A/n: Well hello there! This is my first story for this fandom, and I've thrown myself in at the deep end with this one. This is a bit more epic than my normal oneshots, but once I got started, I couldn't stop. There is too much in the BBC world of Sherlock to not write an epic tale. And I've gotta ay, I adore Benedict's portrayal of Sherlock, and Martin Freeman provides the perfect John.

Well this was inspired by John and Irene's conversation, and kind of spiraled from there. It was meant to be from John's perspective, but somehow it's ended up with Sherlock taking over completely. Might possibly try and do it from John's one day, but that depends on whether this is well received. Also inspired by the song Rubik's cube by Athlete. It's a beautiful song, a perfectly reflects Sherlock's feelings for John I think, regardless of whether you listen to the song with your slash ears on or not.

Disclaimer: Sherlock doesn't belong to me. The BBC version belongs to...well...the BBC and of course Moffat and Gatiss, and the characters are the property of ACD. I own nothing, which is a shame for me really. They do an infinitely better job with the characters than I do anyway.

ENJOY!

There was one person who could always leave Sherlock with a puzzle, and contrary to popular belief it wasn't The Woman. She'd been a worthy adversary; a mind as sharp and keen as his own. Sherlock had found himself feeling rather strange whilst dealing with her, and he knew that everyone else attributed it to attraction. To her mind maybe, for a short time, but she'd turned out to be a pawn in Moriarty's power play and his interest in her diminished completely. She'd become enamoured, falling for her own scheme. Her sentimentality was foolish; her false attraction to him her downfall, and really, that was quite pathetic.

No, in the end, Sherlock Holmes could not call Irene Adler a puzzle. The puzzle to him, as always, was John. Doctor John Watson. The man had limped into his life, and at the time, Sherlock had dismissed him as just another mundane man who acted exactly as Sherlock predicted he would. And then, somehow, John Watson had worked himself into Sherlock's life, becoming a necessary element in his work. That would have been fine, because really Sherlock needed an assistant to keep Anderson and the other fools at the Yard at bay. John wouldn't have that though. He'd needed to push further, to try to prove that there was some warmth, some feeling, in Sherlock's cold, long dead heart. And in doing so, John became necessary to Sherlock in his life too. Work was no longer enough to occupy him anymore. He needed John, his ideas, his constant fussing over his wellbeing, his inane chatter and his warm smiles. Quickly, all too quickly for Sherlock, John became a friend.

That was it though, he thought. John would be the only thing he could care for, the only thing he would allow himself to care for. Sherlock convinced himself that just because he enjoyed the companionship that John brought with him. And then the disappointment came; John's disappointment in him. Moriarty was playing his games, kidnapping those people and using them as some sort of countdown in his scheme. Sherlock didn't weep for those people; he knew that it could do nothing for them. He didn't know them, why should he care? And John with his kind heart and his strong morals couldn't accept it, couldn't believe that he could feel nothing for those people. Sherlock scoffed at the very idea of caring, it would make no difference to the game whether he cared or not, so he chose not to care about the human side of things.

But when John walked out of that cubicle and into the pool that night, Sherlock felt his heart turn truly cold. And that was when he realised. At the point of this great betrayal, Sherlock realised that John had succeeded in warming his heart, only to make it colder than ever before. The betrayal flickered in his eyes for just one moment; he would not let John see it. Steeling himself, he waited for his next move. And the jacket was pushed aside, and Sherlock's heart warmed and froze all over again. He kept his features calm; he had allowed himself the one slip earlier, and he would not do so again.

Moriarty saw. Of course he did. Meeting him, Jim, the real version of him this time, Sherlock saw exactly what John had seen in him. Without his own heart, without the friendships that he had never realised but still held, he would be exactly like the man in front of him. And that thought chilled him to the bone. When John grabbed Moriarty from behind, ordering him to run, Sherlock knew that he could not leave John behind. It didn't matter that the red dot had moved from John's chest it where he knew it rested upon his own forehead. He would never have run in that moment. And Moriarty had known it.

"I'll burn the heart out of you."

Sherlock hated that Moriarty had seen it first, that he had solved that particular puzzle before Sherlock had even contemplated it. It all made sense in that moment. He should have never let John out of his sight. He knew that there must be some reason why there had not been that one lone pip. Moriarty had stopped playing fair towards the end. John was the final pip and all because he had become Sherlock's 'heart'. John was the piece that would win the game for Moriarty; by threatening him, he ensured that Sherlock was helpless. Moriarty was so sure he'd won and grudgingly Sherlock admitted that he probably would have done, but that specific game instead ended in a rather dull fashion with that silly pop ringtone and an unsatisfactory stalemate.

After the pool, Sherlock had resolved to keep a better eye on John. He'd reluctantly enlisted the help of Mycroft, who'd looked smug and ever so slightly worried at the same time. It drove the younger Holmes up the wall, but there wasn't much he could do about. He needed to protect his friend, and he knew that he couldn't do it alone. With his realisation at the pool, Sherlock had decided to make more of an effort to show John that he valued him. John seemed to appreciate this effort, and became even warmer, his presence at Baker Street stronger and brighter.

They continued to work cases together, running around London like their lives depended on it. Quite a few times, they actually did. The two grew even closer than they had been, and Sherlock found his heart feeling a little warmer than it had ever been. Sherlock believed that he'd finally figured John out, figured their relationship out. And then, Irene Adler case came along, and everything slowly changed.

The case consumed him completely at the start, and it seemed as though John understood. And then, as the time went by, John started to withdraw. Only marginally, but Sherlock could see it. He began to avoid eye contact, flinched away whenever Sherlock drew near. He would flush red at the strangest of times, as if hiding something from Sherlock. The detective couldn't figure it out, until the next woman came walking through the door to 221B. And then it became clear. He obviously liked this one a lot then. He'd hidden her from Sherlock for a while, hoping that this one wouldn't run when they knew about his friendship with the eccentric man. And Sherlock couldn't see what was so special about this woman. A school teacher...how incredibly dull. He couldn't bring himself to be nice to this woman, no matter how much John wanted him to be. She was surprisingly irritating, and definitely not good enough for the doctor.

The message came then, after Sherlock had tried to prove how much he had changed by apologising for his behaviour towards Molly. And John's irritation flickered on his face before he turned impassive again. Sherlock ignored it at the time, his mind focussed on the present left by The Woman. He understood its meaning immediately, and he was right. He accompanied his brother to see The Woman lying dead on that slab in the morgue. He took the cigarette to mess with his brother; he had no real craving for it. He knew that his brother believed it to be one of these mythical danger nights. He hadn't had one since he'd met John, he had no cravings any longer. John's company had fixed that. Although, he guessed he wouldn't have that for much longer if he went and married that irritating woman he'd brought over for drinks.

John surprised him once again when he returned to Baker Street. That teacher woman had left and yet John didn't seem bothered. And John proved himself to be a puzzle once again. Seeing John there, alone, made his heart flutter strangely. Sherlock put it down to his pleasure at John's continued companionship, and moved on from himself. Once he knew for sure that his previous deductions regarding John's devotion to the teacher were incorrect; he went about trying to figure out exactly why John had changed. It was annoying, being unable to figure the doctor out left him feeling too human, too ordinary. He tried everything he could think of to try and clear his mind, he composed, used his nicotine patches, spent days in silence ignoring the world and trying to understand the puzzle that was John Watson.

New Years Eve came, and Sherlock watched from the window as John left the flat. He was approached by a woman, and got into the car with her. Sherlock sniggered as the sleek car drove away, taking the opportunity to tease his brother for his lack of subtlety. But Mycroft replied that he had no reason to meet with John, and he certainly hadn't sent someone to collect him. Sherlock's heart felt as though it was trying to escape through his throat, something that was anatomically impossible, but the terror shot through him. He ran, tracking John down pretty quickly. He waited out of sight, he would allow Moriarty to come and show himself before Sherlock made any move. He would have the upper hand this time. But Moriarty did not come. Instead, surprising both the doctor and the detective, The Woman stepped out of the shadows.

John pleaded with her to contact Sherlock, knowing that she had been the one sending him the texts. He called them flirting, Sherlock didn't really care about the texts; they were of little importance to him, a nice distraction every now and then, but nothing more. It was nice though, having John stick up for him, even when he was completely wrong. His heart jumped a little again, exactly as it had earlier in the week. Leaning against the wall, he sighed softly; he couldn't understand his own body. It was probably a reaction to the lack of sleep he'd had over the past few days. He realised that he had missed art of the conversation, but he doubted that it could be too important. He turned back to listen again.

"Are you jealous?"

"We're not a couple."

"Yes you are. There. 'I'm not dead. Let's have dinner.'"

"Who the hell knows about Sherlock Holmes, but... for the record, if anyone out there still cares — I'm not actually gay."

"Well, I am. Look at us both."

And Sherlock's stomach dropped. It hurt. It hurt and he didn't know why. And then that infernal bloody ringtone sounded, and he had to run. They both knew that he was there; the conversation wouldn't continue any longer so there was little point in him being there any longer. That hurt feeling followed him all the way back to Baker Street, and then there was no time for him to contemplate anymore. There were more pressing issues at hand. By the time John returned, the strange feelings that Sherlock had been experiencing disappeared, replaced by anger at what the men had done to Mrs Hudson. Anger on someone else's behalf, something that John had taught him. But that wasn't exactly important at the time as he caused as much damage to the American as he could.

When Sherlock once again remembered the hurt, it had to be pushed aside once more as The Woman turned up in his bed. She had a case for them, had finally come to Sherlock for help about something that was on that infernal device of hers. He solved the puzzle for her in seconds, but couldn't help noticing the conflicted expression on John's face as he explained it to them both. Sherlock could see the fascination in his eyes, but the crease in his forehead said that he was irritated. He didn't have much time to ponder though before The Woman spoke again.

"I would have you, right here, on this desk, until you begged for mercy twice."

And the image passed before his eyes, something that he had never even considered about himself before. He was sat on the desk, head thrown back as teeth scrapped down his chest, hands wandering dangerously low. But it was not The Woman who was before him in the vision; it was John who was giving him that pleasure. The vision lasted only for a second before he could pull himself together and continue. That night, The Woman had been so obviously attempting to seduce him, but he couldn't care less for her in that way. He felt her elevated pulse, saw the flush spread up her cheeks, her pupils dilating as she drew close to him. He thanked a non-existent God for Mrs Hudson's interruption as he wasn't particularly looking forward to trying to reject her.

And then he was taken to the flight of the dead, and Mycroft was shouting at him, something he never did. Sherlock couldn't understand. He'd not been taken in by The Woman as Mycroft and everyone else seemed to think, but he couldn't understand at that moment in time exactly why he'd be so easily tricked. Mycroft was right, it was text book. And he felt like the prized idiot, a feeling that was new and disturbing. The Woman explained how she'd done it, mocked them both as Moriarty, the mastermind of her plan would do.

"Virgin..."

Sherlock knew that there was more to her taunt, but the word made him flinch. Apparently John's melting of his heart had caused him to feel the bad too. Shame. He was ashamed. He had told Mycroft that he wasn't alarmed by sex, but truly, he had no idea of how to. He had never wanted, never knew that he could want that way. He purposefully ignored the earlier vision of him and John together, he was deleting that. He refocused on the conversation, and then it hit him. His earlier observations back at Baker Street, with those, he could make up for this mess that he had caused to Mycroft. He shot her earlier words back at her, and unlocked that damned phone, smirking all the while.

After that little episode, Sherlock thought little of that time. John had pretty much returned to normal around Sherlock. The detective himself thought little of The Woman, until the day he realised that she was going to be in danger. He saved her in Karachi, helped her fake her death once again so that Mycroft would no longer follow her, so she could be free from London. It was a selfish thing though really. He truly did it so that he would never have to see her or hear from her again.

"When I say run...run."

And she did. The Woman never looked back. Neither did Sherlock. Then he waited. He knew it was coming, and it did. John came into their flat, looking worse for wear, holding a file in his hands. Her closed file. Sherlock smirked behind his microscope before listening to what John had to say. And as he listened, his heart began to pound. Because John, his honest, loyal John, was lying about her death, telling him what he thought Sherlock wanted to say. And Sherlock had never felt such devotion. He knew that it was ridiculous. He should be angry that John thought that he knew what was best for the detective, but he found himself feeling utterly and inexplicably protected. He kept his face impassive though. He asked for the phone to see what John would do, and he handed it over with little protest. Sherlock watched John as he left to return the file to Mycroft, and no doubt update the older brother on Sherlock's reaction. And the detective was left staring out of the window with his heart fluttering wildly in his chest, watching John converse with Mycroft for a short while before they both entered the little cafe downstairs.

Sherlock knew that he only had a short amount of time before John returned to the flat, after all Mycroft didn't often frequent little cafes. Not particularly his style. But Sherlock knew that he had to finally solve the puzzle that was John Watson, or more specifically, his relationship with the ex-army doctor.

He sank to the sofa, clasping his hands together just below his chin, staring up at the ceiling. His pristine suit was certainly becoming creased as he lay flat on the sofa, but the thought didn't even pass through his mind. He was busy, remembering the past few months, the little things that he thought insignificant. He tried to twist the pieces together, trying to come up with the solution to this problem.

"I'll burn the heart out of you."

John, his colleague, his friend, his heart.

"We're not a couple."

"Yes you are."

The constant insinuations by those around them. More than friends.

"I'm not actually gay."

The hurt. Oh God the hurt. That stabbing feeling in his chest, the feeling of lead in his stomach.

"I would have you, right here, on this desk, until you begged for mercy twice."

The images of them, of him and John together. John pleasuring him. The heat that he had never felt before. The want, the need.

Sherlock shot up, sitting bolt upright, panicking. That was it. That was why he'd been so distracted and let The Woman beat him. He was, oh God, he was attracted to his flatmate. No, flatmate wasn't right. There, he was attracted to his best friend. That sounded even worse. There was more to it than attraction, and damn it, everyone else had seen before him, once again. He wasn't certain, as he'd had no previous, but he was pretty damn sure that he was in love with John, his straight best friend.

The door at the bottom of the stairs opened, and the detective heard the distinctive footsteps coming up the stairs, too quickly for his liking. He wasn't ready yet! He grasped handfuls of his hair in frustration as the door to their living room flung upon, and John just stood staring at his friend as he leant on the doorframe.

"Sherlock?"

And that voice, so soft and compelling, forced the detective to lift his head. He looked up, despair evident in his eyes, he knew, but John's expression shook him to the core. Sherlock could see the concern in his eyes, but the doctor was also blushing furiously, and then it all clicked into place. He knew exactly how the pieces fit together now, and he could finally work out exactly what this was.

The fidgeting, the flinching away, the little blushes here and there. John's strange behaviour was beginning to make a little more sense. One more piece, he knew it was there. He just needed one more. He shifted, and the new phone in his pocket pressed against his leg. That was all he needed. His mind flew back to that conversation.

"We're not a couple...I'm not actually gay."

"Well, I am. Look at us both."

The words from The Woman. His mind had barely registered them after the crushing pain of John's own words, but they came back to him with perfect clarity now. It made sense, and it made his insides set alight. The Woman...she was saying that sexuality didn't matter, that it didn't and couldn't stop attraction if it was strong enough, it couldn't stop...love. That realisation was the final twist that slotted the pieces into place.

Sherlock had looked away from John and the doctor had drawn closer to him, worried for his friend. He was kneeling down before him, trying to peer up at Sherlock's face. When their gazes met, John could see the desire blazing in the detective's eyes, and couldn't help but gasp. Sherlock took that as all the permission he needed and crashed their lips together. John couldn't help but moan as he felt the soft lips moving against him, and Sherlock took the opportunity to attack his mouth with his tongue. His every nerve ending was on fire, only their lips were touching but John could feel Sherlock everywhere. The detective's long slender hands grasped at John's sandy locks, pressing them closer together. John fell forwards slightly, overbalancing and crashing down onto Sherlock. The kiss broke, and the two sank back into the sofa together, breathing heavily.

"Sherlock..."

"Virgin..."

The memory crept up on Sherlock dimming the fire eyes. He knew his pupils still blown wide with desire, but he also knew that John could see the nerves there. John had been there at the palace with him when they had first taken on the case with The Woman. He had heard Mycroft's snide comments regarding his sex life, or rather, complete lack of it. God, he didn't think he could do this. How could John want him? Why would he want Sherlock when he had no idea what to give him, how to pleasure him? He could feel tears forming in the corners of his eyes and cursed himself, trying to blink them back. He was pathetic.

"Oh Sherlock..."

And then John pulled away, standing up, and a tear fell. He couldn't help it. He wasn't good enough for John. He was a sociopath; he couldn't give him the feelings that he needed. He looked away, trying to avoid looking at the doctor, trying to hide his own weakness. He didn't see the hand come towards him, and he flinched when he felt the gentle caress on his cheek.

John coerced him into opening his eyes again, and when he did, he saw John stood before him, offering his other hand, smiling softly at him. The hand on his cheek brushed away the tears dripping down his face, and gently lifted his head to make Sherlock look into his eyes. John's eyes were nervous too, but full of love, and Sherlock couldn't say no. He took hold of the other hand pulling himself up.

"I'm sorry...I..."

"Shh...no need. It's okay. Come on."

And John led him through the flat and up the stairs. He paused slightly outside his bedroom, and Sherlock knew that John was waiting for him. He took a deep breath to calm him nerves as best as he could, and then he stepped forward, pushing the door wide open himself and dragging John inside with him. He kicked the door shut a little too forcefully and winced at the loud bang. He was immediately pulled into an embrace, one he was all too willing to return.

"Listen Sherlock. This thing, us...it's new to both of us. So we don't have to do anything you don't want to."

"I want to John...I just, I don't know...how...I'm sorry." Sherlock looked away, ashamed of his inexperience.

"Don't you dare! I want you Sherlock, exactly as you are. For God's sake, this isn't exactly my field of expertise. You just carry on doing what you were before. Because...I mean wow. I've never felt like this, and I'll still love you whether we do this right now or not."

John looked on the verge of tears himself now, and Sherlock felt overwhelmingly stupid. He was being self-absorbed, as usual. He didn't deserve someone like John. He got it completely, knew exactly what to say and when. He was perfect for Sherlock, and for some reason, thought that the detective was perfect for him too.

"I love you John...my John," he breathed.

"Then stop thinking. Just do."

John closed the gap between their lips once more, pulling Sherlock down to his height so they could meld together. This was altogether different from their first kiss in the living room. It was still passionate, but it was soft and gentle, full of love and promises of things to come. They battled each other for dominance, and Sherlock was thoroughly shocked when John ceded to him with a drawn out moan, grasping his hips and pulling them towards his own. Heat pooled in Sherlock's groin as John ground against him. He wrenched their lips apart, arching back, exposing his throat as he let out a throaty moan.

John planted his lips on the pale neck, scraping his teeth gently down the skin, leaving faint red marks. He found Sherlock's pulse, licking and sucking the sensitive area. He had never been so hard, and he'd barely had any physical stimulation. Each sound that was pulled from Sherlock's throat made him twitch, his pants becoming too restrictive. His fingers danced down Sherlock's chest, resting on the first button of his shirt. Sherlock nodded gently, moving his own hands to fumble with the buttons on John's shirt.

John followed the line of his hands with his mouth, leaving a trail of kisses down Sherlock's pale chest, revelling in the softness of the skin. He finished removing his own shirt as Sherlock was no longer in the right mind to do so, and pushed their bare chests together as he once again kissed the taller man. Sherlock stiffened, unused to the strong sensations his body was feeling.

"Relax. I won't hurt you." John mumbled against Sherlock's lips.

"I know John. I trust you."

The two spent a moment just watching each other, taking in the changes that their passion had brought about. There was a beautiful mark beginning to form on Sherlock's neck that John found fascinating, and would for quite a while. Sherlock still couldn't really believe that this was happening to him, but he couldn't stop. He made the first move to bring them back into their earlier state. He began to walk the two of the backwards towards the bed, knowing exactly where this was leading. It was terrifying, but thrilling at the same time. He wanted this, needed this, needed John.

They fell together onto the bed, John landing on top of Sherlock, keeping his weight off the taller man to avoid crushing him. He locked their hips together, grinding down as Sherlock pushed up. He had never imagined that it could feel this good. But this was Sherlock; everything he did was good, perfect even. John couldn't believe that he hadn't seen this earlier, had denied this for so long. Right now though was not the time to think about it, not when he had Sherlock writhing beneath him in pleasure.

"John, please. More."

And how could the doctor deny such a seductive plea? He rolled over to the side slightly, keeping a grip on Sherlock's waist whilst freeing his other hand to work on Sherlock's trousers as the detective worked John free from his jeans. He tentatively palmed the shorter man through his boxers, and John couldn't bite the resulting moan down. Sherlock looked pleased with himself, and continued to work the man lying next to him. The feeling of his hand on him, combined with the pale skin on show only to him almost made him fall apart there. He forced himself to pull back slightly, causing Sherlock to frown.

"Did I..."

"No. God no. You're too good at this. I don't want this to be over yet. I want...I want you inside me."

John saw the fear return to Sherlock's eyes briefly before he swallowed and nodded. He took a moment to steady himself and then rolled over slightly, so that his body was resting on top of John's. The contact between their almost naked bodies was electrifying and Sherlock wanted more. He dipped a finger into the waistband of John's boxers and was understood immediately. John worked their boxers down together, which was more than a little awkward to achieve, but it was worth it. The detective was long and thin, pale, a perfect match to his body. John had never found the male genitalia particularly attractive, but Sherlock was gorgeous. He wanted to taste, but knew he had to hold himself in. He wanted Sherlock to be inside him when he came undone.

To Sherlock, nothing could compare to the beautiful sight beneath him. John was the amazing thing he had ever seen, and he knew that nothing could ever top the beauty of this moment. He lowered himself slowly, pressing their unclothed erections together for the first time. The heat was almost unbearable now, and Sherlock was no fool. He knew that he would not last for John if they carried on as they were, and he wanted to be inside of John so badly. He just didn't exactly know how.

John seemed to follow his train of thoughts, and grasped one of Sherlock's hands, pulling the fingers into his mouth. Sherlock moaned as he licked and sucked, and he imagined what that mouth would feel like somewhere else. He couldn't think about that right now, or this would be over before it had even properly begun. It wasn't going to be all that long for him anyway, so he had to savour every moment. He'd got the hint from John now, and when his fingers were coated in saliva he moved them down to circle John's entrance. The doctor squirmed, pushing himself against the finger. Sherlock pushed inside past the tight rings of muscle, slowly pumping in and out, waiting for John to adjust. When John's grunts turned to moans of pleasure, he pushed another finger inside. He met more resistance this time, but John forced himself to relax by breathing deeply. When he was ready, Sherlock began pumping again, crooking his fingers to try and maximise the pleasure. John cried out as his fingers brushed against his prostate.

"Oh fuck! Do that again..."

Sherlock complied, feeling a little smug. He was glad that he was the one giving John this pleasure, that he was the one who could reduce this ex-military man to a quivering incoherent mess of pleasure.

"Mine John. You're mine," he growled possessively.

"Yes. Fuck! Show me Sherlock. Show me properly, I'm yours. So make me yours in every way."

John grasped Sherlock lightly in his hands, raising his hips and directing him towards his entrance. A shiver of anticipation ran down Sherlock's back as he slowly pushed into John. The smaller man tensed slightly as his head breached the first ring of muscle, but upon hearing Sherlock's wanton moan, he relaxed his body. The feeling was strange and slightly uncomfortable, but he knew that he would have to just allow his body to adjust. It didn't take long.

Sherlock waited, watching his lover's face for any signs of discomfort. The waiting was torturous to his body; being encased in such a tight heat was overwhelming, but when John ground his hips slightly, the feeling was indescribable. He began to gently thrust into John, meeting the doctor's upward movements with his own downward thrusts.

"John...feels so...fuck!"

John pulled at Sherlock's hips. The feelings were too much, and not enough at the same time. He wanted harder, faster, anything Sherlock could give him. The detective pulled him up to mash their lips together in a bruising kiss, and the new angle meant that he could thrust deeper, brushing against John's prostate each time. John knew that it was dreadfully short, but oh so good, and he was overcome with the need for release. He could feel Sherlock becoming more frantic with his movements, his pace faltering as he was brought closer to the edge. Their moans were swallowed as they kissed each other deeply, pulling desperately at each other's skin, dragging fingernails down to leave marks on their already scarred skin.

"Sherlock...please!"

The taller man understood him at once and moved one hand between their bodies to touch John's neglected erection. The twin sensations were too much for John. He fell over the edge, screaming Sherlock's name. John's muscles tightened around Sherlock like a vice, pulling him over the edge with him to the orchestra of their moans. Sherlock continued to ride out his orgasm, pumping into John with the last of his energy, spilling his seed into the tight warmth. He collapsed, boneless against John, their sweat slicked chests slapping together as they collided. The sound reverberated in the silence of the flat, the only other noise their harsh pants as they tried to regain their breath.

Sherlock pulled out of John slowly and carefully, his over sensitive skin feeling as if it were on fire. He tried to roll over to the side, but John didn't want to let him go. He pulled the detective down once more and lay over him, resting his head in the crook of his neck. Sherlock smiled softly, bringing his hand up to run his fingers through the slightly dam hair of his lover.

"I love you Sherlock," was mumbled against his chest as John yawned widely.

"I love you too, my John."

"Your John? I...like the sound...of that."

Sherlock felt his lover's lips caress his skin gently, before John's breathing evened out and he began to softly snore. The detective brushed his lips against his forehead gently so that he didn't disrupt the peaceful slumber of his companion.

These past few months had provided Sherlock with the most interesting of puzzles, a puzzle that now lay in his arms. His relationship with John was new and exhilarating and ever so slightly terrifying, but if John could get his head around it, then Sherlock could do the same. All the mattered was their love for each other. He was certain that it wouldn't all be plain sailing, Moriarty was still out there after all, and there were others who would be dangerous to them both, but they would face that as they needed to. Sherlock had realised that John was his life now, his work, his heart, his very soul. He was the impossible puzzle, the one that would shift, presenting Sherlock with ever changing experiences. And this puzzle, this beautiful, all consuming puzzle, could stay that way for all Sherlock cared. For the solution hardly mattered if he could indulge himself in the greatest pleasure he had ever known.

A/n: And finally I got to the end of this thing. It just kept writing itself. Not sure if I'm too happy with the smut, but it was kind of hard to write Sherlock being a virgin, and being his normal dominant self. I think it's the fact that it took so long to write compared to my others that's getting me down. Meh, I tried :D Let me know what you think.

Love from me x x x