I didn't participate in Exchangelock's What If? exchange (mainly because I couldn't think of a prompt lol), but the group volunteered for pinch-hits so I jumped on board. This is for beltainefaerie, who'se prompt was "What if John is an incubus. Sherlock could be human or some other kind of fae." Luckily (for the both of us), I'd already had this idea and an outline for this AU and I called dibs so fast I broke the sound barrier. Title is taken from the Deftones cover of No Ordinary Love (originally by Sade).

"I gave you all the love I've got I gave you more than I could give."

"Is... everything okay?" The woman was lovely, perfect and curvy and soft. And she was doing nothing for John. Or rather, she was doing something, just not anything good.

"Yeah, sorry," John apologised, carefully not meeting the steady brown gaze. "I've just a bit of a... situation back at home. It's been stressful. Do you mind if I make this quick?" The woman-he'd already forgotten her name-tilted her head, and he hoped she wasn't going to kick him out. He was barely surviving as it was and if he didn't get these tiny snacks every few days, he was going to get sick. Well, sicker.

"As long as you make it good for me too, honey," the woman giggled with a wink. More than thankful that she wasn't going to kick him from her bed, he bent back over the woman and closed his eyes, trying to imagine another form in her place. A longer, paler, maler one. It helped where he needed it.

Twenty minutes later, when he left the woman, fucked out and memory hazed, alone in her flat, he nearly tripped down the stairs in his haste to get to the street. He barely made it a block before he stumbled into an alley wall, heaving for clean air and trying to stop smelling the thick, cloying scent of her sex. When he couldn't, he just forced himself to repress his gag reflex and tried to ignore it. The doctor had no idea how long it took before he got himself back under control, but it was dark by the time he climbed the steps to Baker Street, each lift of his foot more exhausting than the last. But John did what John did best: he soldiered on.

Sherlock was laying in his usual position on the couch, and just the sight of him-curls tousled, sleep clothes rumpled, skin pale in the soft light-made John's stomach clench so suddenly and painfully that he couldn't help the momentary twist of agony on his face. Thankfully, Sherlock was too deep in his mind to notice.

"I'm home," he murmured quietly as he struggled to hang up his coat, even that simple action making his arms weak with exertion. Thank god he wasn't scheduled for a shift at the clinic for another three days and the detective had just finished a case. Sleeping in and eating the kind of proper breakfast Mrs Hudson tended to deliver on the weekends wouldn't fix everything, especially since his kind didn't require human food or drink to survive, but it would at least make him functional again. For now.

"Yes," Sherlock said, apropos of nothing. John frowned as he moved to his chair, wondering if he'd missed something. It had been happening more and more often of late, enough so that he was never surprised by his lapse any more.

"Sorry?" he asked. He was too exhausted to even make tea, something that was mostly comfort. Flavour and comfort.

"Yes, I'll have tea, thank you."

John stopped mid-sit with both palms braced on the chair's arms to look at the other man. Had he spoke aloud on accident? "When did I offer tea?"

"When you woke up," came the flippant reply. The man hadn't even bothered to open his eyes again and John wondered if he'd even moved all day.

"Sherlock, that was thirteen hours ago," he informed the willfully ignorant man, too tired to be properly irritated. "And I left you one then, you git." In fact... John looked over and spotted the mug he'd left, still sitting on the low table directly to Sherlock's right. A mug that was no doubt now stained beyond recognition. Not that it probably hadn't been already-he doubted any cup, mug, plate, or bowl in the flat had been left unstained by his flatmate's rather erratic eating and drinking habits.

His eyes began to glaze over as his mind wandered, the day's exhaustion finally catching up to him. Suddenly, he jolted, realising he'd begun to mold to his chair, and heaved himself up with a barely-suppressed groan. "I'm going to bed," he announced, wobbling towards the stairs. "If you still want tea, you can make it yourself."

He didn't bother waiting for a reply before he began trudging up the stairs. It had been such a long, long day, even before he'd attempted to grab a snack from... Lily? Lucy? La- It didn't really matter what her name was. She hadn't been who he wanted, and he couldn't tell if what little he'd managed to pilfer from the woman was enough to offset how ill she'd made him in doing so. He couldn't tell if what he managed to pilfer from any of them was enough to offset how ill they made him.

When John finally made it to his room, he gave one longing look to the pyjamas carefully folded at the end of the bed before simply dropping face first into his pillow. Despite how tired and worn out he felt, it wasn't mental exhaustion pulling at him, so instead of slipping into Sleep's sweet arms, he was left wide awake. Unfortunately, that seemed to give his mind time to ponder a little too enthusiastically exactly how he'd gotten to this point. Before he'd been shot, he never would have imagined himself in a situation like this. He'd managed to avoid falling in love for thirty-eight fucking years, and then Sherlock, the great big swan, crashed into his life and collared him to his side as surely as if the man had actually buckled leather around his neck and put him on a lead. From that moment on, John had been ruined; ten years in the desert couldn't bring down Captain Watson, but Sherlock Holmes managed in under 48 hours.

It had been so much easier when they were children, when all he and Harry had to do was sleep next door to mum and dad's room to catch the cast-off energy. Then they had turned sixteen, old enough by human laws to find their own sources of food, and just like any other of-age succubus and incubus, they went wild with the freedom of it, the choices. All throughout uni and the army, it was a different man or woman every night for John. His army mates even dubbed him 'Three Continents Watson', for the number of continents they'd visited on which John had found another's bed to warm. He'd heard the rumours about himself, speculating that he was either the luckiest bloke alive or a sex addict. He'd ignored them, more concerned with keeping his race and his kind a secret than making sure that the reputation that preceded him was sparkling clean.

After the rehabilitation and the scarring, he'd needed to use more Charm than he ever had before,, just to hook someone's interest in him, much less keep it long enough to get a meal. Then he'd been introduced to Sherlock, the gorgeous human with the sharp intellect and sharper tongue, the shy smile and inescapably sweet scent of 'untouched'. He thought he'd perhaps found a partner with whom he could work out a mutual arrangement: fun for the genius, and food for John. But then he'd been told 'not my area', delivered with a sharp, almost defensive look, and he accepted it as gracefully as he was able (not that it came out that way; he hadn't been that awkward about flirting since his youth).

He almost wanted to laugh looking back on that night; he had figured he would get stabilised, get more hours at the clinic, and hit the bars every night looking for the one-night stands that had fed him for so long. Instead, he had been dragged into a 'case', and less than two days later, he'd killed one human to save another; to save the one he'd fallen in love with. John had tried to just roll with that surprising punch, that he'd fallen in love for the first time in his life, and he figured he would simply love from afar, getting meals where and when he could, as he always had. That was definitely not how it turned out.

The more he fell in love with Sherlock, the less he could stomach the touch of others. The press of foreign skin against his own gave him chills. The sensation of someone wrapped around him or pressing into him made his stomach clench, and their release made him want to be sick. At first, he thought he was coming down with something. But when he started imagining his fae-like flatmate as his partners, the nausea lessened just enough for him to eat. It was a short-term solution; what little he managed to get each day was so minimal, even the most conservative of his kind wouldn't consider it a snack. The longer he went, the less he was able to stomach sex, and the sicker it made him. On top of that, the less he ate, the weaker he became. It was a vicious cycle: he couldn't eat because it made him sick, and because he couldn't eat, his body began to shut down. Months went by, and John could barely function. It should have terrified him, but he didn't have the energy to be. Mum had always warned him to never fall in love. She had never said it was because it would kill him.

.oOo.

There was a scent in his nose, familiar and yet foreign, and John's eyes snapped open. Sherlock was hovering over him, brow furrowed and looking just as rumpled as he had the night before. The detective leaned forward, bracing his hand on the pillow next to the doctor's head and leaned in, frown deepening and expression one of utmost concentration.

"There's something not right with you, but I cannot determine what it is," Sherlock announced with a pout, tone one of absolute annoyance; it wasn't often that John knew something the genius didn't, but when he did, and the doctor refused to share, the man-child was sure to make his displeasure well known. John's own brow furrowed in turn, annoyed at Sherlock for waking him up so rudely, and he had opened his mouth to say as much when that scent that had woken him flooded his nose and coated his tongue. The scent of sex, of orgasms. Sherlock, still frowning, began to straighten, and John's hand flew out, fingers wrapping around the skinny, pale wrist. He didn't know how tightly he was holding, fingers digging into pale skin, only that the human reeked of the thing John needed most, and it hadn't been given to him.

"Who have you been fucking?" he snarled, voice low and gravelly in the way that meant his control was wavering; or perhaps it was already lost. "Greg?" Never mind that Greg was with Mycroft. "Irene?" Never mind that she was dead. "Moriarty?" Sherlock's mouth opened and then closed without making a sound, and John tugged as he twisted his torso, pulling the lanky body to the bed and straddling it. He propped himself up on his hands and knees, holding the captured wrist to the bed. "Who have you been fucking?!" He was shouting now, anger and need and hunger roiling together inside his mind and his body, making him dangerous and dizzy.

"My hand," Sherlock finally said, both voice and expression calm and even, and the answer as much as the tone it was delivered in was like a bucket of ice water over his head and down his spine. John swiftly rolled off of the man, his stomach clenching with the pain of having the meal he wanted, needed, most so close he could touch it. But he couldn't touch it. It wasn't his to touch.

"Get out." His voice felt raw, his body standing stiffly by his bedside table. His bed creaked as the body on it shifted, but there was no other sign of Sherlock actually leaving. "Get out!" he barked, voice like a whip in the silence. There was the shuffle of feet over the hardwood towards him and a hand landed on his shoulder. The ex-soldier panicked and turned quickly, shoving hard even as he stumbled away. Only then did Sherlock's expression change, eyes wide in bewilderment. "GET OUT!" the doctor bellowed, doubling over as his entire body clenched in protest. Finally, his flatmate moved, his arm dropping and expression shuttering in a way that hurt John's heart. But he would rather have an emotionally wounded Sherlock than a dead one. If he were to get his hand on the human now, in the state he was in, he would be liable to fuck him until there was nothing left to take; until he was full and his flatmate was dead. His bedroom door closed quietly and John collapsed to the floor.

.oOo.

The rest of the day he spent wanking, but the energy it provided was so minuscule that it was near-worthless. It was like being stranded in the woods, unable to trust the vegetation and relying on bugs for nourishment; it was barely enough to keep him alive. But even the pain of oversensitivity and over-chaffing was better than attacking Sherlock again. He didn't leave his room all day, didn't bother going for human food or tea. When he finally passed out-cock beyond spent, both arms sore and both hands cramped-his soul had never felt so empty and his heart never so hollow.

Hours later, a sharp rap on his door and a shout of "CASE, JOHN!" startled him awake. For long minutes, he did nothing but lay there, breathing shakily and trying to find the energy to move. Eventually, he was able to at least sit up, and from there, it was a little easier to swing his feet over the edge of his bed and stand. He stared down at his rumpled clothes, eyes feeling hazy as he considered changing before deciding against it. That would take too much energy; energy he would need to keep up with Sherlock on the case.

Even compared to his days spent limping about, the amount of time it took him to hobble downstairs was abysmal. Alarmingly so. But the fact that he made it was victory enough. To his surprise, instead of bouncing impatiently by the door adorned in coat and scarf and gloves, Sherlock was lounging on the couch, dressed in case-standard button-up and trousers. The sight of him made John's stomach clench in guilt and he searched for a way to apologise without words.

"Tea?" he finally asked, already moving towards the kitchen to set the kettle. There's a hum from the sitting room and he lets out a sigh of relief as he prepared two cups. Several minutes later, he carried their mugs into the other room, and for once, Sherlock held out his hand and took the mug, rather than directing John to put it on the side table to be forgotten about. To his greater surprise, the other male actually sat up and blew on his tea to cool it. Eyeing his flatmate warily, John followed suit with his own, feeling his body begin to relax into his chair just like the night before. Somehow, just being near Sherlock gave him a better rest than hours of actual sleep. His eyes closed as he melted into his chair in relaxation, slowly sipping his tea and enjoying the rare, quiet moment.

"Let's go, John." John's eyes opened slowly and realised he'd actually fallen asleep with his tea propped against his sternum, the rim pressing a circle into the skin around his mouth. He tried to stand and found he could hardly move, muscles entirely unresponsive. Frowning, he realised he was still holding his tea cup and he put it down on the table, movements excessively slow and careful, before returning his efforts to standing. After several more attempts, he managed to get to his feet and turn around, blinking blearily at the coat Sherlock was holding out for him to slide his arms into. Doing so required as much concentration as standing had, and his body felt both heavy and floaty at the same time. It was the oddest sensation. The floor would be so much better though. So much flatter and horizontaler. So... much... eeeaaasssiiieeerrr...

"John." John's eyes opened slowly at the call of his name, and he realised he was standing in the sitting room, dressed and in his coat. Sherlock was similarly kitted out and standing with the door open,waiting patiently. He frowned. Hadn't he just been in bed? How was he in the sitting room? His mind tried to find the answer before he decided it was too much effort and he dropped the thought. "Let's go."

"Okay," he mumbled. The doctor followed the detective down onto the street, hovering at his side as they waited for a cab to pull up in front of them. The second it arrived, it seemed like his friend had the door open and was waving John in before it had even stopped, his flatmate moving faster than his mind could process.

The soft, fabric interior made it difficult to slide into place, but John was a soldier and he'd invaded Afghanistan. He could do this. With great care, he planted his hands on the seat, placing his feet just as meticulously on the floor as he climbed in, not wanting to fall over. When he finally made it to his seat and turned to sit, Sherlock was already sitting beside him with the door closed. It would have surprised him, but he hadn't the energy. Instead, he just closed his eyes, resting with what little time he had to do it. He needed so much rest these days.

"Seatbelt, John." John's eyes cracked open and he looked around, wondering how he'd gotten in a cab. A sound at his right made him look over and lock eyes with his flatmate whose calm expression relaxed him with its familiarity. And then he realised the man must've spoken, expression more expectant than calm.

"Sorry, what?" His words sounded slurred to his own ears, but just the thought of trying to move his tongue was so draining that not even Sherlock was worth the attempt to speak more clearly.

"Put on your seatbelt, John." A directive from Sherlock. He could follow those. A directive from the human, the person, he lived for; his unmated mate. Yes, he could do that. He twisted slowly, grabbing for the strap and buckle. For the first few tries, he couldn't grasp either, fingers lacking the strength. Finally, he managed to curl them just right around the pair and bring them with him when he turned the other way. John eyed the other half of the buckle intently, all of his concentration focusing on bringing the two parts together. When they finally clicked together, he looked up at the man with a smile. The one he got in return was strained, but he still got one, and he relaxed into his seat.

"We're here, John. Come along." John startled awake at the sound of his flatmate's voice, and then panicked at the sensation of being restrained. "John! Take off your seatbelt!" Seatbelt? How the hell had he even gotten in the car?

As his brain slowly came online once again, his vision cleared and he realised he was staring at the cabbie. The man was watching him, his expression one of vaguely concerned annoyance.

"Your friend 'ere drunk or somethin', mister?" the man asked, voice loud enough to make John flinch.

"No. I would tell you to mind your own business, but I can see by your watch that you're much too used to blackmailing people," Sherlock said, voice quiet and strong. "I suggest you be silent or I'll have Scottland Yard investigate your breakfast practices." The cabbie's mouth snapped closed and he turned back around sharply. John turned back to look at his friend who gestured at something at the doctor's hip. He looked down and found the seatbelt he remembered Sherlock mentioning, the buckle still clicked in place.

"Oh." His fingers felt clumsy as he pressed down on the button, and then he nearly managed to tangle his arm in the belt somehow when he tried to fling it away. He almost tripped on his way out the car, but Sherlock made no move to help him. Good. That was good. His flatmate was the one person whom he couldn't bear to touch after all.

Sherlock turned away without a word and began walking towards the flashing lights and sirens. The bright lights made his eyes burn and a sharp spike of pain went through his frontal lobe. Every bit of his body ached. Every joint, every ligament, every muscle, every bone. Looking hurt. Walking hurt. Breathing hurt. But still, he did what he was meant to do and followed his detective.

The genius began spouting off deductions as soon as he entered the crime scene, and John let him flounce off, the deep voice a constant, comforting murmur as he leaned against a nearby wall. His eyes, fluttering as they had been since he'd woken up just minutes ago, finally closed. The alley's brick caught and pulled at his hair, sending little jolts of pain through his scalp as he shifted and settled, mind growing hazy.

Rape victim, Sherlock was saying, his voice flowing like a comforting lullaby in one ear and out the other.

"You all right, mate?" A new voice. Human. Male. Familiar. Not Sherlock. He tried to open his eyes to verify, but his will matched his energy, and he gave it no more than a token effort. "John?" Oh yes. Greg. His friend. Detective Inspector.

"The boyfriend-" Sherlock was saying, and an amused huff, more a weak sigh than a laugh, left John on the his next exhale, interrupting his friend mid-deduction. Even after being corrected about Harry, the man was still shockingly terrible at identifying lesbian relationships.

"Girlfriend," John corrected in a murmur. The consulting detective's tirade silenced, as it seemed, did everything else. It was a comforting quiet, to ease the ache in his head. "I can smell her. Poor thing. Both virgins. They smelled so sweet. Like you. They would make me sick though." He paused. That didn't feel like the right thing to concentrate on. Useless knowledge. Unhelpful. Trivial. "The man wasn't though. He smells sick. Took too much. Took what wasn't his to take. I can smell him. He would make me sick too. I think I am going to be sick. I need to go home. I'm going home."

John's feet were moving, stumbling along the pavement towards home. At least, he hoped this was the direction of home. His body was numb, floating through the air, his vision was nothing more than faded lights amongst the dark, and all he could hear was rumble of cars passing and the chatter of the people on the kerbs. He couldn't smell home from here. But if he walked long enough, then he was bound to come across a trace.

He lost track of time, of how far his feet moved over the ground, single-minded in his need for safety, but then... There. Sherlock. Home. But too strong. Too sudden. "Sherlock?" he called out, voice slurred.

"Come along, John." His flatmate. His friend. His human. His mate. Always there. Even when he disappears, he comes back, always at John's side, guiding him, leading him. His Sherlock.

Warmth appeared at his side, hovering, but not touching, always just the one step away it took to keep John following him. The doctor didn't step with confidence-too much energy to walk the way he normally did-but with trust, recognising each minute pause as a step up or down. Shuffle by shuffle, they walked until he could pick up the trace scents of home: a mix of Sherlock and himself. It was the smell of comfort, of safety. And of need; desires unfulfilled. Ones that could only be sated by the man just in front of him. He moaned weakly, reaching out a hand for his mate.

"Sherlock," he whispered, stumbling when his fingers only whispered across thick woolen fabric. His body ached and his heart screamed and he couldn't continue any more. So he didn't. His feet stopped moving and he wavered in place. His mate didn't want him. There was no reason to continue. Not to home. Not in life. The rejection was going to kill him. Was killing him. Had killed him. A fact he had understood long ago. Now it was time to accept it.

"Up the stairs, John." Once, he had followed every request and demand from the man. He couldn't now. There was nothing of him left. He was flesh and muscle, bones and blood. Nothing more than animal instinct. He shook his head in rejection of the command, but the voice continued, soft and firm, enticing. "Yes, John, up the stairs. I won't touch you, but-"

The scoff left his throat before he even knew he was capable of making the sound. "No," he whispered, "I know you won't." Weeks ago, he would have been swept over by despair and resignation at the thought. Now, not even that was left. "All I want... But you don't... Was okay with that. Still am. Would never change you. Would never... Most important..." He realised what the distance in his body was now. Death would come soon. Good. He shouldn't have even made it out of Afghanistan. Mum and dad weren't here to miss him anymore, and Harry was too addicted to her booze and her one-night stands to care about the human mate who waited for her at home. And Sherlock… No, he had held Sherlock back long enough. It was past time for him to move on.

It would happen within the week. He could feel it already. His body was already in the final stages of shutting down. Like a computer. Like how Sherlock always referred to his mind. Mmm. Everything in his life was Sherlock now. No, not just now. His entire life had been Sherlock since he'd walked into the lab at Bart's.

"Two days ago, you pinned me to your bed and your eyes turned black. Why did they do that?" Sherlock's voice was curious, clinical, unafraid. Something was off about that, but John was too busy trying to remember doing something he didn't know he'd done. Usually he could feel the change, a comfortable heat spanning from temple to temple, but looking back now, he could only remember the anger, the jealously, the hunger. Then again, his memory had been failing him as thoroughly as his body had been the last few weeks, and the only thing that stuck out to him from that memory was the scent of Sherlock's sex and the feel of the fragile human body under his.

"Incubus. Instinct. Needed you. Jealous." He wavered on his feet again. He needed to sleep. God, he just wanted to sleep. He wanted to lay down and close his eyes and never wake up. He just wanted to do it breathing in Sherlock's scent. Final life goal in mind, John moved forward, hitting each toe against the next step to assure himself of its presence. He didn't stop until he got to the sitting room, suddenly at an impasse. If he laid down here, on the sofa, he could die with the strong scent of Sherlock in his nose. But then he'd inconvenience the man by dying on his sofa. Would his friend have to live with the memory of John's death in that same spot? Or would he just delete it?

Or John could go up to his own room. It smelled mostly of himself, with only the barest scent of 'home' and of Sherlock to comfort him. But then he would be dying in a room the genius never went into and wouldn't have a memory he needed to delete. Then again, John's body would have to be carried through the rest of the house like that, tainting two sets of stairs rather than one. Maybe he should just go into the alleyway and lay under an open window so he could still die with the scent of his mate in his nose without inconveniencing him.

Something sharp pricked his neck and his knees crumpled under his weight before a strong arm wrapped around his waist and chest. "No," he whimpered, the scent of Sherlock filling his nose. Another arm under his knees, bending them, lifting him. "No." Now the floating in his mind manifested in his body as he was carried through the house. He was supposed to be dying. Not being cared for. Still, the rocking continued and, his mind finally quieting, John floated out to sea.

.oOo.

Consciousness came to him slowly, the haze that his mind struggled through as thick as the morphine-induced coma he'd woken up from after he'd been shot. The sunlight on the other side of his eyelids made him aware of a headache growing between his temples and he groaned, rolling onto his side away from the painful UV rays. Or tried, rather. It wasn't until he tried to move that he realised there was something around his ankles and wrists, keeping him immobile on his bed. "What the fuck?"

"After the research I did last night, restraining you seemed vital." The familiar voice forced him to full awareness, and he realised his mind was more clear now than it had been in days. His body had never been weaker though, and he struggled to even tug at his restraints. He forced his eyes open against the light, tears building in his eyes to combat the sting.

"Sherlock? Why- What research?" Despite the clarity in his mind now, his memories of the past day were hazy at best. The last thing he could remember was spending all day wanking just to snack. There hadn't been a case on then, so what research was Sherlock talking about? The tears building in his eyes finally spilled over enough for him to see, and he found Sherlock standing across the room, staring at him. And John was naked. Naked and bound to his own bed. "What the fuck is going o-"

John's voice froze in his throat at the sight of long, pale fingers going to the dark buttons on the obscenely tight purple shirt. One by one, each little disc was slipped from its small slit, and it wasn't until the last had been freed and the fabric pulled aside to reveal pale, unblemished skin, that John began to worry.

"What are you doing?" Oh Jesus, he was beautiful. Skin like moonlight. Absolutely ethereal. Perhaps he did have a fae ancestor somewhere down the line. Just the sight of him like that, bare and exposed, made desire flash through John like a bolt of lightning. The hunger that had been absent since he woke flared, an ugly need pulsing through the depths of his soul and he began to struggle in his bonds. Then Sherlock's fingers moved to the button and zip on his trousers. John's eyes dropped away, and for some reason, they stuck on the sight of bare toes peeking out from under the long trouser hems. The image was interrupted by the tops of the trousers pooling to the floor, and finally he looked back up.

"Why are you naked?" His voice sounded hollow to his own ears. He wanted to look away, needed to look away, that perfect body only making the hunger and desire in him burn brighter and hotter, but he couldn't. He couldn't. stop. looking.

"I told you, John," Sherlock said, voice low as he stalked forward, a great big cat with his eyes set on John. "I did research while you were unconscious. I know what your body requires. I know what you need." John's body went cold with panic as the man gracefully stepped up onto the bed and straddled his hips in one smooth move. The heat of the man over his pelvis made his cock swell and his hunger and panic explode. A willing meal was right here, right above him, the very same meal he'd been denying himself for months on end. The one thing that could keep him alive.

"No no no no no," he whispered, straining against the restraints. Sherlock cocked his head, staring down at him curiously as slender fingers wrapped around an equally-slender cock and began to stroke. The sexual energy sparked immediately, blooming in the air between them, and John's soul sucked it up in seconds, flaming the hunger inside him. More! his soul screamed. MORE!

"Oh, John..." his mate moaned, bucking into his own fist and tossing his head back. The energy spiked suddenly and John moaned at the influx, tossing his head back and rolling his hips, gasping when his cock brushed against the plush arse. "All you had to do was ask. I can give you what you need. I want to give you what you need." And then Sherlock began to rock; rock backwards against John's cock and then forward into his hand. Masturbation, even another's, was still only sips of energy-nowhere close to a drink, and never a full swallow. Still, each thrust made his energy pulse, and each pulse only made him hungrier. But now he had a full meal in his lap. He could sate himself, he could finally partake of the temptation he'd been living with. He didn't have to be hungry anymore. He just needed penetration, and his hunger would be gone. All Sherlock had... to... do...

"NO!" John gasped, eyes snapping open as he bucked against the slight weight over his hips. Sherlock was flushed, from his cheeks down to his chest and through the length of his cock, a pearly bead of precum at the tip. He was panting as if on the verge of orgasm, hand moving furiously over his erection, but it slowed as he looked down at John curiously. "Stop," the doctor begged, arms only growing weaker as he tugged.

"It's all right, John," Sherlock murmured, his free hand reaching down to stroke over John's chest. "You don't have to hide from me. I won't tell anyone. I'll take care of you for once." The ex-soldier's head began to roll on the pillow, rejecting, denying.

"No," he begged, bucking more wildly, pulling harder. Sherlock's eyes had closed, however, and he seemed to misunderstand John's motions, hand stroking faster, moans becoming breathier. "No," he said again, this time in horror. If he tasted his mate's orgasm, he'd never be able to let go. He'd drain him dry.

"Oh, god, John." Oh god. He knew that sound. How many times had he heard his name said that way? How many times had he imagined Sherlock saying it that way? How many times had he heard that tone right before he received a full meal, and found it so delicious that he couldn't stop himself from going back from more? And if he couldn't stop himself from taking more bites of a meal that tasted nowhere as good as the one in front of him now, how could he stop himself when it came to the one meal he'd die to preserve?

"NO!" Inhuman strength flooded his limbs, and the ties connecting his wrist- and ankle-bands to the bedposts snapped. He shot upright and shoved the man straddling him as far away as he could. His heart was pounding as he scrambled away to the opposite corner of the room. He was trembling and his face felt wet as he curled into a tight ball on the floor, wrapping his arms tight around himself, but he'd kept Sherlock from orgasming, stopped himself from tasting, and even that hurt look on his friend's face was worth protecting his mate from what he could do to him.

"John? I don't understand. My research was meticulous. Is it... is it me you don't want?" Sherlock's voice was impossibly small and it made John's heart hurt to hear. He clapped his hands over his ears, unable to tolerate the sound. His friend could be serious, but he could be acting; god knew the detective was better than 'good' at it, but risking his life was not worth it.

A hand touched on his shoulder and he jumped, lashing out even as he tried to scramble away again. The strength of earlier had left him, however, so when a hand grabbed his ankle and yanked him backwards, he struggled and he shouted and he fought, but he still ended up on his back with Sherlock once again straddling his waist. The human held the ex-soldier's hips down with his weight, and the backs of John's hands were pressed (painfully hard) to the floor by his head, bound by fingers with steel strength curled around his forearms. The exhaustion dragged him down, making him feel like something was trying to pull him right through the floor, and he became limp in his friend's hold.

"Please, get away from me," be begged weakly, his head rolled to the side. Across from him, he could see his sheets strewn across his bed and down to the floor, his bedframe just slightly out of place. The wet on his cheeks was uncomfortable against the hard wood of the floor, but he couldn't muster the energy to care. He couldn't find the energy to do anything except lay in Sherlock's grasp and breathe.

"I need to understand, John," Sherlock said, voice strained. John closed his eyes, wishing he could close his ears. "You've lived this long. Why would you rather die now than take me?" He didn't answer, and the fingers around his forearms tightened right before they lifted his arms and slammed them back against the floor. "Why!"

"Because I'll take all of you," he told the floor brokenly. "I'll take until there's nothing left." Silence followed his statement and more tears flooded down his cheeks. "Please, go."

The hands on his forearms loosened and pulled away before the pelvis driving his arse into the floor lifted. He tried to roll onto his side, away from Sherlock, but he didn't even have the energy to pull one hip from the floor.

"I need to understand why, John." By God, this man was persistent. A familiar exasperation welled and he almost found the energy to roll his eyes. John was dying, and it was still all about Sherlock. 'Peacock.' "Why would you take it all? Why have you not been... 'eating'? How could you let yourself get to this point?"

"Sentiment," John finally mumbled. "You wouldn't understand."

Hands cupped his jaw and turned his face forward, and before he could try to pull his head free, Sherlock was bending down and soft lips were pressing against his own.

John's eyes went wide at the touch as his entire body froze, too surprised to do anything but lie there and let it happen. He barely noticed when the man pulled away, lingering close enough that their breaths mingled and warm palms still pressed to the scruffy lines of his unshaven jaw.

"I understand sentiment better than you may think, John Watson," Sherlock murmured, dropping down to press their mouths together again. The man didn't do anything except let their lips rest against one another, keeping it chaste, and it only served to confuse him further.

When Sherlock pulled away the second time, hands cupping the doctor's jaw, John whispered, "What are you doing?" His voice emerged from his mouth weak, scratching along his throat on its way out.

"I am attempting to convey my intent through actions, as I do not have the words," the genius said, annoyance thick in his voice. When John could only stare up at him blankly, not understanding, Sherlock heaved a frustrated sigh and sat back onto John's hips again, finally releasing his face. His flatmate grabbed his hand, positioning his index and middle finger up while forcing his other digits closed, as if he was preparing the doctor's hand to register a pulse. Sure enough, a moment later, his flattened fingers were placed against Sherlock's carotid artery and the man leaned in again, free hand on the floor next to the John's head. "Take my pulse," he heard, right before his lips were captured in an unrelenting, all-consuming kiss.

Beneath his fingers, Sherlock's heartbeat pounded, rushing by at an accelerated pace that was hard to ignore or deny. As calm as the detective appeared on the outside, his pulse told a different story entirely, and John opened eyes he didn't remember closing to look at the man pinning him to the floor. To his surprise, those stormy eyes were already watching him, pupils dilated, and he would have jumped if he had any room to do so.

Something niggled at his mind. Something about Sherlock. Not just in this moment, but also in the past. Something...

Accelerated pulse.

Dilated eyes.

Flushed cheeks.

Indisputable erection.

What was it that Sherlock had told him about how he'd beaten Irene? "Accelerated heart rate and dilated pupils are a symptom of the chemical defect known as 'love'. She had both. Considering humanity's predilection towards the matter, and her continued persistence in attempting to engage me, it wasn't hard to deduce that she had fallen victim to her own biology."

"I don't understand," John whispered when Sherlock pulled away, his voice almost a croak as the pressure over his hips increased with the man's movement. If Irene displaying similar symptoms towards Sherlock meant she was in love with him, then Sherlock displaying those same symptoms towards him meant... "I thought... 'chemical defect'?"

The long-familiar Look was leveled at him. "I challenge anyone to consider you a weakness, John. Or weak. In fact, since you have joined me, I have never been stronger. I can still function when you go on your..." the man paused to wrinkle his nose in exaggerated disgust, "conferences. But when you're here, I'm stronger than I ever was before. And you are always stronger when you're with me. You may not have noticed, but whenever you're away from me for extended periods of time, you begin limping again." John blinked slowly in surprise. He... hadn't noticed that. But thinking back now, he realised it was true. But still, that didn't mean... Did it?

"Does that mean- So you-" Not once had John ever been in this position, and he had no idea how to ask what he wanted to know. He wouldn't have known even if he was at full health , so trying to ask now was more than beyond his capabilities.

Sherlock heaved a sigh so sudden and explosive that it made John start. "Think, John! It's obvious! I have freely admitted in the past that neither gender is 'my area' and you have never seen me date or have a one-night stand, and yet I am straddling you with a rather prominent erection, offering myself to you. Have I really given you the impression I would do this for anyone else? That I would want to do this with anyone else?" John could only stare at him wide-eyed and the man above him gave a softer sigh, tentatively reaching down and lacing their fingers together. "It may be just transport, but it's transport I don't trust for anyone else to take care of. Except for you."

Despite himself, John could feel tears welling in his eyes at the words. Sherlock's trust was a rare and precious thing, and it was one thing to appoint himself the man's doctor, and another thing entirely to hear that it was a position his flatmate had willingly let him fill. Thumbs swept against the wet skin under his eyes and flicked away at the droplets clinging to the corners, again and again, until his eyes no longer burned and the tears had stopped.

"Now will you let me take care of you?" The exasperation in Sherlock's voice made it clear the man thought the question was a mere formality. Still, John shook his head.

"I'll kill you," he said softly, willing the stubborn human to just understand. "Once I start taking, I won't be able to stop. I've needed you far too much for far too long."

Sherlock let out another annoyed sigh. John often wondered if it was his favourite; he used it more than any other sigh in his arsenal (and the genius had a lot). "Do you trust me?" the man asked.

John frowned. "Of course I do."

"Then act like it. Get on the bed. I need supplies." With that, the heat disappeared from over his pelvis, leaving an aching cold that seemed to spread through his core as the lanky form slipped out his door.

Now it was the doctor's turn to sigh. "'Get on the bed,'" he muttered. He could barely lift his head from the floor, much less the rest of him. When Sherlock appeared a moment later, it was with a bundle of straps in his arms and a bottle in one hand. He took one look at where John was still laying on the ground and rolled his eyes before dumping his cargo on the bed and walking over to the weakened form, easily scooping him up and depositing him on the bed. Ignoring the glare the ex-soldier was giving him, Sherlock set to work moving his limp, unresisting limbs around the bed, using the soft leather cuffs that were already around his wrists and ankles to bind him to the four corners of his bed.

"I always suspected you weren't human," the genius announced as he tied down first the left wrist, then the right, statement blasé enough that it took a moment to set in. When it did though, John's heart skipped a beat. Was he that obvious? "There was something off about you, but as you well know, cryptozoology is hardly a subject I've versed myself in. You remember how well I handled Baskerville." No, he didn't accidentally reveal himself. It was simply an unfortunate, or perhaps fortunate, in this case, byproduct of living with one of the most observant humans in the world. Scratch that. One of the most observant sentient creatures in the world. "But once I began researching your kind, succubi fit you well."

"Incubus," he corrected as Sherlock connected his ankle bands to the bed posts, though for some reason, these straps were a great deal looser than the ones restraining his arms. The man paused, and turned to look at him.

"There is a difference?" Sometimes John wondered if his flatmate cared about gender at all. Probably not. It wasn't as much of a concern for fae whom your bed partner was as it was for humans. The only time it mattered was if you wished to produce offspring.

"Succubi are female," he informed, voice slurred as his body began to shut down again. When was the last time he'd even had a proper meal? Weeks? Months? He couldn't remember any longer. "Sherlock," he called, voice coming out in a soft sigh. The man hummed in response as he secured the last bond, and then turned to face him, looming above him and head cocked to the side.

"Does the person being penetrated matter?"

John's head lolled on the pillow in a shake. "No. Need you."

Sherlock nodded and then climbed up on the bed, kneeling over the bound man's waist. Out of the tangled sheets, he produced a bottle of lube, and seconds later, he was slicking the liquid over John's cock. For the first time in a weeks, he didn't feel sick at the sensation of someone touching him and he sighed and moaned and rolled his hips at the contact, unable to even beg for more of the violinist's manipulative, calloused touch. When it stopped though, a cry of dismay left his throat and his eyes snapped open to find the other man fiddling with something behind his back. A second later, Sherlock gave a throaty groan as his hand reappeared holding a large, thick dildo, shining from use. John turned wide eyes towards amused grey ones, unable to find the words to ask.

"I may be a virgin, but I am still aware of how intercourse works. The likelihood of you penetrating me, at least the first time, was higher than the alternative. It would have been an oversight to not prepare myself for you," the genius explained, even as he pressed both palms to the ex-soldier's chest and slowly lowered himself down onto the cock he had already slicked.

John's mind and body were instantly set ablaze at the sensation of being engulfed by a burning heat and the sexual energy in the room flared suddenly, turning his vision turned white. He sucked it up in an instant, craving more like humans craved air or flowers craved sun. His hips flexed and arched, seeking more of that heat, needing it all around him, all over him. "More," he rasped, begging. "God, Sherlock, more, I need it all."

"John," the his mate gasped, the weight over John now comforting rather than restricting. Slowly, the spots of white cleared from his vision and he found Sherlock above him, cheeks red, eyes dilated, curls a wild mess, and fuckable lips parted as he let out tiny little gasps that made John's cock throb. The pressure on his chest increased as the tightness around him pulled away and he growled, thrusting his hips as far as they could go, chasing that hole. It wasn't enough. The body above him was taller, lankier, and it moved out of range of a quick thrust, leaving only the tip of his cock inside before it returned, the muscles clamping and pulling at him, just as eager to hold him as he was to be held.

When Sherlock settled again, it was with a sweet little sigh that made John want to roll him over and fuck into him until those sighs were the only sounds he made; until they became screams. He snarled and tugged at his bonds, though with the bare minimum of strength that he was gaining, it was as useless as it had been half an hour ago. The energy flowing into him felt endless, the infinite well of a virgin's repressed sexuality, and it only pulsed stronger with every rise and drop of Sherlock's hips. John's mind was on overload from the influx of a long-absent source of food, and his body was just as overwhelmed at the long-absent vice-like caress of soft muscles massaging his cock. He planted his feet and held tight onto the straps holding the bonds on his wrists to the bed, his mind clearing as he the sexual energy renewed his health.

Minutes ago, he was so far gone that, had he been unbound, he would have rolled his human onto his belly and fucked him until there was no energy was left to take, until he was full and sated and his mate was dead. It could have killed him or it could have freed him from his inability to partake of others, but it was something he never wanted to find out. Now, with every thrust of his cock into the tight hole, every wash of pleasure under his skin, every pulse of extra-sweet energy whenever his cock nudged the man's prostate, his mind was clearing and power was returning to his muscles.

Orgasm was building up against his spine, drawing up his testicles, making his cock harder, and as much as he didn't want it to ever end, he wanted to orgasm with, or soon after, his mate. He could see the increasingly slack expression on the other man's face. He could hear it in the cries that began to fall from a previously silent mouth. He could feel it in the way the muscles around his cock began to tense and release in earnest. He could sense it in the increasingly sugared, honeyed taste on his tongue and in his throat. They were both so close, nearly to the tipping point that would temporarily sate his hunger.

"Lean over, love," he commanded, voice hoarse. "Lean over and grab my hair." A second later, Sherlock toppled over and John widened his stance, preparing. As soon as he felt forearms pressed against his collarbones for balance and long fingers threading through his hair, he began to thrust in earnest, jogging the man nearly curled against his chest. Those delicious cries were loud right against his ear and he could only grin wickedly as he set his teeth to the flesh of his mate's neck, enjoying the feel of the man in his jaws. Suddenly, Sherlock's foot slipped and dropped that gorgeous, plush arse down and the muscles around him contracted painfully as a shout was released right next to his ear, come painting his stomach.

John's insides screamed in pleasure and satisfaction as he came, soul lit bright with his mate's orgasm and his own, the combination filling him in a way nothing else could. The world in his eyes was an acid trip of golds and reds, slowly being taken over by swirls of midnight-black over moon-white. His entire body buzzed with electricity, of a meal well-given and well-received. He felt alive and strong and immortal, and the straps holding him to the bed snapped again, and he immediately used his new-found freedom to roll his mate to his back and devour his mouth, slowly thrusting into an already come-filled hole with his softening cock.

Sherlock's tongue was deliciously shy, sliding over his tentatively before pulling back, and then darting forward again. Each little touch made John's cock throb against its flaccidity, and he had to force himself to slow his kisses, and then to pull away. His human's face was flushed and his body was lax, and though the vitality still pulsing in his soul in time with his heart beat was strong, the doctor (and the mate) in John was cautious to not overtax or drain it. Finally, he pulled away enough to settle into the sharp cradle of the hips below his own, propping his chin on the laced fingers he rested against Sherlock's sternum.

"How are you feeling?" he asked cautiously, noting the man's respiratory and cardiac status carefully. A comfortable lethargy was spreading through his limbs, a much more welcome weakness than the exhaustion of weeks past.

"I feel like... I should be asking you... that..." Sherlock said haltingly, apparently still attempting to regain control over his heart rate. John smiled and tilted his chin up to press a kiss to his mate's neck.

"I still need a few more solid meals, but I'll live," he informed, voice low and sultry. Against his belly, the man's cock twitched and he smiled. "I need to feed you up and put you to bed before I eat again though." He pulled one of his hands free and reached up to trace the sharp bones in the other's face before sliding his fingers back through thick, sweat-damp curls, basking in the new permission to simply touch. "I've had enough that I can't take all of you on accident, but I could still get wrapped up in your energy and overeat. And you could get addicted to me, you could willingly overfeed me, and you could drain yourself if you get me significantly distracted. I wouldn't handle your death well, and I would much prefer to just avoid that, ta very much."

"Addicted?" the newly-deflowered man asked, brow furrowing in confusion.

"Mhm," John hummed, occupying himself with feeling out the way the thick strands curled naturally around his fingers. "It's not exactly us just taking energy; we do give something back. Humans feed us with the energy sex generates, and our souls respond with doses of adrenaline and endorphins. It can be like a dose of narcotics." Now he pulled his other hand out from under his chin, rolling his head to the side to watch the limb's path, and slid his palm down to cup Sherlock's elbow, his thumb rubbing at the faint scars left by track marks years past. "It's easy for your race to get addicted, and I've heard of it happening before where a human has gotten so addicted that sex with an incubus or a succubus is all they can think about, and they offer themselves over and over until their vitality is drained from them." He rolled his chin back up to meet the stormy grey eyes. "And more than I'm afraid of overeating, I'm afraid of you losing that brilliant mind that I fell in love with in the first place. You just wouldn't be Sherlock Holmes without it, and just thinking about you becoming one of those mindless pleasure slaves makes me ill."

For long minutes, neither of them moved or broke eye contact, and then Sherlock rolled him onto his back, resuming his spot straddling John's hips. The doctor let his hands rest at his sides and just lay there, staring up at his mate. A mate that he should probably tell at some point that he had claimed as such. Long fingers moved over his skin, tracing scars from uni fights and army shrapnel, before warm palms settled over him, moving wherever there was room to feel. When they finally stopped, he had a feeling Sherlock was far from done, that the detective was merely on pause.

"Thank you, John Watson." The words stirred John from his hazy state and he peered up with one eye, searching the other man's expression. It was hesitant and sombre, but it was sincere, and he let his eye close again.

"For what?" he mumbled back, reaching up to cup pale hips, stroking his thumbs over the slightly-protruding iliac crests. The sweat had cooled from their skin and left it slightly clammy, but still sleep-warm beneath it all, smooth and welcoming.

"For trusting me," Sherlock replied, making John's thumbs pause. "For being someone whom I could trust." Now he opened both eyes and found a tight, cautious smile smeared across his mate's face. The smile he returned the shyness with was soft and gentle as he reached up to curl his fingers around the back of the man's neck, pulling him down for a soft kiss.

"Always," he replied, the pad of his thumb moving over the other man's lips before drawing him in for another slow kiss. When they parted, as easy and unexpectant as breathing, the moment was rudely interrupted by a loud rumble from Sherlock's stomach. The doctor immediately burst into laughter as his lover's face flamed. "I think it's my turn to feed you," he said, still laughing as he rolled towards the edge of the bed with a groan. Unused to movement for far too long, his muscles protested angrily, but Sherlock stayed at his side as he got from bed to floor to stairs, managing to make something as sweet as concerned hovering appear like impatient hustling.

When John managed to make it to the main floor of their flat, his mate started to turn into the sitting room and the ex-soldier reached out automatically to wrap his fingers around too-thin wrists. Those sharp eyes turned back to him questioningly and he licked his lips, suddenly feeling as if the loving haven that had been built in his room had been broken. It wasn't until then that he remembered that they were both completely naked.

"Stay with me?" he asked, voice quieter than he intended. There was a brief pause, and then the detective smiled, one of his rare, true smiles, and John could feel himself relaxing. He let go of his Sherlock's wrist, slowly turning towards the stove, and a comforting heat draped across his back as arms looped arms around his waist.

Soft lips pressed an equally soft kiss to the shell of his ear before whispering one word: "Always."

FIN

I had written out the outline point A to B to C to D to E. Then I went to actually write it, and the story went A to D and it was a hassle and a half looping back to collect B and C. But I feel like I was able to get it done, with beta help from the gang, so... yay~ If you liked, or even if you didn't like, please don't forget to drop a Comment and always feel free to come by my author tumblr (themadkatter13-fanfiction).