropped to its lowest register, normally reserved for pure pleasure or outright anger. Judging by the narrowed eyes and the way his dark brows were knitted together John guessed it wasn't due to rapture.

"About six months or so. Sherlock, it's not like we've ever been exclusive. This relationship, it's just something we sort of fell into. I never expected or asked you NOT to see other people." Sherlock leveled him one of his trademark flat stares.

"I never caused any trouble about Irene. Certainly you had to realize I knew what was going on there, right?" The mention of The Woman's name was enough to make Sherlock blush again. Deeply.

"Really," John muttered, gesturing with the riding crop. "I'm beginning to think I'm the only one who hasn't had a fair go at you with this yet."

"How did you find out?" This time the Sherlock's voice was less demanding. John merely rolled his eyes.

"I'm not stupid, you know. I knew you were seeing someone else, at least semi-regularly. You went out a lot, without me. It doesn't take a genius. Really, even you can only spend so much time at the morgue." John frowned, and leaned further forward, staring directly into the detective's eyes. "And you're not always so clever. You're always having me send text messages for you. I happened to be holding your phone when you got a rather, ahem, colorful one from Jim."

"Oh."

"Oh? Is that it?" John actually looked pointedly taken aback, or perhaps disappointed. "I was expected something a bit more than 'oh'." The detective leaned further back in his chair, slumping down into the cushions. John smiled a bit. It looked like the taller man was getting ready to have a rather good sulk.

"I texted him back. Told him to call me. Didn't think he would, really. But he did. Strangely enough, I think we had a real conversation. Or as close to one as you can get. He's pretty deranged." Sherlock leveled John with another flat glare, his typical response to the doctor stating the obvious.

John stood up out of his chair, moving forward to Sherlock in two swift steps. The smaller man bent at the waist so his face was level with the detective's and reached forward, pushing a wayward ebony lock out of aquamarine eyes. The contrast in colors was stunning,and for a brief second John's breath caught in his throat at the sight of the detective's pursed lips.

"You're not getting out of this with pouting," he chided. The detective merely rolled his eyes and huffed in response.

"I'm not an impractical man, Sherlock. I know Moriarty fascinates you, and I know how unlikely it is that one person could hold your complete interest." Smiling, he ruffled Sherlock's dark waves, earning him another glare. "And besides, you need something to do while I'm off at clinic. I told Jim as much." Sherlock tried to push himself even further back into his chair. Maybe if he willed it hard enough, the damn thing would just swallow him up completely.

"And yet you didn't say anything to me about it." Surprisingly, his voice sounded bitter. If Sherlock didn't know his own chemical reactions commonly known as 'feelings' so well, he'd have sworn there was an edge to his tone that sounded akin to jealousy. Did he want John to be possessive? Angry about his deception, or rather his omission? It certainly was working out for him that the doctor had a rather enlightened view of relationships. Wasn't it?

"Well, you didn't seem inclined to share. And you do so value being mysterious." John smiled another of his warm smiles, trailing a finger along one of the detective's cheekbones. Sherlock closed his eyes and imperceptibly allowed himself to lean into the touch.

"So, you and Jim conspired to teach me a lesson about transparency, did you?" As hard as he tried, it he had difficulty bringing any heat into his voice with John touching him like that. In fact, he sounded more than a little tremulous.

"Not intentionally. Not at first. But the longer things went on without you telling me..." the doctor's sentence trailed off, unfinished. "Well, yeah. I got a bit peeved. Wanted to show you that I knew." Sherlock glowered, but John met the heat in his gaze. When he spoke again, his voice had lost some of its normal gentleness.

"We're not just fucking Sherlock. We're friends. He's a murderous psychopath. I thought maybe you'd let me know what was going on, if just so I wouldn't have to worry about you every time you went out with product in your hair." Blonde brows wrinkled, and John gave him somewhat of a grimace.

"Plus, he did have me strapped into an explosive vest just to impress you with his introduction. I didn't want to make him feel like he had to compete for your affections, or god knows what mess I would have ended up in."

"I have things under control, John. I told you I'd never let him hurt you again." The dark haired man came close to adding 'don't you trust me?', but after looking at the rather cross expression on John's face, he thought better of it.

John sighed, hung his head and straightened, pulling his face away from Sherlock's. "Sherlock, you can't pretend to control him anymore than I can pretend to control you. But that's not even the point! You should have told me, for friendship's sake if nothing else. So yeah, I thought up this little scheme and ran it by Jim. Of course he was in, he's got a mean streak and he's a complete nutter." Sensing John pulling away, Sherlock leaned forward to close some of the space between them.

"John," he tried to keep his voice level, but couldn't completely control his tone. Despite its depth, it had a nervous pitch. "You know. So. What happens now?" He gazed up at his doctor through long dark lashes. This was it. The answer that would change everything. All his other questions seemed so inconsequential now. This was the only answer that mattered.

John smiled down at Sherlock, his Sherlock, gazing up at him so earnestly. He'd wasn't angry with his partner, he did mean that when he said it. No one could be so foolish as to expect to capture 100% of the man's attention all the time. But Sherlock, poor Sherlock, didn't know quite what to do with all his feelings yet. The obvious set of his piercing blue eyes made it evident that he was guilty and no small bit afraid of John's answer. The doctor rested a comforting hand on Sherlock's cheek, rubbing his thumb across the detective's full lips.

"Well. I'm quite certain that if you apologize properly, I could be persuaded to forgive you." John had meant to sound playful, joking. He was surprised to find he sounded rough and somewhat predatory. Possessive. He worried for a moment that it would set Sherlock off, but the other man sighed and leaned into his touch, obviously comforted by the idea of absolution.

"Any suggestions as to how I can best apologize, Doctor?" It was good to hear a bit of flirtation in Sherlock's voice again, after hearing naught but uncertainty since the lanky detective had come back to their flat. Things were normalizing. They'd work through this.

"Well," he began, kneeling down so he and Sherlock were somewhat eye to eye. "I have had six months to come up with a plan." Aquamarine eyes glanced over at the riding crop John had left laying next to his armchair.

"No no. That's been done, hasn't it?" Color rushed back to the detective's cheeks. . John could feel the slight rush of heat under his palm. "I want something that's ours." The inflection John put on the word 'ours' made shivers run down Sherlocks' spine.

"So," he rumbled in anticipation. "Will you be telling me what you have in mind, Doctor?" A positively radiant smile graced his doctor's face, and Sherlock couldn't help but return it. No matter what was happening, he and John weren't going to lose this. This intimacy. The sex and the friendship and the flatshare. Things may be different, but they'd continue. He almost lost himself in the warmth of the moment, until he heard John's answer.

"I think you should go get your violin, Detective." Sherlock's breath caught in his throat, and his blue eyes fluttered closed for a moment as he contemplated all the different outcomes his doctor's instruction could have. Those same electric blue eyes flashed open as John's strong hand moved up from it's place on Sherlock's cheek to tangle in the black waves just above the detective's temple.

"No drifting off into that labyrinthine mind of yours. Upstairs. Now. Shower, but don't bother getting dressed again. And be back here with your violin in ten minutes." The shorter man stood, offering one solid hand to his partner. Sherlock accepted, long fingers intertwining with his doctor's as he stood. Unexpectedly, John used the momentum of his assistance to pull the detective's body flush with his. A soft gasp escaped Sherlock's lips, which quickly turned into a moan as John's other hand wandered across his abdomen to the quickly-hardening bulge in his jeans.

"And hands off, Sherlock. This," he emphasized the word with a pleasurably rough squeeze. "Is mine. And you'll be relieved of it when I'm satisfied with your apology." John's strong hand shot back up, cupping the side of the taller man's face and pulling him down for a deep kiss. The pressure of John's lips on his was dizzying; Sherlock felt the parlor spin around them. As suddenly as he struck, the good doctor released his captive, removing lips and hands from the other man. His dark haired partner moaned in protest.

"Nine minutes left Sherlock." John's voice was infuriatingly casual as he headed back over to his chair and picked up a book from the table. "Better get to it." And with that he turned away, attention apparently focused entirely on the book in front of him.

Sherlock wasn't entirely certain, because the information would have been discarded long ago, but he would have bet solid money that he had never scaled a set of stairs so fast before in his life.

Once John heard the shower start, he allowed himself to breathe again. God. That had gone surprisingly well. But Sherlock was hungry for his forgiveness, and the blonde man knew that would mean his partner would try every trick in his book and invent a few new ones to get John riled up enough to relent. He smiled to himself, and reached in his pocket for his mobile.

"You still there?"

"Darling I'm absolutely riveted! Where else could I possibly be. They don't make telly this good. This is practically as good as fucking him myself." John rolled his steely blue eyes at the lilting voice on the other end. "We've still got a good seven and a half minutes before he makes it back downstairs. However shall we fill our time, doctor?" Jim practically purred the last word, and John felt it go straight to his groin.

"I could think of a few things," he replied mildly. In response, the consulting criminal barked a short, harsh laugh.

"All those other things you could be doing are currently upstairs. Naked, and dripping wet under the hot spray of the showerhead. God, John. I bet he's even biting down on those sinfully long fingers of his, just to keep from touching himself while he thinks about what you're going to do to him." The blonde man couldn't help it, at Jim's suggestive imagery his breath hitched in his throat.

"The~re we go. That's what I was looking for. Tell me, Doctor Watson. Do you think I can talk you off in our remaining few minutes before our dear detective returns?" Now it was John's turn to laugh, a warm chuckle.

"I'm sure if you really put your mind to it, Jim, you can get me there." His broad hand was already traveling down to adjust himself in his jeans. His fingers brushed against his startlingly hard length as he fumbled with the zip.

"Wellllllll. If that isn't a challenge I don't know what is. Close your eyes doctor, I'm going to paint you a picture..." The consulting criminal's voice became low and husky, and he pitched his breathing so John could hear his short, shallow gasps. The doctor's own breathing and pulse quickened in response.

"You know what Sherlock looks like in the shower, but take a moment to really picture it. The way the water crests off those beautiful black waves. The thin column of his neck upturned to keep his face out of the hot spray. Rivulets of water running down his smooth chest, all leading you downward to exactly where you want to be." John groaned in appreciation, freeing himself from his briefs.

"He's so vulnerable like that, with his eyes closed and every inch of his white skin on display for you. And you've gotten him quite worked up, haven't you?" Jim's voice had slipped into a sultry purr, as if he was also imagining their detective damp and exposed under the hot spray.

"What if he's not listening to your orders, hmm? You know our Sherly is quite the addict. What if, right now, he's leaning those broad shoulders back against the tile, letting one of those perfect hands of his trail down to the hardened length between his legs? And you know John," Moriarty growled the doctor's name, and John's hips bucked up into his own hand at the sound. "He's so fucking hard for you."

"It wouldn't take him long to climax. You know what he's like when he's so stimulated. So sensitive. So easy to push over the edge. Can't you just see him now; completely wanton, those full lips parted as he grips himself and moans your name?" John was gasping, hand squeezing and stroking himself faster as he thought of the sound of Sherlock's voice whispering, begging him for release.

"John, oh Jo-hn..." Jim's impression of the detective was somehow scarily accurate and incredibly arousing. The doctor's hand sped up its rhythm; between the mental image Jim was providing and the sound of the other man's voice he was achingly hard and moments from release.

"You know you'll have to fuck him twice as hard for disobeying you. But you also know that's what he wants, John; your punishing cock inside him, one of those surgeon's hand tugging at his hair as you fuck him into the mattress. Mmf..." the consulting criminal moaned, obviously enjoying himself as much as the blonde doctor he spoke to.

"That's what he'll be thinking about when he comes, you know. Your thick cock inside him. He'll tighten his hands on that glorious shaft of his and those narrow hips will start to stutter, and all of a sudden he'll throw his head back and moan your name. God John, I'm surprised you can't hear him." John's own rhythm was steadily increasing as he worked himself to Moriarty's words. His breathing was short and shallow, and he could hear the smaller man trying to catch his breath and continue. When he did that damnable lilt was singing with sex and satisfaction.

"He'll do that thing with his voice just before he comes, that low panther's growl in the back of his throat. And just when the growl reaches its end, he'll buck those perfect hips again, and those long fingers of his will spasm, that beautiful cock of his will twitch, and suddenly he'll be spilling all over that elegant white hand of his as he groans your name again, and again, and aaaah-gain, a-a-and... aaaaah" John heard Moriarty's voice hitch with pleasure, and it was obvious that the man was climaxing. The sound was enough to push the doctor over the edge, and he came with a shudder and a groan.

Silence stretched through the next few seconds, and suddenly Jim piped up again in a completely natural voice, as if he hadn't just talked John and himself over the edge.

"Doctor, I do believe you have just shy of two minutes to get yourself cleaned up before the real show begins." The criminal's voice was tinged with smug satisfaction.

"James Moriarty, I have half a mind to take you over my knee and knock some of that arrogance right out of you."

"Hmmm. Accurate on the half a mind observation. And still somehow appealing, but you'd have to catch me first. Now unless you're planning on having our lovely Sherlock clean up your mess with that devilish mouth of his, I suggest you put me down and go get a towel." John went to hang up the phone, but was interrupted by Moriarty's tinny voice pushing one last word in.

"And Doctor Watson. Do be a dear and leave the phone on for me won't you? My flight to Prague isn't out until tomorrow morning and hotel porn is sooooo ordinary." Smiling to himself, John clicked through his phone, turning on the video function before setting it down on the coffee table, propped up against his book. The angle gave Moriarty an excellent view of the detective's chair.

"I can do you one better," he whispered into the phone, before turning the screen off. As if on cue, Sherlock began descending the stairs to the parlor, clad only in his navy dressing robe. His elegant fingers clutched his beloved violin and bow, and he looked at John with no little trepidation.

"John?" That baritone was low and even, but the doctor had known his detective long enough to pick up the slight hint of uncertainty behind the word.

"Sherlock. Why don't you come over here and have a seat," he replied, gesturing at the chair across from him. As the lanky detective crossed the parlor, John changed his mind.

"Actually. I have a better idea. Put your things down and come here," one broad hand gestured at the space between his feet and the table. "I have one thing for you to take care of before you begin your apology." The detective's sapphire gaze eyed him questioningly. Sherlock set his violin and bow down on the coffee table before kneeling in front of John, who extended his hand, palm up, to the detective. Blue eyes widened as he identified the telltale traces of fluid on the doctor's palm.

"I know you Sherlock, and I know you're going to test my limits. So I thought I'd give myself an advantage. A head start, if you will." John's cheeks colored slightly at his own words, but he continued. "But I've made a bit of a mess, you see. And I think that it's only fair since you're the one who's vexing me that you should be the one to help me clean it up."

The detective before him lowered his head slightly, gazing up at John through long lashes. Without a word, he drew the doctor's hand towards his mouth and licked a line up from his wrist to the tip of his middle finger. John shuddered slightly at the touch, then gasped as his detective took the tip of his finger into his mouth. Sherlock swirled the tip of his tongue over the pad of John's finger before taking it into his mouth completely. Long fingers fastened on a tanned wrist, and the dark haired man held his partner's hand stationary as his head bobbed up and down, simulating exactly the kinds of motions that John enjoyed the most in his fellatio.

Once the middle finger had been thoroughly cleaned, Sherlock let his tongue slide back down to the blonde's broad palm, tracing concentric circles across the roadmap of lines. He flicked his tongue over John's heartline, tracing it upward from the outside of his palm to it's resting point between the index and middle finger. He then licked a slow line up John's index finger, spiraling once he reached the tip. Pink lips split in a smile as John groaned his appreciation of Sherlock's talents and the detective mouthed the finger down to it's root. Over and over he sucked, gently letting his teeth graze the sensitive webbing of skin between those thick but dexterous fingers. He repeated the motion with the remaining two fingers on John's hand, before placing an almost chaste kiss in the center of the blonde man's palm.

"Better?" His detective's rich baritone brough John back from the haze of pleasure that silver tongue had worked him into. Taking a few deep breaths to steady himself, he nodded.

"Much. Now undo your robe, take your instrument and go have a seat. I think it's about time you properly apologized."

While picking up his violin from the table, the detective noticed John's phone propped up against a book, camera lense pointed directly at his chair. So. The good doctor was having him entertain an audience. As much as he had hoped his apology to John could be completely private, it also secretly thrilled him that Jim was more than likely watching them. He suppressed a full body shudder, but gooseflesh still raised on his arms and the back of his neck. The entire room hummed with an undeniable electric energy.

John's stormcloud blue eyes held him fast to his seat, and he held his violin and bow awkwardly, almost as if he had forgotten how to handle them. God, John's eyes. They were mere slivers of color now, almost all pupil as he raked them hungrily over Sherlock's seated form. Swallowing hard, the detective finally managed to find his voice.

"And now?" As hard as he tried to maintain some kind of calm, his voice came out wispy and ethereal with questions and wanton expectations. John merely chuckled in response.

"Now Sherlock, your apology can truly begin."

Thanks for reading! I'll try to have the next part out next week. Hopefully Sherlock won't be too uncomfortable until then. : ) As always, reviews and favorites will be kept in the Lemarchand's box that I call a heart (which lives in my freezer) and treasured for all time.

Ta!

Mazi