It took Sherlock a moment to realize that yes, John had just said yes to him, and all that that entailed. In his moment of hesitation, John seamlessly took the reins, standing up but holding Sherlock's legs fast about his own waist without breaking the kiss. Instinctually, Sherlock tightened his legs, bringing their groins back into delicious friction as John walked them both down the hall to Sherlock's bedroom.

John fumbled with the doorknob a moment, getting distracted by Sherlock's tongue and the positively sinful things it kept doing, but soon enough they were inside Sherlock's room. He slowly lowered Sherlock to the ground with his back to the door, keeping their mouths sealed together. Sherlock pressed against him, reluctant to lose any of the heat John was kindling in him.

Sherlock gave John's lower lip a sharp nip, trying to goad him into action. It worked; John let loose a moan that was sure to annoy the neighbors and scratched his short fingernails down Sherlock's bare chest, making Sherlock arch against him. John's hands slid southward, toying with Sherlock's waistband.

"Trousers, off," Sherlock mumbled against John's mouth, pressing him back away from the door and towards the bed. John let him, giving control of his body over to Sherlock, who was heady with the trust and devotion John was showing him in each heated kiss.

John gave a fevered nod, tugging his belt off with hands made clumsy by desire. The detective grinned and gave John a push, knocking the doctor onto his back on top of the bed sheets. For a brief second Sherlock hovered over him, drinking in the doctor's prone form and lust-blown eyes, before the doctor reached forward and grasped Sherlock by the waistband and tugged him down beside him.

A brief shuffle ensued, where John scooted over and rolled onto his side while Sherlock rolled so he and John were face to face. John reached out with a gentle hand, trailing soft fingers over Sherlock's cheekbones. When his fingers reached Sherlock's lips, his index finger reverently stroked their outline. Sherlock quivered under such scrutiny, and when he couldn't stand it any longer he surged forward, pressing his mouth to John's once more.

Sherlock had had enough of the slow and steady seduction, now all he wanted was heat and friction and he wanted it now. He all but ripped off his trousers, causing John to huff a laugh out against Sherlock's neck before he pressed another kiss to the detective's pulse.

"It's not a race, love. We've got all night," John murmured, and Sherlock was never going to admit how those words turned him to so much goo. He was, however, going to do his damnedest to get John out of his trousers.

For all his professed patience, John certainly didn't prove uneager to remove what cloth remained to separate them. He let Sherlock undo the flies of his trousers, tugging them down his legs and finally pushing them off his feet completely, leaving them both in their pants. John felt a flash of self-consciousness; his pants were ridiculous red briefs, something that looked like they belonged on a prepubescent boy, not a man of his age. Sherlock, on the other hand, looked like some sort of male model, all long leanness wrapped in purple silk boxers.

But Sherlock stared at John as if he was the lucky one. Those changeable eyes were nearly swallowed up by the unfathomable depths of his pupils, and his chest was heaving from the sharp breaths that raced into his lungs. The lights in the room were off, but just enough streetlight filtered in to loan them both a soft, golden glow.

Something in John's throat caught at the abrupt tenderness of the scene, the two of them lying together, just looking each other over and drinking in all there was to see. A sudden pressure against John's side startled him, but he immediately relaxed when he saw it was only Sherlock's hand drawing them closer together.

Sherlock leaned down, pressing his mouth to the red scar tissue John still sported on his left shoulder. John groaned, not used to partners reacting so positively to his injury. Usually they would ignore it, or shy away from it but never, never had someone kissed it so reverently, with warm, damp kisses along the sensitive skin and heavier, more intense presses of lips to the heart of the marring, where the skin took more to be stimulated.

Almost without his noticing it, John's hands had moved on their own to slide beneath Sherlock's boxers, cupping his arse and pulling Sherlock tighter to him so that he could feel the other man's arousal pressing against his stomach. Sherlock let out a moan, and the rich baritone sound shot straight to John's cock. It was official; if he had to wait any longer he was going to explode. John leaned up and caught Sherlock's mouth in a bruising kiss, his tongue demanding entrance to Sherlock's mouth and gaining it freely. He swept inside, taking no prisoners as he sought, tasted, and explored every inch of Sherlock he could get to.

"There- There's lubricant in the nightstand- oh, John!" Sherlock exclaimed as John kissed down his chest and reached his boxers, nudging the waistband down and exposing Sherlock's cock, the head red and exposed, shiny with precome already. John gave a wicked grin, his tongue flicking out to lick at the slit before he away, much to Sherlock's disappoint, to rummage in the nightstand drawer.

A moment's searching later, John returned with a bottle of lubricant and a tinfoil packet. "Condoms?" John asked, surprised to have found lube, much less protection along with it.

"Not with us," Sherlock said firmly. When John started to protest, Sherlock argued. "I know that I am clean, and I'm equally certain you are. And before you ask, you're a doctor, I doubt you would allow yourself to contract anything unsavory."

The words shouldn't have been sexy, really there was nothing erotic about a man talking about STIs, but coming from Sherlock… it was sinful. Then again, perhaps it was just the idea of no barriers existing between them, not even the small amount of insulation provided by a condom, that had John's breath coming even faster than it had a moment earlier. But there was still one more thing he had to ask.

"Have you… done this sort of thing? Before, I mean," John said. On the one hand, he hated that he had to ask, that he didn't know Sherlock well enough to know, but on the other, he was thrilled to even be in a situation where it was okay to want more of Sherlock, to ask for what couldn't reasonably be given.

"I'm not a virgin," Sherlock said simply, reclining back on the mattress and drawing John's gaze along with him. John set the lube and condom carefully one the pillow to the side of Sherlock's face before leaning over his mad detective and pressing a shockingly chaste kiss to his lips.

"We still don't have to. We can take this… whatever this is, slow," John whispered. He really, really, really did not want to wait, but if Sherlock wanted it, John would do anything. Just so he could be with Sherlock like this, so exposed but so content.

Sherlock made a low keening sound in his throat, and when John looked into his eyes he saw a deep hunger in them, something wild and fierce. "John Hamish Watson, if you do not fuck me into the mattress very soon, I think I may die," Sherlock hissed, bucking up to kiss John hard and fast and dirty, sweeping his tongue through John's mouth and pulling back before John could reciprocate.

John nodded, struck suddenly mute by the sight of Sherlock in front of him, wanting and most of all, wanting him. He fumbled for the lube, finally squirting some into his hand and warming it up before slicking his fingers. With his dry hand, he slid off Sherlock's boxers, scooting down the bed to remove them completely. Maybe it would've made more sense to do that first, but John wasn't precisely thinking straight.

Once the boxers were gone, John was faced with Sherlock's erection in all its unabashed glory. It wasn't any larger than usual, a little slender and perhaps a bit long, just like the man himself, and the hair at the base was a mass of dark curls. John leaned down, nosing along the shaft until he could breathe deeply, taking in Sherlock's scent in its purest form, an indescribable musk that was somehow concentrated Sherlock.

He gave the shaft an experimental lick, and Sherlock groaned above him. "So help me, John, I need you inside me, now!" Sherlock ordered, his voice quaking. John smiled again, his lubed fingers stroking down Sherlock's cock to fondle his testicles before sliding even further back to his puckered entrance.

When his fingers got there, John found that the first one slid in easily, meeting next to no resistance. He glanced up questioningly, and found that Sherlock looked almost sheepish. "You did take an awfully long shower this afternoon," was all John said, before leaning forward and placing a damp kiss to the head of Sherlock's prick.

He kept that up, moving his one finger in and out in a steady rhythm while he suckled the head, never moving to take more of Sherlock's dick in, but not letting up his oral assault one iota. Sherlock was falling apart above him, moaning and gasping as John slid in a second finger and crooked them just so, finding the exact swollen bundle of nerves that made Sherlock buck wildly in unrestrained need.

Three fingers in, and Sherlock was a mess, quivering and whimpering, the most delicious sounds pouring from his mouth. When the detective couldn't take it any longer, he cursed.

"God fucking dammit, John. Please, get inside me, please," Sherlock begged. That pushed the very last strands of John's restraint, and he carefully slid his fingers away from Sherlock's hole, and pulled away from his cock with an obscenely wet 'pop'. Immediately, Sherlock pulled him up to crush their mouths together, tasting himself on John's tongue, and wanting to taste John the same way.

Perhaps another night, because right now, right fucking now he need John inside him like he'd never needed anything before. Not drugs, not a case, nothing compared to the all-consuming need that was filling Sherlock's body at that moment.

"Please," he gasped out one last time, and John moaned, letting Sherlock remove those incredible red pants before taking Sherlock's legs and lifting them over his own shoulders. Part of Sherlock worried about John's injury, but if John thought he could take it, it must be all right.

Then, all worries were driven from Sherlock's mind, because John was lining his cock up with Sherlock's entrance, and then he was pushing in and-oh!. God, he was so full, full of John, and it was like nothing, nothing he'd ever experienced before. All of the others, male and female, had been boring and dull and oh, nothing like this at all. This was everything he'd hoped for and longed for and more. This was perfect.

John was inside the scorching hot heat of Sherlock's body, gasping at how tight and perfect it felt to be with Sherlock like this. It was more than just chemical reactions, this felt right. This was what each of his relationships had been lacking in, this feeling of belonging with the other person.

"John," Sherlock moaned, "move." And with that, John snapped into action, moving slowly and shallowly at first, but as he felt Sherlock open up he made the strokes longer and deeper, and then began to snap his hips faster and faster until the headboard was slamming into the wall every other thrust and Sherlock was crying out as John hit his prostate over and over.

"God, John!" Sherlock shouted as he came, nearly untouched, streaking white come over both their chests. That pushed John over his own edge, and he thrust quickly in and out two more times before he was coming deep inside Sherlock, filling him up and marking him as his own.

When they both came down from their orgasms, John pulled out, and Sherlock winced slightly at the sudden, hollow feeling. His annoyance increased a moment later, when John whispered something about getting cleaned up and slid from the bed. However, a few moments later, John returned with two wet flannels, and proceeded to gently wipe the semen off of Sherlock's chest and his own before moving down to softly dab at Sherlock's sensitive hole, cleaning away the come that was dribbling out of it. Sherlock sighed at the feeling of being so cared for, so valued, and when John was done with his cleaning, Sherlock pulled him down for a languorous kiss.

It had none of the desperate need of earlier, but was rather born of a mutual desire to confirm that this was more than just a one-night stand, born of hormones and a lack of control. This was something real, tangible. Something permanent.

Sherlock felt a small twinge of fear. He didn't know how to do relationships; friendships alone were beyond his range of expertise. John somehow caught his discomfort and snuggled into Sherlock's chest, pulling the duvet up to cover them both.

"Don't worry, love, we'll figure it out together," John assured, pressing a soft kiss to Sherlock's chest. The detective nodded, set at ease by John's words. He curled possessively around his soldier, wrapping an arm around him.

They fell asleep that way, wrapped around each other, and when Greg burst in the next morning, demanding to know why Sherlock hadn't answered the four separate calls for a crime scene, he came across them still sound asleep. They hadn't shifted apart the whole night.