Disclaimer: Don't own them, not offense intended

Warnings: Dubious consent, mature themes, gay sex, language, mild violence.

Summary: Sherlock desperately loves John, but John sends him such mixed signals.

A/N: Oh dear, Sherlock and John. Why do you get stuck in my head so? You terrible, terrible men, you make it hard to concentrate on schoolwork. Oh well, who needs algebra when you've got porn? And also angst. Poor Sherlock, it's ok.

The first time Sherlock and John had sex, they were both close to blackout drunk.

It started with a case (doesn't it always). They were staking out the suspect while he drowned his sorrows in the bottom of a pint glass, and they had of course started drinking to appear less conspicuous. But then Sherlock leant over to John and whispered (slightly slurred and smelling strongly of his third straight scotch) that they had the wrong man, and so when the now-vindicated suspect left, they did not follow.

Sherlock watched the man leave, and then whipped out his phone and texted Lestrade (John, peering over his shoulder, noticed that he didn't bother to correct one or two misspellings) and then turned to the bartender and ordered two more drinks for John and himself.

"We're staying?" John asked, both honestly surprised and very pleased. Sherlock nodded, and when the drinks arrived, they raised their glasses in toast, and downed them with remarkable speed. This process was repeated, with the toasts growing increasingly more ludicrous, (to Anderson's ineptitude! to Mycroft's cameras! to Mrs. Hudson's herbal soothers! to the skull! to scotch!) and at about one in the morning they were firmly asked to leave.

They stumbled back to Baker Street, Sherlock giggling, and once securely inside, he'd dragged John to his room, babbling about showing him an amazing specimen of mould he was cultivating in the closet.

John protested that mould should probably not be grown in closets, and he certainly didn't want to risk his health by closely investigating it, but Sherlock insisted. And so, two minutes later, John found himself actually impressed by the mould's vibrant purple tendrils, and leaned in to get a closer look and somehow upset an abandoned teacup (why Sherlock was keeping half-drunk teacups in his closet was anybody's guess) and soaked his shirt.

Sherlock reacted to the shirt wetting with the grace of the severely inebriated, and insisted that John strip it and John agreed that this was the obviously the best course of action, but was too drunk to work the buttons himself so Sherlock helped.

And when Sherlock's fingers trailed across his chest, John felt heat pooling low in his belly and was not shocked at all. Sherlock, after all, made him act in all sorts of strange and unexpected ways.

So John allowed himself to be pulled to the bed, and returned the kiss when Sherlock's mouth found his. He moaned when Sherlock took him in his mouth, and when the detective produced lube from somewhere magical, John gladly did as he was directed and slid his fingers into Sherlock, and then again followed directions and replaced his fingers with his cock. John found his release inside a man for the first time in his life, and Sherlock blearily thought (still drunk, though less than before) that this was the best sex of his entire existence.

Sherlock did not tell John he loved him, but he wanted to. John, however, whispered that Sherlock was the best thing to ever happen to him in his whole life, and Sherlock pulled him closer, and they fell into the very deep sleep of the well-shagged.

John woke to warmth curled toward his side and an arm draped across his chest, and for a moment he felt absolutely, perfectly, at peace.

And then dark curls brushed his face and a decidedly baritone voice (thick and gravelly with sleep) wished him a good morning and the memories from last night crashed down and John's sexual identity crisis exploded in his face.

He shot from the bed, (his head screamed at the sudden movement) and stared, wide-eyed, at Sherlock, who was now sitting up and watching him with a look of barely-disguised hurt and disappointment.

"We..." John couldn't finish the sentence. He grabbed at a blanket to cover himself—he'd just realized he was naked.

Sherlock's face went entirely blank, and recognizing John's dismay, slipped easily into his usual prickly demeanour. "I've obviously seen you naked, John. We had sex last night." His eyes narrowed. "You seemed to enjoy sticking your cock up my arse."

John paled. His memories weren't some horrible dream, then... So he then proceeded to react in the worst way possible. "I'm... but I'm straight! I don't fancy blokes... I... how did that... We were drunk. Terrible mistake, Sherlock, I'm sorry, I..." John felt entirely bare, and suddenly wished very much to retreat to his room.

Sherlock looked down and fiddled slightly with the sheets, pulling them up to cover himself more completely. He couldn't lose John—couldn't drive him away because he'd given in to some basic human impulse. Even though all he wanted to do right now was beg John to come back to bed, tell him how much he needed (even loved) him—he couldn't, not now.

So he lied.

"We were drunk. Yes, it was a mistake. Didn't mean anything, obviously. We don't... need to let it affect our friendship or working relationship, yes?" Those impenetrable, pale eyes flicked up to John's for a moment, then away again.

"Right," John said slowly. "Mistake. Just... delete it, yea? Never happened." He fled the bedroom, and entirely missed the look of devastation on Sherlock's face.

('')

The atmosphere at Baker Street was strained, to say the least. Sherlock and John had successfully avoided each other (for the most part) for the past week, and John finally decided that enough was enough. They'd made a stupid, drunken, mistake, and as a result, he was losing his best friend.

He stomped down the stairs, ignoring the flaring pain in his leg, (apparently separation from Sherlock was directly correlated to psychosomatic pain) and into the kitchen. Sherlock was pointedly ignoring him from the sitting room, and so John did what he did whenever they had a regular domestic. He made tea.

After the usual brewing steps, he mixed just the right amount of sugar in Sherlock's and then braved the icy chill emanating from his friend and handed him the cup. Sherlock jerked himself from his thoughts and surfaced to the world of mere mortals, stared at his hand for a moment, (he'd taken the tea subconsciously, as usual) and then looked at John.

"We need to be all right," John stated firmly. "What can I do to make us all right?"

Come to bed, tell me you love me, Sherlock thought.

"We're all right," Sherlock said. "Lestrade just sent over a case. Sounds dangerous."

The tea was abandoned in favour of more interesting pursuits.

('')

The second time Sherlock and John had sex, they didn't really have sex. But it was a close thing.

They made a strategic retreat to Sherlock's room in the bed and breakfast, after seeing their man head to his own.

"Right John, we need to lure him in here. He's insane, he won't stand to know two men are having sex in the room next to his," Sherlock said idly as he pressed his ear to the wall, trying to discern the muffled noises coming from next door.

John coughed. It had been three months since 'the Incident' and he and Sherlock hadn't come close to the topic of sex. And then this bloody serial killer came along, targeting gay couples. The whole case had been dreadfully awkward.

"Um. How are we supposed to convey that?" he finally forced out, and Sherlock shot him a withering look.

"Make sex noises." Sherlock flushed very slightly, (gracefully, even) but on his pale face even the smallest colouring was noticeable. "You're quite loud, if I remember correctly."

John turned bright red—no graceful colouring about him. "You said you'd delete..."

"No, you said I'd delete it," Sherlock snapped. "And I've tried, but I can't seem to forget anything about you."

They stared at one another for several eons.

"Make sex noises," Sherlock finally ordered, and so John sat on the bed and bounced, listening to the squeaking of the mattress. He moaned half-heartedly and kept his eyes carefully pointed anywhere but at Sherlock.

"Oh, yes, John! Harder, harder, fuck me harder!" Sherlock groaned out, his low voice vibrating with lust, and John was disconcerted when he glanced at the other man. Sherlock was standing impassively near the door, his face blank, and his eyes scanning a text message. His complete indifference was an odd juxtaposition to the frenzied sound of his voice.

Besides, John had a niggling feeling that he'd heard that particular sentence from Sherlock's mouth before, and was dismayed when apparently his traitorous body remembered that timbre of speech as well. He moaned again, flushing at the sheer indignity of it all.

Sherlock glared at him and strode over to bend down and whisper in his ear. "That was ridiculous. He won't even be able to hear you."

"I don't really want him to. Isn't there an easier way to get him alone?"

"You know there's not," Sherlock hissed. "Now act, damn it."

John moaned again, and Sherlock growled in frustration. "I know you don't sound like that during sex. John, come on, this could be our last chance to catch him!"

"How... I don't know what you want, Sherlock," John whispered, getting annoyed.

Sherlock made up his mind, fully aware that this would probably result in John at least punching him, but throwing caution to the wind, he leaned forward and captured John's lips with his own. John squeaked and tried to push him off, but Sherlock laced his arms around John's back and held on tightly.

"Make noise, damn it," Sherlock mumbled, pulling back for a moment before ducking his head down and licking along John's neck. John went limp for a moment but then arched into Sherlock's touch and moaned loudly and believably.

"Oh, fuck, Sherlock...!"

Oh god, finally, John, Sherlock's mind whispered, and without his express permission, his hand reached down to palm at John's crotch. He was irrationally thrilled to find hardness there, and moaned himself, all thoughts of acting driven forcibly from his mind.

He wanted this, he wanted John, and that hardness told him John wanted him, too—that terrible reaction three months ago be damned.

"Oh, John," he said clearly, and this time it was John who captured his lips, and John who slid his hands around Sherlock's narrow hips, and John whose tongue was exploring his mouth, and John, and John, and John.

They fell backwards on the bed, Sherlock covering John, and their broken noises of lust and desire filled the small room. Sherlock untucked the tails of John's shirt and slid his hand under the thin fabric, running his fingers along the smooth, scarred lines of John's chest.

John carded the fingers of one hand through Sherlock's curls, tugging slightly, and Sherlock whimpered. He felt dizzy from how fast his blood had left other parts of his body to pool in his groin.

He let his hands drift lower and started unbuttoning John's fly. John lifted his hips for easier access.

Then the door burst open, kicked with enough force to rebound against the wall, and the serial killer (Sherlock had actually forgotten about him) was advancing on them, gun drawn, and they were forced to act.

Later, as Sherlock was sitting with an orange blanket wrapped round his shoulders and contemplating how uncomfortable it was to engage in hand-to-hand combat with an erection, John approached him, likewise clad in a hideous blanket.

"Don't do that again, Sherlock."

The detective was confused. "What? Do what?"

"Kiss me. Use me like that to get the reaction you're looking for. I'm not your plaything." John's face was hard, and so Sherlock did what he did best—respond to hurt with anger.

"You knew what we needed to do, and you weren't even trying! I acted the only way I could think of to get the appropriate reaction from you! And you responded! You kissed back!" He didn't bother to lower his voice, but no one seemed to be paying them much attention at the moment.

"I was... I was caught up! I'm straight, Sherlock. You need to get that through your head!" John was careful to keep his voice quiet and his body very, very stiff.

Sherlock huffed in fury, stood, and threw his blanket to the ground, seething that he'd let John get to him so much. "You aren't acting it! Straight men do not get erections when kissing their flatmates!"

John's façade of outraged indignity vanished, and he looked down, blushing. They were both quiet for a moment before John spoke again.

"Sherlock, don't... I just... I wish you wouldn't use me like that. And you're my best friend, I don't want anything hurting... us... and," he lowered his voice and glanced around before continuing. "Kissing you, having... Having sex with you... it just messes everything up."

Sherlock ran a hand across his face, calming himself. "Yes... you're right, of course. Besides, I can ignore these feelings just like anything else. It's nothing." He stopped speaking suddenly, terribly aware of what he'd just said, and desperately wished he could erase the last five seconds from the record.

John blinked in confusion "Ignore what feelings? I mean, you don't actually fancy me. It's just adrenaline. Or drunkenness. Or something."

Sherlock stared at him, eyes wide and still breathing heavily. You make my heart beat, you daft twit, he thought.

"Don't be an idiot," he said, and stalked off to find a cab.

John started after him, but was waylaid to attend to damage control when Lestrade cornered him, shouting something about how Sherlock couldn't just leave the crime scene like that.

John's thoughts were swirling, and he barely heard a word Lestrade said.

('')

The third time Sherlock and John had sex, it was six months after the gay-hating serial killer, and Sherlock had spent the last four days thinking John was dead.

It was a series of terrible misunderstandings, really. But the kidnappers had asked for it. They'd been the ones to drag Sherlock to the observation deck and point out three figures standing on the next outcropping. And they'd been the ones to tell Sherlock that John was the one on his knees with a gun nestled into the back of his head. And so when Sherlock had seen (remember, from a great distance) a shortish blonde man executed and the body thrown off the cliffs, he'd screamed (perhaps cried a little, but we won't mention that) and seen red.

Of course, his single-minded tracking down and disposing of everyone involved with the drug-ring operation had eventually led him to a warehouse in Dover, and a very tied up, gagged, thirsty, but otherwise unharmed John Watson.

Sherlock couldn't make his hands work. They kept slipping on the knots tying John's hands behind his back.

"Anytime now would be good, Sherlock," John commented, as if they were discussing train schedules and not being reunited after one had thought the other had been brutally murdered.

Sherlock finally freed the troublesome knot, and John took a moment to massage feeling back into his wrists before he pulled Sherlock into a tight hug. "Thank you," he said. "I was hoping you'd show up..."

Sherlock shook when the reality of the situation hit him. "I thought they'd killed you, I was just getting revenge..." he muttered. "What if I'd just given up, you'd be here and I wouldn't even know." He pulled John closer to him and buried his head in the shorter man's shoulder.

John tentatively stroked his hair. "You didn't, though. You came, you found me." Sherlock pulled back and gazed into John's dark blue eyes, which were now crinkled with concern. He traced his long fingers over John's tanned face, and the doctor's eyes widened slightly in understanding.

"Don't, Sherlock. We can't do this..." he said softly, and Sherlock winced and closed his eyes for a moment. He leaned in and rested his lips on John's shoulder, not kissing, just barely touching.

"Sherlock..."

"I thought you were dead," Sherlock whispered, and turned his head up and kissed him anyway. John didn't stop him then, and he didn't stop him when Sherlock leaned them back on the floor of the warehouse either, but he didn't kiss back, and he didn't try to touch.

John continued not stopping him when Sherlock unbuttoned his jeans, and didn't so much as voice a token protest when a nimble hand stroked him to hardness. And when Sherlock pulled off his own pants and spit on his hand and prepared himself, John watched and didn't say a word—neither yes nor no.

John then didn't move away, (though his breathing grew significantly more ragged) and allowed the detective to impale himself on his length, and just when Sherlock could feel himself breaking from John's lack of reaction, he made a strangled noise and pulled Sherlock down, kissing him fiercely even as he thrust upward into his closest friend's tight body.

"God, I thought I lost you," Sherlock moaned, suddenly blissfully happy and forcing worry for the future out of his swirling mind. "Don't leave me, please don't leave me..."

"I won't, I'll never leave you, I'll always find you, you'll always find me," John breathed in his ear, and their lips met again and they didn't talk or make any noises other than panting breathing for several minutes.

Sherlock could feel himself closing in on his climax, but he wanted, god, how he wanted... "John, please, please touch me, please, John," and after a moment of hesitation (not long, how long could John really spend thinking when he was imbedded fully in the other man) John reached out and slid Sherlock's bobbing cock through his fingers. That spark of touch sent Sherlock over the edge, and he whimpered, spooling his release on John's clothed chest.

John gasped then, (because when Sherlock leads, John follows) and Sherlock felt a warm pulsing deep inside as he finished, too. They stilled, staring at one another, still panting, and then Sherlock slid from his straddling position and pulled his pants up, ignoring the mess John had made in him, and used his scarf to clean John the best he could.

John stared at him from flat on his back on the floor and then delivered the fatal blow: "This was not good, Sherlock."

"I know," Sherlock said, still trying (in vain) to wipe the wetness from John's jumper. "I just... I can't... please don't leave."

"Stop," John said gently, moving Sherlock's hand from where it was shaking on his chest. He sat up, and pulled Sherlock into a hug—the same position they'd been in before Sherlock had re-started this whole mess. "I won't leave."

"Why are you staying, though?" Sherlock mused out loud, but he didn't move from where he was latched around John's chest. "I've practically raped you. I did rape you," he said with dawning horror. "You didn't want it..."

John was quiet and Sherlock tried to shrink backward but the doctor tightened his grip. "You did not," he finally said after the worst span of silence in Sherlock's life, "rape me. I know that I shouldn't have anything to do with you sexually, I know it, but... I think about you."

There was more silence, during which Sherlock felt slightly more alive than he had in several days (ten minutes prior excluded).

"We should still not do this again," John said, though he sounded resigned to their failure.

Sherlock nodded.

('')

The fourth time Sherlock and John had sex, (one month after the Dover Incident) they'd been injected with a hallucinogenic drug and had no idea they'd done anything until Mycroft had shown them the surveillance recording a few days after their escape.

He'd called (and by called, I of course mean kidnapped) them to his office and set them in front of a television (Sherlock protesting loudly and insultingly) and switched it on, all while smiling gently (the smug bastard).

Sherlock's protestations died away when, after a moment of static, the recording started and they were treated to an overhead view of the small cell he and John had sat in for a week. Mycroft slipped out to let them watch in private.

On the television, four men entered the room and there was a scuffle, during which John managed to land several well-placed punches and kicks (Sherlock was fairly certain the doctor had broken at least one of their captor's arms) and Sherlock, while not quite as effective, fought with equal fervour.

Finally, one of the larger captors slipped in a particularly brutal hit, television-John's head was smashed against the cement wall, and he crumpled to the ground. Television-Sherlock made an abortive flail toward his fallen friend and received a neckful of injection for his efforts. He too, slumped to the ground, and then John was injected with an identical syringe. The captors left, and for several minutes, nothing happened.

"I didn't realize how hard you were hit," Sherlock said as they watched their unconscious forms. He reached out and brushed John's hair back, examining the now-fading bruise on his temple. John shrugged, and Sherlock smiled, still secretly thrilled every time John didn't shrink from his touch.

"I've had worse. Look, we're doing something. I don't remember this part." He leaned forward, intent on the television, and Sherlock continued smiling at him for a moment before turning his attention to the telly.

There were a few minutes of the men rousing themselves, and evidently talking about what happened. The video didn't come with sound, so they were forced to try to read lips. Nothing out of the ordinary happened until television-John inspected television-Sherlock's neck at the site of the injection, and apparently found it fascinating, as he suddenly leaned forward and licked it.

In Mycroft's office, John flushed and glanced at Sherlock, who was still watching the telly in surprise.

"Oh," Sherlock said, after several minutes of shocked silence. "That would explain..." John shot him a Look, but Sherlock didn't expand on his statement.

On the television, they were grinding onto one another, John pressing Sherlock against a wall, and Sherlock was blindly attempting to remove as many of their clothes as quickly as possible. Television-John sucked a hickey into television-Sherlock's neck, and in the real world, John reached over and turned Sherlock's head to look. Sure enough, there was a dark mark just below the detective's collar.

When John refocused on the telly, their past selves had divested themselves of clothing and had fallen to the floor. Sherlock was sliding down John's body, covering him with kisses, lingering, licking, at his nipples, and then sucking him deeply down his throat. Television-John arched up and John read his own lips—clearly forming the words, "God, yes, Sherlock!"

Sherlock had read his lips, too, and now he turned to John, a question on his face. John held up a hand and firmly said, "We were drugged, Sherlock. Don't even start." Sherlock turned away with a (very small) pout.

Television-Sherlock's head was bobbing up and down quickly, and then television-John said something neither man could make out, but it obviously pleased television-Sherlock. He slid sideways, and John pulled him closer and slipped his own mouth around Sherlock's straining erection. In Mycroft's office, both men blushed and glanced at each other before quickly looking away.

"For a straight man, you've ended up engaging intimately with my cock a surprising amount of times," Sherlock couldn't help but say, mostly teasing.

"Oh, shut up, Holmes."

On the telly, Sherlock came, and John swallowed, and then perhaps a minute later, John finished and Sherlock pulled his head back to let him come on his face. Then he wiped it off with his hands and sucked his fingers clean. Television-John watched this for a moment, and then they were kissing again.

A scant moment later, the door to the cell burst open and four different men piled in and pulled John off Sherlock. One aimed a kick at Sherlock's head, which he avoided with apparent ease, but while Sherlock was distracted, they grabbed John and dragged him out of the room.

Back in Mycroft's office, Sherlock made a worried noise and leaned forward, his fingers just brushing the screen. "What happened to you?" he asked, turning to John.

"I have no idea. I was back in there when my memories start up again, wasn't I?" John sounded shaken, though Sherlock thought it was (hopefully) more from lack of knowledge of what had been done to him rather than what they had just witnessed.

"As far as we can tell, they simply separated you two until the drug was wearing off," a voice said from behind them, and they jumped. Mycroft had apparently returned. He watched them as they turned to look at him.

"You seemed fairly at home with one another's bodies. Does this sort of thing happen often?" he finally asked after a very pregnant pause.

"No," said John quickly.

"Not really," Sherlock responded just as quickly.

Mycroft cocked an eyebrow. "Well," he said, "perhaps congratulations are in order." Sherlock glared at him.

"Stay out of our business, Mycroft."

"Believe me, brother, I have no interest in seeing that again." He turned to leave. "I'll destroy the tape, of course. You can see yourselves out."

('')

The next day, Sherlock realized John was avoiding him again.

"We were drugged. You even said so yourself," he said, accosting the doctor in the hallway as he tried to sneak out of the flat.

John dragged a hand through his hair, sighed, and leaned against the wall. "I know. But this time, I apparently started it. It's a bit disconcerting."

Sherlock cast around for something to calm John. "We didn't actually have penetrative sex this time. That's a plus, yes?"

John thought for a moment before answering. "I swallowed, Sherlock. And was pleased about it—I know my own facial expressions. It's just... it's just not something a straight man should enjoy doing. I suppose I'm having a bit of a crisis, and you're right at the centre of it."

Sherlock's eyes widened. "You're leaving," he said, the penny dropping. "You can't be around me anymore."

"No!" John shot back. "How many times, Sherlock? I'm not leaving Baker Street, you insecure git. I just... I'm going for a pint." He hesitated again. "I'm going to a gay bar. I want to see if I'm not as straight as I've always thought, or... or if it's just you."

Sherlock pushed his initial thought of I will kill any man who touches my John out of his head—John was not his, to start with, and killing would probably be a slightly extreme response, secondly.

"Right," he said instead, and watched John as he walked out the door.

Later that night, John returned smelling strongly of cigarettes and several kinds of cologne. Sherlock seethed from the couch as John made a cup of chamomile and then came to stand in front of him.

"I'm still not saying this is a good idea, or that I want anything," John said, looking at his tea and not Sherlock. "And. I still don't think I'm gay. Or even bisexual." Sherlock slouched down further and stared at his shoes.

"Sherlock," John said sharply. "Pay attention." Sherlock looked up and met steady midnight blue eyes with his changeable stormy grey ones.

"It's you, Sherlock. It's just you."

('')

The fifth time Sherlock and John had sex, everything was perfect.

Sherlock was sitting at the kitchen table, fiddling with several new mixes of tobacco that had recently been introduced to the market. He took a certain pride in his ability to discern specific brands and flavours of tobacco apart from one another based on their ash. It had actually proved useful on more than one case, and besides, he had written an article on the subject, and professional pride didn't allow him to fall behind the times.

It had been three weeks since John had told Sherlock that the only man he could imagine being with was him, but they hadn't even come close to touching since. Not even handshake or a brush of fingers. Sherlock was trying to remain calm and detached.

For the ninth time, his shaking hand disturbed the tobacco ash. He sighed. Obviously calm and detached was not working.

"Sherlock, I'm home," John said as he walked through the door, his eyes fixed on a small stack of their mail he'd gathered from the post office. Sherlock glanced at the clock and raised an eyebrow. He'd wasted six hours today. Impressive.

"Are you paying attention, Sherlock?" John asked, still not looking at him.

"Always to you, John," Sherlock said quietly, and John finally glanced up. He smiled, and Sherlock melted slightly.

"I was wondering," John continued, "if you'd like to get dinner tonight. We haven't any cases, so you're free, aren't you?"

"Yes?" Sherlock said hesitantly, and John smiled.

"I was thinking Angelo's, if that's all right."

"Of course."

"I'll just go get changed then. Want to look my best."

My god, Sherlock thought. He's flirting.

"Me, too, I suppose," he said softly, and watched John as he turned and headed upstairs toward his room. As soon as the doctor was out of sight, Sherlock bolted up from his chair, knocking it over in his hurry.

"Everything all right down there?" John's voice floated down from upstairs.

"Yes, fine, perfectly fine," Sherlock shouted back, and righted the chair before sprinting for his room.

He plucked a particularly gorgeous silk shirt from his closet (dark dark blue, almost the shade of John's eyes) and stripped his current trousers in favour of a grey pinstriped pair that went well with the shirt. He paused. Pants or no? Ideally tonight would end in sex, but he didn't want to seem too eager... silk pants, then. And socks, polished shoes, run fingers through the hair... he took a breath to collect himself. Thank god he'd taken a shower earlier.

He stepped out of his room and stopped dead, feeling entirely overwhelmed. John was standing, waiting for him, and was bathed in the gentle yellow light from the kitchen. He could have been glowing in holy light, for all Sherlock was concerned.

"You look... excellent," Sherlock muttered, and John smirked. He was in a pair of dark blue jeans and a black half-collar shirt, nicely set off with a grey blazer.

"I made Harry pick me out an appropriate outfit."

Sherlock felt lightheaded—he couldn't believe this was actually happening. "Appropriate for what, may I ask?" He hoped his voice didn't sound as strangled as he thought it did.

John turned and plucked Sherlock's jacket from the hook it was hanging on near the door. He handed it to the detective, and smiled widely. "For our date."

They were halfway to Angelo's before Sherlock jerked out of his state of shock. He stopped and John walked a few more steps before realizing Sherlock was no longer next to him. He turned back and looked at Sherlock questioningly.

"What made you change your mind?" Sherlock demanded. "Why now? Why are you willing to risk this now?"

John considered, then shrugged. "Nothing really specific. It might be because even though I've been a right twat about all this, you still want me. And then there's the fact that it's you that wants me and you're you, and you're amazing and I don't know how I've been so blind."

Sherlock didn't think he could properly process the last part of John's statement, so he concentrated on the first part. "You haven't been a twat."

"Of course I have, Sherlock," John said, rolling his eyes and turning to keep walking. "The first time we had sex, I told you to delete it, and acted like you had the plague."

Sherlock lengthened his step and caught up with him. "We were drunk, you were startled..."

"And then I yelled at you for kissing me, even though I'd kissed you back, and basically right after you'd told me you couldn't delete anything about me," John continued.

"There was a serial killer, he almost shot you..."

"And then," John went on, ignoring Sherlock's feeble protests, "you give yourself to me and I don't even respond, even though all I wanted to do, if I'm being honest with myself, was grab you and shag you senseless."

"I forced—"

"You did not. And then I avoided you after the Drugging, and went to hit on other men to 'see' what was going on in my head, and then strung you along for the past three weeks..." now John stopped short and Sherlock was forced to turn and wait for him.

"Why on earth do you still want anything to do with me, Sherlock?" John looked horrified with himself.

Sherlock stepped forward and laced the fingers of both his hands with John's. They stared down at their joined hands for a moment, ignoring the sparsely filled streets, and then: "Because you're you, and you're amazing," Sherlock quoted. "And you make my world brighter."

John opened his mouth to say something, but found himself unable. So instead, he pulled Sherlock closer, wound an arm around his waist, and rocked forward slightly on his toes to meet Sherlock's mouth with a slow and gentle kiss.

After a moment, he pulled back and smiled at Sherlock, who again looked star-struck, and tugged his hand. "We're going to be late for our reservation if we don't get going."

"Hmm," Sherlock agreed, and they turned to continue their walk, their fingers still linked.

Dinner was pleasant (it always was at Angelo's—they had yet to find a better Italian restaurant) and they slid easily into a date mentality. They held hands for most of their meal, and when Sherlock insisted on dessert, he surprised John by spoon-feeding him a few bites of tiramisu, made slightly messy by John's inability to stop giggling.

On the walk home, John latched his arm with Sherlock's, and pulled the other man close. "I'm glad this is happening," he said softly, and Sherlock's hands were shaking when he unlocked the door to their flat. Once inside, John didn't so much as pause in heading upstairs, and Sherlock willingly followed him to his bedroom.

"I want to do this right," John whispered, stopping on the threshold of his door, and Sherlock whimpered. John fingered his coat's lapels for a moment, then grabbed hold and pulled Sherlock down for a searing kiss. After an eternity of perfect, (in Sherlock's opinion) John pulled back and leaned against the doorframe.

"What do you want from me, Sherlock? Be honest."

"Everything. You, all of you, anything you'll give me," Sherlock breathed, and slid his hands up John's chest, feeling the wildly beating heart underneath his clothes. "I love you. Have done for the longest time, before any of this ever happened."

John was quiet, his eyes focused on the floor, and Sherlock, not for the first time, wished he could take words back. It was too much, too much for John to take in right now, too much for a start of things.

But then John's mouth opened, and Sherlock's mind stopped its spinning. "I never thought it could be like this, and I still don't understand what it is about you that makes me... be this way... but god, Sherlock... so help me but I would die without you."

Sherlock had to be sure. "Don't say this—do this—unless you mean it, John, because I won't let go once... I won't let go, not ever."

"I wouldn't let you. God, I love you. Come to bed."

And Sherlock's perfectly perfect mind short circuited at those words, words he'd waited (desperately wanted) to hear for over a year, and he leaned down and kissed John, pouring his soul (broken and beaten as it was) into the touch. John moaned into his mouth and pulled him closer, and opened the door to his room and pushed them inside.

Shaking fingers from both parties made undressing somewhat difficult, but it was managed in the end. They almost missed the bed, they were so preoccupied with each other, but Sherlock righted their course and they landed on the edge.

John leaned over and flicked on the bedside lamp. "I want to see you," he explained, and Sherlock kissed him again in response, guiding the doctor (his doctor!) down underneath him, swinging their legs up to lie comfortably on the narrow bed.

Their kisses grew deeper, tongues exploring each other's mouth in turn, memorizing teeth and cheeks and lips, and Sherlock ducked his head to suck on John's neck, and John slid his fingers through Sherlock's hair, holding him in place, and Sherlock could feel John's need pressing into his stomach and his own, insistent against John's thigh.

Sherlock reached between them, adjusting himself so he could grasp both of them at the same time (meaning he had to let go of John's neck and move up) and John gasped and licked and nibbled on his neck in retaliation.

They were growing steadily slicker with sweat and precome and Sherlock's hand moved easier and easier and he needed this now, and he almost unwillingly let out a muffled sob and John stilled, forcing Sherlock's head down so he could look at him.

"Are you all right?" he said, and Sherlock looked at his dilated eyes and flushed cheeks and kiss-swelled lips and he said

"Perfect, this is perfect, don't stop, don't ever stop..."

And John kissed him again, then, and let out a small sob of his own and reached blindly for his bedside cabinet and after a moment of fumbling, found what he wanted.

"Sherlock, take me, I'm yours to take, please Sherlock, I need you," and he palmed the innocuous tube into Sherlock's hand, and Sherlock bodily twitched from the sheer weight of it all—John, giving himself, and Sherlock could have him like no one else ever had or ever would ever again and it was almost too much.

But he certainly didn't argue, no, he was completely willing to do as John told him, and so he flicked the cap up and smeared his fingers liberally. "It might be uncomfortable," he warned gently, and John nodded, biting his lip and looking completely debauched, spread out on the bed, legs open and hips tilted up, waiting for Sherlock's touch.

"Relax, I won't hurt you," Sherlock promised, and let his hand drift lower and pushed in and then oh god he was touching John, inside John, his finger was inside John, and he almost came right there and had to think about Donovan and Anderson to calm himself down.

He took a breath (John did, too) and then wriggled his finger gently (his middle, start with the longest, he'd figured) and searched for a moment, and then pressed and massaged at just the right spot and John let out a strangled moan.

"Oh Jesus, that's nice," John mumbled, and Sherlock nodded, entirely unable to speak at right this moment. Instead, he slid his finger in and out a few times, feeling John loosen as he became accustomed to it, and finally was able to force out a question:

"Another?"

"Yes, god yes, more..."

Sherlock obeyed, and slipped in his first finger alongside the other, and after another few pumps in and out, spread them slightly, and John whimpered and he stopped moving, eyes wide.

"No, no, don't stop," John breathed, and Sherlock let out the breath he hadn't realized he was holding, and continued, but not before leaning down and capturing John's mouth for another extended kiss.

When Sherlock leaned back again, he realized that John was lightly stroking himself, and that was entirely unacceptable. That was Sherlock's job, so he pushed John's hand away and took over. John reached above his own head and grabbed hold of his headboard, grounding himself, and bucked into Sherlock's hand, alternatingly thrusting into those slim fingers on one side and fucking himself on the other.

Sherlock took this as permission to add another finger, (with a bit more lubrication spread on first to be safe) aiming directly for John's prostate, and John stilled, arched up, and groaned low and loud. Sherlock watched, transfixed, as John's eyes opened and locked on Sherlock's, and he panted, "In me, now, come on, Sherlock..."

Sherlock stuttered a breath, spread three fingers one last time, and withdrew his hand. He hitched John's right leg up over his shoulder, kissed his inner thigh, and lined himself up. He reached forward and grasped John's left hand with his right.

"Ready?"

"Oh god, yes."

Sherlock pushed in, his stomach clenched tight to control his movement, and was entirely unable to stop himself from crying out in pure pleasure. John's head was thrown back, his eyes were closed, and he was breathing heavily.

"Just... just a moment... let me..." the doctor mumbled, and Sherlock (though it very nearly killed him) remained perfectly still, buried as deeply as his hips and their position would allow. After long seconds, John's eyes opened, and he mouthed Move...

Sherlock did, sliding out slowly, barely an inch, and then pushing back in. His eyes rolled up in pleasure, and he whispered, "Oh god, I'm inside you, oh, John, yes, god, I love you so much," and John pulled him down (they both gasped at the change in position) and kissed him deeply. The (very very small) part of Sherlock's brain that was still capable of thought (other than JohnJohnJohnJohnJohn) wondered at how on earth he could physically bend like that, as John's leg was still supported on his shoulder.

He leaned back, dragging John up with him, and kneeled, dropping John's leg, and supporting his weight on his thighs. This put John on top, sitting in Sherlock's lap, and Sherlock thrust up into him, making the other man jerk slightly. They could kiss easier this way, and the men took full advantage of this fact.

Sherlock remembered his manners then, and reached between them to again grasp John's cock, found it rock hard and straining. He danced his fingers along the ruddy glans, pulled John's foreskin over the head, (Sherlock himself was circumcised, and he loved that John was not) and pumped, alternating firm and gentle strokes.

"Jesus, Sherlock," John murmured, as Sherlock thrust particularly forcefully upward, and Sherlock groaned.

"I'm almost there, can't..." and then he was coming, filling John, his John, and he felt John's arms latch around his back and his body stiffen, and then thick hot ropes of John were spurting onto their chests and stomachs, and they collapsed sideways on the bed.

"I felt you come," John said softly, wonderingly, "and I couldn't stop myself."

Sherlock blinked, his mind fuzzy with orgasm, and then smiled. "That was wonderful." He pushed himself up, half sitting, and John's eyes widened.

"Don't you dare leave," John said, and Sherlock saw a flash of worry on his face.

"Where's your towel? I want to clean us up," he said gently, and John relaxed. He gestured to the closet, and Sherlock stumbled out of bed (it was ridiculous how badly his legs were shaking) and grabbed the thing before sliding back down and gently wiping away their mess.

Towel abandoned, John pulled him close, and kissed him softly. "That was wonderful," he said, and Sherlock nestled in closer.

('')

The sixth, seventh, eighth, ninth, (you get the idea) times Sherlock and John had sex, they made love.

Mycroft eventually did send them a card of congratulations, which was received by the occupants of Baker Street with a violent blush and a few well-chosen swears (you can guess whose reaction was whose).

Lestrade discovered their relationship sometime around the fifteenth time they were having sex, when he arrived unannounced at the flat and found them on the kitchen table. The image was forever burned in his mind, and you can be sure from then on he called before he came over.

The rest of Scotland Yard was informed of their relationship when Sherlock grabbed John's arse at a crime scene, and John responded by kissing him on the cheek.

Sherlock took John home to meet Mummy (she was as terrifying as John had imagined, but for Sherlock he was willing to walk through hell and back) and John forced Sherlock to interact with Harry (he mostly behaved himself, though Harry left the restaurant disliking Sherlock for reasons she couldn't quite place).

Life continued. There were cases, overcome threats, dinners out, shifts at the surgery, badly executed experiments, bodies at the morgue, and paperwork for the Met.

They were happy.

They were in love.